Helen sat back at her desk, turning the small white card over and over in her fingers for several minutes. She simply couldn’t compute what she was seeing, she must have picked up the wrong piece of paper at home somehow and Sonny’s number was … where? She knew she had transferred it from the pocket of her jeans to her bag in one sneaky movement, making sure that Matthew didn’t see and ask her what it was. There was no way it could have got mixed up with anything else. Which could only mean one thing. Sonny was Leo, and Leo was Matthew’s son by his first wife Hannah. The one he seemed to have next to no contact with. She went out into the stairwell and called Sophie.
‘How’s it going with Sonny?’ Sophie asked after they’d exchanged pleasantries. ‘He said you thought you might be able to help him out.’
‘Why do you call him Sonny?’ Helen asked, trying to sound casual. ‘It says on his business card that his name’s … Leo Shallcross.’ She tried to make it sound as if she was reading it for the first time.
‘Oh …’ Sophie laughed ‘ … it is. I just call him Sonny because he’s my stepson. He’s Matthew’s oldest, didn’t I tell you about him? And, when I first met him, there was this grown man who I was suddenly supposed to be stepmother to, so I called him it as a joke, to wind him up, and it just sort of stuck. I can’t imagine calling him Leo now. Sorry, I should have told you.’
Oh fuck, thought Helen. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
Sophie was still talking. ‘So … he said you got on really well and you might have time to do some stuff for him …’
‘I’m not sure,’ Helen said, desperate to get off the phone. ‘Maybe – I’ve got a lot on at the moment is all. Anyway, didn’t you say Matthew worked in PR himself, so wouldn’t it make more sense if he took on the account for the restaurant? You know, discount for family and all that.’
‘Stop trying to do yourself out of a job …’
Helen cut her off. ‘Listen, Sophie, I have to go, I’ve got a deadline.’
‘Are we still on for Wednesday night?’ Sophie was saying.
‘Yes, fine. I’ll see you there.’ Helen punched the phone off before Sophie could say goodbye.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
She tried to picture Matthew as he would have been at thirty-eight. Would he have looked like Leo? They had those same fucking bright blue eyes – why hadn’t she noticed? But, then, Leo was darker – of course he was darker, Matthew had gone grey already – and Leo didn’t have the Shallcross nose. His was narrower, straighter – Paul Newman to Matthew’s Dustin Hoffman. Oh god, I’ve kissed my boyfriend’s son, she thought, and forgetting that Leo was way closer in age to her than Matthew was, she decided that that made her a child molester, or some kind of pervert anyway. There was bound to be a name for it. Matthew had changed his nappies (well, probably not, knowing Matthew, but anyway), and now she was practically having sex with him. As far as Matthew was concerned, there was no one in the world it would have been worse for her to have kissed – well, Suzanne or Claudia maybe, or his mother. But, given she was a heterosexual woman who had missed out on the whole bi-curious thing, then surely Leo was the worst. His dad maybe, if he had one, but even that wouldn’t have been as bad. Oh god, she was like one of those teachers you saw on the news who ended up in prison pregnant by a fifteen-year-old boy in their English class who they’d forced themselves on at break.
She sat down on the top step, trying to figure out what to do. In fact, she thought, there isn’t even anything to figure out. I can’t do the job, I can’t see him again, end of story. I have to ring him now and tell him I’m too busy. That’s the end of it, and that’s the end of my shot at getting something on my CV. She walked back through to her desk to find his number but Laura was there, rooting through the piles of paper.
‘This is good,’ she said, holding up the half-written release.
‘I haven’t finished it yet,’ Helen answered defensively.
‘I know, I’m just saying, what you’ve done so far is good. I’ll need it in the next ten minutes or so though.’
‘No problem.’ Helen took the early draft back from her and sat down at her computer. She’d just finish this before she made the call.
Ten minutes later, she was in Laura’s office, waiting as her boss read over the final version of the press release.
‘Great,’ Laura said. ‘I don’t need to change anything.’
‘No problem,’ said Helen, turning to go.
‘Oh,’ said Laura, ‘one other thing. Sandra Hepburn wants us to come up with a stunt – something to get her maximum coverage on the weekend before the Ace Awards nominations are announced. You know the kind of thing – think Gail Porter on the side of Big Ben. I’m struggling, so if you have any ideas …’
‘Why are you asking me?’ Helen said suspiciously. What was it with Laura all of a sudden?
