DID MATTHEW BARBER CHEAT on Tinley Atkinson with Georgina Dupree?
Mattley Bombshell: Marriage in Trouble
Matthew & Tinley: Inside Their Separate Lives
Heartbreak for Mattley: Why He Cheated.
I stared at my phone’s screen, more like glared. Rage coursed through my veins as I read the Christmas morning entertainment headlines. My thumb hovered over my publicist, Naomi’s name.
“Merry Christmas, Matthew, what can I do for you?” Naomi’s unmistakable New England accent piped through the speaker.
I dragged a hand through my hair. “I’d like to file a lawsuit against Tinsel and Hollywood dot com, Hollywood Razzle, Gossip Rush, and La La Daily.”
She breathed a heavy sigh. “I was afraid this might happen.”
I pinched my brow. “What are you talking about?”
“I was tipped off yesterday by Tish, that sniveling editor at Gossip Rush. I told her I’d talk to you about doing an exclusive interview if she held off on printing the alleged cheating story.”
“Fuck, are you kidding me?” I grumbled.
“No, she wanted to be the first to publish the trash. Tish makes her living off these stories,” Naomi replied, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “I am sorry and my advice is to ignore.”
I dropped to the sofa in the library. “Look, I know that picture of me and Georgina is damning, but I didn’t cheat.”
“Does your wife know that?”
“Yeah, we talked the day after the photo surfaced online.”
That conversation nearly broke her, but I wouldn’t have her dealing with this bullshit on Christmas Day.
“Well, Matthew, there is not much I can do about this and you know as well as I do that this is just part of the job of being famous. Everything in the article asks only questions, it’s merely an opinion piece.”
“An opinion piece that paints me as a no-good cheater and Gossip Rush went as far as to reference Tinley being career driven, choosing that over kids. That topic is so exhausted.”
“What about sharing your story with the world? It could help other couples who’ve lost a child.”
“Absolutely fucking not,” I ground out. “That’s our personal business. Our private hell and I am not going to put my wife through that agony again.”
There was a long silence. I knew that Naomi was only trying to help, and this was her job. The public was fascinated with our relationship. Once news broke that the two of us might be dating, the media gave us one of those couples’ names—Mattley.
We managed to evade the headlines and tabloids for a decent amount of time. It gave us time as a couple to really get to know one another outside the confines of celebrity. During my birthday weekend, Tinley and I were spotted out for a walk in Big Sky. It was all over from there. We were out as couple. Hello fishbowl.
“Why don’t you and Tinley post some Instagram pics today? The two of you opening presents or making cookies together. Make it cute and festive.”
“Why can’t I just have a normal Christmas without worrying about the right Instagram filter that will satisfy troll nation?”
Being a celebrity is one thing, but having your marriage dissected from every possible angle stings. Early in our relationship, Tinley walked the red carpet with me for a movie premiere in Toronto. I kept my hands in my pockets and Tinley had her arm looped with mine. Troll nation decided that we weren’t in love and that I was miserable in our relationship. Well yeah, I was miserable it was fucking cold that November. I didn’t give a second thought to holding her hand. Tinley was smart she’d worn gloves that evening. Then, we figured out people wanted a glimpse of our lives, and even though we were famous, we were just like them.
“It’s not about the filter,” Naomi said. “It’s about sharing a personal and candid moment. Back in the day, celebrities hosted holiday specials to give you a sneak peek into their lives and traditions. Try and think about it in those terms. Besides you two are hopelessly in love, no filter can fake that emotion.”
I ended the call, and tossed my phone onto the bed. Scrubbing my hand over my chin, I walked towards the window. I admired the stunning view as the sunlight reflected off the snow. Across the yard, another stunning view—Tinley in her black and pink running gear. She rounded the edge of the property and then sprinted back to the trail through the woods. My guess was that she was only halfway through her run. I walked downstairs, wondering how I was going to share this latest development with my wife.
As I walked into the kitchen the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar invaded my senses. I glanced at the wall where the chalkboard hung with today’s menu written in perfect cursive. Her recipe cards were neatly arranged by course on top of the counter.
I used to be able to tell Tinley anything. Never hesitating, never questioning or overthinking the words.
I didn’t even hesitate when I proposed to her . . .
Four years ago
“Adjusting the carburetor is a lot like tuning a guitar or any other instrument with strings.”
“Well, I don’t know how to do that either,” she sighed, tapping the flat-head screwdriver to her palm.
I laughed. “I take it that you don’t tune your mother’s piano?”
“No, I have someone who does that for me.”
“Okay, you want to turn the screws equally, smoothly,” I continued. “Until you find that sweet spot.” I demonstrated by turning each screw a quarter-turn and counter clockwise.
