On Saturday morning, Matthew and Helen picked out a large green-eyed tabby from the local animal shelter. They’d gone for a kitten, but there were none to be had and, anyway, the cat had almost begged them to choose him, rubbing up against the side of his cage when they walked by and rolling over and purring when they stopped to look. He was three years old and had no tragic but glamorous sob story, he just wasn’t wanted. They named him Norman. Helen knew that Matthew was interpreting this act of domesticity as some kind of nesting instinct on her part. She didn’t like to tell him that Norman was bait.
She had slept badly, waking often and veering between feelings of elation and guilt, about the PR job, Matthew, Sonny. Before the kiss goodnight and all the complications it had given rise to, Sonny had pressed one of his cards into her hand so that she could call him after the weekend and tell him how her plans for the campaign were going. It was hidden now, in the back pocket of her jeans, and Helen felt alternately thrilled and dismayed knowing it was there. She knew she should tell Matthew about the restaurant and her potential break, but she couldn’t work her way through the tissue of lies she’d need to get there and, anyway, he’d probably get all moralistic and insist that she tell Sonny he’d hired her under false pretences. They were avoiding the subject of work pretty much now in any case, since Helen had asked Matthew whether he could put in a good word for her anywhere.
‘It’d look bad, coming from me. As if I’m just saying you’re good because you’re my girlfriend.’
‘But you’ve worked with me for years – it’s perfectly legit that you’d give me a reference. I used to be your assistant, for god’s sake.’
‘Maybe in a few months, when all the gossip’s died down. You could temp till then or – didn’t you say Eyestorm needed someone?’
‘They need a secretary. I don’t want to be a secretary. Not any more.’
‘Well,’ Matthew said. ‘You know what they say: beggars can’t be choosers.’
Did he just say that? Helen was furious.
‘Did you just say that? I’ve lost my fucking job because of you and me. Don’t you feel any responsibility?’
‘Oh, come on, Helly, don’t be so melodramatic. You didn’t have to give your notice in. There was absolutely no reason why you couldn’t stay at Global.’
‘You. Are. Fucking. Unbelievable. And don’t call me Helly.’
She’d stormed straight out of the front door and walked round the block a couple of times, and then she’d realized she had nowhere to go, and it was starting to drizzle, so she’d gone back home again. Matthew, irritatingly, had clearly anticipated her arrival, because he had just made a large cafetière of coffee.
He’d apologized; she’d acted indifferent; he’d grovelled; she’d capitulated. Same old story.
Sunday morning was dull and rainy. Helen and Matthew flopped around the flat unable to summon up the energy to go down to the shop on the corner and get the newspapers. Helen made a half-hearted attempt to tidy up, knowing that critical eyes would be all over the mess later. Increasingly, Helen felt this was what her Sundays had become – a day of waiting for Matthew to pick up the girls and bring them over. A day given over to other people. She fought the temptation to sneak out with her mobile to call Sophie and casually contrive a conversation about Sonny:
So … how do you know Sonny?
So … what about Sonny? Anything I should know, not that I’m interested. Any wives, children, boyfriends knocking about? Any communicable diseases, mental health issues, religious fundamentalism?
So … I’m thinking about shagging Sonny one of these days. What do you reckon?
She distracted herself by making lists of publicity-grabbing ideas for the restaurant. Salsa dancers – no, too tacky; free sangria – ditto; maracas, bullfights, tortillas – what the fuck else was Spanish? Helen’s only experience was a week in Ibiza five years ago, when she was already too old for it to be anything other than sad, and that was a blur of dancing, drinking, sunburn, chips and sleeping. Very authentic. Oh god, she thought, I can’t do it. What would Matthew do? Or Laura? OK, forget Spain for now, think about who the restaurant is aimed at. Professionals, a young, hip, Noho crowd, business-lunchers and theatre-goers. She wrote the words in her notebook. She made another column, headed ‘Positive Attributes’, and listed Barcelona chef, authentic recipes, fresh ingredients, Sonny. Then she blushed like a schoolgirl in the throws of her first crush and snapped the notebook shut.
