Blokebusters Page 17

  “They don’t have interesting stuff in those crusty papers.”

  “They cover important stuff, the stories that are actually news rather than ‘he did that’, ‘she said this and slept with so and so’.”

  “Snob.”

  “Prole.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

  “What time’s Fi coming over with Emily?” he asked whilst unfolding the myriad of sections in his paper.

  “Mid-morning, but you know Fi – it could be any time.”

  “They’re not staying long are they? Only I’ve got some urgent weeding to do this afternoon – I want to get it done early before the light goes.”

  She drank her juice and wondered whether any other man in Hertfordshire under the age of fifty had uttered the same sentiment. I bet Dan Goldstein’s not weeding, she thought. He’s probably in bed with some bimbo sleeping off the previous night’s excess. As soon as the thought entered her head she felt ashamed.

  The doorbell rang and Georgia was glad of something to distract her thoughts. She let Fiona and Emily in. Gyp came trotting down the stairs to see who’d arrived and they made a fuss of him. Gyp had grown since Christmas but Georgia wasn’t sure if it was his body or his fluff that had expanded. She combed him twice a day to stop him looking like he’d been electrocuted.

  Emily was a beautiful girl. Georgia hadn’t seen her in daylight for a while. She was dark whereas Fiona was blonde. She was curvaceous whereas Fiona was more boyish. She was vivacious whereas Fiona was more reserved. If Emily were a wine, she’d be Asti Spumante.

  “Fi’s told me all about Blokebusters – I can’t wait to get started. It’s going to be great fun.”

  “I’m glad you’re so keen,” Georgia said. If Emily enjoyed the work it would really smooth things between her and Matt.

  “Where’s Matt?” Fiona asked.

  “In the kitchen – I’ve got him well trained: people arrive, Matt brews tea.”

  “How domesticated. And boring. Aren’t I going to get any of his homebrew?” Emily pouted.

  “She’s a masochist,” Fiona said, gesturing to Emily.

  “Come through to the living room.” Georgia ushered them through the hallway.

  Matt brought in a tray and put it on the coffee table. He looked up and saw Emily. The girl who’d hit on him in a bar when he was waiting for Georgia. The only girl ever who’d made a pass at him was sitting in his living room chatting to his wife. His skin felt like someone had wiped a cold, damp towel over it. He sat next to Georgia on the sofa and tried to concentrate on his breathing.

  “Matt, what’s wrong? You’ve gone as white as a sheet!” Georgia put her hand on his forehead. “Whatever’s the matter? You’re sweating!”

  “Just got a bit of a headache,” he puffed. Suddenly he was back at school, in his English class studying Macbeth. The scene where Banquo’s ghost returns to haunt Macbeth at the banquet. Matt was Macbeth and it had never made as much sense to him as it did right now.

  “Shall I get you a paracetamol?”

  “No, no. I’ll be fine. I could do with a bit of air actually – excuse me a minute.” Georgia got up to accompany him but he shook his head. “No – you stay, I’ll be fine. Honest.”

  “Call if you need anything. Anything at all.” She knew better than to mother him when he didn’t want it. Georgia listened for the click of the back door before turning to Fiona. “I should check he’s OK. He never gets headaches.”

  “Lucky you,” Emily sniggered.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him Georgia – he was panicking. He recognised Emily and hasn’t twigged it was a set-up. He thinks Emily’s going to make another play for him and he’s terrified that you’ll blame him.” Fiona studied the tea tray. “No biscuits?”

  “I’ll get them.” Georgia went to the kitchen and looked out through the window to check on Matt. He was leaning against the wall, bent forward to let some blood flow into his head. All because of her allowing Fiona and Emily to test the business plan on him. Why hadn’t she realised Matt would remember Emily? How could she have overlooked it? The bar was gloomy and it was a while back – she’d assumed he wouldn’t remember her in any detail. It was such a foolish oversight on her part. Matt was a very open person and any subterfuge or deceit weighed heavily on him. How could she care so little for him to put him through that?

