After lunch, Heidi, Gina and I settle in the sitting room, leaving the men in the kitchen. As soon as the meal was over, the older kids dashed upstairs, ostensibly to finish their homework. We adults are sceptical, but we pretended to believe them because none of us want to play Monopoly, and if we made the kids stay with us, that would be the cost. The spring sunshine floods into the room, and although it hasn’t brought any heat with it, it is glaringly bright and bleaches away all signs of colour; we appear like two-dimensional people on a sepia photograph from the seventies. Lazy and content. We each have a coffee; I’m also still holding my wine glass, which someone refilled just before we left the table. There’s a tub of Quality Street chocolates balanced between us. Gina is laying into those despite the fact that just ten minutes ago she swore she was stuffed and couldn’t eat another bite. I’m not judging; I said I’d had enough to drink. The men are stacking the dishwasher. Their chatter drifts through to us; although the words are indistinct, the tone is pleasant and punctuated with laughter.
‘So do you still think he’s too good to be true?’ I ask. It’s a prompt. I want to hear my friends heap praise on him.
‘More than ever do I think so. I’m certain he’s a figment of our collective imagination, he’s that good,’ says Gina. ‘But as he’s managed to coerce Mick and Leon into clearing up after the roast, I believe we should all go with it. Let the magic happen.’ She grins.
It’s true. Usually we follow a more traditional 1980s pattern and it’s the three of us in the kitchen clearing up while the two dads might, at best, be kicking a football about with the kids. I glance at Heidi, waiting to hear her affirmation. She pops a strawberry cream into her mouth. This is how well I know Heidi: her favourite Quality Street is the toffee penny, but she eats those last because she knows no one else in her family likes them, so she can leave them, safe in the knowledge that they will be waiting for her when all the other choices have gone. She initially eats the ones she likes second or third best, which may or may not be other people’s favourites. It’s a pretty selfish move, but it makes me laugh as it’s her one and only failing as a person, and therefore forgivable.
‘I’m so glad you like him.’ I beam.
‘Do you get on with his mates?’ Heidi asks, the moment she’s swallowed her chocolate.
‘I haven’t met any of them yet. We thought we’d tackle you two first.’
She nods, and then probes, ‘What’s his flat like?’
‘Why do you ask that?’ I reply, avoiding giving a direct answer to her question.
‘Well, he was saying how much time you both spend at yours, and he’s clearly impressed by your place. I just wondered if you like his.’
I have to sidestep again, which is a bit awkward. I sip my wine and then comment, ‘You know, I really like the way he is openly impressed by my success and Woodview. He doesn’t struggle with any macho nonsense of being intimidated by everything I have.’
‘Yeah, sounds like he makes himself at home. He expressed clear admiration for your enormous wine fridge, not to mention your indoor swimming pool and sauna area. I heard him tell Leon we should invest in one – a wine fridge, that is, not a pool. Not that we have even enough for the fridge.’ She makes a show of feeling down the back of the sofa. ‘Just hoping to find a spare five grand lying around.’ She chuckles sardonically. There’s something in her tone that suggests she doesn’t think Matthew’s open admiration for what I have is as wonderful as I do. For me, it’s a relief. I prefer it to a sense of awkwardness or resentment, both of which I have encountered in the past. I can’t explain to her how tiresome that is, because it’s not just boyfriends who feel intimidated by my wealth.
At that moment, the three men and Lottie drift into the sitting room. ‘What are you talking about?’ asks Lottie in her usual direct way.
‘Emma was just saying she’d like to see Matthew’s place,’ replies Heidi.
All heads swivel towards me. On the spot, I feel myself colour a little. I hadn’t even confessed to not seeing it. Heidi has just deduced as much. ‘I wasn’t saying that, not exactly,’ I mutter, reaching for my wine glass again and taking a big gulp. Then I offer the chocolates to Lottie to try to distract her and move everyone on to another conversation. I feel the weight of Matthew’s eyes on me.
‘You would like to see it, though, right?’ says Heidi. Part of me wants to throw her a silencing glare, but the thing is, she’s correct, I am curious about where he lives. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now; we meet up several times a week. I’m often in London, and yet he’s never invited me to his apartment. Instead we meet in the hotels I book. I try not to think that this is weird. But it’s certainly uneven. I am suddenly struck by how little I know about the day-to-day workings of Matthew’s life, and it embarrasses me. How can we do the things we do to one another in bed, make one another think and feel the way we do, and yet I remain unaware of his living arrangements? I can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s keeping me out, keeping me at a distance, and now I realise that my friends are thinking the same.
Matthew mock-winces, ‘She’ll need a tetanus shot before she stays at mine. I mean, it suits me, but by comparison to her place, it’s a dump.’ He reaches for the chocolates and takes ages before he selects a toffee penny. He unwraps it slowly, and I wonder whether Heidi will ask him to put it back.
She doesn’t; instead she says, ‘I thought you probably lived in a shithole.’
Lottie gasps theatrically, the way she always does whenever she hears an adult swear. ‘You shouldn’t say shithole, it’s a really awful word,’ she says primly.
‘Sorry, Lottie,’ responds Heidi. She doesn’t apologise to Matthew, though, which I think maybe she should. She adds, ‘Leon and I were speculating as to why you’ve never asked Emma there. I said it would be a shi— a dump, and he suggested maybe you live with your mum and are a total saddo.’ Everyone laughs as though she’s joking; I roll my eyes, give her a playful shove, but in fact she’s making me uncomfortable. I don’t like the way she seems to be challenging Matthew publicly. We were all having such a lovely time. The fun atmosphere feels strained and stained now.