‘Are you OK?’ Matthew was saying. ‘You look hot.’
‘It’s just airless in here. I’m fine.’
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ he said, stroking her hair on his way past to the kitchen.
‘I don’t want to go. It’s boring.’
Claudia sat at the kitchen table, lunch untouched in front of her, face like an undertaker’s.
‘Don’t you want to see Dad?’ Sophie was getting used to this Sunday-lunchtime ritual, but it irked her having to persuade her children to go and spend the afternoon with the woman who had ruined her marriage. Deep down, she knew that the girls were never going to think of this Helen as their new mother, but the possibility was always there that they would grow to like and even love her. That would be a good thing, Sophie tried telling herself. Whatever makes the kids happy has to be for the best. But she knew she was kidding herself. She could remember how, when she was at primary school and about seven years old, her friend April’s parents had got divorced. Barely giving it a second thought, Daddy’s girl April had moved in with her father and his new girlfriend and, after a couple of months, after she had been a bridesmaid at their wedding, April had begun to refer to the other woman as ‘my mum’. The first time, Sophie had said to her, ‘What, your real mum?’, and April had explained, ‘No, she’s Mummy and Mandy is Mum.’ Just like that, April’s mother’s position as the central woman in her daughter’s life had been usurped. Now there were two of them, and it seemed to Sophie that they had equal status in April’s eyes. She tried to remember what had made her friend move in with her dad in the first place, when she had a mother who clearly adored her, but she couldn’t, because at the time she’d just accepted it. That was April’s life.
She put a dish of homemade crumble in front of Claudia; she could usually win her round with food.
‘I don’t mind going,’ Suzanne was saying, ever obliging.
‘I want to see Dad, but I don’t want to see her.’ Claudia wasn’t budging. ‘And all we’ll do is sit around her smelly flat, and she gives us rubbish sandwiches and tries to talk to us about school, and it’s so boring.’
Sophie smiled at her youngest daughter. She loved how difficult she was.
The doorbell rang. Matthew was bang on time, as ever – in fact, Sophie suspected he sat in the car around the corner if he was a couple of minutes early. He was trying to do this by the book. Usually, he let them know he was there, then retreated down the drive to wait for the girls but, today, when Sophie opened the door mid-goodbye, he was stood on the doorstep. She felt her heart rush up to her head and start pounding on the sides to get out.
‘Oh … hello,’ she said warily.
‘How are you?’ Matthew asked formally.
‘Good … I suppose, yes … you?’
‘Yes, yes, good.’
Christ, thought Sophie, you’d think we’d never met before. They stood uncomfortably for a few moments while the girls looked on hopefully, as if some sort of breakthrough were about to happen.
‘Well … anyway …’ said Sophie, desperate to move the conversation on.
‘Erm … I wanted to ask you about Suzanne’s parents’ evening. It’s next week, isn’t it? And I was wondering – that is, I’d like to come as usual, if that’s OK.’
‘Oh. Of course. I’ll see you there, I guess.’
‘I just didn’t want it to be awkward, with the teachers and all that.’
‘Matthew, of course it’s going to be awkward. Everything’s awkward now. But that’s how it is, so we’ll just have to deal with it.’
‘Right.’ Matthew shifted his weight, on edge. ‘And I was wondering if I could pick up my golf clubs. If that’s OK.’
‘No, sorry.’
‘No?’
‘I threw them in a skip. I think that bloke from number 146 might have taken them. You could go and ask him.’
‘You threw my golf clubs in a skip?’ He didn’t know why, but he was smiling.
‘I did. Sorry.’
‘And all your other stuff,’ Claudia was saying. ‘I helped.’
Matthew laughed. ‘Well, I never get time to play anyway. Come on, girls. I’ll see you at the school,’ he called over his shoulder as he got into the car.
‘Bye,’ Sophie called after him.
‘What’s that smell?’ Suzanne wrinkled her nose as they shut the front door behind them.
Helen came out into the hall brandishing Norman in front of her like a furry shield. ‘That smell,’ she said, ‘is Norman. Or at least, it’s Norman’s litter tray.’