‘I’m asking everybody,’ Laura said calmly.
‘I’ll have a think,’ said Helen, backing out. It was one o’clock: she really must phone Sonny. Leo. She must phone Leo.
Back at her desk, she could see that her inbox had one new message. Ignore it, she told herself. Ring Leo and then look at it, but it was an irresistible potential way to avoid making the call for another five minutes. I’ll just see who it’s from, she thought, then I’ll call. She clicked on the message, which was under the unfamiliar name Helen Sweeney. Helen-from-Accounts – of course it was, from-Accounts not being her real surname, surprisingly enough. To tell the truth, she couldn’t really care less what the message had to say, but she read it anyway to kill a bit more time.
Dear Helen (it said)
I wanted to say thank you for being so nice to me this morning. I know we haven’t always been the best of friends (we’re still not, Helen thought to herself, don’t kid yourself), and I want to apologize if I’ve ever been anything other than generous towards you. I’ve been thinking about what you said about me and Geoff, and I’ve decided I’m going to ring him this evening and sort everything out. Thanks again.
Helen peered over the top of her computer and could see the other Helen smiling inanely at her. She smiled back, baring her teeth, then looked at her watch – five past one. OK, hopefully Leo would be having some kind of business lunch and his phone would be turned off and she could just leave a message (‘Sorry, something’s come up,’ or ‘There’s been a death in my family’ – no, too drastic – how about ‘One of my regular clients has got in a bit of trouble and I need to try and keep it out of the papers, so I’ve promised him I’ll concentrate on him, and nothing but him, for a few days. His life … no … his marriage depends on it’? Yes, that’d do. Throw in a few hints that the fictional client was someone very important. Promise to call Leo in a week or so’s time when it was all sorted, to see how he was getting on, and then forget she’d ever met him. Perfect. It was a shame, but it was so, so much better that she distanced herself from him now than further down the line when who knew what might have happened. She thought briefly of his hand on top of hers across the restaurant table and then pushed that thought from her mind.
Back out in the stairwell, she dialled his number and then crossed her fingers waiting for the answerphone to kick in. Shit, it was ringing. She was about to hang up – he’d get a missed call, he’d know she’d tried him, then she’d just keep her phone switched off for the rest of the day, and the evening, and tomorrow – when he answered breathlessly.
‘Eleanor! I was just thinking about you. How’s it going?’
‘Er … OK … but …’
She tried to remember her prepared script.
‘Erm …’
‘In fact,’ Leo was saying, ‘I’ve been thinking about you all weekend. I know I shouldn’t say that, I mean, I know we’re not going to talk about stuff like that until your situation’s different, if it ever is, I mean, I’m not assuming. God, I’m rambling. Sorry.’
‘It’s OK. Listen, Sonny, I mean, Leo. Should I call you Leo now? Anyway, something’s come up.’
And she told him the excuse she had concocted, although, she thought later, she’d elaborated too much, adding in class A drugs and illegal payments and rumours of homosexuality.
Leo sounded devastated – as much for the fact that he wouldn’t be seeing her on a regular basis as that she wouldn’t be doing his PR for him. He could get another PR.
‘I’m really sorry, I know I’ve wasted your time and everything …’
‘No, Eleanor, listen, it’s OK, I understand. I’m just disappointed, that’s all. I thought you’d do a great job and we’d get to see more of each other …’
‘Sorry, Leo, really I am. I hope you get someone good. And I hope the restaurant’s a huge success, I’m sure it will be.’
‘Maybe we could go for a drink … sometime …’ he was saying.
‘No. I don’t think so. It’s just … it’s difficult at the moment. I’m a bit, you know, a bit busy. Oh god, I have to go, the News of the World is on the other line.’
‘How do you know?’
‘How do I know what?’
‘How d’you know it’s the News of the World if you haven’t answered it yet?’
‘Because they said they’d call me back and my other line’s ringing so it must be them.’
‘I can’t hear it.’
‘Flashing, it’s flashing. Ringing’s just what you say, isn’t it? You’d never say, “I have to go, my other line’s flashing.”’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘No, it’d sound stupid – “My phone’s flashing.”’
‘If you say so. OK, well, you’d better go then. Don’t want to keep the News of the World waiting. Bye, Eleanor.’
Oh shit.
