The Foster Husband (13 page)

I looked up at him, squinting through my sunglasses. ‘No,
gracias
,’ I said again. I pointed towards the scooter, parked next to the shack. I mimed steering the bike.
‘He’s driving. And, er, he’s not my boyfriend.’

The patron frowned, his vast eyebrows beetling together over his nose. ‘No boyfriend?’

‘No,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘We’re, um,
amigos
? Just friends.’

The patron’s frown deepened, but I couldn’t decide if it was from my denial or from a lack of understanding. I wasn’t sure why I’d felt I had to explain it to him in the
first place, and I suspected neither of us had the vocabulary necessary to discuss the exact nature of what was going on between Matt and me. How do you say fuck buddy in Spanish anyway? He
shrugged and stacked the plates on top of each other. As he walked away, Matt appeared behind him, having been hidden from view behind the patron’s bulky frame.

‘Ready to go?’ I smiled, pushing my chair back away from the table. ‘Sarah will be coming to get me in a bit, we need to head back.’

Matt looked furious.

‘What did you just say to him?’ he asked.

‘Um, I said the drink was nice?’ I said hesitantly, starting to get up. ‘But only because I don’t know the Spanish for “tastes like paint
stripper”.’

‘No, sit down,’ said Matt. ‘You know that’s not what I meant. What did you say to him about us?’

I laughed nervously. ‘Us? Oh come on, Matt, what do you mean
us
?’

‘You said – I heard you – you said that we’re just friends. Is that really what you think? That we’ve been seeing each other since
Christmas
, that we spend
pretty much every weekend together and we’re just friends?’

‘Why are you doing this, Matt?’ I asked. ‘We’ve had a really perfect morning, why are you spoiling it all?’

‘I’m spoiling it, am I?’ Matt said bitterly. ‘Kate, I keep trying to talk to you about our relationship, and you just bat me away every time.’

‘Relationship?’ I scoffed. ‘Matt, all we do is have sex with each other. That’s not a relationship.’

Matt looked thunderous. His hands clenched into tight fists by his sides. ‘Is that all this is to you? Kate, I have tried and tried to get you to talk about things, tried to introduce you
to my friends, get you to meet my family, and you fight me all the way. Don’t you want this to be more than just sex? Don’t you want to be in a relationship? Or do you just not want to
be in one with me?’

I shrugged, scowling at my feet. The tangerine-coloured polish was chipping on my big toe. Why did he have to mess things up? Weren’t we fine as we were? I felt trapped, penned in. The
steep rocks around us suddenly seemed forbidding and dark.

Matt unclenched his fists and stepped towards me. I could hear from the slight tremor in his voice how much he was trying not to lose his temper.

‘Look, I know you say you don’t do relationships, but I’m sorry to break it to you, you’re in one. With me. However you choose to define it – friends with benefits,
whatever – we are in a relationship. Grow up and deal with it.’

‘I am perfectly grown-up, Matt Martell,’ I snapped, standing up to look him in the face. ‘How fucking dare you?’

‘You’re not,’ he said. ‘You’re like a teenager, making sure you get your kicks and forgetting about how anyone else feels. How do you think it makes me feel to hear
myself dismissed like that? To hear you tell a total stranger that we’re just friends?’

I could feel myself starting to tremble. I can deal with confrontation at work without even flinching. I’d even admit to quite enjoying it – especially when I win, and I usually do.
But this was a different kind of confrontation – it was personal, cutting straight to the core of who I was. A very small part of me did feel sorry for Matt, could see that his feelings were
hurt, but a larger part of me felt utterly enraged at his accusations.

‘For fuck’s sake, Matt, where has all this come from? You’ve been perfectly happy with things for months, and now you’re being a total girl who wants to talk about
feelings and all that bullshit.’

‘It’s not bullshit,’ said Matt. ‘And maybe you should try being more of a girl, and actually having some feelings for once, instead of just treating me like some fuck
buddy that you can take or leave. Sometimes I wonder if you even actually like me.’

‘I don’t think you’re just a fuck buddy,’ I said, feeling tears spring up in my eyes. My voice wobbled. ‘I do like you.’

‘Well, you’ve got a weird way of showing it,’ Matt snapped. Behind him I could see the patron looking over at us, clearly wondering how we’d gone from two happy,
hand-holding customers to a pair of furious shouty nutters in a matter of minutes.