Leon asks, ‘Where is your flat?’ His tone is not in the least loaded. He’s just making conversation. Men ask about people’s addresses as a staple form of small talk, along with journey routes and commuter train times. Leon won’t have any idea that I’m just as keen as he is to hear the answer to this question.
‘On the river. Nearest Tube Bermondsey.’ Matthew comes to sit on the sofa next to me. He has to wiggle into the space, inching his bum left to right. Heidi slowly takes her feet off the sofa to make room for him. He reaches for my hand, puts it on his thigh.
‘Do you own your flat? Is it where you lived with Becky before you went to New York?’ Gina enquires. Her tone is conciliatory, conversational. Still, her question makes me yet more uncomfortable. It’s as though by naming Becky, she has just brought her into the room with us. I feel her presence, shadowy yet insistent.
‘No. We never bought. We moved around too often to know where to put down roots. The money I’ve thrown away on rent.’ Matthew winces. ‘Right now, I share with two postgrad students. It’s really not dignified at my age. I’m a bit embarrassed to take you there, frankly. I mean, I do my best to make it look presentable. I’m constantly fixing things.’
‘He’s really handy,’ I chip in. ‘I’ve had some problems with electrics recently. My lights kept blowing a fuse and we were constantly being plunged into darkness. Matthew fixed them.’
‘What do you do with yourselves when you’re plunged into darkness?’ says Gina with her signature warm, dirty laugh.
‘You’ve always been really good with DIY. I hope you’re not letting down the sisters by feigning inability just to flatter Matthew,’ says Heidi, her tone distinctly icy.
‘I have no idea about electrics,’ I point out.
Matthew lifts my hand to his lips, kisses the knuckles, and for a moment it feels as though there’s no one else in the room; I’m all that counts to him. His gaze drops, and after a beat he says, ‘There was a time when I couldn’t work. You know, straight after … I just couldn’t find the energy. I let clients down and contacts go cold, so I really struggled financially. My photography work is not especially lucrative at the best of times; you must have noticed that commissions are few and far between.’ He shrugs. It’s not a dismissive, careless shrug. The way he brings his shoulders to his ears, and then lets them tumble down his back, explicitly states, ‘And there you have it. That’s what I am.’ I realise he thinks he’s sub-par. How oddly we look at ourselves. I squeeze his hand. I want to tell him that my friends are concerned he’s too good to be true.
He looks me in the eyes and says earnestly, ‘I hadn’t realised you thought it was odd that you’d never been to my place. That it was a subject of discussion.’
‘No, it wasn’t that, as such …’ I break off, unsure how to finish the sentence. I want to bounce back to the playfulness that abounded at lunch. I wait, hoping someone will leap in and discuss whatever sport is playing this afternoon. No one says anything. I don’t know if it’s because they’re all stewing in a food coma brought on by Heidi’s excellent Sunday roast or because they’re rapt at Matthew’s explanation.
‘How much do you pay in rent?’ The question is out of my mouth before I really consider what I’m asking. I’m a CEO. I simply like to know the value of things. I’m curious, nothing more.
Matthew blushes, but smiles good-naturedly, names a figure. It’s been such a long time since I rented, I’m out of touch as to what the market rate is. The amount he pays seems reasonable to me. A little less than I spend per month on cleaners and the pool guy. ‘And I pay for storage too, for my furniture,’ he adds. ‘The shared flat is furnished, you see. Storage costs are crazy, and while nothing I’m keeping is of much financial value, in other ways it’s …’
‘Priceless.’ I finish his sentence. I think of the chairs, tables and sofas that Matthew and Becky must have owned together. The trips they must have made to IKEA and John Lewis. I think of their bed. I imagine their home, full of their things, their memories. Them. He’s struggling financially, but the possessions they acquired throughout their married life hold unquantifiable sentimental value, so he pays for storage. He isn’t ready to clear out Becky’s belongings. Undisputable evidence that he’s simply not prepared to let her go. His unwillingness is understandable, but it leaves me feeling exposed. If he’s not ready to tidy her away, is he ready to be messy with me? I know we’re approaching the first anniversary of her death. I want the date to come and go, to be behind us. But a year isn’t a long time. Is this all too hurried? I must wear my concern in my expression, because Matthew asks, ‘What? What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ I assure him.
‘Yes, there was something. I saw it in your face. You looked sad.’
‘Oh no, not at all.’ I can’t confess what I was thinking; instead I blurt, ‘Look, Matthew, if you need some money, you only have to ask. Your rent doesn’t seem high to me.’
‘What?’
I feel everyone in the room sharply inhale. The moment the words are out of my mouth, I realise that they’re ludicrous, insulting. I would have been better confessing that I was halted with raw jealousy at the thought of their bed, and stung once again by the pain of living with the fact that this man would not be in my bed if his wife hadn’t died. He hasn’t chosen me; he’s settled for me. But I couldn’t say that, so I said the stupid thing about money. Face burning, I try to fix things.
‘I don’t mean as a gift. I mean as a loan.’ Matthew’s mouth drops open. ‘I mean, a gift is fine too, if that’s better for you,’ I add, unsure how to interpret his look of astonishment. I continue to thoughtlessly gabble on. ‘I’m just saying, don’t go short, I have plenty. More than I can spend and no one to spend it on. You know.’ I stop talking, but it’s too late. The hurt radiates off him, putting me in mind of a damaged nuclear reactor. He’s shimmering with pain and embarrassment. Maybe there is a little anger too. A dangerous energy.
