Blokebusters Page 26

  *

  She sidled up to Matt in bed.

  “You said you’d remembered a couple more of Alan’s suggestions.” She kissed his shoulder.

  “I’m really tired Georgia,” he said flatly. She got the message but decided against turning over in a huff, it was too obvious. She went to sleep against him, refusing to let him sulk and think she didn’t want him.

  Matt stared at the ceiling. He knew she was right. She hadn’t cheated on him at all. He wasn’t even angry that she found another man attractive; it was only natural. He was frightened because he sensed trouble, serious competition. Deep down he’d never really believed that he could satisfy Georgia forever; put simply, he wasn’t enough for her. Dan Goldstein was smooth, sexy, polished, dynamic and interested. And if he wanted to, he could waltz in and whisk Georgia away without Matt being able to stop him. His chest dipped as he sighed and Georgia rubbed her face against him in her sleep.

  Matt wasn’t the only one having an uneasy night. In the West End, Dan lay in bed in his hotel room thinking about Georgia, how he could meet her again without her husband being there. He touched his face, trying to make it feel how it did when Georgia touched him, but he couldn’t.

  *

  In his Docklands flat, Leo Kelly lay in bed thinking about Bel, how her slip dress caressed her skin, how he’d like to run his mouth all over her; what she’d feel like in his arms, how beautiful she’d look asleep.

  In Hertfordshire, Fiona lay in bed thinking about Leo. Any man who loved chocolate that much, who understood its power, had to be special. Those sapphire eyes that cut to her soul. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to have him make love to her, what he’d say, how his kisses would taste. It left her even more frustrated.

  In his favourite armchair, Gyp slept. He dreamt about chasing the robin who tormented him in the garden. He imagined the glorious victory of trapping it with his paw. He stretched and rolled over against the cushion.

  Chapter twenty-one

  They didn’t mention Dan Goldstein again but he was there, in every conversation he lurked spectre-like in the background. Every time Georgia kissed Matt he tortured himself whether she’d enjoy it better if he were more like Dan. He’d decided that it might be less painful to try and cut himself off from her now, limit the suddenness of the agony when she eventually left him. Start trying to adapt to a life without her kisses or touch.

  He switched the vacuum cleaner off and put on Radiohead’s The Bends to accompany his dusting. Two verses into ‘High and Dry’, he switched it off. It sounded too cheerful so he selected a Smiths CD. As soon as Morrissey’s doleful voice wafted from the speakers he knew that someone understood what he was going through.

  It was two weeks since Georgia’s ‘date’ with Dan and still a day hadn’t gone by without Matt running what he’d heard through his mind. The business was getting busier and Georgia had increased the number of nights she worked. He hardly saw her these days and when he did she was either asleep or bolting down breakfast. He’d deliberately left her appointments blank for 1 April; it was his birthday and they always went out to dinner.

  For the first time in his recollection, Matt needed to speak to someone and Georgia wasn’t the right person. He wracked his brains who to choose. Fiona would be good but was too close to Georgia – she might run back with everything he’d said, Georgia’s parents were an option but he didn’t want to worry them. That left Billy. Billy Collins. His best man, best friend and probably the world’s worst agony uncle. He hadn’t seen or heard from Billy for almost a year. Billy had told him he was “laying low until the shit cools off” but in reality, Matt discovered, he’d got a job lecturing at their old university on a computer science course. Matt avoided seeing Billy too often as it always seemed to involve a near-death moment (Billy had almost reversed into him, smearing him over a wall) or a vaguely criminal experience (Matt hadn’t realised he was pushing a trolley full of pirated DVDs). Billy was a computer programmer who operated a ‘fallen-off-the-back-of-a-lorry goods’ sideline. He didn’t need to; it was his hobby.

  He knew. He knew when he was dialling. He knew as the phone rang. He knew as soon as Billy answered. It was a bad idea.

  “Matt! Mate! How are you?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Getting by – you know how it is when you’re mixing it with the big boys,” Billy said, without a trace of humour.