I burst into tears.

‘No,’ said Matt. ‘That is not fair, Kate, not fair.’

‘I ca-ha-han’t help it,’ I wailed.

Matt ran his hands through his hair, as if he was about to pull it out by the roots. Finally he stepped over towards me and put his arm around my shoulders.

‘Basher,’ he said, into my hair. I let myself lean against him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I sobbed. ‘I know I’ve been keeping you at a distance. I’m sorry.’

‘I just don’t get it,’ he said. ‘I like you, you like me. Why do you keep pushing me away?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just no good at this,’ I said. ‘It freaks me out.’

‘I have always thought you’re a bit of a freak,’ Matt agreed, a little too readily.

‘No,
you’re
a freak,’ I said, feeling myself start to smile.

‘No, you are.’

I could feel Matt’s chest shaking with a chuckle. I used the back of my hand to wipe the tears away from my face.

‘Kate,’ said Matt, holding onto my shoulders and pulling me away from his chest so that I had to look up at him. ‘Let’s get this straight. I’m your boyfriend.
Understood?’

I nodded, my lips pressed tightly together to stop my chin wobbling.

‘Not your fuck buddy,’ he said. ‘Not a fling. Not just friends.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘And you’re my girlfriend?’

‘Ye-es,’ I agreed, and tried not to squirm.

Here in the early-morning sun, full of fish and drunk on sunshine and Hierbas Ibicencas and hope, it felt like a promise I could keep. To be in a relationship.

Like something I might actually be able to do.

When I walk into the kitchen, Ben guiltily puts a hand behind his back, but it’s too late. There’s no mistaking the crust of toast that disappears down
Minnie’s throat. She licks her chops contentedly and looks up at him in the hope there might be more.

‘Ben!’ I say, trying to keep the nagging edge out of my voice. It’s hardly the first time I’ve asked him not to feed the dog. Not that I don’t feed her the
occasional toast crust myself, but Ben has a way of using her as a dustbin for anything he doesn’t want to eat. And he’s always conveniently elsewhere by the time Minnie’s stomach
revolts against, for example, the half tin of sweetcorn that made a particularly unpleasant reappearance on the patio yesterday.

‘It’s only a bit of bread,’ he mutters, lowering his eyes to the surface of the table.

Even on a flimsy kitchen chair, Ben likes to sit with his knees incredibly far apart, as if they repel each other by magnetic force. This wouldn’t concern me if it weren’t for his
usual morning attire of a T-shirt and threadbare pyjama bottoms, so faded that they’re like the ghost of a pair that has long since died. The material has become so thin that it is as if he
is performing a dance of the seven veils each morning, threatening to reveal that which should remain hidden. He doesn’t seem to notice, contentedly scratching at his crotch with as much
self-awareness as an animal.

‘I know it’s only toast,’ I say, sighing. ‘But she’s just a puppy. She has a bit of a delicate stomach; I’ve told you before.’

Ben can’t disguise the small roll of his eyes.

‘My mum’s dogs can eat anything,’ he says, planting his hands on his thighs and stretching his pyjama bottoms worryingly. ‘That’s farm dogs for you. Seriously. I
remember this one time Patch ate an entire sheep’s placenta. Down in one.’

I’m not ready to hear about a placenta-eating dog first thing in the morning. My stomach lurches.

‘Not squeamish, are you?’ asks Ben, seeing me clutch the kitchen counter for support. ‘My mum says dogs pick things up from their owners. I mean, maybe you’re projecting
this delicate stomach onto your dog?’

It’s far too early in the morning for this conversation. For any conversation, come to that. I’d grown used to mornings on my own – the only voices the ones on the radio that I
could switch off.

‘Yup,’ says Ben. ‘I mean, not to piss you off or anything, but Minnie’s eaten my toast crusts every morning since I got here. No harm done.’

‘Okay,’ I say, weakly. I can’t be bothered to have an argument. I have come to Lyme to get away from arguments. That was the whole point.

‘I mean, Patch – the one that ate the placenta – there was one time when Mum caught him eating rat poison.’ Ben beams, as if I might be vastly impressed by his
dog’s cast-iron stomach. ‘And not a whimper out of him. So I reckon your dog can cope with a bit of
bread
.’

‘I suppose so,’ I say. Pick your battles, isn’t that what I learned living with Matt? ‘But please be careful, she’s only little. She’s probably not at the
cast-iron-stomach placenta-eating stage quite yet.’

