Read Online Getting Rid of Matthew by Jane Fallon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Fallon
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no, it's fine, not if you don't want it on." Oh, fuck, she thought, here we go. "You first," "No you," "No you," "No really you," for the next forty years.
"You're right," he said. "What's wrong with putting the TV on? It's just, Sophie and I never liked the kids watching…" He trailed off, as if he'd said too much, then got up and switched on the television in the corner. They finished their meal in front of Emmerdale, in silence. Helen hadn't had the heart to say, "Switch channels, there'll be something better on the other side."
Over the next couple of days Helen realized that, however much she was secretly starting to feel uneasy, Matthew was simply going to refuse to admit that he'd made the wrong decision. The only way for him to cope with the momentousness of what he'd done, not to mention the guilt, was for him to believe that it had all been for the sake of a great love he was powerless to ignore.
So, when she served up undercooked pink chicken with burned fries for dinner, he smiled and said, "I'm going to have to teach you to cook," like she was eight years old.
When she told him she quite fancied the eighteen-year-old boy who served in the deli down the road, he laughed so much she was afraid she'd need to resuscitate him.
When she shaved her legs in the bath and left the tiny hairs clinging around the rim, she caught him whistling to himself as he cleaned it out.
And the more he worked to show how much he loved her, the more she found herself perversely trying to put him off. Maybe it was a test—like an adolescent pushing the boundaries; maybe she was subconsciously trying to make herself as unattractive as possible to test the limits of his devotion. Or maybe, she thought, she was trying to push him away because she didn't want him anymore. It was a thought too harsh to indulge. She thought of herself as enough of a bitch already; this would push her over the edge, even in her own eyes—lure a man away from his loving family and then kick him back out again, as if the competition was all and the prize irrelevant. You love me the most, I win, now fuck off.
So she tried to play nice, but the stubborn child in her wasn't having any of it.
She stopped shaving her armpits altogether. And her bikini line.
She told him she'd once caught chlamydia from a man whose name she never got around to asking.
She told him she had a mustache she had to have waxed off every six weeks.
She told him she didn't feel like sex and he just said "Fine."
She picked holes in the way he dressed.
She stopped brushing her teeth.
And combing her hair.
And plucking the stray hag-whisker that grew out of her chin.
She bought a packet of incontinence pads for women and left them lying about in the bathroom.
And all the time, Matthew just kept telling her that he loved her and said, "Isn't it great that we're finally together" and "This is it now, you and me, forever," and other such Mills and Boon classics.
9
I T WAS FRIDAY MORNING and Helen was typing up a press release for Laura and trying to stop herself from altering the occasional word where she thought things could be improved. It concerned the rumors that ex– Northampton Park soap opera "babe" (just been sacked, in dire need of some column inches) Jennifer Spearman had just gotten engaged to reality show singer Paulo (gay, terrified of losing his fan base of eleven-year-old girls). There had, of course, been no rumors. This release, which denied the relationship vehemently, along with a few well-placed "unauthorized" pictures of the couple seemingly caught unawares, was designed to ensure there soon would be.
As a personal assistant, Helen didn't qualify for an office of her own; instead she shared a large open-plan space with two other P.A.s, black-haired, thin-lipped Jenny, and Jamie, who was harmless enough if a bit too easily influenced. It was the modern day equivalent of the secretaries' typing pool, although, of course, no one was called a secretary anymore,
"You're right," he said. "What's wrong with putting the TV on? It's just, Sophie and I never liked the kids watching…" He trailed off, as if he'd said too much, then got up and switched on the television in the corner. They finished their meal in front of Emmerdale, in silence. Helen hadn't had the heart to say, "Switch channels, there'll be something better on the other side."
Over the next couple of days Helen realized that, however much she was secretly starting to feel uneasy, Matthew was simply going to refuse to admit that he'd made the wrong decision. The only way for him to cope with the momentousness of what he'd done, not to mention the guilt, was for him to believe that it had all been for the sake of a great love he was powerless to ignore.
So, when she served up undercooked pink chicken with burned fries for dinner, he smiled and said, "I'm going to have to teach you to cook," like she was eight years old.
When she told him she quite fancied the eighteen-year-old boy who served in the deli down the road, he laughed so much she was afraid she'd need to resuscitate him.
When she shaved her legs in the bath and left the tiny hairs clinging around the rim, she caught him whistling to himself as he cleaned it out.
And the more he worked to show how much he loved her, the more she found herself perversely trying to put him off. Maybe it was a test—like an adolescent pushing the boundaries; maybe she was subconsciously trying to make herself as unattractive as possible to test the limits of his devotion. Or maybe, she thought, she was trying to push him away because she didn't want him anymore. It was a thought too harsh to indulge. She thought of herself as enough of a bitch already; this would push her over the edge, even in her own eyes—lure a man away from his loving family and then kick him back out again, as if the competition was all and the prize irrelevant. You love me the most, I win, now fuck off.
So she tried to play nice, but the stubborn child in her wasn't having any of it.
She stopped shaving her armpits altogether. And her bikini line.
She told him she'd once caught chlamydia from a man whose name she never got around to asking.
She told him she had a mustache she had to have waxed off every six weeks.
She told him she didn't feel like sex and he just said "Fine."
She picked holes in the way he dressed.
She stopped brushing her teeth.
And combing her hair.
And plucking the stray hag-whisker that grew out of her chin.
She bought a packet of incontinence pads for women and left them lying about in the bathroom.
And all the time, Matthew just kept telling her that he loved her and said, "Isn't it great that we're finally together" and "This is it now, you and me, forever," and other such Mills and Boon classics.
9
I T WAS FRIDAY MORNING and Helen was typing up a press release for Laura and trying to stop herself from altering the occasional word where she thought things could be improved. It concerned the rumors that ex– Northampton Park soap opera "babe" (just been sacked, in dire need of some column inches) Jennifer Spearman had just gotten engaged to reality show singer Paulo (gay, terrified of losing his fan base of eleven-year-old girls). There had, of course, been no rumors. This release, which denied the relationship vehemently, along with a few well-placed "unauthorized" pictures of the couple seemingly caught unawares, was designed to ensure there soon would be.
As a personal assistant, Helen didn't qualify for an office of her own; instead she shared a large open-plan space with two other P.A.s, black-haired, thin-lipped Jenny, and Jamie, who was harmless enough if a bit too easily influenced. It was the modern day equivalent of the secretaries' typing pool, although, of course, no one was called a secretary anymore,
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