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Authors: Kate Saunders

BOOK: Bachelor Boys
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“Fritz and Annabel started hearing heavenly choirs at about half past nine,” I said. “And I think we might have found a match for Ben.”
“Ben?” Phoebe was puzzled.
“Elspeth really likes him.”
“Oh no, darling,” Phoebe said indulgently, spooning coffee. “You're quite wrong. Elspeth likes Neil.”
I looked across the room, to where Neil and Elspeth stood in the curve of the grand piano. Neil had somehow persuaded Matthew's dour colleague to talk animatedly, and to smile. Phoebe was right—Cupid had been doing his stuff. I had been too wrapped up in Matthew and Fritz to notice. Knitting people into pairs was proving unexpectedly difficult.
I whispered, “But he's a fat guy with red hair!”
“Well, someone has to like them best,” Phoebe whispered back, “or fat men with red hair would simply become extinct—and I can think of at least three of them.”
She slid homemade almond biscuits on to a plate. She put the plate down suddenly and clumsily, bending over the counter, shoulders hunched defensively. I gently pushed her into the nearest chair.
“Don't make a fuss, Cassie. I'm absolutely fine.”
“Oh yes. Just rest for a minute.” The fiction had to be maintained, and I mustn't show that I was in the least scared by the bluish tinge to her lips. “I'll finish the coffee. Let me make you some chamomile tea.”
“That would be lovely.” The lamplight made deep shadows in the hollows under her cheekbones. “I think I'd better go upstairs.”
Fritz started to his feet.
“No, darling, I'm fine,” Phoebe said, staunchly dredging up her normal breezy voice. “Annabel, it's been so wonderful to see you. Make sure you come again very soon.”
Annabel stood up, to embrace her. “Try and keep me away.”
Phoebe would not let anyone accompany her upstairs. Once she had
said her good nights, the dynamics of the room changed. Annabel began talking to Ben.
Fritz walked over to me. “How is she, do you think?”
“Reeling with exhaustion,” I said, “but dying to hear every detail. I bet she phones me at dawn.”
He smiled, and murmured, “You can tell her one of us is doing very well.” He put his mouth close to my ear. “Am I a complete dickhead, Grimble? Why didn't I notice? Has Annabel been this stunning all these years?”
The intimacy of this felt odd and uncomfortable, in a way I couldn't define. “Well, I told you enough times,” I whispered back. “Maybe you'll take me seriously now.”
“Oh, I always take you seriously. You're a highly serious grown-up person with a boyfriend who works in a suit. Did you tell Mum Matthew walked out on you?”
“He didn't walk out on me. It was work.”
“Grimble, let's not have any more truck with Mister Bullshit. Would you like me to punch that dismal moose of yours in any vital region?”
The kettle boiled. I poured hot water over the tea bag—glad to duck away from his ticklish whispering, which was raising bumps on the back of my neck. “No thanks.”
“He's cheating on you.” Fritz was calm.
“I told you. It was work.”
“If you insist. Let me know when you're ready to accept reality.”
I wasn't ready to surrender my dreams yet. What did Fritz know, anyway? I busied myself with teas and coffees so that he couldn't say any more.
Neil offered to drive Elspeth home to her Docklands warehouse conversion, alleging it was on his way. Look on the bright side, I thought—this ought to do wonders for Matthew's partnership. The Wicked Queen was exposed as an ordinary female, just as silly about romance as the rest of us. Ben and I waved them off at the front door.
I was about to go back into the sitting room, but Ben stopped me. He put his finger on his lips, and nudged me gently toward the open door.
I saw them reflected in the big gilt mirror over the fireplace. To say that Fritz and Annabel were kissing would be to put it mildly. They were locked together, oblivious to everything except each other. They both
looked beautiful, and far beyond the reach of any poor mortal. I turned hot with (I think) embarrassment.
“Phew,” I muttered feebly. “No good asking Annabel for a lift, then.”
“I'll drive you home,” Ben said. He was frowning.
“Are you sure?”
“Come on.”
