The Hating Game (6 page)

Kyle had argued over and over again he hadn’t done anything; that Chloe had pounced on him.
But Mattie knew better than to believe that load of tosh.

Never trust them
, her mum always said.
Look at your father. Would a man who really loved his family bankrupt us for his own selfish dream?
And Mum had been right – her father hadn’t loved them, running off soon after declaring bankruptcy.

Mattie had been smart
to get rid of Kyle.

‘
Anyway, I can rem
ember most of them,’ Mattie answered, trying to push Kyle out of mind. The ruddy-faced bloke beside them leaned in closer. God, was he listening?

‘
Can I help you?’ Mattie asked,
loudly. He blushed an unfortunate shade of purple and turned away. ‘Loser!’ she muttered.

‘
Yeah, there are the major ones, like Adam, from secondary school.’ Jess shook her head sorrowfully and Mattie sighed. Jess really needed to get over feeling so guilty about that whole thing. Sure, she’d encouraged Adam to ask Mattie out, for some inane reason only Jess knew, but she hadn’t known it would end so badly.

‘
And Charlie, of course,’ Jess continued. ‘Disaster. Then didn’t you have sex with some bloke in his student digs at UCL?’ Jess wrinkled her brow. ‘I remember something about Star Wars . . .’

Mattie
grimaced as the memory flooded back. Determined to exorcise the prom trauma caused by gay Charlie and his Korean-kissing ways, the second she got her hands on some birth control pills, she was on the hunt for a man to ‘dominate her womanhood’, as her mother so romantically phrased it. Her first week at university, she and Jim had forged a bond over putrid vodka jelly shots in the student pub. They’d gone back to his room, where he’d huffed and puffed his way into her as she stared up at his
Star Wars
poster.

‘
His name was Jim,
’ Mattie said, impressed by Jess’s memory. Then again, it wasn’t like Jess had a long list of her own to remember. Poor girl had only had two or three serious relationships since secondary school, usually with strays she’d adopt for a few weeks and clean up as pet projects. After a time under Jess’s wing, the men would take off when the first fake-tanned bleached blonde cocked her finger.

‘
Jim, right, and then there was that super-hot guy. The one with the really big feet.’ Jess smirked.

‘
Duncan.
’ Dumb as a doornail but he’d still been great sex.

Jess laughed. ‘Ah yes, Duncan. Hard to forget that one. But what about after university?’

Mattie
thought back, rattling off a dozen or so names of men she’d seen pre-Kyle. Now for the post-Kyle bit. There’d been the foreign fling – what was his name? Giancarlo or Giovanni – on her trip to Italy right after the whole Kyle thing. And then Sean, Kirby, Stuart, of course . . .

‘
And I think
that’s it,’ Mattie said finally, draining her whisky. ‘See? I can remember after all!’ The man sitting beside them got up and pushed past, knocking the table with his leg.

Jess
laughed as she mopped up the drops of spilled drink. ‘See, you
did
scare him, with your long and distinguished list!’

‘
Well, at least I’m not
boring!’ Mattie shot back.

Jess flushed and looked away. Oh shit. Mattie reached out and touched Jess’s hand. ‘Sorry – you know I didn’t mean you.’ Although really, she did. Jess had about as much excitement nooky-wise as a bed-ridden pensioner.

‘
That’s okay, I know you didn’t.’

Whatever. The past didn’t matter. It was the future that counted. And right now Mattie’s future held two hundred thousand pounds, financial freedom and a newly successful business.

What more did she need?

CHAPTER SIX

Two in ten admit to feigning a sexually transmitted infection to

escape unwanted sexual advances.

‘
HELLO? ANYONE HERE?’ NATE’S TIMID
voice floated through Mattie’s empty reception.

‘
Shit,’ Mattie muttered, looking up from GetToned’s bill fo
r photocopier toner. She shoved it into the drawer and pulled out her Gucci compact, dabbing at the bags under her eyes. What the hell was Mr Potato Head doing here? She slicked on some crimson lipstick, trying to inject a bit of colour into her face. If he saw her looking like death warmed over, he might have second thoughts about the show – and there was no way she was going to let that happen.

‘
Come
in!’ she yelled, not moving from her chair.

‘
Hello,’ Nate said in a deep voice. His voice cracked and Mattie couldn’t help sniggering. Something about his round face and comical specs made him difficult to take seriously.

Nate
sat down gingerly on the chair opposite her desk. ‘All set for this afternoon?’

Mattie
tried to keep her face neutral as her brain rushed through her schedule. ‘This afternoon?’

‘
Yes, the psychological assessment? The details were all outlined in the contract.’ He brandished a copy at her.

Aw, Christ
, Mattie groaned. The last thing she needed was some Freudian obsessive trying to pull her apart, telling her she needed a father figure in her life. Still, if it had to be done for the show then she didn’t have much choice – not that she was going to let Nate off easily.

‘
I’m busy.’ Mattie went back to her laptop and started drafting an email to – she scanned the empty inbox – herself.

Nate
fidgeted, the chair creaking under his weight. Mattie waited him out, sure he (or the chair) would crack. ‘Um, it needs to be today,’ he squeaked. ‘Before we finalise your participation, we just need to make sure you’re psychologically fit.’

‘
I’m not going to have a meltdown
because of a stupid dating game show, you know,’ Mattie huffed.

‘
M
y boss says you have to do it.’ Nate cleared his throat. ‘I mean, as executive producer, I’m afraid I have to insist.’

Mattie snorted at his pathetic attempt to look powerful. ‘Okay, okay.’

Nate handed her the address and name of the psychologist and fled. Mattie watched his flabby rear wobble its way out of her office, then sank back into her chair and scanned the paper. What kind of a quack had a name like Dr Wheestle? Sounded made up. By a two year old.

