The Foster Husband (35 page)

‘Not nagging, dear. Training,’ pipes up Mrs Curtis from the sofa.

‘Mrs Curtis,’ I say, willing her into silence.

But Prue has caught something this time, and turns to her sofa companion. ‘Training. You’ve said it twice now. You’re not as daft as you look, are you?’

Mrs Curtis bridles. ‘Daft? I should think not, dear. And nor is your sister. She’s been—’

‘I haven’t been doing anything!’

But there is no stopping her now. She holds up an admonishing finger to silence me. Prue and Ben are agog.

‘Kate, dear, it’s time you got some credit for all your hard work. Prue, your sister has been very thoughtful. Very thoughtful
indeed
. She has put a lot of effort into
training your fiancé to be a better husband. Domestically, that is – don’t make that
face
, dear. Not bossing – training.’

‘Has she?’ says Prue, turning towards me, her eyes narrow dangerously.

‘Yes, dear, he’s her
foster
husband, you see.’

‘I’m her what?’ gulps Ben. ‘Crikey.’

There’s a long silence while I try to think of what to say. Mrs Curtis swings her legs, satisfied with her defence of my methods.

‘I just wanted to help,’ I stammer at last. ‘There were things I wish Matt had known before we got married – just little things, a bit of guidance about stuff. I
didn’t want you to have the problems we had. I thought I was helping. I did help!’

Ben scowls at me from the doorway, his face a picture of wounded betrayal. It sounds so wrong when I say it out loud. I was so sure I was doing the right thing.

When Prue answers her voice is dangerously low. ‘And what would you know, Kate, about what makes a good marriage? Who are you to lecture my fiancé on how he should behave? You
didn’t even make it to your second anniversary.’

‘I know about mistakes,’ I say, stung. ‘I wanted to save you from them. I thought I was doing a good thing.’

Prue rises from the sofa and steps towards me, squaring up as if we are going to have a physical fight. ‘You were interfering. Trying to get everyone to behave how you want them to. Just
like you always do.’

‘I–I wasn’t!’

‘You were!’ she snaps. ‘You’re always like this, always think your way is the right way and everyone else is wrong. A foster husband! For fuck’s sake! Is it any
wonder your actual husband got sick of it and went off with someone else? Is it?’

Mrs Curtis gasps from the sofa, her legs stuck out mid-swing in shock.

I feel as if the breath has been sucked from my body by a punch to the stomach. ‘That is not what happened,’ I say.

‘Well, who could blame him?’ sneers Prue.

I feel the trembling sensation start in the middle of my chest, fine tremors radiating outwards so that my arms hang uselessly by my sides. My words are stuck in my throat.

‘You don’t understand,’ I say. ‘None of you understands. It’s not what you think. It never was.’

London

I was too shocked to cry as I stumbled through the streets, unsure where I was heading. I just wanted to get away from the cafe before Matt and Sarah had time to react.
Instead of glamorous, I suddenly felt foolish in my too-short dress and fuck-me shoes. I pulled at the hem, trying to drag it down my thighs and cover up the fact that I was nothing but a silly
housewife whose husband preferred to fuck someone else.

Of course it explained everything. The late nights. How he’d stopped talking to me. How Sarah knew what Matt was up to when I didn’t. That bastard had even got me to cook lunch for
her – her and her cuckolded boyfriend – in my own home. I had thought I was furious before, but it was nothing compared to the trembling, nauseating emotion now gnawing at the very core
of my being.

I had given up everything for what? It wasn’t an investment at all. It was as if I’d entrusted my life savings to a bank that had just gone bust.

I hardly registered where I was going as I pushed past people on the pavement, powering forwards as if I could walk away from this sick feeling of betrayal. But a crowd blocked my way ahead and
I realized, to my horror, that my angry strides had led me straight to the Crown, which was as busy as ever on a Thursday night. Before anyone from Hitz might notice me, I stepped into the road to
cross over to the opposite side.

A taxi blared its horn and, unaccustomed to high heels, I lost my footing as I lurched back onto the kerb. My hands flailed, preparing to fall, and when I felt someone grab my elbow I clutched
gratefully onto their arm to regain my balance.

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, and went to cross the street again.

