‘Oh right,’ I say slowly. Had I forgotten that too? ‘Shall I cook something nice?’
Matthew does his tie up in the mirror. He looks tired, I notice, and his shirt is slightly tighter than it was four weeks ago. He definitely seems more distracted recently. ‘If that’s okay,’ he says gruffly, ‘I’d appreciate it.’
‘Of course.’ I feel more enthused than I have done in days – in weeks. The kitchen is my domain; I’ll prove I’m not as useless as he obviously thinks. ‘I’ll get my Delia out.’
‘I prefer Nigella,’ he says, and he actually smiles. ‘Better tits.’ Then he leans over the bed and kisses my forehead. He smells nice. ‘I need it to go well, Jeanie. Sean’s been a great help recently. I need to say thanks.’
* * *
Before I go shopping I knock on Sylvia Jones’s door.
She doesn’t answer, so I go back home and sit in my little car in the drive. I just sit there, waiting and watching.
About an hour later, just when I am going to give up, just when I am so cold I am getting cramp, Sylvia walks round the corner, her little dog in a matching coat, heading towards the woods.
My hands icy from sitting, my legs bloodless, I run across the road to confront her.
She actually flinches when she sees me.
‘Why did you text Matthew?’ I demand. ‘Why didn’t you talk to me first?’
‘I hope you’re not threatening me.’ She squares her shoulders in her horrid pink Puffa jacket. ‘I thought he deserved to know.’
Oh how blind I’ve been! I think. She’s jealous. Of course! A widow, around Matthew’s age, looking for her ‘own Patrick Swayze’. And then I come along and snaffle him. She’s really annoyed.
We’re all just looking for love.
‘Deserved to know what though?’ I stare at her pretty, saggy face. ‘There was nothing to tell. Why are you meddling in our business?’
‘I’ll call the police’—Sylvia’s voice is shrill—‘if you don’t go away.’
‘Gladly.’ I am shaking with anger. ‘But I’d like you to keep out of my marriage.’
‘I’m not the least bit interested in your marriage,’ she retorts.
‘Did you send him an email too? A very helpful email?’
‘No, I did not,’ she spits. ‘I have better things to do than get involved with your sordid life. Poor man.’
‘Poor man?’
‘First that dreadful Kaye, spending all his money – and then that girl – and now you.’
‘There’s nothing “poor” about Matthew,’ I retort. ‘He’s fine, thanks very much. As long as you stay away.’
Then I go to the high street, frozen and shaken, and buy all the ingredients for dinner, along with some flowers and some candles.
What girl?
At home, I start to make a casserole, but I find it hard to concentrate. On the radio they are talking about a new production of Macbeth in the West End.
What girl?
Something wicked this way comes.
* * *
7.15 p.m.
* * *
Alison and Sean are coming at seven forty-five apparently. I’m running out of time as I finish the food; I still need to get changed myself, and Luke has turned up for the night. Kaye and Scarlett are both ill with some sick bug, so he’s hiding out here.
Frankie and Luke are playing FIFA in the lounge.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Frank looks concerned when he comes to get himself and Luke a drink.
‘Of course,’ I say breezily, but I’m not; I keep forgetting to add things to the sauce and finding them on the side. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘What were you doing earlier? I heard you banging around upstairs this afternoon, didn’t I?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I move the bread. I’m getting quite good at lying.
‘Oh.’ He looks confused. ‘Must have been next door then.’
‘Must have been.’
‘Marlena texted.’ He’s trying to read my face. ‘Said to keep an eye on you for some reason.’
‘Oh she did, did she?’ I try to smile. I wish she’d get back to me about the bloody emails. I wish I didn’t feel so – discombobulated. So seasick, with all this debris floating around.
Frank skulks off when Matthew comes in. They’re still barely talking.
‘Something smells good.’ Matthew opens some red wine to breathe, gets a beer, checks the temperature of the champagne in the fridge. ‘I thought we should use the dining room, as it’s a special occasion.’
We never use it – not since I’ve lived here anyway.
‘Whatever you think.’
‘I’ll get Luke to lay the table,’ Matthew says.
I’m going to ask him about the girl, about Sylvia’s assertion – but Luke comes in, moaning, corralled into making place names. He helps his dad get out the best silver and places the jugs of lemon water, candles, napkins and side plates on the table.
Then he returns to FIFA with Frank, pizza and ice cream.
I look at Matthew, and I think about this afternoon.