  She took a packet of chocolate digestives from the cupboard and tapped them into her palm like a truncheon. Opening the back door she leant out. The air was cold and dry; she felt her skin tightening.

  “How you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.” He forced a smile. His skin was white except for his nose, which had turned red in the cold.

  “Has your headache eased off?”

  “A bit.”

  “Are you coming back in?”

  “Do I have to? Can’t you do it without me?”

  “You’ll freeze out here. Matt, come back in. I don’t want you out of my sight if you’re feeling peaky.” She smiled and waved the packet of biscuits. “Choccy biccies.”

  He sighed and kicked his shoes off by the door.

  “Can we get rid of them ASAP?”

  “Anything you say.”

  *

  Georgia couldn’t be too mad at Emily as she saw a lot of herself in her. If Georgia was twenty-four and in Emily’s shoes, she’d have some fun too. She noticed her wink at Matt a couple of times. He shrank back wishing it all would end.

  “I’ll clear the tea things away,” Matt said as soon as Georgia had emptied her cup, glad of an excuse to leave the room.

  “Ooh, he forgot my mug – I’ll take it out to him,” Emily grinned.

  “Don’t be mean to him,” Fiona said and Georgia was grateful. Fiona could keep a far tighter leash on Emily than Georgia had any right to.

  Emily tiptoed into the kitchen and, pressing herself against Matt’s back, slipped her mug into the sink. He didn’t pay much attention as he was concentrating on washing up and assumed it was Georgia.

  “We meet again,” she whispered.

  Matt leaped away from the sink in shock.

  “Emily… I… I… I thought you were Georgia.” He held his dripping washing-up brush in front of him like a light sabre. She lowered it with one finger.

  “I had to get you on your own – seeing you with your wife just makes me want you more.” She was surprised that he actually seemed to believe her – like she’d be interested in him! Emily was a born Carrot.

  “As I said to you in the bar – you’re a lovely girl but not for me. Please respect that – my wife is in the living room. She’ll kill you if she knows what’s going on.” His fingers clutched at the counter top to steady himself.

  In the living room, Georgia grew impatient.

  “I’m going to see what she’s up to – your sister has no sense of compassion. She’s probably terrifying him in there.” She padded down the hallway into the kitchen and instantly appraised the fear on Matt’s face and the cruel amusement on Emily’s.

  “Georgia – we were just talking about… potatoes. Emily wants to grow some.”

  “Potatoes?” Emily laughed. “Or is that a euphemism I haven’t heard of?”

  “I think it’s time you were going,” Georgia said, stony-faced. It wasn’t purely anger at Emily; that alone would have been manageable. It was her own behaviour that offended her, the shabby way she’d used Matt.

  Emily realised she might’ve over-egged things and silently returned to Fiona, who could tell just by looking at her that things had turned sour.

  “Georgia – I’m sorry. We’ll have words in the car.”

  “Good.”

  “I suppose you don’t want her involved any more?”

  “Fi – she’s an ideal Carrot. My own feelings are nothing to do with the business. Make it clear that Matt’s sensitive and I won’t let her upset him like that. If she does it again she’s out. Understand?”

  Fiona nodded. “Are you going
to fill him in? Tell him the truth?”

  “I’ve got to. He’s in the kitchen thinking he’s done something wrong when, in reality, he’s the only innocent one.”

  Georgia shut the front door and leant against it for a while, her face pressed against the cold glass. Matt hadn’t moved from the kitchen. She turned and walked down the hallway. It seemed twice as long as usual. His hands were wet and resting on the edge of the sink, his eyes and mind were way off in the distance, staring out the window. He turned as soon as he heard her.

  “Georgia – I didn’t do anything… you’ve got to believe me… please.”

  “I believe you.”

  “She… she… she pressed up against me like you do – I thought she was you. I didn’t know.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening – she’s done it before you see… in a bar… I was waiting for you and she came on to me. It’s awful. It was bad enough before, but knowing she’s Fiona’s sister. I feel sick.”

  “I know. It’s not your fault.” She sensed her disclosure would be about as welcome as a fart in a lift.

