by Jane Fallon
"He was asking about you," Jenny shouted over. "Wanted to know which one was the home wrecker that his dad had gone off with."
"Of course he was," Helen said sarcastically, knowing that Leo would never stoop that low.
"Well, you'll have to meet him next week, anyway. He's coming in again to finalize the plans for the launch."
"When?" Helen's heart nearly stopped.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Jenny said, smirking at her.
24
MATTHEW HAD ARRANGED an evening out with Amanda and Edwin on Friday. An attempt, he said, to start integrating Helen into his family. And although she had protested and said it was too soon, and that she had already made an unfavorable impression on his mother and Louisa, he'd insisted, and Helen couldn't say what she was really thinking, which was, This is all a waste of time because we're not going to be together for much longer.
She had spent the day preoccupied with trying to establish when, exactly, Leo was going to be coming in to the office again. She'd asked Laura, who had been vague—"Oh, I can't remember, sometime in the next few days, I think"—and she'd skirted around the issue with Jenny again, who'd immediately spotted what she was up to and laughed in her face. Every time she heard the lift doors open, she'd jumped, as if he might be arriving at any second. There was no point trying to look at Jenny's computer, because she locked it every time she as much as went to get a Diet Coke out of the fridge, and she religiously changed her password every week to stop people from logging on in her absence. Helen had often wondered what exactly she had to hide. It would be in Laura's diary, which Helen attempted to keep up to date but which was currently in the bottom of her boss's handbag somewhere in her office. Laura had never been able to get to grips with Microsoft Outlook so they had long ago given up trying to keep her diary on the computer.
It had been impossible to concentrate on real work. Helen had made the final arrangements with the photographer for Sandra Hepburn, and had managed to book the flights—the shoot was to take place on a Greek island—in the wrong name. At one o'clock, when both Laura and Jenny were out at lunch, she went into Laura's office, sat at her computer, composed an e-mail which simply said, "Jenny, can you e-mail me back when we scheduled the next Leo Shallcross meeting asap" and sent it. The reply would come to her as well as Laura, and she'd just have to find a way to delete it from Laura's computer before she noticed something was up. Sure enough, as soon as Jenny got back, a reply popped up—Monday, ten thirty—and five minutes later, Helen went back into Laura's still-empty office and deleted both her sent e-mail and the reply. It was so childish—Jenny would know that her reply to Laura would go to Helen, too, but she couldn't ignore Laura's request and she'd still feel she'd won a victory if she never actually answered Helen's question directly. Helen relaxed—as long as she could keep one step ahead of the game, it'd all be OK.
* * *
At eight thirty, Helen and Matthew were sitting at their favorite table in the window of the Italian trattoria around the corner from Helen's flat, waiting for Amanda and Edwin to arrive. Amanda was the eldest of Matthew's two sisters, married to ultraconservative alcoholic Edwin. Helen had decided to drink only water with dinner in an attempt to get on Amanda's good side. She didn't know why she cared, but it felt important to her that at least one member of his family might say, "Oh, what a shame, she was lovely" when they found out he had deserted her and gone back to his wife.
