by Marian Keyes
Lenny looks deflated.
‘But everyone else will be diddling each other tonight,’ I say. ‘You won’t go home empty-handed. Right. Bye.’
I give Matthew’s door another good ra-ta-tat-tat and after ten seconds I hear the sound of hurried footsteps. Then the door is wrenched open.
‘Sorry!’ Matthew’s shirt is crumpled and he looks stunned with tiredness. ‘I fell asleep. Come in.’
‘Oh, this is lovely.’ His room is actually a suite. It has a living room with two sofas and armchairs, and the whole place is flooded with blue light.
‘They upgraded me.’ He stifles a yawn.
I rush to the window. ‘A sea view!’
‘You didn’t get one?’
I laugh. ‘I’m lucky I got a bed. So? Dante around?’ I expect him to be hiding in the wardrobe.
He smiles. ‘Dan’s room is on another floor.’
Yeah, I can well believe it. Dante is probably billeted in the Shithole Annex along with me and all the other nobodies.
‘Coffee?’ Matthew asks. ‘Or something else?’ He gestures at a sideboard. ‘Look. I’ve a bar with full bottles of alcohol.’
‘God, no. Long night ahead. Coffee is fine.’ He has an actual Nespresso machine!
He carries the two cups to the table by the sofa. ‘Okay,’ he says, fixing me with his brown eyes. ‘So, tonight’s instructions. No women?’
‘You have been listening. Seriously, circumspection around all females.’
‘No slow dancing at the disco? No grinding?’
‘No disco at all.’
‘What? It’s a tradition.’
‘Photos of you over-refreshed and enjoying yourself? No, Matthew.’ Time to get brutal. ‘There’s a pap stationed in a room two doors down from here.’
He goes pale. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re Ruthie Billingham’s husband. Because Ruthie is still churning out cheating hints. The press, the public, they want incriminating photos.’
He puts his face into his hands. ‘When is this nightmare going to end?’
‘I don’t know. All I can promise is that it will. Meanwhile you hold the line.’
He exhales, long and world-weary.
‘Another thing, Matthew. Just say you don’t win your award tonight?’
‘You mean, “in the unlikely event”?’ He tries an unconvincing twinkle.
‘Exactly! You must smile. A lot. Clap enthusiastically.’ In PR terms, it’s almost better to lose graciously than to actually win.
‘Got it.’ Then, ‘Do you think I won’t win?’
‘Of course you’ll win.’ He won’t. Jeremy Paxman will win.
‘Not Paxman?’
‘Not Paxman.’
‘I bet you a tenner.’
‘You’re on.’ Shite. That’s a tenner gone. ‘Finally, what are you wearing tonight?’ It’s a black-tie do. ‘Is it a hired suit?’
‘It’s mine.’
‘Show it to me.’
It’s from Zara Man. At least it’s not a sharp-cut designer beauty from the likes of Gucci. All the same … ‘Just try not to be too good-looking tonight, okay?’
‘How do I do that?’
I’m not quite sure whether to laugh or not. ‘See you later, Matthew.’
Downstairs in the bar, Alastair is waiting and Tim has joined us.
‘How’s Matthew?’ Alastair asks.
I shake my head. ‘If …’ It’s hard to find the exact words. ‘If … yeah, if he had a sense of humour, he’d be the ridiest man on the planet.’
Something passes over Alastair’s face and, in exasperation, I demand, ‘What?’
‘I’ve a sense of humour? I’m funny, right?’
I boggle my eyes at him. ‘Funny peculiar.’ I do a double-take. ‘And needier than usual.’
Then, to my great surprise, Tim – Tim! – asks, ‘Have you a crush on Matthew Carlisle?’
‘Um, no.’ I feel myself colour because Tim … I’m so uncomfortable talking emotions with him.
‘I never feel right unless I have a work crush,’ he says.
I’m speechless! The best I can manage is, ‘But you and Mrs Staunton …’
Gravely he says, ‘Mrs Staunton, I’m sure, has work crushes of her own.’
‘But you don’t actually do anything with these crushes of yours?’
He gives me a wry look, then twinkles – twinkles!
‘You’re messing with me,’ I say, then beseech Alastair, ‘He’s messing, right?’