  “You do trust me? We are OK?” he pleaded, his eyes sad and muted.

  “I trust you and we’re OK.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Matt, come and sit down. We need to talk.”

  He followed her into the living room and waited for what she had to say. When she confessed, he visibly deflated.

  “You set me up?” The sense of betrayal in his voice brought tears to her eyes.

  “Matt I’m so sorry. I know it’s unforgivable but try to understand – there were mitigating factors – I thought we were going to lose the house – Fiona would only come in on the idea if she was convinced that some men would say no, it’s no excuse but I was desperate, I had to think of how we could keep the house. Say something, please.”

  “I can’t believe you’d do that to me.” His eyes were rooted on the carpet.

  “I’m so sorry. Please Matt – say you forgive me.”

  He shook his head.

  “Oh please, it was for us – to save the house and garden.”

  “I’d never, never do something like that to you.”

  “Matt – I’m so sorry.”

  “You should be.”

  “You’re angry – I understand – I’m angry at myself for being so stupid. Please Matt, please forgive me.”

  “I knew you were ambitious. I never thought you were capable of being so… so hard and ruthless – heartless.”

  “I’m not. I’m not ruthless. Don’t say that.” Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. She went to stroke his face but he batted her hand away.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Matt – look at me please, I’m trying to apologise.”

  “I don’t think I want to look at you.” He shrugged her off and got up. She followed him.

  “Where are you going?”

  He tried to do his coat buttons up too rapidly and fumbled with them. Georgia tried to help but again, he pushed her hand away.

  “Anywhere you’re not. I need to get away from you for a while.”

  “Please don’t go – we can talk – it’ll be all right.”

  He scooped his car keys up and went outside without even looking at her.

  “Matt – you shouldn’t drive when you’re angry. It’s dangerous.”

  He ignored her and got into the car. She tapped on the window but he wouldn’t lower it. As soon as the engine started her CD blared out. He calmly switched it off and removed the CD. He lowered the window and passed it out to her.

  “I hate Bobby Darin. And I always have,” he said before reversing off the driveway.

  She watched him go, her vision blurred from crying.

  He drove without knowing where he was going; it was a strange sensation. In the nine years they’d been together they’d never had a serious falling-out. They’d bickered and it maybe lasted for an hour or so before one of them couldn’t bear it any longer and capitulated, but never anything serious and certainly never anything where one of them had stormed off. His anger died swiftly; his hurt at what she’d done lingered. He knew he wasn’t entirely innocent. He’d been so useless to her when she was worrying how to keep the house that he’d driven her to taking silly risks. He hadn’t been a proper husband to her. Everything important fell on her shoulders. He never took control – things happened to Matt, Georgia made things happen. His subconscious had taken him to a haven: the garden centre. He parked the car and turned the engine off but didn’t get out. Instead he slumped over the steering wheel and sobbed with an intensity that shocked him. His body wracked with feelings he couldn’t digest. He was a simmering cauldron of emotion with self-disgust perpetually bubbling to the top.

  *

  Georgia stood on the driveway in the freezing cold for ten minutes, willing Matt to come home. She stared stupidly at the CD; she never realised his Bobby Darin appreciation was fake. It wounded her deeply. Her memories became shams. It was due to Bobby they’d first struck up a conversation. Someone at a party had put one of his CDs on, to prove what a weird CD collection the host had. Fiona had barked, “Who the hell is that?” and Matt had known. He’d told Georgia that Bobby Darin was his favourite singer and she’d overlooked his shaggy beard and scruffy clothing to talk to him. Lies. All lies. By the time her hands were completely numb she realised he wasn’t coming back and went indoors. The house felt wrong without him in it. There was a sour atmosphere, which she supposed to be her own doing. The washing-up sat abandoned in the sink. The water was cold so she pulled the plug and refilled the sink. She washed Matt’s mug caressing it as a Matt-substitute. Her eyes were drawn to his garden and she saw a way to redeem herself; Matt had said there was a lot of weeding to do.

