He nods, but without conviction, then starts to carefully examine the chaos. The sauce is trailed in thin lines in some places as though it has been flicked; the effect is like a painting Lottie once presented to me with pride. She’d blown several different colours of paint through a straw. At the time, Gina and I commented that the classroom must have been chaos. In other parts of the kitchen, the mess looks as though it’s been ground into the rugs and smudged onto the surfaces. More of a finger painting.
Matthew looks perplexed. ‘I wonder how they got in if all the doors and windows are locked?’
‘Well, it must be someone with a key,’ I reason. ‘It’s the only logical explanation.’
‘If you think that, then you need to write a list of people who have keys.’
‘It’s a short list. The cleaners, the pool guy, Heidi and Gina.’ I shudder. It’s horrible and exhausting. ‘I have to fire the staff.’ Matthew runs his hand through his hair, looking pained. ‘How can I trust them? All of them are from a local agency; I’m going to be absolutely hated around here. Word will get out. I’ll have to get the locks changed, because I don’t know if they’ll make copies of the keys before they hand them back. I can give Heidi and Gina new ones.’
Matthew nods again slowly, but he looks uncomfortable. I’m used to making hard decisions on staffing. He will never have had to do anything similar.
I see that my phone, car keys and laptop are all still here on the kitchen table, exactly where I left them when I went to the larder. Nothing has been stolen. ‘I’m not going to call the police. I’ll call the security company tomorrow to report it, but it’s been a long day; shall we just get on with cleaning up?’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
Matthew sighs and heads upstairs to change into a T-shirt that will be more appropriate for the task. I don’t bother, I’m already a mess, sauce splattered all over my shirt. I snap on rubber gloves, fill a bucket with steaming-hot soapy water and start to scrub.
17
Neither of us fancies eating anything by the time we’re finished scraping and scrubbing food off rugs, barstools, kitchen surfaces and floors. However, I don’t feel ready to go to bed.
‘Shall we just have a glass of wine and watch some TV?’ I suggest.
‘Well, the wine sounds like a brilliant idea. Why don’t you sit on the sofa, I’ll open a new bottle and then you can tell me what went on with your friends this evening that put you in such a bad mood.’ I gaze at him, mouth slack, surprised that he’s not only realised as much but remembered to circle back to it after all the drama of the vandalism. I smile as I accept the glass of red wine that he’s offering. ‘Did you argue?’ he asks as he sits down next to me. The sofa lets out a sigh to welcome him, or maybe that’s me.
‘No, not as such.’
‘Well, something made you lose it.’ I don’t think asking where his wife is buried classes as losing it, but I guess that’s just a figure of speech so I let it go.
‘Heidi was a bit cool about the news that we’d moved in together. She thinks we’ve rushed things.’
‘Fair enough. I’m sure from the outside we do look a little speedy. She’s only looking out for you. She’s a good friend.’
I wish she could hear how kind and reasonable Matthew is about her, a marked contrast to how suspicious and wary she is about him. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting your friends. You know, when it happens,’ I say, carefully. It’s true, I am looking forward to meeting them, even if they were all Becky’s friends too. At least then I’ll be able to report back to Heidi that I’ve done so, to shut her up. I don’t want to sound pushy but can’t stop myself adding, ‘I have a work trip in New York coming up in late summer. Maybe we could book you a flight and you could come along. We could tag on a few extra days as holiday. You could catch up with your old friends, introduce me to them.’
‘I’m not keen, to be honest,’ he says, looking away from me, through the window that faces onto the woods. It’s half past eleven, so it’s pitch black. The sort of dull, solid blackness that seems to swallow life. As the room is lit, only our reflections shine back at us; it is impossible to see what’s out there. It’s a peculiar thing to be watching us having this conversation. I get a strange feeling that I’m observing our relationship rather than participating in it. That is mad. I am here. Right next to him.
‘Why aren’t you keen? Are you ashamed of me or of them?’ I ask this in a jokey tone, trying to hide the fact that that’s what I’m worried about. Mostly the former.
‘No, of course not. You’re gorgeous, perfect.’ He turns to me, wearing a solemn expression. ‘They’re great too. My friends. Really sparkling. Attractive, clever, solvent, you know all that. That’s the problem. They’ll all point out that I’m punching, and you’ll realise they’re right.’ He smiles, kisses the tip of my nose. This scenario seems unlikely; it’s unusual for a man to pick a partner more than a decade older than him. His friends are much more likely to point out the issues we might encounter as a couple, as mine did. They might make the case that by choosing me he’s opting out of a family. They probably have younger women they want to introduce him to, now that he’s back on the market.
A fox or deer, maybe even a badger, darts between the trees closest to the house. I don’t get a look at it, but the sense of movement pulls my gaze away from Matthew. He puts his hands either side of my head and turns my face gently back to his so that we are staring into one another’s eyes. ‘You’re bound to think at least one of them is a way better bet than I am, and you’ll want to trade me in.’
Is he joking? ‘I never would,’ I murmur.
‘I can’t risk it.’ He smiles and pulls me into a long kiss. His hands caress my jaw, my neck. His thumb massages the spot just below my ears. My stomach rolls with pleasure. I want to give in to the kiss, drown in it, but I gently pull away. My body only just cooperating with my brain’s instructions.
‘Seriously, Matthew, what is the issue?’ I ask. ‘You’ve met my close friends and even some of my not so close ones and colleagues. Isn’t it time I met yours?’
He sighs, frustrated. Is he frustrated with me for breaking away from the kiss and shelving the hope of us having sex? Or worse, for asking this question? But when he speaks, I realise his frustration runs deep and has nothing to do with me. He pinches the bridge of his nose and screws up his eyes. ‘When I came back to the UK, I thought I’d pick up with old colleagues and contacts, maybe even my old uni mates, but it didn’t pan out that way.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe too much time had gone by. Or …’
‘Or?’
He shrugs, sort of retreats in on himself. ‘People are strange after a death. They don’t know how to behave. So many of my old buddies gave me a wide berth when Becky died. It was painful. Extremely so.’
‘Of course.’ I nod carefully. The way I always am, always must be, when Becky is mentioned.
‘Some people tried, but they said the wrong thing as often as not. There was a lot of “she’s in a better place now”. It just didn’t help me. Others kept telling me she wouldn’t want me to be sad.’
‘Would she have wanted you to be sad?’ I ask.
Matthew grins. ‘She was very jealous and protective of our relationship. She’d want me to be totally and absolutely fucking miserable. Inconsolable. She definitely wouldn’t want me to find happiness again.’
‘Really?’ I’m shocked. How is that love?
‘Yeah, she wasn’t the generous type.’
Then he laughs as though this is the funniest thing ever, rather than a bit sad and negative. Yet I laugh too and our lips find one another’s again. Our lips, our tongues, our hands. I edge onto my back and he climbs on top of me.
As we make love, I keep my eyes on him. When I do allow myself a glance at our reflections in the window against the black night, I find he is doing the same and we lock eyes there too. We look good together and sometimes we like watching ourselves. I keep my gaze fixed on his eyes and try to dismiss the thought that someone else is watching us too.
Afterwards, I put my knickers back on and we head upstairs. I’m exhausted but need to shower before I go to bed. Getting up at five in the morning only really works if you’re asleep by ten. It’s almost 1 a.m. now. I think I’ll skip my run tomorrow.