  “Yeah.” Maybe calling Billy wasn’t such a bad move. “I was wondering if you fancied meeting up? I need some advice.”

  “You’ve come to the right place then, haven’t you? It’s not medical is it? Only I don’t do medical – if you’ve got spots on your tackle or something I’m not looking.”

  “It’s not medical.”

  “I could come over to yours – I’m lecturing this week but Easter hols kick off next week, can it wait?”

  “It could – or we could meet up one evening?” Georgia wouldn’t even notice he’d gone.

  “No can do buddy. I’m in the midst of negotiating something massive – don’t want to say on the phone – never know who’s listening in.” He lowered his voice. “Not everyone’s on board yet.”

  Matt didn’t have a clue what he was on about.

  “Right. Well, come over one day next week – Monday?”

  “Yeah OK. Have you refitted the kitchen? Only I’ve got some cracking chrome kettle and toaster sets, eighty quid in John Lewis, I’m knocking them out for forty.”

  “Thanks but no thanks.” Georgia would kill him for allowing anything of Billy’s into the house.

  *

  At his desk in the newsroom Leo tried not to catch anyone’s eye. He was smarting from his very public ticking off for failing to get enough information to write a story about his Blokebusters date. In truth, he probably did have enough for a story but decided not to write it. If Bel really was a barrister and someone identified her from what he’d written it could end her career. It might hamper his chances with her. He couldn’t believe he was putting the girl before the story. He felt like a character out of a 1950s pulp novel. Leo, he told himself, you’re not a moper, you’re not someone who whinges and feels sorry for yourself. He was a sorter. He logged on to the Blokebusters site and clicked the ‘contact us’ button. The words formed so quickly in his mind, his fingers found it difficult to keep up:

  I know this is unusual and you’ll think I’m a crank but please don’t – because I’m not. My name is Leo Kelly and I was tested by one of your girls a while back. Her name was Annabel but she called herself Bel. She was the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met and I think I am in love with her – please, I’m serious. The date ended somewhat abruptly when Bel may have realised something about me. I’m a journalist and was sent to meet her to get a story. But that’s not why I want to see her again – please believe me. I’ve been told off at work for failing to write my story, but I couldn’t do it, not if it meant hurting Bel.

  I realise that your girls may use false names so I’ll describe her: she was about 5 foot 6 tall, ash blonde hair in a bob, pale skin and gorgeous grey-blue eyes. She wore a shiny dress with lace. I can’t get her out of my mind. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She was clever, funny, interesting, understood the wonder of chocolate and I’d love to see her again. Please pass my message on to her and ask her to contact me.

  He read it through to check for spelling and grammar, made sure the mobile number he’d provided was correct and then sent it before he had a chance to change his mind.

  *

  Dusting done, Matt trudged up to his office. There was no point ignoring the emails, they’d only pile up and become even more unmanageable. While his computer booted up he ate Maltesers, casually tossing each one into the air and catching it in his mouth. He remembered the first time he’d impressed Georgia with his talent; she’d kept making him do it again, trying to prove he was fluking it. There were thirty emails, twenty of which had completed questionnaires attached. An
average day’s haul. He scanned the query emails and opened Leo’s first. Queries from men were usually quick to deal with: they were abusive, mistaken or easily turned down. He read and frowned, another bloke in love with Georgia. He almost deleted it but read on, something in Leo’s tone sounded desperate. When he read the description and realised it was Fiona, his shoulders unknotted. His face broke into a wide smile and he read it again, slower. It must be him, the one Fiona got in a tizzy over. For all Matt knew it might be an elaborate con, Leo might just want to pump Fiona some more to finish his story. Matt didn’t care. If the business imploded it would do them all a favour. If Leo was genuine, Fiona might have a crack at a relationship with a decent man. There was no downside to forwarding the message so he did, directing it to Fiona’s work email address. He typed an explanatory note and ended it with:

  Don’t be too hasty in dismissing him – it’s easy to be cynical. It’s harder to trust.

  He sent it and tried to imagine Fiona’s face when she read it.

