No-One Ever Has Sex on a Tuesday (18 page)

‘Lucky!’ he exclaimed with a laugh. ‘I don’t think she would describe our situation as lucky. Having a partner who can support you whilst you care for the family, that’s lucky. Even having a partner who when he offers to take care of the baby can do that without screwing it up . . . that’s lucky. If Katy knew I was here, that I couldn’t even take care of my own daughter for five minutes without needing help . . . well, she’d think I was such a loser.’

‘We’ll soon get you up to speed,’ said Alison. ‘Just see how Millie gets on with the routine I’ve set out on the spreadsheet. Hopefully you’ll soon start to see a difference. Then perhaps we should just do a bit more on weaning next time, then you’re good to go. Katy need never know.’

‘Mmmm,’ said Ben. This situation wasn’t ideal, but boy did he need it just to get him on the right track.

‘You didn’t tell Matthew, did you?’ he asked.

‘Of course not,’ she lied.

‘Thank you,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It’s just, well—’

‘No need to explain,’ she interrupted. ‘I understand perfectly.’

‘Good,’ Ben nodded, thinking he might just get away with this. Make Katy think he was handling the baby caring thing brilliantly, make her proud, even. He’d just get himself to the point where he knew what he was doing then extract himself from the situation. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Eighteen

‘Hiya,’ shouted Matthew as he entered the house that evening, trying to sound as breezy as possible. As he’d driven home through the dark, rain-soaked streets of Leeds he could sense himself feeling more and more on edge as his windscreen wipers thumped the sides of his windscreen. Usually it was the hideous amount of traffic that irritated the hell out of him at this time of night, but for once the endless lines of moving headlights were way down his list of immediate concerns. All he could think about was whether Alison and Ben had got together that morning and what might be the fallout from the high-stakes encounter. He’d been attempting some kind of amateur analysis of Ben’s character: his motivation for implementing such a stupid meeting, how he would handle it, how Alison would handle it. Would he walk through the door to a state of carnage in his marriage because Ben had used the opportunity to wreak his revenge on Matthew for sleeping with his girlfriend?

He took his shoes off in the hall, half expecting to see a line of suitcases heralding the departure of his family from his life. The hallway was as spotless as always, his slippers waiting for him exactly where he’d put them that morning, as regularly instructed by Alison.

There had been no answer when he’d shouted his greeting. Perhaps she was already gone, a
Dear Matthew (you bastard)
, letter waiting for him on the mantelpiece. He peered round the door of the living room. No stiff white envelope obscured the newborn baby photographs of Rebecca and George displayed above the fireplace.

He heard movement in the kitchen, a chair scraping. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open tentatively, then stepped in.

‘Oh, I’m glad it’s you,’ boomed a strange voice followed by a cackle. ‘I was all poised here ready with the iron in case you were a burglar.’ Matthew stared at the total stranger standing behind an ironing board in his kitchen accusing him of attempted burglary. Alison seemed to be hosting all manner of strange people in the house whilst he was at work. The woman cackled again then disappeared as she grappled with an enormous duvet cover, her waistline billowing almost as much as the mass of material. ‘My Jack came up behind me once when I was ironing,’ she continued when she reappeared.
‘Frightened the living daylights out of me. I spun round and clocked him right on the side of his head. Took weeks for the iron mark to disappear. He never spooked me whilst I was ironing again,’ she said, shaking with laughter.

‘You’re home early,’ declared Alison, bustling in behind him and putting a large wash basket of ironing on the kitchen table. ‘Ivy, this is my husband Matthew.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Good job I recognised him. He was about to meet the hotplate, weren’t you, Matthew?’

‘Er, yes,’ said Matthew, ‘although I’m very sorry, but who are you exactly?’

‘Oh Matthew,’ huffed Alison. ‘Ivy does our ironing every Wednesday. You know she does.’

Matthew felt slightly ashamed to realise that every day he took a clean, beautifully ironed work shirt out of the built-in wardrobe and never really gave a second thought to how it had got there.

‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ivy.’

‘Pleasure’s all mine,’ said Ivy. ‘Your photographs don’t do you justice,’ she added with a wink.

Alison and Matthew exchanged looks. Alison gave a barely perceptible shake of the head then left the room without further comment, clearly on a tight schedule.