‘Bye, I’ll call you in a week or so, see how you’re getting on.’
‘Yes, you do that,’ Leo said, without conviction, and put the phone down.
Fuck.
Well, Helen thought, still sitting on the top step, that’s well and truly blown that. But then, it was well and truly blown anyway, because Sonny wasn’t Sonny, handsome young restaurateur with no baggage, he was Leo, son of Matthew, her married boyfriend, and she wasn’t Eleanor Whatsherface, PR, she was Helen Williamson, secretary, girlfriend of Leo’s married father. So what if Leo had taken offence and probably never wanted to speak to her again – it was for the best. She’d just have to write it off as a meaningless ego boost that never had a chance of going any further. She just wished she hadn’t liked him so much. And he hadn’t been so good-looking. And funny. And considerate.
She went back to her desk, skipping lunch, and tried to concentrate on coming up with ideas for Laura. Fucking Laura getting me to do her fucking job for her, she thought, conveniently forgetting all the times she had moaned because no one seemed to be interested in what she had to offer.
OK, Sandra Hepburn. Famous for taking her clothes off, would do anything to get in the papers. Literally anything. But it was hard these days to think of anything so extreme that it would guarantee you column inches, because the tabloids were full of young women who had ‘forgotten’ to wear any knickers when they put on their mini skirt and went out and climbed a ladder. Probably the most outrageous stunt Sandra could pull would be to put on a knee-length dress and go to church. Tragedy always sold. If Sandra could pull out an aborted baby or a cancerous lump or a dying loved one, that would do it, but Helen had a feeling she’d already told all of those stories ‘exclusively’ in the past. She could have a liaison. Helen quickly ran through all of Global’s male clients to see if any of them was looking for a quick publicity boost. Or one of the women – although the part-time-lesbian market had been a bit saturated of late. Come on, Helen said to herself, you’re always claiming you have great ideas, where are they? But she couldn’t focus on anything except Leo’s monotone, ‘Yes, you do that,’ and the click of the phone cutting off. She wanted to ring him back and say, ‘No, you don’t understand, I really really really fancy you, but you see I’m the woman who stole your dad away from your stepmum, so it’s all a bit complicated’ or ‘Let’s run away together and never tell anyone where we are, especially our families’ or even just a pathetic ‘Can we be friends?’ Although that would be pointless, because, of course, they couldn’t.
She jumped as her mobile rang. It had to be him. Maybe he was ringing to say that he knew all about who she really was but it didn’t matter because he was besotted with her anyway, and as soon as she’d resolved the situation with his dad and Sophie, he’d whisk her away for a new life, or even a long weekend. She scrabbled under the papers on her desk to find her phone. Rachel. Helen decided she couldn’t face talking to her friend, she’d let it go to answerphone.
‘Do you know your phone’s ringing,’ Jenny said archly from the other side of the office.
‘No,’ said Helen, mobile in hand, mock innocent. ‘Is it?’
‘Tell me about Leo,’ she said to Matthew in the car on the way home. His expression clouded.
‘What’s to tell?’ he said miserably. ‘I know that he despises me for leaving Sophie.’
‘Why, though?’ Helen was genuinely intrigued. ‘She’s not his mother.’
‘No, but he gets on well with her. When he first met her he tried to warn her off me, told her I was bound to do the same thing to her as I did to Hannah. And of course he was proved right. I’ve barely heard from him in the last few years – mostly, I’d hear his news through Sophie.’
‘You must miss him,’ Helen said, thinking, I know I do, already.
‘Every few months he drops in unannounced and stays for dinner.’
Helen blanched. ‘Does he know where you’re living now?’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve told him, so you never know …’
‘Lovely,’ said Helen, feeling sick.
That evening she fell asleep on the sofa and dreamed that Sandra Hepburn had stripped naked at the opening of Verano, thus giving both herself and Leo’s restaurant some much-needed publicity. Not a bad idea, she thought, when she woke up. I’m sure Sandra would be up for it. She fed Norman and sat down on the kitchen floor beside him, scratching between his ears while he ate.
Sophie was examining herself in the mirror in the harsh light of the bathroom in a way she had rarely done since she got married – back view, side view. She wanted Matthew to think she looked good. Not because she cared if he thought she was attractive any more, she told herself half-convincingly, but because she didn’t want him to compare her unfavourably to Helen, she didn’t want him to think he’d won the top prize at the raffle. Not just that, but she didn’t want Suzanne’s teachers to be whispering behind her back, saying it was no surprise he felt he needed to look for something better. Not that she had any evidence they would; it was just deserted-wife paranoia.