We had to get out before the hormonal storm broke over our heads. I hurried down the basement stairs behind Ben. Annabel let out a moan of rapture, which I tried not to hear.
I stuffed my feet back into the trainers. “I should help you with the clearing up.” I had suddenly remembered that I hadn't done a thing for my own dinner party (besides, this would make a fine excuse not to go home, and either find Matthew there or not there; impossible to decide which would be worse). “The table isn't too wrecked, thankfully.”
“Leave it,” Ben said. He was rummaging about among the dirty pans and plates on the counter. “Fuck, what's he done with the car keys?” He found them in the fruit bowl. “I can't stay here. If Fritz finds me hanging about, he'll strangle me.”
“Poor you, that's not fair. You live here too.”
“It's all part of our agreement,” Ben said crossly. “We have to bugger off if the other one brings someone back for sex. And it's only fair in theory, because he scores far more than I do.”
“Yes, but this is Annabel,” I pointed out. “She won't mind you being around. She'll positively like it.”
“Please, Cass,” Ben said. His hand squeezed my arm. “I just can't bear to watch him going through that old routine—not with Annabel.”
I was surprised by the anger in his voice. “What do you mean? Why not with Annabel?”
“Because he's not good enough for her. Look, we've both seen how Fritz treats girls.” Ben scowled. His jaw hardened. “If he does that to Annabel, I'll have to think seriously about killing him.”
I
was sober enough to be apprehensive while Ben drove me home. It had been arranged that Matthew would be staying at my flat over the weekend, but his hasty exit from the dinner party might mean everything had changed. Would I find him waiting for me? Did I want to?
My flat was empty. Tired, drunk and dispirited, I went to bed alone. At some point in the small hours—perhaps three or four in the morning—I woke to the quiet click of my front door. I had given Matthew a key (we had exchanged keys early in our romance), and I think this was the first time he had used it. I made myself as still as possible, pretending to be asleep.
I heard the creak of floorboards as he crept into the bedroom. I heard him breathing above me, and concentrated upon keeping my eyelids relaxed.
He whispered, “Cassie?”
I stayed asleep, and heard his unmistakable sigh of relief.
He seemed to be undressing for ages. Finally, reeking of toothpaste, he rolled into bed beside me. Within minutes, he was out cold. I always knew when he was really asleep. I wonder why men can never tell when women are only pretending. Perhaps it's related to our ability to fake orgasms.
And I don't think men ever weep silently while their girlfriends slumber. I held myself rigid, carefully breathing through my mouth and sniffing in slow motion, with what felt like about a gallon of tears pooling
under my cheek. Somehow, without knowing how or why, I had missed the last boat out.
 
The phone woke me. I opened my swollen eyes. I was alone again. I knew this from the quality of the silence around me, and the empty chill of my bed. This must be Matthew, I decided groggily, calling me with his latest excuse. I snatched the phone. “H'lo?”
“I've woken you up,” Phoebe's voice said. “Sorry, darling. Shall I ring a bit later?”
“No, I'm awake now.” I struggled into a sitting position. “God, it's half past ten.”
Phoebe's soft voice was full of jubilation. “Cassie, it was a triumph. You should be feeling incredibly pleased with yourself. Congratulations.”
“What?” I couldn't think of a single reason to feel pleased with myself.
“You did it! You made a match! Fritz took Annabel home last night—and they've only just come back, both absolutely radiant. Isn't it fabulous?”
“Fabulous,” I echoed stupidly.
“Didn't I always say you were the perfect woman for the job? Darling, I can't thank you enough. Annabel is one of the sweetest girls in the world, and I know she'll be just perfect for Fritz. You should see them together—she'll make an angel of him.”
“Yes, but aren't you going rather fast here?” (One night with Fritz didn't necessarily count for much, though I could hardly put it like this to his mother.) “I mean, do you think it's a genuine match? Isn't it a bit soon to tell?”
“Call it a mother's instinct,” Phoebe said, sublimely confident. “I know Fritz. Well done, my clever girl. Now we only have to find someone for Ben.”
“This morning?”
“Don't be silly!” Phoebe laughed, then added, “Still, you could call your friend Hazel, couldn't you?