Matthew had tried to reassure her that Amanda wouldn't judge her in the way that Louisa had, because she didn't empathize with Sophie in the way that Louisa did, but Helen now knew enough about the Shallcross family to know that they all suffered from the same superiority complex that allowed them to always believe they were right and everyone else was wrong. It had something to do with growing up wealthy, Helen believed; it made you think you were better than everyone else. She couldn't remember what their father had done for a living—something dry and colorless, underwriting maybe. Their mother had never worked, of course. Both the girls had "married well," which meant they had landed men with enough money for them to overlook the drinking and the forays into wife-beating. They had called their children Enid Blyton soppy posh-child names like Jocasta and Molly and India and Jemima, which guaranteed they'd be beaten up if they went to the local comprehensive, which, of course, they never would. Thinking about it, Matthew had done quite well with the more down-to-earth Suzanne and Claudia, which Helen gave Sophie credit for choosing. And Leo, of course, although I'm not thinking about him, Helen told herself, thinking about him now.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a waft of cloying perfume that nearly made her gag, as a blur of lipstick and Hermès accessories swooped down on Matthew. Someone—Amanda presumably—engulfed Matthew with a theatrical hug. Helen sized her up. It was clear that Amanda had won the gene lottery over Louisa: she had the kind of fair-haired, pale gray-blue–eyed, pink-skinned good looks that a certain kind of English men seemed to like—nothing too threatening, very feminine, looks that Helen always felt blended into the background, so perfect were they in their blandness. But at least she had been spared the somewhat overpowering Shallcross nose, which on Matthew looked manly and distinguished, but on Louisa gave her a slightly hatchet-faced look, which perfectly suited her personality. There was no sign of a man who might be Edwin.
"Edwin sends his apologies, he's unwell," Amanda said, half-convincingly, for which Helen read, "He's drunk in a ditch somewhere."
Matthew pulled out a chair for his sister to sit in, helping her out of her dark wool coat first. "This is Helen," he said, waving an arm in her direction as if he were presenting an exhibit at the County Show. Helen stuck her hand out politely and Amanda reluctantly flopped her own into it, limp and damp, like a lettuce leaf. Clearly, hand-shaking was too coarse for her refined sensibilities. Like Louisa, she barely gave Helen a glance, and engaged her brother in a conversation about mutual acquaintances that was designed to exclude her. Helen drew patterns on the tablecloth with her fork and tried not to let her irritation show.
"What is it with your fucking family?" Helen hissed at Matthew when Amanda went off to the "little girls' room," as she nauseatingly put it. "It's like they're programmed to be rude."
"She was the same with Sophie," Matthew said, as if that were any consolation. "It's nothing personal."
To give him credit, Matthew tried valiantly to include Helen in the conversation, but she had precious little to say about the Countryside Alliance (well, not much that didn't include a lot of swearing, anyway) and absolutely nothing to contribute to an exchange about the merits of Cheltenham Ladies' College versus Roedean, so she concentrated on her rack of lamb as though she were carrying out a complicated liver transplant. By the time she had finished eating, the other two had barely made a dent in their entrées. Helen stifled a yawn.
"I always thought Sophie spent far too much time at work and not enough with the children," Amanda was saying. Helen waited for Matthew to put up a defense, but the silence hung there. He's probably not listening to her, either, boring old bitch, Helen thought.
"You told me Sophie always took the girls to school and was there when they got home," she jumped in, feeling the need to defend her friend and also to remind Matthew of her positive qualities.
"Did I?" He looked confused, and quite rightly, because of course he had never said anything positive to Helen about Sophie for fear he might get his head bitten off. Helen nodded encouragingly.
"Well, actually, Helen's right." Matthew turned to Amanda. "Sophie's working never affected the girls at all. Well, not in a bad way."
"It doesn't seem right to me, that's all I'm saying. Children need their mother's full attention. She's no good to them if her head's full of stocks and bonds."
Matthew sat like a rabbit in the headlights, unsure what he was allowed to say in his ex-wife's defense.
"Actually," Helen stepped in again, "I think it's much healthier for children if they're not the whole focus of thei
r mother's life. And you liked it, too, didn't you, Matthew, having a wife who was successful in her own right? It's attractive, isn't it?"
"Erm…" said Matthew, terrified of putting his foot in it. "Erm…"
"Well, I think it is. There's nothing sexier than an independent career woman who's also a fantastic mother. Isn't that right, Matthew?"
Helen smiled at him broadly and he muttered something that might be in the affirmative but that couldn't be held against him in court. Amanda placed her knife and fork side by side on her plate, neatly and decisively.
"Well, I disagree." The tone said "This subject is now closed," and Helen knew not to push her luck by trying to keep it going.
