Read Online Getting Rid of Matthew by Jane Fallon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jane Fallon
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it was?
He laid out his clothes for the next day at work before he went to sleep at night. Helen didn't know why this was so annoying. In fact, it was probably quite sensible, but it just felt so…comfy…like something his wife used to do for him or something they taught him at boarding school. Helen had to resist the urge to rumple them up or to swap them for something different to confuse him. Once he'd picked out his outfit he wore it no matter what, so if he went to bed on a wintry night but woke up in the sunshine, he'd still put on the sweater that was hanging there waiting.
His car had a name. A name. His. Car. Had. A. Name. Helen knew this was probably down to his kids, the kind of cutesy thing that families did, but when, one day, he forgot where he was and said to her, "Let's go in Delia," she stared at him openmouthed for so long that it crossed his mind she might be having a stroke. She finally pulled herself together enough to ask him not to anthropomorphize inanimate objects in front of her ever again. Ever again.
"Sorry, Helly," he'd said, slightly sheepishly.
"And don't call me Helly. I hate it when you call me that."
"I always call you Helly," he'd replied, petulantly.
"Exactly."
It wasn't going unnoticed that Matthew was a little distracted at work. His shirts looked a bit, well, crumpled, for starters. And, at Wednesday's morning catch-up meeting, he'd looked panic-stricken when he'd realized that he had left a client's strategy, which he had drawn up over the Christmas break, on his computer at home.
"I'll ring Sophie and get her to e-mail it over," offered Jenny helpfully.
"NO! No…she's not there. No one's there at the moment. I can remember the key points."
His years of experience meant that he sailed through the meeting with the client, without giving away that he was making it up as he went along, but he knew Jenny had noticed that something was up, and his efforts to overcompensate by being extra nice to her for the rest of the day simply convinced her that she was right.
* * *
That night Helen looked around at the mess that used to be her living room.
"You forgot your laptop?"
She dug around in the nearest box.
"You remembered a…toy car…but you forgot your computer?"
"It's vintage. A collectible."
She rummaged about some more.
"There's hundreds of them in here. Are you eight years old?"
"They're worth a fortune."
"What are you going to do, open a shop? Jesus, Matthew."
He looked hurt and she felt bad, but irritation got the better of her and she turned on her heels and left the room. She had a long bath, and when she came back into the living room Matthew's stuff was tidied away neatly into a corner and he was in the kitchen rustling up something unspeakable-looking in a wok. He waved a spatula at her proudly when he saw her come in, as if to say, look how clever I am.
"It's nearly ready. Chinese, how does that sound?"
"Fantastic."
He had only been there a few days, but Helen was longing to be left on her own with a microwave curry. She wanted to loll about in her pajamas with no makeup on, eating and watching the TV. She wanted to neck back glasses of wine at her own pace, not go through the tortured niceties of "Do you want another glass?", "I don't know, do you?", "Well, I will if you will." Her parents used to waste whole evenings that way. Politeness, that great substitute for passion.
She sat down to eat. The conversation was stilted. What did they ever used to talk about, for fuck's sake? Helen was reduced to making appreciative noises about the (disgusting) food, while Matthew valiantly tried to fill the silence with the kind of talk about work they had always successfully avoided.
Helen had had enough.
"Why don't I put the TV on?"
"While we're eating?" he said, as if she'd just suggested having a dump on the table.
"Just to help us unwind a bit. Something mindless, so we can forget about work. We don't have to."
"No, if you want to, then put it on."
"No,
He laid out his clothes for the next day at work before he went to sleep at night. Helen didn't know why this was so annoying. In fact, it was probably quite sensible, but it just felt so…comfy…like something his wife used to do for him or something they taught him at boarding school. Helen had to resist the urge to rumple them up or to swap them for something different to confuse him. Once he'd picked out his outfit he wore it no matter what, so if he went to bed on a wintry night but woke up in the sunshine, he'd still put on the sweater that was hanging there waiting.
His car had a name. A name. His. Car. Had. A. Name. Helen knew this was probably down to his kids, the kind of cutesy thing that families did, but when, one day, he forgot where he was and said to her, "Let's go in Delia," she stared at him openmouthed for so long that it crossed his mind she might be having a stroke. She finally pulled herself together enough to ask him not to anthropomorphize inanimate objects in front of her ever again. Ever again.
"Sorry, Helly," he'd said, slightly sheepishly.
"And don't call me Helly. I hate it when you call me that."
"I always call you Helly," he'd replied, petulantly.
"Exactly."
It wasn't going unnoticed that Matthew was a little distracted at work. His shirts looked a bit, well, crumpled, for starters. And, at Wednesday's morning catch-up meeting, he'd looked panic-stricken when he'd realized that he had left a client's strategy, which he had drawn up over the Christmas break, on his computer at home.
"I'll ring Sophie and get her to e-mail it over," offered Jenny helpfully.
"NO! No…she's not there. No one's there at the moment. I can remember the key points."
His years of experience meant that he sailed through the meeting with the client, without giving away that he was making it up as he went along, but he knew Jenny had noticed that something was up, and his efforts to overcompensate by being extra nice to her for the rest of the day simply convinced her that she was right.
* * *
That night Helen looked around at the mess that used to be her living room.
"You forgot your laptop?"
She dug around in the nearest box.
"You remembered a…toy car…but you forgot your computer?"
"It's vintage. A collectible."
She rummaged about some more.
"There's hundreds of them in here. Are you eight years old?"
"They're worth a fortune."
"What are you going to do, open a shop? Jesus, Matthew."
He looked hurt and she felt bad, but irritation got the better of her and she turned on her heels and left the room. She had a long bath, and when she came back into the living room Matthew's stuff was tidied away neatly into a corner and he was in the kitchen rustling up something unspeakable-looking in a wok. He waved a spatula at her proudly when he saw her come in, as if to say, look how clever I am.
"It's nearly ready. Chinese, how does that sound?"
"Fantastic."
He had only been there a few days, but Helen was longing to be left on her own with a microwave curry. She wanted to loll about in her pajamas with no makeup on, eating and watching the TV. She wanted to neck back glasses of wine at her own pace, not go through the tortured niceties of "Do you want another glass?", "I don't know, do you?", "Well, I will if you will." Her parents used to waste whole evenings that way. Politeness, that great substitute for passion.
She sat down to eat. The conversation was stilted. What did they ever used to talk about, for fuck's sake? Helen was reduced to making appreciative noises about the (disgusting) food, while Matthew valiantly tried to fill the silence with the kind of talk about work they had always successfully avoided.
Helen had had enough.
"Why don't I put the TV on?"
"While we're eating?" he said, as if she'd just suggested having a dump on the table.
"Just to help us unwind a bit. Something mindless, so we can forget about work. We don't have to."
"No, if you want to, then put it on."
"No,
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