Leo was coming over to babysit his little sisters, which meant that she would get a chance to ask him about Eleanor. He’d sounded a bit down on the phone, and she didn’t seem to be doing his PR for him any more, which Sophie hoped didn’t bode badly – in her head, she had already paired off her new friend and her stepson. She wasn’t given to matchmaking, especially with family, because it inevitably ended in disaster, but there had been an undeniable spark between them when they’d met and she’d always hoped Leo would end up with someone she’d get along with. It was a tenuous thing on paper, a relationship with an ex-stepchild, but Sophie had thought of Leo as family for fifteen years and dreaded him meeting a woman who wouldn’t understand what that meant to them both. Not that Leo had been out with that many women since she’d known him, not for more than a few dates anyway. He took the whole idea of relationships very seriously, probably as a reaction to his father’s complete lack of respect for them.
Suzanne and Claudia were hysterical at the prospect of spending the evening with their older brother, and Suzanne had plastered herself in the make-up Helen had given her in order to look more grown-up. Leo did a mock double-take when he saw her.
‘My, but who’s this delightful young lady,’ he said in his best Leslie Phillips voice, and Suzanne screeched with laughter and blushed at the same time.
‘That’s Suzanne, stupid,’ said Claudia, missing the point.
‘So,’ said Sophie, leading Leo into the lounge, ‘what’s going on with Eleanor?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I know that look. Remember, I’m your mother – sort of. Come on.’
Leo sighed. ‘I kissed her.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ Sophie jumped in. ‘I thought she was just doing PR for the restaurant.’
‘I kissed her and then she said she has a boyfriend that she’s in the last death throes with. So, I said, fine, I’m not about to mess up your relationship. I’ll wait for a bit, if it turns out you and he go your separate ways, then maybe we can get together then.’
Sophie had gone very quiet. Leo carried on with his story.
‘So, she seemed really up for it, then, next thing I know, she’s calling me saying she can’t do the job, and that’s that, basically. What? What are you looking at me like that for?’
‘I don’t know if I should say this to you really, but I guess it’s best you know the truth … Eleanor hasn’t got a boyfriend. Trust me, we talk about those things.’
Leo was looking like he’d taken a punch to the stomach.
‘So she was just making one up as an excuse. Christ, I feel stupid. I thought she liked me, I thought she was as torn as I was. She certainly didn’t pull back straight away. Fucking hell, why didn’t she just say, “Sorry, I’m not interested”? And, more to the point, why all the stuff about them being about to split up?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sure she had her reasons,’ Sophie said uncertainly.
‘Nice friend you’ve got there,’ Leo said bitterly. ‘Anyway, forget it. I just need to concentrate on the opening right now. Any suggestions?’
‘Well, there are hundreds of PR firms to choose from but … and I know you’ll shout me down … why don’t you ask your father? You know he’d be thrilled to help you out.’
‘Why do you care?’
‘Because much as I think he’s a complete fucking shit right now, he’s still my daughters’ father and I’d hate for them to lose touch with him the way you have. He’s never going to change, Leo. In a few years he’ll dump this Helen for someone even younger – I hope so anyway, does that make me a bitch? – and he’ll keep doing it for as long as he can get away with it, but you shouldn’t let it affect your relationship with him. You only get one father, and all that bollocks. OK, speech over.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Leo defensively.
Forty minutes later, and Sophie was running late, having not been able to find a parking space in the school playground, which was doubling up as a car park for the night. So when she reached the assembly hall, she was red-faced and breathless, with little beads of sweat running down her forehead. She spotted Matthew holding a place in the queue for Mrs Mason, Suzanne’s form teacher.
‘Oh, thank god, you’re here already,’ she panted at him.
‘You look …’
‘What, sweaty? Exhausted? Purple? What?’
‘I was going to say “Nice.”’
‘Oh, right. Good.’
Mrs Mason was a large unhealthy-looking woman with black-rimmed glasses and breasts that rested heavily on her protruding stomach. She looked as if the expression ‘sack of potatoes’ had been coined with her in mind. Sophie and Matthew edged forward in the queue, both of them struggling to think of a way to start a conversation with the other.