"Dessert?" asked Matthew, and Amanda declined with a small shake of her head.
"Just coffee, please."
* * *
On Saturday morning, Helen walked down to the shop on the corner, ostensibly to get the newspapers but, in reality, as a cover to call Sophie to give her a pep talk before Matthew's visit the following afternoon.
"Let him see what he's missing out on," she said. "Put on your most flattering clothes and do your makeup—no slobbing round in sweatpants. Make him go home feeling like he's made the wrong decision. Honestly, it'll make you feel good about yourself."
"Are you sure you don't mind me going over there?" Matthew had said to her the night before on their way home from the restaurant.
"Why should I?" Helen had replied, thinking that if she cared she would have been distraught at the thought of him spending a cozy family afternoon with his ex-wife.
Matthew seemed almost disappointed that she wasn't exhibiting even the slightest signs of jealousy. "I mean, Sophie probably won't even be there."
"I told you, I'm not worried if she is." Helen was bored of this conversation already. "They're your children, after all, you have to see them. And if Sophie doesn't want them around me for a while, then I respect that."
"God, I love that you're so rational," he said, kissing her, and Helen thought, Oh, fuck, maybe I'm playing this all wrong.
"Well, don't go getting too cozy with her, will you," she said, thinking that maybe she should be playing the needy woman a bit more in order to drive him back into Sophie's arms. "I mean, I will be upset if you all start playing happy families."
"No chance of that," Matthew had said, laughing.
* * *
On Sunday, she made sure Matthew wore the brown trousers and stripy Paul Smith shirt that made him look his youngest and slimmest.
"I want her to see that living with me is doing you good," she said, combing his hair back over his balding spot.
Sophie, meanwhile, was trying to take her friend Eleanor's advice, but it felt wrong to be paying so much attention to what she looked like for an afternoon spent hanging around her own home. She did want Matthew to think she was coping fine without him, that much was true, but what if he thought she'd made an effort because she was trying to attract him back? God, that would be too humiliating. Eventually, it was the girls who took charge of the situation when they came in and saw her putting on an old pair of tracksuit bottoms she wore to do the gardening.
"You're not wearing those." Suzanne looked horrified.
"Why not?" Sophie had asked, knowing what the answer would be.
"Because Dad's coming," Suzanne said, as if stating the obvious.
"Your father's not going to be worried about what I look like…not anymore."
"But that's the whole point." Suzanne was nearly crying. "If you look like rubbish, he won't notice you at all."
"God," Claudia chipped in, "you are so fucking stupid sometimes, Suzanne."
"Claudia…" Sophie started to chastise her daughter, but Suzanne was carrying on.
"And then he'll just go back to her and think she looks better than you. And then…" She looked at her younger sister, knowing exactly what button to push "…he'll stay with her forever, and we'll spend the rest of our lives having to go over there and be nice to her and only seeing Dad on Sunday afternoons."
Claudia looked panic-stricken. "Mum, get changed."
"Please Mum. Please." Suzanne threw herself on the bed dramatically. Claudia started to frantically search through Sophie's clothes in the wardrobe, throwing things out in the direction of her mother.
"Here, wear this. Or this."
Sophie picked the dresses up off the floor and laughed. One was a floor-length black number she had worn to a Christmas party at work once when she was a couple of sizes smaller, and the other was a low-cut red slip that you could only get away with in the afternoon if you were sitting in a shop window in Amsterdam.
"I'm not dressing up like I'm trying to pick him up at a nightclub. Here, I'll compromise…"
She picked out a flowery, knee-length skirt that she knew flattered her and a red, fitted T-shirt. Hardly February, but as long as she stayed indoors with the heat on she'd be OK.
"Happy?" She looked at the girls, who nodded.
"Put some makeup on, though," Suzanne added.
"You can help me," Sophie said, knowing Suzanne would love that. "Not too much, though."
