Chapter 24 We Make a Good Team
We Make a Good Team
Matt is wearing a dark Aran wool sweater and cobalt-blue shorts when I arrive ten minutes later than we discussed, due to the weather turning and me spending a good five minutes searching for an umbrella and hoping Blue would return before the downpour escalated.
If he returns before I do, he’ll shelter under the patio furniture until I get back, like he used to at the old house.
I select a wine at the bar and join Matt.
He stands as I approach, and I’m taken aback to see the pram is parked up behind him, silence coming from within it. He gives me a smile that seems to travel straight into me, making my chest tight and warm.
“Sorry,” he says. “Turns out you can’t leave them at home alone until they’re over thirteen.”
I blush. “No, I’m sorry I’m late,” I counter.
“Thought you were going to ghost-ship me,” he says, pulling out a chair for me by stretching right over the table, in an unnecessarily complex but considerate maneuver. I note he is not wearing a ring, just like in the Instagram photo. I shrug off my hastily grabbed jacket and sit.
“Ghost-ship?” I ask.
“When the person who arranged the event doesn’t turn up themselves,” he explains as if this were a term everyone used. It could be; it’s been a while.
“God, I think I actually do that a lot,” I admit. “I always have great ambitions, then I get tired around seven.”
“Yep, we’re that age.” He gives a weary laugh, and I am reminded of how tired he must actually be, with an infant. But where does it live?
“How’s it going with…?” I start and stutter to a halt.
“Isla?” he asks, pointing back at the pram. “Good. Well, I say good. She’s only been asleep for twenty minutes, so let’s see….”
“And your wife?” I ask, as nonchalantly as is humanly possible.
Matt looks confused by the question. “My…what?”
“Your…partner?”
“I don’t have a partner.” He looks confused.
“Sorry—I meant Isla’s mother,” I correct carefully, though at this point maybe he is being a little obtuse.
He looks completely horrified. “Oh my God. You think I’m her—? Isla isn’t my baby. I’m not a…dad. Wow, it hadn’t occurred to me that people would actually think I was the parent.”
Isla stirs in her bassinet and groans. Matt winces and whips a finger up to his mouth, adjusting his volume accordingly.
“Sorry, no, I’m not anyone’s dad. Isla is my sister’s baby.
I don’t even have a girlfriend—that sounds weird.
I mean I’m between girlfriends right now.
Bad breakup. I am definitely not in a ‘relationship space,’ let alone a ‘dad space,’ right now.
” He shakes his head, seemingly baffled at how his life could have ended up this way.
My relief is tectonic. He is actively helping a new mother.
“Oh. I see,” I manage, as normally as I can.
“Yeah. My sister, Grace, is not having a great time,” he says, almost to himself. “Her husband’s already gone back to work; she’s drowning in new parenthood. Her whole life has changed, you know, like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Before and after.”
“Postnatal depression?” I offer.
He considers a moment before answering. “I would have said that before, but having witnessed her actual life now, I’d say she’s reacting pretty appropriately to the raw facts of her situation, to be honest. I mean, anyone would feel shit, given what she’s doing 24/7.
It looks awful. I mean, Isla’s great, of course, what a cutie, but Grace used to have a life and now it’s nothing but…
childcare. Plus, Grace was a hundred percent certain, we all were, that her partner was going to be in it fifty-fifty.
But he does nothing. He’s carrying on as before, no strike that, he’s pulled right back and does less.
She does everything. I go round and she’s always doing laundry, in spite of her always wearing the same thing.
I’ve never seen her do this much laundry in our entire lives, and it’s not just baby clothes she’s washing.
She’s falling apart. She’s like a rundown servant, without pay, or shift changes.
” Matt pulls up short. “Sorry, I have no idea why I’m telling you all this. Sorry.”
“You say ‘sorry’ a lot,” I state.
He laughs. “Do I? Must be the guilt talking. Just glad it’s not me, to be honest. I mean, my life would not fare well with babies in it.”
“No, it would not,” I agree, his perfect white living room coming to mind.
Immediately, I realize my error. I’m not supposed to know anything about his life. And that now sounds like an insult. He is frowning at me.
“I mean, I feel the same about my life, right? No babies for me,” I clarify.
His frown eases into a smile. “Ah, okay. I thought I might be throwing out terrible-parent vibes.”
“No, actually,” I reassure him, “aside from the bringing a baby to a bar, I think you’ve been doing great.”
He laughs.
“Ha, hilarious. You know it’s still only seven p.m., right?
And it’s hardly Berghain in here. Anyway, regardless of good uncle-ing or no, I’m very much hanging on by a thread.