The stack of unopened bills on her desk reminded her it was imperative she did well at
this psycho appointment. Obviously she could pass any mental-health assessment with flying colours. But what if they delved into her dating history? Could having too many failed relationships hurt her chances on the show? And would a silly psychologist somehow think the reason she couldn’t find a man had something to do with
her
? God, what if he recommended the show find someone else? Someone more like, well, Jess.

Mattie
swivelled to look in the full-length mirror she’d installed behind the door. That morning, she’d thrown on one of her many black trouser suits along with pointy knee-high Kurt Geiger patent leather boots. She could only imagine how a psychologist would judge her: aggressive, man-hating, pushy . . . she’d heard it all before from the men she dumped. Her mum always told her to take it as a compliment; that men just didn’t know how to deal with powerful women.

But she didn’t want to turn
off the show producers. She had to look and behave in a softer fashion; feminine. More 1950s housewife than twenty-first century ball-breaker.

She
didn’t have time to change her suit, but the boots . . . She scrounged beneath her desk for a pair of French Sole ballet flats she remembered kicking under there, way back when she and Kyle were still together. Brushing the dust off them, she tried not to think about when she’d last worn them.

Memo
ries of her and Kyle, laughing as they crunched across the gravelled pathways of Blenheim Palace, flooded her head. They’d gone there for lunch one Saturday and ended up spending the day, wandering through the grounds and lounging on the lawn. It had been sunny and perfect. Mattie shoved the images out of her mind and flung off a boot with anger, then jammed a foot into the unfamiliar flats.

She looked in the mirror, already missing the extra two inches the boots provided – whenever possible she liked to ensure she was looking down on men. Nothing could be done about the severe black suit, but she scrubbed off her crimson lipstick and put on some clear gloss, then puffed up her poker-straight bob so it floated softly around her face. There. Not her usual eat-you-alive appearance. She could pull it off for an afternoon, anyway.

T
he cab pulled away from Mattie’s office on the short journey to Harley Street.

‘
What’s the number again, love?’ The cabbie smiled at her in the mirror.

Mattie
almost responded with her customary snap. But the sooner she got in her demure role, the better. ‘Seventy-seven,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Between New Cavendish and Weymouth.’

‘
Oh, right. Sorry – me old ears are going.’ He tapped the side of his head.

‘
No problem,
’ Mattie replied, noticing she was smiling back at him. God, she’d have to watch it. Her mother always said there was nothing wrong with being nice to men – if you wanted to let them walk all over you.

‘
Here we are.’
Ten minutes or so later the driver stopped in front of a brick townhouse. Mattie handed over some money and climbed out. Stupid shoes, she grumbled as her arches protested the change of footwear by sending shooting pains up her calves. She ignored the pain and mounted the steps.

Inside, t
he snooty receptionist barely looked up. ‘Name?’

‘
Mattie Johns.’ Mattie smiled sweetly but the receptionist remained po-faced.

‘
Matilda Johns? Oh yes. Sit down,’ she grunted, pointing to a chair.

Mattie’s cheeks flamed at the sound of her full name.
No one – not even Jess – knew her name was Matilda. She only used it in legal documents like the show contract, where she had no choice. Gritting her teeth, she thought for the thousandth time how much she wanted to kill her mother for forcing ‘a strong and unyielding’ name like Matilda on her. Matilda!

Mattie plastered a smile on her face to cover her embarrassment and sauntered over to a lumpy leather chair, lowering herself delicately onto it. She grabbed
The Financial Times
before quickly replacing it with
The Sun,
more in keeping with her current persona.
Ugh, look at the Page Three model, practically hanging out of her swimming costume. How could women let themselves be exploited like that?

‘
Matilda Johns?’ A man with a wispy coiffure and ill-fitting suit appeared. Another pathetic creature who couldn’t even dress himself properly, Mattie sighed as she lowered the newspaper and fixed him with a bright, vacuous grin.

Despite th
e antique furniture and the oil paintings on the wall, the office he led her to was dingy and smelled of stale sweat. Mattie folded her hands in her lap, held her breath and hoped the session would be over quickly. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep up the facade before internal combustion.

‘
So, Miss Johns,’ Dr Wheestle said, opening his file. Mattie bit back the reply that she preferred ‘Ms’ – her marital status was no one’s business but her own. ‘You’re here for a psychological assessment to ensure you’re mentally fit to withstand the pressures of a reality dating show.’

Duh,
Mattie said in her head, but she nodded demurely in response, hoping her expression conveyed wonderment at just how clever Dr Wheestle was. ‘I’m very grateful for the time you’re taking out of your busy schedule.’ Barf, she added silently as she considered his droopy eyes, hoping she hadn’t gone overboard.

Dr Wheestle just exposed his tobacco-stained teeth in a wide smile. ‘My pleasur
e, my dear. My pleasure.’ He took out a fountain-tipped pen and a notebook. A fountain pen. How old was he? ‘Why don’t you begin by telling me why you want to be on this show?’ He gave a long look which started at her ballet-shoe clad feet and ended up at her chest. Mattie watched incredulously as his small tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

P
erv! He deserved a good swift kick to the balls – if he had any. But there was nothing she could do about it, verbal or otherwise, she reminded herself. Two hundred grand was two hundred grand. She cleared her throat.

‘
I just really want to meet a man I can make a life with
,’ she twittered. ‘And I figure a dating show can find me some great men!’ She inserted an excited upward inflection at the end of her sentence.

Dr Wheestle
–
Weasel
, Mattie thought – tore his eyes away from her chest and scribbled some notes on the pad in front of him. ‘Uh-hmm.’ He patted his thinning hair and Mattie watched with disgust as he then wiped his fingers on his trousers.