The Foster Husband (25 page)

I turned around to face him. ‘Matt Martell, that is fighting talk to a woman with a large knife in her hand. What do you mean I should join a gym?’

How dare he? I may have put on a few pounds since I’d given up work, but he didn’t have to make me feel bad about it.

‘Calm down,’ said Matt mildly, not even slightly perturbed by my brandished weapon. ‘I just meant it’s good to have a routine, isn’t it? Something to structure your
day around. And endorphins, you know, a bit of exercise might cheer you up.’

I gripped the handle of the knife until my knuckles turned white. I seriously thought I might use it on him – or maybe on myself – if he carried on talking that way.

‘So you’re saying not only that I’ve got fat, but that I’m a moody cow? Is that right? Anything else you’d like to offer an opinion on?’

Matt just laughed. ‘Don’t be mental, I’m not saying anything like that.’

I turned my back on him and savagely cut the French beans in half. A handful of them fell on the floor, but I didn’t pick them up. My spine was so rigid with fury that I felt as if it
might snap in two if I tried to bend.

‘Kate,’ Matt’s voice adopted a pleading tone. ‘Why are you taking this the wrong way? I just want you to be happy.’

I spun around, pointing the knife at him. ‘No you don’t. You want
you
to be happy. And you think if I was just a bit more
cheery
, just a bit less
fat
, a
bit less
unemployed
, that you’d be happier. Well, it doesn’t work like that, Matt. So maybe keep your stupid suggestions to yourself.’

Matt’s face fell. ‘You’re not fat,’ he said quietly.

There was a long pause while we both stared at each other. I felt like I knew every millimetre of his face. The tiny mole by his right ear, the faint lines that starfished out from the corners
of his eyes. But I could not have told you what was happening behind those eyes, and that was new and alarming. I had thought I knew him better than I knew myself. I was used to his admiration, to
his adoration even. Now I was horrified that what I saw in his face might actually be pity.

‘You seem unhappy,’ he said at last. ‘I wish you’d stop pretending you’re not. And then maybe we could do something about it.’

I felt my face go hot, and my throat tightened, as if there was a hand around it. I wouldn’t let myself cry – how could I defend myself against being unhappy by bursting into
tears?

‘I’m not unhappy,’ I said. My voice was unconvincing, even to me.

Matt’s eyes were sad. He didn’t push it, which made me feel even worse. Once we’d have had a passionate row, now he treated me gingerly, as if I was no longer his equal,
capable of standing my ground, but someone to be accommodated; the weaker partner whose fragile emotions must be protected.

I didn’t push it either. Not because I was about to agree with him, but because it was an impossible argument to win. To insist in anger that you are happy only serves to make you look
miserable.

So in the end I let him buy me a gym membership, and I pretended that it didn’t make me feel like a surrendered wife; the kind who has manicures and coffee mornings and thinks the
maintenance of her appearance is her primary duty to her husband.

I never went, of course. Sometimes just getting out of bed took all the energy I had. I was more likely to climb to the base camp of Everest than set a foot on a stairmaster. But it made Matt
feel better and, as that was the only reason I’d allowed it, the gym membership fulfilled its function for both of us.

I’m sat in the pub nursing a vodka and soda and trying not to feel conspicuous. Which is hard to do since I’m the only woman in here other than the teenage girl
behind the bar, who I have already flustered and alienated by asking if she had a piece of fresh lime to go in my drink. Lime is, it seems, a rarity in Lyme except in the form of cordial – no
lime in Lyme, how ironic. It reminds me of the first time I came back from London in the late Nineties, and made the mistake of asking for a vodka and cranberry juice in Mum and Dad’s local.
Frankly I was used to drinking Cosmopolitans back then – we all were, perched uncomfortably on bar stools, flicking our hair, self-consciously trying to pretend we were Carrie Bradshaw
– but I thought a vodka cranberry would suffice while I was in the sticks. It took years before I could venture in there without all the regulars falling about laughing at my pretensions.
Cranberry juice! Can you believe her? Whoever heard of such a thing?

Of course, now that you can get cranberry juice in Lyme’s Tesco Express, no one I know drinks it any more.