“She's still away,” I said.
“As soon as she comes back, then. Look, since you're properly awake now, why don't you meet us up at Kenwood? It's such a glorious morning.
The boys and Annabel are taking me for coffee in the garden. Do come, darling.”
I didn't think I had the stamina to watch Annabel and Fritz being radiant. “No thanks. I have to get my car fixed. And I'm not sure if Matthew's planned anything.”
Phoebe's voice was gentle. “Oh, Matthew's there. How nice.”
“He's not here at this precise moment, but I think he's popped out for croissants and a paper. That's our normal Sunday routine.”
“I'm glad you're back in your routine. Fritz told me how oddly he behaved last night.”
I explained that Matthew was under great pressure at work, almost believing it.
Phoebe was not convinced. I hadn't expected to convince her. She had an emotional sensibility that amounted to second sight, and I daresay she sensed that I was not yet ready to accept defeat.
We rang off, and I swung my legs out of bed. If Matthew was already reading the
Observer
in the queue at the French bakery, I'd better get the coffee started and run a comb through my mad hair. I stumbled out into the sitting room, stuffing my arms into the sleeves of my dressing gown—and stopped short when I saw the sinister thing on the table. It was a bunch of pink roses, still wrapped in Cellophane, hastily stuffed into a jug.
Flowers. Why?
There was a note beside them. “Cassie darling—you are wonderful. Sorry about last night. I have to go back to work. Call you later. Matthew.”
He said I was wonderful, but he did not say he loved me. This was not quibbling. Think it through. Anyone can be wonderful.
Coffee for one, then.
I had to get out of the flat. I drank my coffee at the Camden Starbucks, weeping discreetly behind my sunglasses.
 
There were threads of white in my hair when I arrived at work on Monday. This was because I had spent the rest of that barren Sunday painting the ceiling of my sitting room, but I felt it summed up my general weariness.
My e-mail inbox did nothing to lighten me up—one from Annabel, one from Matthew. I opened Annabel's first, as the least dangerous.
Sorry I didn't phone and please don't think I'm a slut for going straight to bed with Fritz—it wasn't like that. When he kissed me, it was like shifting into another dimension—I would have followed him to the ends of the earth. Nobody else existed for us. He is INCREDIBLE in bed!! But it's more than sex. He's so kind and funny—he has a gentle side you'd never imagine. I spent the whole weekend with him. You'll want to know if I'm in love, and the answer is YES. Work seems pointless this morning. Cassie, you were so right to tell me to keep the faith. There IS a right person for everyone—just like you and M—and Fritz is IT. I'd do anything for him.
Good luck to you, I thought sourly; at least you're rich these days—when Fritz fancies a kipper, you won't have to go out begging for it.
In theory I was delighted for her. In practice, I allowed myself a pang or two of deep envy.
Matthew's message was short and to the point.
I'm sure you'll agree we need to talk. 7:30 L'Etoile okay? M.
I sent back an (equally brief) acceptance, with my heart in my shoes. He wanted to meet me in what I privately called his “telling-off” restaurant—a rather starchy French place in Charlotte Street, where he had twice taken me to complain about various aspects of my behavior (oh yes, I had form; my previous offenses were mentioning politics in front of his boss and “going on” about my career in front of men who were less successful). What, exactly, was I supposed to have done wrong this time?
We met straight after work. Matthew was waiting for me, suited and serious, his shining briefcase propped against his chair. I kissed him warmly, hoping I would not allow myself to be manipulated into apologizing.
Matthew said, “Thanks for meeting me like this, Cassie. I know you must be wondering what's going on.”
“I do realize you're working very hard,” I said carefully. Anyone who
has ever gone out with a lawyer will appreciate the cautious nature of my replies.
“Yes, but you must have guessed it's more than that.” He neatly quartered his bread roll. “You must have noticed that I'm under a lot of emotional pressure. And I think it's important to level with you.” The faintest flush dyed his cheeks. “I know I shouldn't have run out on you on Saturday, and—and I'm sorry.” (He didn't sound it.) “But I suddenly couldn't face a night at the same table with Fritz and Ben Darling.”