  She changed into a pair of old jeans and pulled on a thick fleece. If she could weed the garden in time for his return he might soften towards her. The soil was heavy and turgid beneath her feet and she felt herself sinking into it. Matt made weeding look so easy. He’d pull on it and the whole thing, roots and all, would lift out of the ground. Georgia tugged and tugged but they wouldn’t budge. She pulled harder, her fingers white with cold and the weed eventually came out. It was similar to tug-of-war, the sudden surrender of the weed took her by surprise and she fell backwards, landing on her bottom in the cold, sticky earth.

  “Great,” she muttered and heaved her body upright. The earth clung to her shoes making her feet leaden and immobile. She weeded for an hour as if her life depended on it, ignoring the chill nipping at her skin.

  *

  Matt didn’t get out of the car. He watched the customers wheeling plants and equipment back to their cars, mentally pricing up their purchases: the man with the new lawn mower – £150 as it was a good one, the lady carrying the cactus – quite small so no more than a fiver, the lovey-dovey couple wheeling out a flat-pack bench – quite tinny looking, definitely under £50. Absent-mindedly he patted his pocket and was rewarded with the rustle he hoped to hear; he took the Snickers bar from his top pocket and opened it, chewing slowly and sadly. He was now angrier with himself than with Georgia. What a wimp. What sort of man let his wife take all the stress and strain for financial matters? What sort of man ran away rather than staying to talk? What sort of man sat in a car park snivelling in self-pity? His answer to all three questions was the same: a bloody pathetic one. He finished his chocolate and turned on the car engine to drive home.

  *

  Georgia decided that an implement like a trowel might help her in her task so edged her way to the shed. The previous night’s heavy rain had turned the ground into sticky clay and she took long strides to avoid getting bogged down. She tripped over the spade Matt had left out and fell awkwardly, twisting her ankle.

  “Oh, shit.” A surge of adrenalin cushioned her body and tried to prepare her for pain. She knew she’d done something, as she couldn’t stand up. There was nothing nearby to lean on to help her get upright. She tried to
crawl but couldn’t. Her arms were weak from pulling weeds and the ground gripped her like superglue. Her ankle felt hot and fizzy like it wasn’t quite hers – like an alien limb had been supplanted. She knew she should take her shoe off but couldn’t reach the laces.

  “Help!” she whimpered. The neighbours were out, gone away for the weekend. She started to panic – if Matt didn’t come back she’d be stuck there all night, in sub-zero temperatures. People died in less trying conditions. What a way to go. Death by weeding. Matt had called her ruthless but she didn’t feel very ruthless sitting on the ground, helpless. Just when she was bitterly wondering how things could get worse, a fine drizzle started up. The cool vapour settled on her clothes and made her jeans sodden in a short space of time. She vaguely recalled advice she’d been given on a school camping trip: Never wear jeans if out and about as they retain too much water and take too long to dry. She struggled to stand up but failed, falling back into the mud with her arms tingling from fatigue. The sky was darkening to match her mood.

  When Matt put his key in the front door he wasn’t even sure what to say to Georgia. He’d been hard on her and said things he regretted. That didn’t mean he wasn’t hurt and angry, but he realised that some of his comments would have really wounded her. However much he disliked her methods, her motives had been commendable.

  “Georgia! I’m back!” he called. Let her come to him.

  Silence.

  He dropped his keys on the hall shelf and peered into the living room. TV off, no lights on.

  “Georgia!”

  No reply.

  “Great. She’s stormed off too.”

  It was too dark now to weed. Waiting for Georgia to come home, he sat and watched the final football scores on TV before the rain, pounding against the window, reminded him he’d left his spade out. If it rained for long, which was likely, it would rust. He went out to the garden.

  “Georgia – what are you doing sitting there?” He’d never seen her look so rough. Her face was pasty and tear-streaked, her hair flat and frizzy from the rain and she was shivering.

  “I fell over.”

  “Why didn’t you get up?”

  “Can’t. I’ve hurt myself.” She smiled shyly, relieved to see him.