  Fiona came out of a four-hour meeting with a dying billionaire. It was pretty depressing. He’d been happily married to his second wife for fifteen years and hadn’t told her he was dying. He wanted to make sure she was properly provided for when he died. His business would be divided amongst his sons from his first marriage and he wanted to ensure they didn’t treat their stepmother badly. He was so dignified; she only hoped she would be the same when she faced death.

  She sat back at her desk and kicked off her shoes. Bargain they may have been at £200, comfortable they weren’t. She tapped her password into the computer to clear the screen saver and checked her inbox. A message from Matt. He rarely emailed her at work. She opened it and read. Her first instinct was anger but Matt was right, it was too easy to be cynical. She read it again and her face ignited. Her lunch tap-danced around her stomach wall and, for a brief moment, she thought she might vomit.

  “Are you all right?” her secretary asked from the doorway.

  “Oh… ehm… yeah. Fine. I’m fine.”

  She heard her secretary’s clumpy heels fade along the corridor and leant back in her chair. Her face exploded into a self-satisfied smile. If she could, she’d kiss herself.

  *

  Georgia left work early on Friday. All the way home she pondered how to make Matt’s birthday special. She’d never seen him as low as he currently was. They hadn’t made love for two weeks. It wasn’t the sex she missed but the closeness, the intimacy, the connection. He hardly even touched her; when she kissed him he didn’t wrap his arms around her like he used to. It was almost like she scared him.

  She wanted to wrap Matt’s birthday presents and have them ready and waiting for him Saturday morning. It always amused her that he’d come into the world on April Fools’ Day but she knew he was touchy about it so didn’t mention it anymore.

  Matt was watching Emmerdale when she got home. She poked her head into the living room.

  “I’ve got a couple of things to do upstairs – won’t be long.”

  “Right. No hurry,” he nodded without taking his eyes from the screen. She lingered in case he turned to smile at her, but he didn’t.

  Sitting in her office, her lilac and lavender girly retreat, she lay Matt’s presents on the table and slid the sheets of gift-wrap out from the carrier bag, pleased at finding a design with trowels and spades and plants on. Perfect. He had three gifts. The first was a stylish black-and-white Mondaine watch. He’d been on about getting a new watch for a while. She’d selected a leather strap knowing he disliked metal. The watch had a clean, unfussy dial and she thought that the fact they made clocks for the Swiss railway would be a plus. Matt hadn’t ever expressed much interest in trains, but she suspected he would one day, when he attained the right age. Unusually for a techie he liked a watch to tell the time; he didn’t want it to double up as a calculator, a camera or a satellite navigation system. She had also booked him on to a day’s course at a local horticultural college whose gardens were open to the public. The day was dedicated to growing better vegetables and understanding how to use fertilizers and planting techniques. Personally, she’d rather have her toenails pulled out with pliers but the art of gift buying was to select what the recipient would like.

  The third gift was the novelty one. They always tried to buy each other something silly. She’d chosen a long sleeved t-shirt with a cartoon-style bomb on it. In small letters, the bomb was labelled, ‘Sex’. It was an odd gift to give the man who currently seemed repulsed by her. She’d bought it a while ago, before things had got cold. He might as well have it.

  Georgia was a careful wrapper who sought perfection in her corners and evenness in the length of flap. She made bows from curling ribbons, never tiring of the fun of running the scissor blade along the ribbon and watching it contract into tight ringlets. It took her thirty minutes to wrap the gifts. When she went back downstairs Matt hadn’t moved but was now watching Coronation Street.

  “Can I sit with you?” she asked, in a small voice.

  “Of course.” He finally looked away from the screen.

  She sat close to him, pressing her thigh against his, waiting for a sign that he wouldn’t recoil if she touched him. There was an awkward pause before he wrapped his arm around her and she nestled into his shoulder.

  “You’re going to be thirty-three tomorrow.”

  “I know.” He wondered how old Dan Goldstein was. “Heading towards middle age.”

  “Experienced,” she corrected him and rubbed her face into his shoulder. Not that she could see but he smiled at her.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been a shit lately.” He softly kissed the top of her hair.