‘Kate, wait, it’s me,’ said a voice. The hand on my elbow didn’t let go.

I looked up into Chris’s ice-blue eyes; his intense stare was made even more so by the concern written all over his face.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing, I was just – I was on my way home.’ I struggled for composure. I didn’t need to have my business discussed by everyone at the
Crown. I wasn’t some show for everyone’s entertainment.

‘Thanks for helping me,’ I said stiffly, pulling my arm away. ‘It was nice to see you.’

Chris smiled. ‘It’s been a while,’ he said. ‘You look great.’

‘Thanks,’ I said again.

‘Hey, come on, let me buy you a drink. You can’t be in that much of a rush. Some of the guys are in the Crown, everyone would love to see you.’

Everyone. I felt the bile rise in my throat again. How many of them knew about Sarah and Matt already? Was it common knowledge? Was I the last to know? I had thought I’d make a triumphant
entrance tonight, the long-lost colleague out on the town, fronting it out about being unemployed, telling everyone how great life was without a job. But now that I was a sadder figure, I
couldn’t face them.

‘Um, look, I just don’t feel like hanging out with a big crowd. Sorry, Chris. It’s sweet of you to ask. I’m,’ I pointed up the street to where double-decker buses
shuddered past in a slow-moving line, ‘I’m going to head off.’

Chris took hold of my arm again, gently but firmly, as if he was restraining a skittish animal.

‘Are you sure you’re okay? Because we don’t have to go in there if you don’t want to. If you need someone to talk to we could just go somewhere the two of us. If
you’d rather.’

I thought of my house, emptily awaiting my return. Of going back alone, sober, sitting and waiting. Like I did every night. For what? For Matt to arrive and tell me what I already knew? For my
husband to come back from fucking my best friend?

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I could do with a drink. Let’s do it.’

Chris grinned and linked his arm with mine. ‘Hold on tight. Easier this way, isn’t it? In case you get the wobbles again.’

‘Thanks, Chris,’ I said, accepting it. Who was I to turn away from the only support I was being offered?

As we left I thought I heard someone shouting after Chris, but it’s a common name. He didn’t turn around, so I guessed they must have been calling to someone else.

I hadn’t been to the Spanish bar on Hanway Street for what felt like decades. It was always somewhere that we rocked up when the pub had shut and we weren’t ready
to go home yet. At the time of night when a pitcher of Sangria sounds like the best idea in the whole world, and everyone in the bar is your new best friend. The hour of the evening when dancing
feels not just possible but actually necessary and incredibly vital (in a way that will make you die of mortification when recalled the next day). I don’t think I had ever walked down those
narrow wooden steps sober before.

It seemed like no one else visited the Spanish bar before closing time either; it was practically empty except for me and Chris. I let him go to the bar and took my pick from the tables –
just being able to sit down felt like an exotic novelty – usually we were standing, crushed up against the stairs. The only seat at my preferred table was a wooden bench, tucked into an
alcove underneath a particularly garish painting of a flamenco dancer, who sported a Sixties beehive hairdo with her traditional dress.

Chris came back from the bar with a bottle of Rioja and two glasses. I think my eyes must have widened at the idea of drinking that much after months of near sobriety, because he looked from me
to the bottle and back again.

‘I just thought it would save us going up and down to the bar?’ he said, anxiously posing his statement as a question.

‘No, it’s cool,’ I reassured him. ‘Good idea.’

Why shouldn’t I have a drink, anyway? It’s not like I was going to be having Matt’s baby now. In fact, I’d probably had a very narrow escape. Imagine if I’d been
pregnant when I heard about him and Sarah. Matt and Sarah. I wished I hadn’t thought of that again.

Chris passed me a glass of wine and I gulped down half of it in one go.

‘Jesus, you really needed a drink,’ he said, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

‘Yeah,’ I said.

He left a long pause, during which we both refilled our glasses. I wondered if I should be making more of an effort to make conversation, but it wasn’t like my friendship with Chris had
been defined by a real meeting of minds. And I didn’t want to talk about what had happened. I just wanted not to be on my own, and to get drunk. Chris was the enabler, rather than my chosen
confidant.

He broke the silence first.