The other customers – all six of them – are men in unwittingly matching holey jumpers, like a Lyme Regis version of the cameramen I used to work with. As well as the jumpers, they
share a certain hoary charm, the kind that makes dirty fingernails and muddy shoes seem like signifiers of earthy toil rather than a lack of hygiene. They all seem to know each other, and they are
clearly intrigued as to what I am doing in the bar by myself. I can tell this because it’s quiet enough that I heard the man in the most holey of jumpers (not the most holy of jumpers, that
would be weird) say, ‘I wonder what she’s doing here?’

I start humming under my breath, no tune in particular, just trying to make a noise so that I can’t overhear anything. It’s not like I think I’m especially fascinating –
although my question about the lime should give them cause for amusement – but I know what the gossip is like here. Either they will know I’m Sandy and David’s errant daughter
– in which case I don’t want to hear it – or they won’t – in which case I don’t want to hear it either. No good ever comes of listening to what people say behind
your back.

Tra-la-la, I hum to myself, trying to peer through the window, but it’s hard to see out of glass that’s as thick and swirled as the bottom of a bottle. Figures pass indistinctly,
impossible to identify except as a brief blotting out of what little glow from the streetlights penetrates inside. I hadn’t considered before how pubs in London tend to be more bright and
open, their big windows and well-lit interiors designed to appeal to women who want to see what somewhere is like before they venture inside, rather than having to duck into a shadowy room hoping
for the best. But I guess the holey jumpers like it like this – dark and cosy for hiding away. And if your wife walks past she won’t even be able to see you’re in here, which I
suppose is the point.

Anyway, it wasn’t my choice, Eddy suggested it. And as I’m hardly an expert on Lyme’s nightlife, having spent most of my recent nights here watching television with Minnie, I
wasn’t in any position to suggest somewhere different.

I don’t even want to think about the last time I went out for a drink with a man who wasn’t either my husband or a work colleague. No, seriously, I really don’t want to think
about it. It will only make me either nervous or hysterical, which is silly, because it’s only a drink with Dready Eddy. Which is weird in itself. He says he’s ‘made plans’.
I wonder briefly if we’ll be sharing a bottle of cider on the beach, or laughing uncontrollably from too much dope, which was pretty much the level of plan we achieved before I fled Lyme for
good.

When he finally arrives, full of apologies for his lateness, he is welcomed as a friend by all the holey jumpers. They slap him on the back as he greets them at the bar, guffawing loudly at
something – I am sure I heard the word lime, but it could have been Lyme, so I try not to take it personally.

He returns with a pint and a rueful smile.

‘Sorry, got waylaid by the guys from the boatyard. And now I’m even later. Gaby didn’t pick up the girls until seven – I should have called but I was in a hurry to get
here.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘There’s no rush.’

And I really don’t mind at all – why would I? A man can talk to his friends. No matter what Matt thinks, I’m not one of those women who demands a man’s attention all the
time. If you ask me, it would be pretty wearing to be under that kind of constant scrutiny anyway. Everyone needs their own space.

‘Well, there kind of is,’ says Eddy. ‘Because I’ve booked us a table for dinner.’

‘Have you?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, there’s a place in the old Mill complex that I think you’ll like. Really amazing food,’ says Eddy. ‘I’ve booked us in for eight.’

He sees my eyes flick to my watch.

‘It’s okay, I’ll down this quickly,’ he says, picking up his pint. I must look apprehensive because he starts laughing. ‘Don’t worry, I can handle it –
they don’t call me Steady Eddy for nothing.’

‘They don’t call you Steady Eddy at all,’ I say. ‘You will always be Dready Eddy to me, Eddy Curtis. No matter how many buzz cuts you get.’

He rubs the top of his head, as if he’s stroking the ghost dreads from long ago.

‘Dready Eddy.’ He chuckles. ‘That feels like a long time ago.’

‘When did you shave them off?’ I asked.

He thinks, sipping his pint. ‘Last year of university. It was a fairly lame sort of hair rebellion in the end – I was happy to be Mr Counterculture until I got turned down from three
jobs in a row, and then off they came.’

‘You crazy anarchist, you,’ I say.

‘My girlfriend cut them all off one night after we’d been out,’ he says, remembering. ‘Her hands went completely green afterwards. It didn’t come off for two
days.’

‘That is disgusting,’ I grimace.

‘She certainly seemed to think so,’ he says, laughing. ‘She dumped me a week later.’

‘Didn’t like what she’d uncovered under all that hair?’ I tease.