‘Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod,’ Claudia was screaming. ‘You’ve got a cat, let me hold him.’
Helen was transfixed by Claudia’s expression. Could it be – was she smiling? It was hard to tell, having never seen her even approximate a pleasant look before but, yes, there were teeth, and the corners of her mouth had turned up into unfamiliar territory. Hallelujah, thought Helen. I win.
‘Of course you can,’ she said, handing Norman over. ‘We got him for you, for your birthday. You can think of him as your cat.’
‘I don’t like cats.’ Suzanne made her way down the hall to the living room.
Great.
‘You do, though, don’t you, Claudia? And … I also brought home a load of make-up samples we got given by one of our clients at work, and I thought you could have a rummage through, Suzanne, see if there’s anything you want.’
‘Yuk,’ said Claudia, nose buried in the cat’s soft back.
‘Cool,’ said Suzanne.
‘Where did he come from?’ Claudia was asking. Helen allowed herself to smile at the little girl.
‘Well, we went down to the Pawprints shelter down the road and they …’
‘What they just let you take him?’
‘Yes…’
‘They can’t do that.’ Claudia’s smile had collapsed. ‘You could be anyone. They’re meant to do home visits and check up on you first.’
‘We’re not anyone, are we, though, Claude?’ Matthew said, trying to diffuse the bomb.
‘But they don’t know that. What if someone horrible went in there and just said, “Give me that dog”, and they did and then they neglected it or tortured it?’
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Helen thought. That didn’t last long.
‘You’re right.’ She bent down and scratched Norman behind the ears. ‘That’s exactly why we went there, because if they were just going to give him to anyone who asked, we figured it was better they give him to us than to someone else. Because we know we’ll be nice to him. We know all the animals at Battersea or the RSPCA will go to good homes, because they’ll check up, but who knows where poor old Norman could have ended up if we didn’t take him?’
‘It’s still wrong.’ Claudia wasn’t backing down easily.
‘I agree. But he’s here now and he’s all yours.’
She watched Claudia’s face for a sign of her expression softening and thought she saw just a hint of it.
‘And he is lovely, isn’t he?’
Norman was playing his part to perfection, a big soft purring lump in Claudia’s arms. She kissed his nose.
‘Yes,’ said Claudia. ‘He is.’
Two and a half hours later, and they’d had their best afternoon to date. Suzanne was made up like a French prostitute (oh god, Sophie’s going to love that, Helen thought), and Claudia was giving Helen detailed written instructions on cat care while Helen pretended she didn’t already know the difference between wet and dry food and how important it was to clean out the litter tray regularly.
Back at home, Sophie waited for the inevitable moaning that followed a Sunday-afternoon visit. She opened the front door when she heard Matthew’s car pull up and waved a vague greeting. Claudia shot out of the car before it had even fully stopped. She ran up the driveway.
‘Ivegotacat. Ivegotacatandhesatabbyandhisnames-Normanandhesmine.’
Sophie started to say, ‘You’ve got a what?’, but the sight of her eldest girl made up like Marilyn Manson stopped her in her tracks.
‘What on earth have you been doing?’
‘Helen gave me loads of make-up.’ Suzanne was affecting an air of thirty-year-old sophistication despite the fact she was only twelve. She looked, thought Sophie, like a clown.
‘Right, good for her. Only for special occasions, though, OK. No make-up to school.’
Claudia was tugging on her arm.
‘Mum, I’ve got a cat.’
Sophie looked towards the car, which was backing out of the gate. Matthew waved.
‘Where?’
‘At Dad’s. Helen got it and she says he’s mine.’
‘You know you can’t bring it home. You know I’m allergic.’
Claudia sighed impatiently. ‘That’s the point, stupid. He’ll live with Dad and Helen, but he’s mine and I get to see him every Sunday.’
‘Right. Good old Helen. You like her now then, I take it?’
‘No.’ Claudia pulled a face. ‘I still think she’s a bitch, but I won’t mind going round there any more.’
Sophie put her arms around her daughter. ‘Great.’
But she knew there’d been a shift, and it bothered her.