  “I wish you’d talk to me. If I don’t know what’s wrong I can’t stop doing it or help put it right.” His sweatshirt muffled her voice.

  “It’s not your fault – I’m not very good at talking about how I feel.”

  “But I’m your wife. If you can’t talk to me, who can you talk to?”

  Billy Collins, he thought, but didn’t say it out loud. Georgia had actively disliked Billy from the moment she set eyes on him. It wasn’t purely because he insisted on calling her ‘Georgie’ but it didn’t help.

  “It isn’t you. It’s me.”

  She raised her head and he was surprised to see tears.

  “That’s got to be the worst line ever. It’s what you say to people when you want to dump them.”

  “I don’t want to dump you.” He wiped away the first tear to fall down her cheek. “I love you.”

  “And I love you too. So why are we both miserable?”

  He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t voice that he knew she’d leave him for Dan Goldstein or that he believed Dan Goldstein would be a better match for her than he was. Saying it out loud would make it more likely to happen.

  “Never seeing you doesn’t help,” he said, feeling on safer territory.

  “I thought you wanted me out of the way.”

  “As if.” He pulled her closer to him. “I want us to seriously think about shutting Blokebusters down. It’s all because of the business. If we were shot of it everything would be great again – you and me against the world. I’m certain.”

  “We can’t just shut it. You’d be out of work again, we’d be worried about the house; Fiona doesn’t want to stop. It’s business. You can’t make business decisions with your heart. It’s stupid.”

  Matt had always happily hidden behind Georgia’s ambition. It had shielded him. Now he felt it like a sledgehammer to the head.

  At 3 am, Georgia woke with a start. She’d forgotten to book a table for Matt’s birthday meal. She’d have to do it first thing Saturday morning. She turned onto her side to look at Matt. His hair had flopped over his eyes so she pushed it back.

  “Mildewed parsnips,” he groaned.

  *

  Georgia collected the post from the doormat the next morning. She sorted through it to pick out Matt’s cards. One from Fiona, one from her parents and on
e from Nancy and Alan. It saddened her that he had no family to send him a card. Birthdays and Christmas always highlighted how unanchored he was in the world.

  “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Ma-att, happy birthday to you,” she sung as she put his cards in front of him, her own on top. He smiled as she planted a kiss on his cheek.

  “Thanks.” He opened her card first. She always tried to find a suitably soppy one. Matt was pretty romantic for a man: he didn’t want fart gags or insults; he wanted messages of love. Her card was captioned, ‘Happy birthday to my marvellous husband’ and she’d underlined some of the words in the poem inside. It was a joke between them; she’d underline anything particularly saccharine, this time it was, ‘strong but gentle’, ‘my heart’s only desire’, and ‘throb’, which she’d thought a somewhat saucy word for a cheesy card. But it was referring to hearts so she excused it. He read it all, as he always did.

  “It’s lovely. Thanks.” He stood it on the kitchen worktop. “Are we eating out tonight?”

  “Of course. But I’m not telling you where – not yet.”

  As soon as he went outside to check if the frost had damaged any of his vegetables, she dashed for the local phone book and called around to make a booking. There weren’t that many restaurants, the curse of living in a small town. She couldn’t get a booking anywhere. Two were closed for private functions; the other two were fully booked. She begged and pleaded without success. One took her details and said they’d call if anything changed; they usually had some cancellations. It wasn’t ideal but she had no choice. All afternoon she prayed for the phone to ring. It didn’t.

  Watching Matt change into the smartest trousers he owned, his beige chinos, she knew she had to confess.

  *

  They sat in Kentucky Fried Chicken amid boisterous teenagers and grim-faced fathers with Saturday access to their children. The restaurant was a five-minute walk from their house. It wasn’t far in distance but it took time to cross the busy main road. If the wind blew in the right direction the smell wafted in through their windows. Georgia watched Matt tuck into a piece of chicken, the grease smearing on his cheeks. He hadn’t made a single reproachful comment.