He looked over at Ivy, who was momentarily hidden behind a tablecloth. He needed to follow Alison but somehow it didn’t feel right, just walking out of the room on someone you’d just met. That would be rude, whether it was the hired help or not. He at least had to make some sort of conversation. Acknowledge that he didn’t just see her as someone they paid to do their dirty work. She had intimate knowledge of his work shirts. She knew that he was prone to sweating, which turned the underarms a bit yellow. This lady had to iron over his sweaty armpits. He felt terrible. She knew all that about him and he couldn’t even be bothered to make polite conversation. No, he had to exchange pleasantries and then he would go and ask Alison about her day.

‘So,’ said Matthew, rapidly wondering what you talked about to the person who ironed your sweaty armpits. ‘You been ironing a long time, have you, Ivy?’

She glanced up at the kitchen clock.

‘Only about three quarters of an hour, love. Another good hour piled up here.’

‘Right. Actually, I meant have you ironed for a long time as, you know, part of your career?’

Ivy threw her head back and roared.

‘Oh my days,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘You are brilliant,’ she continued, waving a finger at him. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve never done anything as part of a career. Nothing. And if I had, it certainly wouldn’t have been ironing.’

‘Yeah, I see what you’re saying,’ said Matthew. ‘But you enjoy it, yeah, the ironing?’

Ivy had stopped laughing now and was staring at him with a look of amazement.

‘No,’ she said flatly and bent her head to concentrate on ironing a decorative frill on the tablecloth.

The ironing lady had dismissed him in his own home. She would prefer him to leave the kitchen and let her do the ironing rather than attempt any more of his ridiculous small talk.

‘So nice to meet you,’ he said, stepping backwards and knocking into a chair. ‘Must go and er . . . speak to Alison about something.’ He was out the door and back in the hallway again, breathing heavily. He could hear the whimsical chime of baby toy music floating from above his head and deduced that his family must be upstairs. He took another deep breath and went up, pushing open the door to the twins’ bedroom very carefully, just in case they were sleeping.

They were both lying on changing mats, nappies off and vests akimbo, having a right good kick as though they were in training for the next World Cup. Meanwhile Alison marched between a basket and a chest of drawers, carefully laying colour-coordinated and beautifully ironed Babygros and vests
to rest. Matthew sank to his knees and stroked both their bellies, marvelling for the umpteenth time at how soft and smooth their skin was.

‘George’s temperature was fine when he woke up this morning,’ Alison announced, not breaking her stride.

‘Good, that’s a relief.’ Matthew glanced up and tried to read her face. It looked the same as it always did, quietly determined, with an air of
don’t mess with me, I’m concentrating on caring for my children
.

‘So you had a normal day then?’ he ventured.

‘Pretty much,’ she replied, holding up a white Babygro that still held a faint stain at the nappy end. She did an about-turn and strode into the en-suite at the other side of the room, re-emerging seconds later without the rejected Babygro.

‘See anyone?’ he asked with what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug.

‘Well, half the class didn’t turn up to baby massage this afternoon. I mean, who are these people? How are they ever going to get the benefit of these classes if they don’t bother attending?’

‘Mmmm,’ said Matthew. Perhaps Ben hadn’t come round, he thought. She’d have mentioned it by now, surely. He wanted to ask, but the thought made his throat clench up.

‘Oh, and Ben came round this morning,’ she said, putting sugary pink cardigans on mini coat hangers. ‘Remember, I told you last night he was coming round to pick my brains.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Matthew said nonchalantly. Remember! He’d thought of nothing else since. ‘So how was he?’

Alison paused mid-stride to the basket, appearing to consider his question deeply. Matthew stopped breathing.

‘Good,’ she nodded eventually and carried on. ‘It was actually really nice to see him.’ She didn’t elaborate, just continued her march across the room in front of his eyes, making him feel slightly queasy.

He had so many questions.
Are you seeing him again? What does the baby look like? Did he say how Katy was? Did he tell you that I used to be her boyfriend? Did he tell you that I slept with her at the school reunion? Did you ask him what on earth he’s doing coming to our house knowing all that?
But she’d said it was nice to see him. That was a good sign. He should hold on to
that. It couldn’t possibly be nice to see anyone who came with tidings that your husband had been unfaithful.