‘How are the girls?’ attempted Matthew.
‘Fine, yes, fine,’ said Sophie, trying and failing to dredge up an interesting anecdote.
They shuffled on a few paces as another couple moved on to start the rounds of the subject teachers.
‘I saw Leo today.’
‘Really. Is he OK?’
‘Yes, he’s fine.’
This is going well, she thought, although, truthfully, compared to many recently separated couples who couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as each other, it wasn’t actually going too badly.
‘How are your family?’ she offered up.
‘Good, thank you.’
Silence.
‘Oh … Claudia’s very happy about the cat.’
‘Yes. I can’t take the credit, though, that was Helen’s idea,’ he said, and that killed the scintillating conversation stone-dead.
‘I’m worried she’s putting herself under too much pressure,’ Mrs Mason said, leaning forward on her elbows, her big saggy chest resting behind like two bags of shopping. ‘She’s only twelve, she needs to balance up her school work with other things. Putting it bluntly, she doesn’t seem to have many friends.’
‘But you must be pleased with her grades?’ Matthew looked confused.
‘Of course, her test scores were exceptional,’ Mrs Mason was saying. ‘But the development of a child her age isn’t all about exam results. Social skills and character are just as important.’
‘But …’ Matthew was blustering ‘… she just happens to be good academically. What, is that frowned on now?’
Sophie felt her exasperation growing. Why couldn’t he just listen to what was being said to them. ‘Matthew, you know you have unrealistic expectations of her. You’ve never let her forget she once said she wanted to be a doctor.’
‘What, so this is all my fault? Whatever “this” is. Personally, I don’t see what the problem is …’
Mrs Mason cut in. ‘She spends all her break-times studying, she never goes out and plays and, to be honest with you, I don’t think that’s healthy.’
Sophie stopped glaring at Matthew and turned her attention to the teacher.
‘I didn’t know that.’
Matthew looked deflated. ‘What does she do that for?’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ Sophie was aware that the couple behind were listening in and felt like she had been publicly unmasked as a bad parent. She thought of all the times she had scoffed smugly when a distraught mother on Trisha claimed not to have realized that her child was taking drugs, and she considered turning round and saying, ‘Stop looking so superior, she’s about to tell you your son’s on crack.’ She knew that Suzanne struggled more than she let on to keep her title as the cleverest, but not that it was a daily obsession, and she felt devastated that she had somehow failed her daughter.
‘Because it’s got much worse lately. I was going to write to you if you hadn’t come in tonight. I know there are problems at home …’
She paused to allow them to jump in and contradict her, but Sophie and Matthew looked at the floor like two surveyors whose attention had been gripped by a nasty bit of subsidence.
‘… and it could be that she’s trying to make sure she gets your attention.’ Mrs Mason was fixing her look on Matthew.
‘Are you a qualified psychiatrist now?’ he said childishly.
‘Matthew …’ Sophie said quietly.
‘Well, what is this? Am I on trial all of a sudden?’
‘You’re overreacting, this isn’t about you. Mrs Mason .. .’
‘Leanne.’
‘… Leanne’s got a point. No one’s saying it’s your fault, it’s just the situation we’re in …’
‘But I’m the one who left, right? I’m the guilty one because I’m the one who broke up the happy home.’
The couple behind were practically leaning forward now, they were straining so hard to hear every detail. Sophie shot them a filthy look, then lowered her voice.
‘You’re being ridiculous. We both need to think about what to do if Suzanne thinks we’re only going to notice she’s there if she gets top marks. I’ve tried to tell you before, we put too much pressure on her by constantly going on at her about how clever she is.’
Sophie couldn’t believe he was capable of being so selfish. Actually – no, she could.
‘OK, yes – you do. It’s all you ever say about her – “This is Suzanne, she’s the clever one, she’s going to be a doctor.” She probably thinks it’s the only thing about her that’s important.’
‘Don’t you dare make this my fault.’ Matthew had raised his voice again. ‘Just because I’ve left, that doesn’t make me a bad father.’
Sophie looked round at the man and woman behind, who weren’t even attempting to pretend they weren’t listening now.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, smiling in a slightly maniacal way. The couple looked away, shame-faced. ‘No, really,’ Sophie carried on. ‘Feel free to join in.’