She leaned her hip against the fender folding her arms across her chest. Tinley had been hanging with me in my garage all afternoon while I adjusted the carburetor on my mustang. She was hoping to take it for a spin, but the engine was running a little lean which told me I needed to add more fuel to the mixture.
“Adjusting the mixture is like fine art, you need to listen closely. Kinda like how you know how much red and white to add to get that perfect shade of pink.”
“Everybody knows that, Matthew. We learned it in elementary school.” Her voice was light with humor.
I turned the screws a little more. “Ah, listen to that baby purr.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, taking a step forward. “It’s not making that whoosh-ey rattling sound anymore.”
I smiled, and continued the task of replacing the air filter. Lowering the hood, I glanced over at Tinley who had proceeded to wipe off the bench and tidy up the space. Taking the keys out of the ignition, I watched in complete fascination as she cleaned the flat-head screw driver, the pliers, the vise grips, and then she wiped down my tool box. Taking the cloth towel from my pocket, I wiped off my hands and I knew it wasn’t what I’d planned and it wasn’t even romantic or maybe it was in its own way. Nevertheless, this was a moment, this was the moment.
She took the broom off the wall and started to sweep out the garage. The place wasn’t even that dirty, but she took so much pride in the task. It showed me that she loved me. Fixing up cars wasn’t her thing, it was mine, yet here she was just hanging out drinking a beer. Tinley Atkinson, Ivy League educated, TV star, and New York Socialite. She was class and grace, and I was just a country boy at heart who loved fixing up old cars, listening to classic rock, drinking beer, and eating spicy food.
Fuck me.
“Be right back, Tinley,” I said, making a beeline for the backstairs.
“Okay, I’m thinking about making tacos for dinner and I have a feeling tonight is the night that I’ll guess your middle name.”
I kicked my boots off and my hand covered my heart. My heart rate jumped into overdrive. We’d been at this game for two years. I’d guessed hers a while back, but she was determined to guess mine. I darted up the backstairs to my bedroom, and took the painting off the wall to uncover my safe. The painting was an illustration from Tinley’s gallery.
I pulled the box from the safe—an eight carat, oval-cut diamond in a rose gold pavé setting. I designed the engagement ring and wedding band with Holliday’s help. I shoved the ring box into my pocket and then closed and relocked the safe. The painting could wait. I darted back towards the garage, but I skidded to a halt when I saw Tinley in the kitchen.
“Hey, babe,” she said, “I was just thinking about making a pitcher of margaritas.”
“You’re beautiful,” I said. “You and me . . .” I dropped to my knee.
“Oh my God,” she said, her hands flying to her cover her mouth.
“I choose you. And I’ll choose you over and over in a thousand lifetimes. I’d choose you, without a doubt, without pause—in a heartbeat, I will always choose you, Tinley Rebecca Atkinson.”
“Matthew, are you asking me . . .” Her blue eyes sparkled with amusement.
I nodded, pulling the box from the pocket of my jeans. “I’m asking if you’ll choose me. Will you marry me?”
“Yes, Matthew, I will marry you.”
I pulled the ring from the box and slipped it on her shaking hand. “I’m sorry, I had this whole thing planned, fancy dinner and a bottle of champagne—”
Her hands framed my face. “No, this is perfect. I don’t need any of that, I just need you.” She kissed me in an urgent kiss. I picked her up, and her legs wrapped around my waist.
“I love you,” I whispered against her lips, as I carried her up the stairs. “And my middle name is Dempsey.”
“I love you, Matthew Dempsey Barber,” she laughed. “You know we’re going to talk about that later, right?”
“I figured as much, darlin’.”
The door opened and a cool blast of air shot through the kitchen.
“Did you have good run?”
Tinley kicked off her shoes and nodded. “Yeah, the clouds started to roll in and it looks like it might snow again.”
“An extra snowy Christmas, I’m all for that.”
“What have you been up to?” she asked, stripping off her pink puffer vest.
I took a drink of coffee as I formulated my words. “The morning tabloids are particularly interesting. It seems the two of us are headed for a divorce. I’m a cheating ass face, you’re a career hungry, she wolf, and there isn’t a shred of truth to any of it.”
She pulled the ponytail holder from her hair and let out a howling laugh. “I’d like it better when they labeled me as America’s Sweetheart and you were Hollywood’s Heartthrob.”
“Same, but I will not let this ruin our Christmas,” I said, pulling a mug from the cabinet. “I talked to Naomi. She suggested we post something festive on Instagram.”
Tinley took a seat at the island and I placed the mug in front of her. “That’s fine—we can post a selfie or something. We’ll be the greatest Christmas Day love story the world has ever seen.”
I smiled, and for a brief moment I knew that things were going get better. Only, things would get much worse before that happened.