I take Isla on and off a day or two a week,” he says, sipping his wine, “so that my sister can sleep, wash, feel like a human person. God, it sounds like I’m equating having a baby to being held hostage…
Sorry—I’m really tired,” he says, rubbing his face. “I don’t sleep when she stays over.”
“The baby stays over with you?” I ask, a little too surprised. “She doesn’t live nearby and pick her up, then? Your sister?”
He stares at me.
“Sorry, that sounded—” I begin, but he waves away the apology.
“She’s in Walthamstow. Bit of a trek at night, and she deserves a sleep. We’re all just making it up as we go along, right? Grace has started seeing a therapist. I don’t think that’s necessary. I think she just needs some more sleep and a divorce. But hey, I’m no professional.”
“Well, I think you’re both doing a great job. I mean, bloody hell, I don’t know many uncles who would put in the hours you are.”
He frowns. “Someone has to. It seems like a pretty common, pretty unbalanced thing. Now I see it firsthand, it all falling on the woman. And now that woman is my sister. It’s so incredible to me that we don’t know this happens until it happens to us, isn’t it?
” He perks up suddenly. “Good God, I’m being utterly depressing.
Let’s get some snacks,” he says, standing with a smile.
I watch him head off to the counter, the twenty-year-old behind the till brightening as he talks to her, her eyes flickering across his perfect features, his smile, his warm brown eyes, as she talks him through the menu card.
Watching the female bartender interact with him, I know he could pretty much have anyone. But he’s having wine with me.
My postdivorce low self-esteem yawns. He’s basically admitted he can’t help but rescue women in need. Is that a male-savior complex, is he a misogynist, or is that admirable? I’ve been out of the loop for way too long.
I watch his back as he jokes with the bartender, her eyes sparkling with a smile. The thought of him near me, touching me, is suddenly almost too much to bear. I feel my cheeks flush.
My thoughts return to Blue, out there somewhere. The way the black eye of the lens swings around his neck.
Matt returns with two small dishes: one of olives and one of cut cheese cubes in oil, with curls of lemon zest scattered on top and places them on the table. “The server’s recommendation: cicchetti. Italian tapas,” he says with confidence as he sits down.
He gives me an inquiring look. “So, why has this meeting been called?”
I have almost forgotten why I texted him. I weigh up how much to disclose.
“I wanted to ask…It’s a bit weird, I know, but the couple at Number Fifteen? Do you know anything about them?”
Matt scrunches up his face. “Er, Number Fifteen? Remind me?” He pops an olive in his mouth.
“She’s early thirties, slim, brunette, very well dressed, works in the City, I think, quite standoffish,” I say.
“Emily in Devil Wears Prada vibes?” he fires back.
“Oof, good reference.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you know much about her, or them?”
To my surprise, he nods enthusiastically, popping another olive. “Yeah, met them when they moved in, about…” He pauses, trying to remember. “Maybe five years ago now. Wow. I’m old.”
“Did you meet both of them?”
“Yeah, Chris and…Marina?”
“Correct.”
“Yeah, Chris seems nice. I mean they’re both fine. Why are you asking?”
“Weird question, but what does Chris look like?” I ask.
Matt smiles. “Can’t wait to hear the explanation behind this. Er, maybe five-ten. I don’t know. He isn’t as tall as me—I know that.”
It’s my turn to smile now. “He isn’t as tall as you? Is that something you’re very aware of, your comparative height to other men?”
He laughs. “Yeah, I’m a very insecure guy. Fragile masculinity. My understanding of the world is all height-based. Oh, and strength-based, obviously.”
“Of course. What are we benching these days?” I joke.
“Eighty-five kilograms,” he whips back at me, then grins, eyebrows whipping up. “Impressed?”
It’s annoying that I am. I recall Ben making quite a song-and-dance about seventy-five kilograms.
“I’m impressed that you appear to have no conversational filter,” I answer instead.
“But impressed—then my work here is done,” he laughs, leaning back and making a show of eating a chunk of cheese.
I remember what it was I was asking him about. “Chris, at Number Fifteen: now I know he’s not as tall as you but can you tell me what he actually looks like?”
Matt considers. “Dark hair, glasses, sort of intellectual, not in a pretentious way. Reliable-looking, maybe?”
“Ah. Okay, I see. Not blond?”
“Nope—why?”
“Marina and Chris.” I test their names in my mouth. “What’s their surname? Do you know?”
“Carmine,” he answers, without a pause. “I remember because it sounded cool. Well, cooler than Whitby. God, I really am quite competitive, aren’t I?” he notes, with mock surprise.
I laugh because he’s funny. “I’m not sure you’d be this honest if you were.”
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“As a DPhil in anthropology, yes. Yes, it is,” I say.