issue. She'd had no expectations that he would turn out to be the love of her life and so she'd put no pressure on him to prove that he was. By the time he asked her to marry him, six months later, she was hooked. Hannah, he'd said, understood and indeed was delighted for him.
It was only after he'd moved his stuff into her two-bedroom flat in Muswell Hill and the wedding plans were well under way that she'd realized that this was a bit of an exaggeration. In fact, it was an out-and-out lie. Hannah was not delighted for him, and she didn't understand. Indeed, when Sophie had opened her front door one day and faced a hysterical, abuse-hurling, middle-aged woman, she'd realized that Hannah hadn't even known until a few days ago, when Matthew had walked out. She had tried to persuade Hannah to at least come inside and talk, but understandably, Hannah preferred to stand on the front doorstep, calling her a whore and a slut in front of all the neighbors. Matthew conveniently was out at the time, playing golf with a friend, oblivious to the havoc he had caused.
For some reason—Sophie could no longer remember why—she had forgiven him. It had taken a while, but he'd somehow proved he was serious by filing for divorce and throwing himself into his new life, in that way that Matthew had of making whatever he was doing at the time seem like the most exciting thing in the world. The wedding had had to be postponed of course, until he was officially a free man, but when it happened it was moving and beautiful and everything she'd ever dreamed of. She'd forced herself to forget all about his inability to be honest and Hannah's near breakdown on her doorstep. She'd thought she'd succeeded.
Now she was the one watching him walk away.
* * *
Matthew wouldn't tell her exactly how old Helen was. When she asked, as all women would, "Is she younger than me?", he'd blustered and wouldn't give her a straight answer. In fact, the only details she'd managed to wring out of him were these:
Her name was Helen.
He'd met her through work.
She had a flat in London.
She wasn't married.
They'd never had sex in Matthew and Sophie's house (for some reason, this had seemed of prime importance to her).
She was younger than Sophie—the blustering had given that away.
He'd been seeing her for "a while," although, when pressed, he wouldn't elaborate on exactly what "a while" meant.
* * *
Matthew and Sophie's courtship had been a whirlwind affair. She was the accountant in the office where he was then working—clearly Matthew could only look in a ten-meter radius when looking for a mistress. Six months of clandestine meetings in the conference room, then a proposal. Looking back, she could see now that this was his midlife crisis. His only child had left home, he was left alone with his wife to face up to getting older, just the two of them for probably another forty years, and he panicked.
Sophie had never believed in karma or fate. She was far too sensible to buy into anything so New Age. But even she had to admit that there was a certain poetic justice in what had just happened to her. She was paying for what she did to Hannah. She wondered what Hannah would think when she heard, whether all these years later it'd still feel like a small victory. Whether she, herself, would have stopped caring by the time Matthew—inevitably—did the same thing to Helen.
8
E VERY DAY HELEN WAS DISCOVERING things about Matthew she never knew before, and most of them weren't good.
He dyed his hair. Truthfully, she'd worked this out already, but seeing the bottle of Just For Men in the bathroom cabinet meant he had given up all pretense, at least to her.
He wore slippers. Not flip-flops, not an old pair of moccasins. Slippers. With a fur lining.
He made a roaring noise when he yawned. How had she never known this before? Had he never yawned in front of her in over four years or was he just keeping a lid on the sound, knowing how mind-numbingly irritating
It was only after he'd moved his stuff into her two-bedroom flat in Muswell Hill and the wedding plans were well under way that she'd realized that this was a bit of an exaggeration. In fact, it was an out-and-out lie. Hannah was not delighted for him, and she didn't understand. Indeed, when Sophie had opened her front door one day and faced a hysterical, abuse-hurling, middle-aged woman, she'd realized that Hannah hadn't even known until a few days ago, when Matthew had walked out. She had tried to persuade Hannah to at least come inside and talk, but understandably, Hannah preferred to stand on the front doorstep, calling her a whore and a slut in front of all the neighbors. Matthew conveniently was out at the time, playing golf with a friend, oblivious to the havoc he had caused.
For some reason—Sophie could no longer remember why—she had forgiven him. It had taken a while, but he'd somehow proved he was serious by filing for divorce and throwing himself into his new life, in that way that Matthew had of making whatever he was doing at the time seem like the most exciting thing in the world. The wedding had had to be postponed of course, until he was officially a free man, but when it happened it was moving and beautiful and everything she'd ever dreamed of. She'd forced herself to forget all about his inability to be honest and Hannah's near breakdown on her doorstep. She'd thought she'd succeeded.
Now she was the one watching him walk away.
* * *
Matthew wouldn't tell her exactly how old Helen was. When she asked, as all women would, "Is she younger than me?", he'd blustered and wouldn't give her a straight answer. In fact, the only details she'd managed to wring out of him were these:
Her name was Helen.
He'd met her through work.
She had a flat in London.
She wasn't married.
They'd never had sex in Matthew and Sophie's house (for some reason, this had seemed of prime importance to her).
She was younger than Sophie—the blustering had given that away.
He'd been seeing her for "a while," although, when pressed, he wouldn't elaborate on exactly what "a while" meant.
* * *
Matthew and Sophie's courtship had been a whirlwind affair. She was the accountant in the office where he was then working—clearly Matthew could only look in a ten-meter radius when looking for a mistress. Six months of clandestine meetings in the conference room, then a proposal. Looking back, she could see now that this was his midlife crisis. His only child had left home, he was left alone with his wife to face up to getting older, just the two of them for probably another forty years, and he panicked.
Sophie had never believed in karma or fate. She was far too sensible to buy into anything so New Age. But even she had to admit that there was a certain poetic justice in what had just happened to her. She was paying for what she did to Hannah. She wondered what Hannah would think when she heard, whether all these years later it'd still feel like a small victory. Whether she, herself, would have stopped caring by the time Matthew—inevitably—did the same thing to Helen.
8
E VERY DAY HELEN WAS DISCOVERING things about Matthew she never knew before, and most of them weren't good.
He dyed his hair. Truthfully, she'd worked this out already, but seeing the bottle of Just For Men in the bathroom cabinet meant he had given up all pretense, at least to her.
He wore slippers. Not flip-flops, not an old pair of moccasins. Slippers. With a fur lining.
He made a roaring noise when he yawned. How had she never known this before? Had he never yawned in front of her in over four years or was he just keeping a lid on the sound, knowing how mind-numbingly irritating
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