‘You’re asking me? I’m in worse shock than you.’
‘Please, Tim, not this week of all weeks. I need something, someone, I can depend on. Please say you’re joking.’
‘I’m joking,’ he deadpans. But I’m not sure I believe him.
67
‘And here to present the award for Political Broadcaster of the Year is …’
This is Matthew’s category and it’s no surprise when Jeremy Paxman wins. Matthew jumps to his feet, claps wildly, wolf-whistles, then gives me a meaningful nod across the huge ballroom and mouths, ‘You owe me a tenner.’
Dante Carlisle follows Matthew’s gaze, and when he sees me, he looks cross. I blow him a kiss.
When the award-giving finally ends, the fun bit of the evening begins. I plan to table-hop, meet tons of people, go to the disco and dance till they throw me out.
But, first, I’d better commiserate with Matthew and give him his tenner.
He’s sitting all alone at the big round table. Everyone else must have lunged towards the bar.
‘Too bad,’ I say.
‘Told you Paxman had it.’ Matthew attempts a smile but it wobbles off his face.
‘Are you okay?’ Did he want to win that much? Alarmed, I slide into the chair next to his. ‘What is it?’
‘Just … I miss my wife.’ He twists his body away from the room and towards me. His gaze is fixed on the table-top. ‘I still can’t believe she’s left me.’
Wide-eyed, I nod.
‘Every morning when I wake up, there’s a moment when I pretend it hasn’t happened. Then I have to face it and the sense of loss … It’s like being a kid again, when my dad left.’
All I can do is nod. This is agonizing.
‘It’s not just Ruthie I miss. It’s our family, the four of us.’
Now I’m wishing he’d stop talking.
‘Like Eden before the fall. It was perfect but it’s gone.’
Hugh had adored me, he’d adored all of us – me, Neeve, Sofie and Kiara. We were a happy family. I haven’t lost just him, I’ve lost every bit of it, our unique five-way dynamic.
A lump is swelling in my throat.
‘People thought I took care of Ruthie,’ Matthew says. ‘But she took care of me, we took care of each other and … Are you okay? Amy? Are you okay?’
‘Yep.’ I nod, even though tears are spilling from my eyes.
‘God! What did I say?’
‘Nothing. Sorry. This is embarrassing.’ I wipe my face with the back of my hand.
‘Tell me. Please.’ His brow is furrowed oh-so-handsomely. ‘Please,’ he repeats.
I know it’s unprofessional, but I’m broken. ‘Can I show you something?’
‘Of course.’
I touch my phone a couple of times and scroll down through various stuff until I find Raffie’s most recent photo, of herself and Hugh on a dock, wrapped around each other. ‘See that man there? The man with that woman? That’s my husband.’
‘But he’s –’
‘Yeah. With another woman. They’re in Thailand.’
‘And … what? How do you know about it?’
‘We’re on a break. Well, he is. Six months. He’ll be back in March. Except he won’t be, will he? I mean, would you come back?’
Matthew’s face is shocked concern. ‘Amy, do you want to duck out of here? Knock tonight on the head? No one will notice. Come on, I’ll see you back to your room safely.’
Suddenly I’ve run out of all steam, all strength, and I
just want to escape. ‘Okay.’
We stand up, and Dante appears out of nowhere, carrying drinks. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Amy’s calling it a night. I’m seeing her to her room.’
His eyes flick from my face to Matthew’s, then back again. ‘I’ll do it,’ he says. He puts the drinks on the table. ‘You stay here, Matthew.’
‘No.’ I don’t want Dante anywhere near me.
‘Yeah, but –’
‘I’ll be back in five,’ Matthew says. ‘Stay here.’
As we walk away, I say to Matthew, ‘What’s up with your brother? Is he in love with you?’
He gives a short, dry laugh. ‘Something like that.’
Oh, Jesus Christ. Jesus, Jesus Christ, it’s Josh Rowan. Standing at the ballroom doorway, talking to someone. He’s seen me, his eyes are locked on to mine. I thought I didn’t want to meet him. I thought too much guilt was attached to the very notion of him. But now that I see him, it all comes back – the longing, the wanting, the wishing that things could have been different.