‘So he’s well, is he?’ he pressed.

‘Yeah.’ Alison stopped again to think about it. ‘He was really sweet, actually. Very grateful and appreciative. I honestly have no idea how Katy could have just walked out like that.’

‘She hasn’t walked out completely, has she?’ Matthew gasped.

‘Well, no,’ said Alison. ‘But from what I understand, she’s gone back to work leaving Ben to figure it all out for himself.’

‘Oh, I doubt she’s been as harsh as that,’ said Matthew. ‘Doesn’t sound like Katy. She probably has told him what to do but he didn’t take it in. You know what he’s like. He’s such a joker he probably didn’t even listen to her.’

Alison halted in mid-stride yet again and turned to look at Matthew.

‘I honestly don’t think Katy had a clue how to look after a baby from what I can see. Millie has no routine whatsoever. Ben told me that most nights they don’t get her settled until eight-thirty. Can you imagine? Between you and me, I think Katy was glad to go back to work.’

‘I doubt that’s true,’ Matthew protested.

Alison shrugged.

‘She always struck me as being a bit in denial about being pregnant. She never really listened at the antenatal classes, did she? In fact, I always assumed that she didn’t plan to get pregnant, that it was a mistake, especially as they aren’t married and there’s such an age gap.’ Alison stopped as though she expected Matthew to respond. He looked away, staring down at George’s foot.

‘Who knows?’ he shrugged, not looking at her.

‘I just know that if it were me there is no way I could leave that gorgeous baby and go to work,’ Alison went on.

‘The baby’s okay, is she?’ Matthew found himself asking. ‘I mean, she looks okay and everything?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Alison, smirking. ‘She looks just like Ben, actually.’

‘What?’ said Matthew, jerking his head up. ‘How?’

‘Bright ginger hair, bless her. There must be some very strong ginger genes running through Ben’s family.’

Matthew had to look away from Alison for fear he was openly gaping. Millie was ginger! A surprise fact that couldn’t be ignored. Surely this proved that Ben was indeed the father – his own family were bestowed with boring mousy brown hair, without a hint of fiery red anywhere. He wanted to go and lie down in a darkened room and absorb this piece of information, which could finally allow him to close the book on his ill-fated reunion with Katy. The last chapter had been missing, the one that revealed who the father of Katy’s child was. Now he had evidence, which proved surely beyond reasonable doubt that it wasn’t him. A weight was released. He literally felt like he was floating and had no idea what Alison had just said to him.

‘Sorry? What did you say?’ he asked.

‘Just that ginger can be very striking on girls as they get older,’ said Alison. ‘If she’s lucky it’ll go that beautiful deep red and then she’ll be thanking her dad for her hair colour.’

‘Mmmm.’ Matthew needed to get out of the room and gather himself. He grinned down at George and Rebecca and hauled himself up. He felt light-headed – not a feeling he’d expected to come home to today. ‘Mind if I take a shower?’ he said. ‘Then tell me what I can do to help with these two.’

‘Nothing,’ said Alison instantly. ‘I’m about to feed them.’

‘Right. Are you sure? You could put your feet up for a bit and let me take over after that.’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ huffed Alison. ‘I do know what I’m doing, you know.’

‘I was only asking,’ said Matthew defensively. ‘I’ll just go for a shower then.’

‘No problem,’ Alison replied tersely. ‘Take your time.’

They sat opposite each other at half past seven as they did every night, chewing on jacket potatoes and whatever Alison had put in the slow cooker that morning.

‘I think this is the best lamb you’ve ever done,’ Matthew remarked.

‘It’s leftovers from last week out of the freezer,’ Alison answered, without looking up.

‘Well, freezing must bring out more of the flavour, perhaps.’

Alison didn’t reply, just stared back at him and raised her eyebrows.

Matthew coughed. He felt nervous, which was ridiculous. It was as if he was about to ask her out on a first date again. Perhaps he was scared, because at the moment he didn’t trust his mouth to come up with anything sensible. It seemed as though every single suggestion he’d made to Alison about anything in the last few weeks was likely to end in out-and-out warfare. Inviting her out for dinner could spark a cold front until at least next year.