‘Whatever you say, boss,’ says Ben, making a mock salute. He stands up and dumps his dirty plate and mug in the sink, where they join a stack of others. He wipes his face on the tea
towel and leaves the kitchen, belching loudly. Two seconds later he peers round the kitchen door.

‘Can I borrow that magazine?’ he asks, pointing to an old copy of
Grazia
that’s sitting in the recycling bin.

‘Sure,’ I shrug, surprised. I wouldn’t have pegged Ben for a
Grazia
reader. He grabs it gratefully and is off down the corridor.

‘Wait!’ I call, as I realize what this sudden acquisition of inappropriate reading material means. ‘Wait – I was just about to have a shower.’

But it’s too late. The bathroom door is slammed shut. And I know that Ben won’t be emerging in a hurry.

I never knew one man could take up so much space in a bungalow.

I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve ever confronted a pair of tired old pants hanging off the bathroom radiator, or a sports sock balled up behind a cushion on the
sofa. I’ve lived with Matt for long enough to be no stranger to male domestic blindness, or to the belief that laundry left on the floor will somehow migrate under its own steam towards the
washing machine and magically reappear in the wardrobe, cleaned and ironed. But it would be true to say that sharing the marital home in North London with the man you’ve sworn to love and
honour (though not obey) till death do you part, is not at all the same as sharing your dead granny’s bungalow with your sister’s future husband. I’m not saying that clearing up
after Matt was an act of love – more like an act of tolerance – but at least it felt like something I’d gone into knowingly, for better or worse. Not like living with a man who is
not only effectively a total stranger, but one who seems to be oblivious to any kind of hint or suggestion relating to the domestic sphere.

It didn’t surprise me when Ben reluctantly confessed that, apart from a house share at university, he has, like Prue, always lived at home. Though he presented it as a carefully planned
business strategy in order to save up a deposit for him and Prue to buy their own home, to me it seems more like a strategy for having his mum do all his dirty work for him.

Minnie is still sniffing for crumbs under the kitchen table, where Ben has left a jam-smeared knife sticking out of the butter. There’s a splash of coffee on Granny Gilbert’s
oilcloth table-topper. Every instinct I have tells me to get a cloth and clear this up, but I resist.

‘No,’ I say, out loud, as if warning myself. Minnie looks up at me, half guilty, prepared to cower in case I’m speaking to her.

‘Not you, Mins,’ I say, pulling at her silky ear to reassure her.

No, I am not clearing this up. If I have learned anything from the failure of my marriage, it is that I should have been tougher with Matt from the very beginning. It starts with thinking that
tidying up after him is just a little thing. That you don’t really mind doing it, and anyway, it’s quicker if you just get on with it yourself rather than make an issue of it. Anything
for an easy life, you think, naïvely unaware that you are making your future much more difficult. And before you know it, those little moments of annoyance that you hardly even noticed at
first, between all the sex and the laughing and the finding each other so generally delightful, become days and weeks of simmering resentment. Then one day your husband asks why he doesn’t
have any clean socks and you realize you have a very clear vision in your head of exactly how you are going to kill him.

So I leave Ben’s dirty dishes where they are, as I have done for five days now.

I would like nothing better than to snap on a pair of rubber gloves and tackle the disgusting mess the kitchen has become. But I know I must resist if I am not to carry on cleaning up after him
as long as we are forced to share this living space. I just hadn’t realized that Ben’s tolerance for filth would be so much greater than my own. There are fat flies circling the
lampshade, and squeezed-out teabags rest in teaspoons on the work surface, which is liberally sprinkled with sugar crystals. The offending bag of sugar sits next to the kettle, the handle of a soup
spoon poking out. For some reason this annoys me more than anything – who uses a soup spoon to put sugar in their tea?

I am not proud to admit that I have hidden a couple of clean mugs in my bedroom just to ensure that I don’t have to resort to fishing through the mouldering pile in the sink whenever I
want a cup of tea, furtively washing them up in the empty bathroom sink so as to remain undetected by Ben.

I know what you’re thinking: that I am taking out on Ben my frustrations with my husband. But that’s not it at all. The two men couldn’t be more different. Although, come to
think of it, if someone had taught Matt a few lessons before we moved in together things might have been very different. And if I were starting again with Matt, I’d be very different too.