I see my own yearning written on his face. For a long moment, despite the jostling revellers, it’s like there are only the two of us here. I can actually feel his emotion and I’m sure he can feel mine. Without speaking, we’re communicating and it’s as if the sixteen months since we’ve seen each other have telescoped down to nothing.
A drunk man, with a head like a blood-blister, throws an arm around Josh’s neck, shouts jovially into his face, pulls him away and they disappear from view.
When Matthew and I push through the doorway, I scan the crowded lobby for Josh but he’s nowhere to be seen. Matthew is all business, walking me down the back stairs, then sliding in the keycard and sticking his head around the door. ‘Just checking there’s no one hiding under the bed,’ he says. Then, ‘Oh, my God, it’s like a cell!’
‘It’s fine.’
‘It’s appalling. I can’t condemn you to this. Come up to my room for a while. We can have a drink.’
‘No, no.’ I haven’t the bandwidth.
‘One drink. I don’t want to be on my own, not feeling like this. You’d be doing me a favour.’
‘Ah, what the hell?’ I say. ‘All right.’
Matthew’s suite has had a turn-down service, the lighting is ambient, and soft classical music is playing. I go to the window. It’s too dark to see the sea now but I can still hear it, sucking and splashing. The sound is calming.
‘Take a seat.’ Matthew indicates the sofa, then surveys the line of bottles on his sideboard. ‘What would you like to drink?’
‘Vodka, I suppose. And Diet Coke.’
He pours a hefty measure into a heavy-bottomed glass, then joins me on the sofa. ‘So tell me.’
I take a gulp of my drink, open my mouth and let my desolation unravel. My glass empties surprisingly quickly and Matthew refills it and encourages me to keep talking.
‘Actually, no,’ I say. ‘I’d prefer to stop. This misery is exhausting and I’m sick of being sad.’
From outside comes the sound of music, the disco must have started and suddenly my mood changes. ‘Hey, Matthew, there’s no point wallowing! Let’s go down to the disco, I want to go dancing.’
I’m a little drunk, but unexpectedly it’s happy drunk, not maudlin.
‘I can’t go to the disco,’ he says. ‘You said.’
I clap my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh, God, sorry!’
After an awkward pause, I exclaim, ‘We could have our own disco here, stick on some songs. Really! It’ll be great!’ Guilt is firing my enthusiasm.
Matthew starts fiddling on the in-house sound system, and some dancy thing comes on that I half recognize. Kiara probably plays it, then I hear ‘Groove Is In The Heart’ and my mood soars. ‘Oh, I LOVE this song!’ I jump to my feet and kick off my shoes. ‘Turn it up! Matthew, turn it up!’
Instantly the music is ten times louder and pulsing off the walls. The bassline is inside me and the melody is all around me and I feel alive. I twirl myself around the room and, briefly, all my worries lift away, there’s just me and the music and I feel happy and free.
Then I notice him watching me dance, his face tense and still. He’s relaxed his body against the sofa, his arms spread along the top. His black tie has disappeared, his shirt collar is open three buttons – I don’t remember that happening – and out of nowhere I’m super-aware of undercurrents. It’s like I’m giving him a lap-dance. The thought makes me excited, uncomfortable, then a queasy mix of the two.
‘Louder!’ I say.
Moving only his arm, still watching me avidly, he reaches behind him and, without looking, twists the volume knob.
His silent gaze is too much. ‘Come on, get up and dance.’ I take his hands and pull him out of the seat.
He’s on his feet, still watching me intently. ‘Dance with me,’ he says.
‘I am.’
‘Don’t dance at me, dance with me.’
He tries to grab me around my waist and I twist away. But he comes after me, slides his hands around to my back and pulls me against him.
‘No!’ I don’t want to slow down, I don’t want to stop. But in a fluid motion, he sweeps my hair to one side, buries his face in my neck and gives it a small sharp bite. Suddenly he’s got my attention. I’m not dancing any more. I whisper, ‘What was that?’ I want to move away but his arms are hard against my back and, caught in his force-field, all I can do is look at him.
His face is coming closer to mine, he’s moved one hand to the back of my head and he’s pulling me towards him. Then his mouth is on me, hard and probing, he means business, things aren’t going to end at this –
I wrench myself free. ‘We can’t – I can’t!’
