The Foster Husband (10 page)

‘So are you cold now?’ asked Matt, turning back.

‘No,’ I said, pulling his jacket tighter around me.

‘I am,’ he said.

I felt, with a shock, his marble-cold fingers sliding along the seat and onto my bare thigh. I watched his hand progress from the outside of my leg to the top of my knee. My hair fell over my
face to cover my eyes; I wasn’t sure I’d be able to look directly at him without blushing furiously. He pushed his hand gently between my thighs and I found myself primly clamping my
knees together to stop his progress.

I could feel Matt’s breath by my ear. He whispered, ‘I’m getting a pretty good idea of how you managed to stay on that tree, Basher. Impressive thigh action.’

I crossed my legs, trapping him further.

‘Like that, is it?’ he asked.

He suddenly pulled his hand towards him, but as it was still trapped between my legs, I was swung across the seat. Before I realized what was happening, he was lying on top of me so I
couldn’t move, his body heavy on mine.

I lifted my eyes to see him looking at me in barely disguised amusement.

‘I thought you said you were safe in taxis,’ I muttered, trying not to laugh.

‘That’s before you trapped me between your thighs, Basher Bailey,’ said Matt. ‘A man has to defend himself. Though there are worse places to be, I’ll
admit.’

He flexed his fingers, brushing the edge of my knickers, and I started to giggle at the ridiculousness of it all, our legs intertwined on the seat, his hand squashed, pine needles scattered all
over the floor of the taxi.

‘Bet you’re warming up, though,’ I said, squeezing my legs together even harder.

‘Oh definitely,’ he answered. He lifted his free hand to cup the back of my head and pulled me towards him, his eyes deep and dark.

His lips pressed onto mine for a moment and then he pulled back to look at me. I didn’t expect confident Matt Martell to be so hesitant, so cautious. I thought he’d be the kind of
man to crush me passionately, but he just held his face very close to mine and let a slow smile spread over his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. I could hear
my own heart beating and wondered if he could hear it too.

The moment stretched out until I could stand it no longer. I grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him so hard our teeth clashed.

I know I’m late when I ring on the doorbell at Mum and Dad’s; Mrs Curtis had spotted me leaving and insisted that I start the evening with a sherry at hers.
‘Just a little sharpener, dear.’ It felt unneighbourly to say no, even though I had to suppress a shudder as I forced down a sticky Harvey’s Bristol Cream. I had thought sherry
was a drink for lightweight old ladies, so I’d been surprised to discover, as Mrs Curtis lectured me about the benefits of cold-water swimming on the cardiovascular system, that one tiny
glass had left me feeling decidedly tipsy.

Still, I’m only behind by half an hour or so. In London that’s considered on time, but I should have known Prue would think differently. The front door has barely opened before she
launches into her attack, voice lowered to a hiss so that it doesn’t carry back into the house.

‘I knew you would find a way to make this all about you!’

‘Sorry—’ I say, not sure whether to explain myself.

‘You always have to make an entrance, don’t you? The great Kate can’t just turn up when I ask her to. She has to leave us all sitting around waiting when we don’t even
have any
wine
.’

‘Jeez, give me a break,’ I say, handing over the carrier bag from the wine shop. ‘I thought Mum and Dad would have some already. I didn’t realize I was depriving you
all.’

‘They don’t have the
right
wine,’ Prue snaps. ‘We were waiting for the
right
wine. To go with the canapés, actually.’

‘Okay, I’m sorry, it was just—’

‘Oh, spare me your excuses,’ sneers Prue. ‘God knows we’ve heard enough of them over the years. “I can’t help out with Granny Gilbert because I’m in
Singapore for the Grand Prix”; “I can’t come to Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary because I’m in Ibiza”; “I can’t come to your birthday party because
I’m hanging out with Beyoncé and Jay-Z in Los Angeles”.’

‘Prue! That’s not fair! That was work; I couldn’t help being away. You know I’d rather not miss family things if I can help it.’

And frankly ‘hanging out with Beyoncé and Jay-Z in LA’ sounds far more exciting than the reality, which was discussing how many pounds of Beyoncé’s gigantic stage
set can be permitted per square yard of hastily built stage, and rowing with the managers of Argentina’s biggest tween boy band over child-labour laws in the state of California.

‘Well, you haven’t been working
lately
, have you? And it’s not as if you came down to Lyme until you had no choice. You just don’t have to make it so obvious
that we’re your last resort.’