‘Something like that,’ he agrees.

‘Well, I think she was a fool, Eddy,’ I say kindly. ‘Who knew Dready Eddy would scrub up so well?’

Eddy scoffs and finishes his pint. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s go.’

We wave goodbye to the holey jumpers and step outside onto Broad Street. Even though it’s dark now, and the moon is obscured behind silvery clouds, there is a very faint blue line on the
horizon that shows where the sea ends and the sky begins. I like how the horizon makes me feel small in the best way – as if my problems are insignificant and fleeting. The perspective seems
to promise possibility and escape. That’s what I always thought when I was younger, and even though I’ve run back here with my tail between my legs, the sight of the horizon still pulls
at my heart with hope. Which is an unfamiliar feeling to me these days.

The restaurant that Eddy’s chosen is tiny, hidden behind an art gallery in the old Mill complex. There are barely ten tables and only one waiter, behind whom the solitary chef can be seen
at work. Unlike the pub, however, this place is rammed. Every table is full and we have to squeeze our way apologetically past the other diners to get to our seats at the back of the room.
There’s a proper hum of conversation – the kind where you can’t hear what other people are saying, so you’re free to say what you want in return – and an air of eager
anticipation about the food in store. I’d expect it somewhere like the posh Hix restaurant up near the Cobb – full of visitors from London since the locals blanch at paying twenty
pounds for a piece of fish – but this bustling little corner of the Mill has the buzz of somewhere twice its size.

Eddy picks up the menu, while the waiter pours water for us.

‘It’s really nice in here,’ I say.

Eddy’s eyes twinkle with amusement. ‘No need to sound so surprised,’ he says. ‘Lyme’s changed a lot while you’ve been away.’

‘I did used to come back, you know,’ I say, on the defensive. ‘It’s not like I never visited at all. I just, well, I was always visiting family. I guess my parents
don’t know about this place.’

‘Oh no,’ says Eddy with confidence. ‘They’ve been here plenty of times. Gaby and I saw them in here at least twice, and they seemed pretty familiar with the
place.’

‘Sandy and David?’ asks the waiter, reappearing with a notepad. ‘Oh yes, they’re in here all the time. They often talk about you – Kate, isn’t it? From
London?’

He cocks his head to one side sympathetically. The expression on his face conveys not only pity, but full knowledge of my tawdry circumstances.

I do wonder how anyone in Lyme would ever manage to have an affair or keep a similarly life-affecting secret. It seems I can barely step out of the front door without a total stranger revealing
that they’re entirely up to date on who I am and what’s going on in my life. And to think I was just beginning to believe that Lyme had changed.

‘I’m Stephen,’ he says. ‘Anyway, can I get you some wine?’

‘Kate?’ says Eddy, offering me the wine list.

‘You choose,’ I say, studying the menu.

‘Oh, well, I don’t know much about wine,’ says Eddy.

‘Me neither,’ I smile at him. ‘Whatever you pick is fine with me.’

Stephen purses his lips and whisks the wine list out of Eddy’s hand. ‘Well I do know about the wine, so how about you tell me what you’re going to eat and I’ll choose for
you, hmm?’

Eddy grins with relief, and Stephen promises he’ll bring us something we’ll both like. Frankly as long as it’s alcoholic I’m going to like it, but I don’t tell him
that as he seems to relish making the effort.

‘It’s so weird to be sat here with Kate Bailey,’ says Eddy, breaking off a piece of the warm bread that’s been placed in front of us.

‘Oh stop it,’ I say, keeping my tone light and breezy. ‘Honestly, Eddy, if we’re going to be friends you’re going to have to stop going on about the past all the
time. We’re both different people now. Let’s talk about other stuff.’

‘Like what?’

‘The present,’ I say firmly, buttering my bread and taking a bite. The butter is rich and creamy and flecked with tiny salt crystals that crunch between my teeth.

‘Hmm,’ says Eddy. ‘I suppose my present’s a bit fucked, to be honest. That’s probably why I keep talking about school and stuff. Everything was a lot simpler back
then, wasn’t it?’

I shrug. ‘I suppose so, in some ways.’

Eddy looks at me quizzically.

‘The present,’ I repeat. ‘Let’s talk about the present tonight. Tell me what happened between you and your wife. Gaby? How long were you married.’