I’m panting, he’s panting, his shirt is crumpled and his eyes are wild.
He groans and I repeat, ‘We can’t.’ I push myself away, creating distance.
‘Why not?’
Because … because I don’t want to.
I’m a bit drunk, I’m in shock, but I’m certain about this.
‘I’m not sorry.’ He steps towards me again. ‘I’ve wanted to do that since forever.’
‘You have?’
‘Since the first time I saw you.’
They’re good words, I should be flattered, but I’m not … ‘What about Ruthie?’
‘What about your husband? We could comfort each other.’
No. No way.
My phone rings, startling me. It’s Alastair.
‘Where are you?’ he asks.
‘Why?’
‘Are you with Matthew Carlisle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Meet me in the lobby right now.’ He sounds furious. ‘If you don’t come down, I’ll be up to get you.’
I turn towards the door – and Matthew blocks me. ‘Don’t go.’
For a half-second I think it’s more flattery, but he’s suddenly a menacing figure.
‘You’ve told me to stay away from all other women,’ he says. ‘So you’ve got to …’
Oh, God. Oh, my God, this is awful. And scary.
‘If I don’t go downstairs right now,’ my voice is shaking, ‘Alastair’s coming up here.’
His face darkens with impotent fury. ‘Go, then.’ His mouth is a bitter twist.
Alastair is waiting, with Tim and Dante Carlisle, in the heaving lobby.
‘Over here.’ Alastair leads us to a sofa and the four of us sit.
‘Have you?’ Alastair asks. ‘Did you?’
‘Get with Matthew Carlisle? Would that not be my business?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Alastair says. ‘Number one, he’s a client.’
God, he’s a fine one to talk.
‘Number two,’ Dante says. ‘He’s having a thing with Sharmaine King.’
Oh.
‘Sorry, Ames,’ Alastair says. ‘It’s true.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She wouldn’t, you know, sleep with me and wouldn’t tell me why. But I suspe
cted. When Dante here told me, I rang her. It’s true.’
My head is trying to keep up. ‘Is that why Ruthie left?’
‘Last straw,’ Dante says. ‘He slept with all their nannies.’
‘He can’t keep it zipped.’ Alastair sounds almost prim.
‘There are other women too,’ Dante says. ‘Always.’
‘But he loves Ruthie.’ Well, he does a very good impression of it.
‘He does love her,’ Dante says. ‘That’s the tragedy.’
‘Then why …?’
‘He’s a sex-pest.’ Alastair’s tone is judgemental.
‘Pot, kettle.’ Tim speaks for the first time. His voice is croaky. Any trace of twinkly Tim has vanished.
‘He’s miles worse than me.’ Alastair is earnest. ‘Dante has stories.’
‘Probably more politically correct to call him a sex-addict,’ Tim says, ‘than a sex-pest.’
I round on Dante. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘He’s my brother.’ He makes a helpless gesture. ‘But I tried to make sure you were never alone with him. I didn’t want you working together, but he was adamant.’
Maybe that explains Dante’s antipathy. ‘I thought you just didn’t like me?’
‘I don’t. I don’t like you.’
Tim interjects: ‘Why not?’ He sounds angry.
‘She’s bossy. It’s her way or the highway.’
‘If she was a man, you’d call her efficient.’
I’ve a question. ‘So was that all a line about Ruthie seeing Ozzie Brown for the past two and a half years?’
‘No. That’s true.’
‘What about Greta?’ I ask. ‘Greta from Matthew’s work? Is he – yes? Oh, God.’ I knew it. The wolfish way he’d behaved in my dream. And despite all the weirdness of this evening, I have to say, fair play to me. Ten out of ten for intuition. ‘So what happens now?’ I ask.
‘You stop working for him with immediate effect.’ Tim’s emphatic.
‘Send a bill for the remaining hours.’ Dante says. ‘I’ll sort it out. And I’m sorry for everything.’
‘Hardly your fault your brother can’t keep his lad in his pants.’ Alastair has clearly never felt so far up the moral high ground.
Dante offers me his hand and says, ‘Pleasure not to be working with you any longer.’
‘Likewise,’ I reply.
After he’s been swallowed by the crowds, Alastair says, ‘Sorry, Amy, if you thought you and Matthew had a thing going.’