* * *
By ten to three, she had just had time to wipe off the blusher and heavy foundation that Suzanne had caked her in and replace it with a look she hoped was healthy and youthful. She tried to decide what she should be doing when Matthew arrived. She felt bizarrely nervous, as if he were coming to pick her up for a date. She wanted to find just the right balance of friendliness and casual indifference. Cooking would make her look too homely, like the middle-aged housewife he had decided to get away from. Watching TV, too slovenly—he'd always looked down on people who idled away their afternoons watching mindless programs. Reading? It might look as though she'd just grabbed a book as he arrived in order to look occupied, which would of course be the truth. Likewise listening to music. She settled on painting, an occupation which she'd taken up and abandoned again several times over the years, but he had always admired her work whenever he'd seen it.
She rushed around, trying to find the long-abandoned canvases and brushes. She came across a half-finished picture in the cupboard under the stairs which wasn't half bad, and slopped some fresh paint onto it to make it look like a recent effort. She put newspaper down on the big pine kitchen table, complete with paint-covered rags and splotches of watercolor. Then she added a tiny but authentic, and she thought rather fetching in a Felicity Kendall sort of a way, streak on her carefully made-up cheek, and sat down to await his arrival.
At three o'clock precisely, she heard the front doorbell ring and Claudia and Suzanne rush to answer it. She picked up a brush and dabbed away at a corner of her painting, fixing her face into an expression of concentration. Claudia burst through the door first, leading Matthew by the hand.
"Dad's here."
She stopped dead at the sight of the mess and Sophie at the center of it.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
"Painting," Sophie said, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. "Hello, Matthew."
"Why?" Claudia asked.
"Because I enjoy it." Sophie was coloring up. "I often paint."
"No, you don't. Ow."
Claudia was rubbing her shin where Suzanne had kicked her, she hoped surreptitiously.
"What did you do that for, you stupid bitch?"
"Mum," Suzanne was saying, "she swore at me."
"Well, you kicked me."
"No, I didn't."
Claudia looked outraged.
"You did. When I said 'Mum doesn't usually do painting,' you kicked me. Ow. Mum, she did it again."
Sophie was scarlet. She looked up and saw that Matthew was smiling—no, smirking, it seemed to her—in a way which said he knew that what Claudia was saying was right, that she was just pretending to be immersed in her painting to impress him.
"Well…I've just taken it up again recently," she said unconvincingly, starting to clear up and accidentally wiping a streak of ochre thro
ugh her freshly blow-dried hair.
"Actually, your mum used to paint all the time," Matthew was saying. "But probably when you were at school, so you just didn't realize."
Sophie smiled at him weakly, grateful that he'd stepped in, but irritated that he clearly felt she needed him to get her off the hook with her own children. She felt ridiculous: what was she doing, sitting there in a summer outfit, painting? She felt like she had when she was fourteen years old and Mark Richardson, the coolest, best-looking boy in the lower sixth, whom she had had a crush on forever, had come over to her parents' house.
He had first noticed her at a party given by his parents which her mum and dad had dragged her along to. It had turned out they were both fans of Patti Smith, and Sophie had mentioned that she had asked for and been given the new album Horses for her birthday a few weeks before. He was saving up for the LP himself, Mark said, from his wages as a Saturday boy in WH Smith's. As he left for the Red Lion he asked Sophie where exactly she lived. "I'll pop round tomorrow about seven," he'd said, giving her a smile to die for.
She'd tidied her room and swapped her Snoopy poster for pictures of Deep Purple and Genesis that she'd cut out of magazines. She'd burned joss sticks and hidden the toy rabbit she still always slept with in a drawer. At four o'clock she'd started to get ready, trying on five different outfits, and eventually settled on a faded pair of jeans with triangle inserts of floral material, a scoop neck top, and a pair of blue cork wedges. When he'd finally arrived at ten past seven she'd run down to meet him, faint with excitement at the prospect of her first date.