I can see I could be stuck on the doorstep for a very long time if I try to defend myself. Prue’s clearly taken my accidental lateness as a diss of enormous proportions, a statement about
my lack of interest in her life, my failings as a sister and as a member of the Bailey family. I seem to be failing at quite a lot these days.

‘Prue, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m really, really sorry. I know this evening’s important to you. Are you going to let me in?’

‘Okay,’ she says, opening the door at last. ‘Come in then. Everyone’s waiting.’

My parents greet my arrival with an excitement that suggests a certain amount of desperation, springing up from their battered old sofa to hug me as if we haven’t seen each other for
weeks. Dad hisses into my hair that I had better have brought the wine. Even Mum ventures to ask if I came via the off-licence, and she thinks she’s veering close to alcoholism if she has a
second helping of sherry trifle at Christmas. Ben stands up from the armchair behind the fire and extends his hand towards me. I allow him to crush my fingers in greeting while I size him up.

He is not at all what I had expected from someone who Prue first met at a Young Entrepreneurs’ South West conference. I suppose I had, snobbishly, imagined a mobile phone salesman type
– all shiny suits and over-gelled hair. Instead Ben looks more like a refugee from a Young Farmers’ meeting. He sports violently red trousers – to coordinate with his florid
cheeks perhaps? Although that is unfair since sitting next to the fire could do that to anyone’s face. His checked flannel shirt is open at the neck – intentionally, I assume –
and by his stomach – unintentionally, surely? – exposing a small triangle of pale belly beneath his corduroy jacket. His thick hair grows in whorled curls flat on his head, like the
hide of a young blond bullock, and his eyelashes are long and fair, which makes the bovine resemblance all the stronger. He’s so thoroughly rustic that when he drags me into a bear hug I
expect him to smell of hay. But instead he smells, strongly, of aftershave.

‘Kate, hullo, very good to meet you,’ he says, heartily slapping my back. ‘I’ve heard an awful lot about you from Prue.’

I cannot imagine that she’s said anything good, so I can do no more than laugh nervously.

‘Wine. At last,’ Prue announces tersely, depositing an opened bottle on the coffee table where five glasses wait expectantly. ‘The canapés will be ready in five minutes,
so if you need the loo then go now so you’re ready for them.’

Dad grabs at the wine and pours out large glasses; I take mine gratefully. Ben lets out a loud ‘Aaaaaah’ after his first gulp and Dad looks at him murderously. Since Dad is not
exactly a stickler for manners, and used to be famous for his ability to crush a beer can on his forehead, I wonder what Ben has done to ignite his wrath.

‘Ben here has just been telling us all about his business plans for Baileys’,’ says Mum, her eyes swivelling nervously from Dad’s face to Ben’s.
‘They’re very, er, interesting. Aren’t they, David?’

Dad mutters into his wine. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘They are very . . . interesting.’ He takes a swig from his glass and slams it down on the table, staring challengingly at
Ben.

‘Lovely,’ I say, trying to understand all that remains unspoken here. I’m afraid to ask a question in case the entire room combusts. Only Ben seems immune to the atmosphere,
smiling affably back at Dad in a way that suggests there is not an awful lot going on in that curly-haired head of his.

Prue bustles in from the kitchen, proffering a plate of wildly ambitious canapés.

‘Mango, scallop and Thai basil skewer?’ she offers, thrusting the plate at Ben. ‘Mini timbale of oriental vegetables?’

Ben exclaims, ‘Yum, yum,’ like a little boy, as he accepts a mini timbale. He rubs his stomach appreciatively in anticipation and his face falls as he realizes his shirt is open.
While he tries to button it up again with only one hand, the tiny timbale leaps out of his thick fingers, and lands, split in two, on the carpet. If only Minnie had been here he’d have got
away with it. Her hoovering abilities beat any cleaner.

‘Ben!’ shrieks Prue, whisking the tray away from Mum, whose hand hovers in mid-air, halfway through reaching for a skewer.

‘Gosh, sorry, Prue.’ Ben’s face goes even redder as he stands, frozen in shame.

‘Please don’t worry,’ insists Mum, scooping up the canapé and flinging it into the fire. ‘That rug’s had everything you can imagine dropped on it over the
years, a mini – what was it Prue, love? – a mini thingummy won’t do it any harm.’