‘So,’ he said, hesitant and cautious, as if he was about to ask me something immensely personal. ‘Have you seen much of Sarah lately?’

I turned to look at him, suspicious. ‘Why do you ask?’

Chris shrugged. ‘Just, Jay said they’re having a few issues at the moment. Thought she might have mentioned it.’

I left another long pause. Was Chris trying to tell me he knew something about Matt and Sarah? I always thought coming at a problem obliquely was a female trait; most men just jump straight in
and ask the inappropriate question. Maybe Chris was more emotionally intelligent than I’d given him credit for.

‘Yeah, she’s mentioned it,’ I said, carefully. ‘What does he say?’

‘Not much.’ Chris laughed. ‘Typical bloke stuff, keeps getting drunk instead of actually addressing it. Just thought you might know a bit more. Don’t like seeing one of
my friends down, you know.’

I laughed back, filling my glass for the third time. ‘What’s happened to you, Chris? When did you turn all caring?’

Chris winced a little. ‘You never did have a very high opinion of me,’ he said.

‘Oh, Chris, I did,’ I said, guiltily, since he was perfectly right.

Chris lifted one corner of his mouth into a wry smile. ‘You didn’t. But that’s okay. I guess I wasn’t very good at talking about things. I’ve grown up a bit since
then.’

‘Me too,’ I said, sadly, staring across the empty room.

‘Shit, isn’t it?’ said Chris, comically mournful.

We both burst out laughing. I was almost sobbing, holding onto my stomach. I had the sense I might burst into tears at any moment.

‘It is shit! It is! It’s all shit,’ I said, in between spluttering. ‘Let’s get drunk.’

By the time the bar started filling up, Chris and I were on our fourth bottle. I’d like to say I remember it all perfectly, but the truth is it has come back to me in snippets over the
last few months, and I don’t know how accurate any of it is. Although some things I know beyond doubt.

We were knee-walkingly drunk. I had fallen over on my way to the bar, and had to be helped up by some concerned students. I ignored their pitying looks, and just took my shoes off and stumbled
on to buy another bottle.

I remember that my phone rang, buzzing loudly on the table. The display showed that it was Matt, and Chris saw me choose to ignore it. And then my phone rang again, two minutes later, and it was
Sarah. Chris saw me ignore it once more. He said nothing. I felt more certain than ever that he knew what had been going on behind my back. When my phone rang for the third time I switched it off
decisively, if somewhat fumblingly. I dropped it in my bag and Chris smiled at me with what I felt was approval.

I remember the way we were sat on the narrow bench, turned towards each other our knees touching, I remember wondering why I had ever thought he was boring. Why had I given up all the excitement
of the chase and the pursuit for something as tedious and soul-draining as marriage? I’d always said I didn’t do relationships. That long-term love was stifling and limiting. And
hadn’t I been right? Wasn’t this more who I was? Look what had happened to me when I’d been trapped by domesticity. I’d turned into someone I didn’t recognize.

But I remember most of all the feeling of Chris looking at me the way Matt used to – amused, admiring, like he didn’t want to be anywhere else, or with anyone else. As if I was
someone worth knowing, worth being with.

I had grown so used to the way Matt and I were with each other these days – sniping, defensive, always ready to take offence – that Chris’s undivided attention was as
intoxicating as the red wine that was now, oops, spilled down my front.

‘Oh God, look, I’d better go and wash this off,’ I said, sloppily indicating the front of my dress.

I rose from my seat unsteadily. Chris slipped his arm around my hips to support me – and also to cop a feel of my arse; I wasn’t so drunk I didn’t notice that. ‘Woah, I
feel really wobbly all of a sudden.’

Chris stood up, his hand resting on my waist. He scanned the room. ‘Want me to come with you?’

‘Umm,’ I said, trying to focus on his face. I had a vague feeling this was a bad idea, but at the same time I really wasn’t sure if I was going to make it to the bathroom
without embarrassing myself.

He pushed me gently towards the back of the bar.

‘Won’t we lose our table?’ I said anxiously, looking around the crowded bar.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Chris, and he propelled me across the floor, his hand in the small of my back.

When we burst into the Ladies’ three girls were doing their make-up by the mirror. They all sniggered and exchanged glances with one another. I supposed we probably did
look a bit of a state.