‘Maybe we should set up a meeting to discuss this further,’ Mrs Mason was saying. ‘In private.’
‘Good idea,’ said Sophie standing up and practically dragging Matthew up with her. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’ ‘Why don’t you follow us out?’ she said to the couple behind. ‘I’d hate for you to miss anything.’
They pushed their way through the crowd and out into the playground, Sophie’s face scarlet with embarrassment. When they rounded a corner out of sight of the large windows of the assembly hall, she turned on Matthew, furious.
‘How dare you?’
‘Oh, I see, this is all my fault …’
‘How dare you embarrass me like that in front of all those people … more to the point, all those people who are the parents of Suzanne’s friends. And her teacher. And, most importantly, how dare you make this all about you and not your daughter. Grow up, Matthew. The whole fucking world doesn’t revolve around you.’
‘She was trying to say I’m a bad parent,’ he spat. ‘What the fuck does she know? I’d bet my life she’s a spinster, with only a couple of cats for company.’
‘This isn’t about you!’ Sophie realized she was shouting, and turned the volume down. ‘This is so fucking typical. Someone’s trying to tell us that Suzanne might have a problem, and all you can do is think about yourself …’
‘Because everyone’s trying to make out I’m to blame .. .’
‘SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP.’
Matthew was stunned into silence. Sophie carried on.
‘OK, so what do you want me to say? Yes, it is all your fault. You’ve spent years praising her when she does well in exams and telling everyone how clever she is and, then, one day, you just up and leave us without any warning, and now she thinks it’s because she didn’t try hard enough. It doesn’t take a psychologist to work it out. But it’s my fault, too, because I didn’t spot how bad it’d got.’
‘I thought praising her was good. I wanted her to feel proud of herself.’
His voice caught, and Sophie realized with unease that he was crying. She softened her voice to a more gentle tone.
‘Of course, it’s good, but isn’t the whole point that you have to praise her for the effort, not the results? So if she comes bottom but she’s worked hard, then that’s as good as coming top. That’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?’
Matthew nodded, sniffing hard. Sophie could see tears on his cheeks and had to resist the urge to wipe them away. He was like a child sometimes.
‘I thought it just came naturally to her.’
‘Well, now we know. And, to be honest, if it did, then that would be all the more reason to make a fuss of her about something else instead. Praising someone for being naturally clever is like praising them for being pretty. Like praising them for being lucky in the lottery.’
‘She must hate me. I’m a shit father.’
‘Oh, Matthew, for god’s sake. You know damn well she wants your approval because she adores you. Just start giving her encouragement about something she’s rubbish at. Don’t mention exams. It’ll all be fine. I’ll talk to her too. OK?’
She looked at him, and he seemed to have pulled himself together a bit, but then his face contorted and he let out a noise that sounded like a police siren starting up.
‘I miss them so much.’
Sophie patted his arm comfortingly, but at the same time she was filled with irritation. This situation was all of his own making.
‘That was the choice you made,’ she said, trying to make her voice sound as unjudgemental as she possibly could. She waited for him to snap back at her, but all the fight seemed to have left him.
‘They hate coming over at the weekends, I can tell. And Helen hates it, too. I mean, she tolerates it, but I know she’d rather I took them somewhere else.’
Sophie was stung by this – how dare that woman not welcome her children? – but she wasn’t going to let Matthew off too lightly.
‘You didn’t have to leave, that’s the bottom line. And however much we try to protect them from it, the girls will always think you chose her over them.’ (And me, she thought, but she forced herself not to say it.)
‘I’ve fucked it up again, haven’t I? I’ve fucked up being a father again.’ He was sobbing now, and parents who were crossing the playground on their way to their cars were looking over to see what the drama was. Sophie didn’t want to kick Matthew when he was down, but she couldn’t help herself.
‘Like I said, that was your choice. You had a family who loved you, but it wasn’t enough. You can’t have it all, Matthew, no one can.’
‘I’ll make it up to them,’ he was saying.
‘Just don’t try and buy them, OK? No more cats and make-up and god knows what. What they want is your time and attention and approval. And, to be honest, Helen’s probably right, you probably should take them somewhere else, because you can’t force them into a relationship with her yet, it’s too soon.’
He nodded pitifully, wiping his eyes on his sleeve like a toddler. ‘OK.’
‘Where’s your car?’ Sophie said. ‘You should get home.’