‘It was a mini
timbale
, Mother,’ says Prue. ‘And I only made three each, so Ben you can only have two now.’

Dad raises his eyebrows at me, unseen by Prue. We are all a little terrified of my sister, and never more so than when she’s playing the ungracious hostess.

‘Mmm, scallop skewers, yum,’ I say, reaching for one in the hope of mollifying Prue.

‘Don’t patronize me!’ she hisses under her breath.

‘I’m not – they look lovely,’ I say, and it’s true.

‘Well, take one then,’ she snaps. And I do. She puts the tray down on the wobbly wooden table by the side of Ben’s armchair and stalks back to the kitchen.

‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Prue never does anything by halves, does she? Did she dive for these scallops herself out in the bay, do you reckon?’

‘Ah, no,’ says Ben, with a look of polite condescension. ‘Prue isn’t a diver. She bought the scallops, actually. From the fishmonger down by the Cobb. But I’m sure
they are just as fresh as if she had dived for them.’

‘Right,’ I say, not quite sure how to answer.

Ben grimaces at Mum, ‘Awfully sorry about the carpet.’

‘Really,’ Mum insists, lowering her voice, ‘it’s not about the carpet; Prue’s just a little stressed because she’s spent all afternoon making sushi and I
don’t think it’s gone awfully well.’

‘She made her own sushi?’ I ask. I’m astounded. Even at my most derangedly domestic goddessy, I have never attempted sushi.

Dad harrumphs; he’s still looking at Ben with misgivings. ‘I never knew rice could stick to a person like that,’ he mutters.

‘Oh dear,’ I say. I have to bite my lip to stop myself smirking. I notice Mum can’t meet my eye either.

I don’t want you to get the impression that Prue is some kind of monster. She isn’t at all, although I realize I’ve painted her as one so far. Maybe it makes me feel better to
make her sound worse than she is. I mean, all she’s trying to do is make a meal for her family and her boyfriend. It’s not a crime. She just seems to get no enjoyment out of it, so
it’s hard for anyone else to enjoy it either. Sometimes it feels like we’re separated by more than just eight years – sometimes it feels like we’re doomed to be for ever
distinct and separate; parallel – never meeting, like the layers of rock out on the cliffs.

‘So, Ben,’ I venture when the atmosphere has thickened to the point where I could scoop it up with a spoon and use it to top a mini timbale, ‘you’ve been talking to Mum
and Dad about your business ideas?’

Dad’s face darkens.

Ben, on the other hand, beams delightedly, as if he’s been waiting for just this question. His ruddy cheeks crimson further. ‘Well, Kate, we were just discussing that when you came
in. I’ve been looking for some time now for expansion, development and growth opportunities in the South West region.’

It sounds like he’s reading from a press release.

‘Oh right,’ I say. I don’t really understand when people talk about ‘business’ like that. It’s like when someone says they work in ‘systems’ or
‘analysis’. To be honest, when I hear any of these expressions, to me it’s like someone telling me they’re a fundamentalist Christian. I’ll do my best to listen to
what they say, but I’ve already pretty much switched off.

‘Yuh,’ says Ben, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair so that he seems to be sitting in state, like a Pope. I suppose commerce is the new religion, but he doesn’t look
especially Papal with his stomach still hanging out.

‘Just been talking to your parents about developing some new revenue streams for Baileys’,’ he continues. ‘Shaking things up a bit, you know?’ He taps his fingers
on the chair, contentedly beating a little rhythm.

It all sounds fairly boring to me; I can’t understand why his uninspiring corporate speak has Mum and Dad seething on the sofa next to me. I can virtually feel their anger.

‘Yah,’ Ben says. ‘What I’m aiming to do is turn the business around from a well-established but essentially moribund concern into something pretty exciting. Everyone
thinks all the action is happening in London, but they couldn’t be more wrong.’

Dad rolls his eyes and Mum smiles tightly by his side. I nod encouragingly at Ben, who ploughs on regardless of the fact that two thirds of his audience appear to hate his guts. And all three of
us can
see
his gut.

‘Yuh, consider Copella apple juice – old family business, stuck in the doldrums until it was given a proper kick up the arse by someone who knew what they were doing. Now look at
them – millionaires! Yeo Valley, too. The South West’s full of chances for someone who’s got vision.’

‘Like you,’ says Dad. The sarcasm in his voice is unmistakable. But not to Ben.