“Oh, come on. They're not that bad.”
“It's not only the Darlings. It's all your lifestyle choices.”
“Lifestyle choices?” Surely this was a euphemism for sexual irregularity, and I certainly couldn't be accused of that. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Matthew let out one of his patient sighs. “I might have known you'd refuse to understand. Look, we've talked about long-term commitment—marriage, and so forth.”
“Yes.” I held my breath, feeling that my whole future hung by a glass thread.
“Well, lately—but it's been building for some time—I've felt that I need more space.”
“Oh.”
“Don't get me wrong, Cass. I do have very deep feelings for you. You're a wonderful person, and you've mostly managed to detach yourself from your background. But I do find your lifestyle a bit—well, a bit static and claustrophobic. You don't move. You don't change. You don't seem to think you have to adapt.”
“Oh.” (I had got his drift, and I daresay you have too.)
“The same places. The same circle of people.”
“You do like some of them. Annabel, Hazel, Honor—”
“Some of them, yes.” Matthew was solemn, with an air of keeping calm under pressure. “But I wasn't expecting to spend every spare moment in their pockets.”
“All right,” I said, with an edge. “We simply won't see anyone you don't like. Write me a list.”
He sighed, as if I was being tiresome. “Don't be silly. It's not a question
of personalities. I'm talking about your attitude. The way you arrange your life unilaterally, without any kind of consultation.”
“But Matthew, I always consult you first. And the Darlings are like family—they have a claim on me too.”
“This isn't about Phoebe,” Matthew said. “She's lovely, and I know how much she needs you at the moment—especially when those sons of hers are so useless.”
“They are not!” I snapped. I was surprised by the sudden ferocity of my desire to defend them. “Fritz and Ben are totally devoted to Phoebe!”
“It's a general problem about the type of people you choose to socialize with,” Matthew went on. “Losers and wasters, and people who think the world owes them a living because they've read a few books. There's more to life than clever-clever chatter.”
The unfairness of this took my breath away. I'd been trying very hard not to use long words or gossip about literature in front of Matthew, who had barely scraped through GCSE English. For his sake, I had once pretended not to have an opinion about Jane Austen, in case I unbalanced a particularly bone-headed dinner party (I now think this was as bad as begging for kippers, if not worse).
“We've built up a relationship,” Matthew said, “but I'm frankly scared of taking it any further. As I said, I think it's time to give each other more space.”
“How much more? Are you handing me my P45?”
He frowned. “Please don't be flippant.”
“Sorry, but you can't blame me for wondering.” I licked my dry lips. “I was sure you were going to tell me you're seeing someone else.”
Matthew sighed again. “And I was sure you'd try to turn this round, forcing me to defend myself so you don't have to take criticism. For God's sake, Cassie—why must everything be so childish?”
“Well, are you?”
“No, as a matter of fact. I thought you knew me better than that.”
There was my answer, folks. He was challenging me to call him a liar, knowing I had no proof but my own intuition. I was surer than ever. Very few men in this situation are able to lie convincingly. I considered
my options. I could say I didn't believe him—but then a row would be my fault, and I was determined to cling to the high moral ground.
“Sorry,” I said again. Here I was, apologizing to my boyfriend because I had made him cheat on me—but there's always a good reason for doing this. I was going to make Matthew pay for the damage to my dignity by being incredibly difficult to get rid of. He would have to spell it out in letters a foot high.
“This isn't about ending it,” Matthew said. “I don't want to throw away our relationship. But I do want us to take a step back.”
“Meaning what?”
“Don't be offended, Cass. I'm just saying we shouldn't assume we have to spend every single evening together. Especially during the week—staying over with you is all very nice, but it's playing havoc with my work. I know the demands are ridiculous. I sometimes wonder if I'm allowed to have any sort of love life at all.”
Resolutely deaf to this final note of pathos, I dredged up an affectionate voice. “Oh darling, you've been so good about staying over with me. We seem to have fallen into the habit of always going to my place. I should be coming to your place sometimes, shouldn't I?”

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