The Stepmother (10 page)

M
atthew rings to
say he is working late.

I go upstairs to put the bath on, freezing from sitting too long, finishing my interview notes for the morning. I am determined to get this job.

I run back down to find my glasses, and as I pass the great curly mirror, I hear a noise.

I stop.

Is someone in the house?

‘Frank?’

But he is working tonight; I know that really.

Another noise, like chains rattling.

I go down a few stairs, leaning over the bannister. ‘Matthew?’

In the mirror, I see the figure of a woman in a long grey dress, walking towards me, her face deathly white, a veil thrown over it, her eyes black behind the veil…

I start to shake.

I don’t believe in ghosts – but this is the Grey Lady, and she is coming towards me, her hands out in front of her…

I run upstairs and slam the door of the bathroom, locking it. My chest is heaving, and I try to laugh at my own fear – but it’s too real to be funny. I feel sick with it.

When Matthew gets home, I tell him what happened.

‘Don’t be silly.’ He grins. ‘You were imagining it. You’re just tired.’ He hugs me. ‘Silly thing. Don’t let Luke’s stories scare you, hon.’

But I know what I saw.

V
alentine’s Day
– and we’re going away for the night!

After all the stress recently, it’s the perfect way to smooth things over. Plus Marlena’s coming to stay next weekend. This all feels like a new start – everything’s going to be okay!

I had the second interview at the college yesterday, and I felt an instant rapport with the head of department. She told me pretty much straightaway the job was mine. When I got home, they called to make the offer.

I didn’t get the chance to tell Matthew because he rang to ask me to meet him in Berkhamsted for pizza with Luke and Scarlett: a late birthday meal for them. Matthew was upset he hadn’t seen them on the actual day, but he and Kaye had decided to take ‘celebrations’ in turn – and so they spent their actual birthday with her.

We had an all right time. Scarlett even answered a question or two I put her way, mainly about school – although she’s still angry with me, it’s obvious. She was fed up Frankie didn’t come – that was clear too when I sent her Frankie’s birthday wishes.

At one point during the meal, I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, the three Kings all stopped talking.

‘Don’t mind me,’ I joked, but no one really laughed. Matthew raised his glass to me, but I felt awkward from then on. All in all I was relieved when the meal was over and we dropped them off.

There was something in Scarlett’s steely little face that scared me a bit.

I
’m packing
my overnight bag when the house phone rings.

‘It’s Paul Harris here,’ the voice says. ‘We got the path results through for Justin.’

‘Justin?’ What on earth’s he talking about? ‘Sorry – wrong number I think.’

‘Mr King’s Pomeranian puppy?’

‘Oh God, sorry!’ Of course. I forgot the silly name – Justin. ‘You should talk to my husband. It was his children’s dog. Can I give you his mobile number?’

‘Sure.’ The vet takes it down. ‘But you might want to do a quick sweep of your home. Check there’s no more rodenticide around.’

‘Rodenticide? Do you mean like rat poison?’

‘Exactly. It wasn’t the virus I suspected after all. It was blood poisoning unfortunately. A chemical ingredient called cholecalciferol was detected in his bloods. Lethal for dogs.’

I put the phone down feeling anxious. I’m sure we haven’t put any poisons down in the house, and the dog was inside the whole time. Apart from in the woods, I suppose. But he barely walked; he was carried most of the way.

O
ur night
away is far from the big success I’ve hoped for – the one we really need it to be.

The hotel is, as I expected, lovely. Five star, very luxurious in an understated sort of way, set in country grounds. It all makes me a little nervous to be honest, and I’m not planning to do anything but hang out with Matthew – but he needs to do some work when we arrive, as he left the office early.

I swim in the indoor pool. Gazing out at the Cotswold hills all swaddled in mist, I try to feel like this is just what I wanted to do – swim alone; have some time to myself.

Trouble is I have nothing but too much time to myself. Frankie’s out more and more, and soon he’ll go again for good. He’s got a place in Leeds to study music production in the autumn, and before that a job picking grapes in France.

I’m gutted by this, though I try to hide it, and even though he’s already been up in Hull briefly, I’m just not used to him being away. He’s been my be-all and end-all forever it seems. He was what I lived for when Simon left.

At least it gives me an understanding of Matthew’s sombre mood sometimes, when he seems a little – distant, missing his kids daily, although of course he does see them regularly, and it’ll be years before they’ll be off for good.

But when Frankie is away, I spend whole days talking to no one apart from myself – and Matthew when he gets home – often quite late.

At least that’ll change now, thank God, with my new job!

A
t dinner Matthew
keeps his phone on the table, awaiting a call from Tokyo.

I tell him about my job, and he seems pleased, if a little surprised. ‘You kept that quiet!’

‘I mentioned it the other night,’ I point out. ‘That I had a second interview, remember?’

‘So when do you start?’ He gouges a snail from its shell, sucking the greeny-brown flesh up with vigour.

Poor creature! I shudder. ‘In about four weeks I think.’ I crumble my bread roll, not very hungry suddenly. ‘I’ve got to go for an induction, meet the other staff, stuff like that – but the teacher who’s leaving finishes at the end of term.’

This is the time to tell him about the final piece of the puzzle I’ve kept to myself. I take a big sip of water and promptly choke.

When I recover my breath, the waiter arrives with the champagne Matthew has ordered and a big bunch of red roses.

‘They’re beautiful.’ I am surprised and touched. Can I tell him now? I have to.

I neck my glass of champagne. ‘Matt…’

His phone rings. ‘Sorry,’ he murmurs, glancing down.

I’ve seen the name on the screen.

‘Please.’ I put my hand out to him. ‘I really need to tell you something.’

But he takes it. ‘Might be the kids.’

Even from the other side of the table, I can hear her shouting down the line.

Eventually Matthew stands, walking out to the foyer to talk, pacing up and down.

He comes back tight-lipped. I gather it is more blame about the dog.

‘Couldn’t he have eaten something before he came to ours?’ I say. ‘The poor puppy?’

‘Something like cyanide?’ he snaps. ‘I doubt it very much.’

‘Cyanide?’
I gaze at him. ‘But I thought – I’m sure the vet said rat poison when I spoke to him?’

‘Yeah he did – and now apparently this as well.’

Something about Matt’s face tells me to leave it there.

We finish the rich, heavy dinner in complete silence.

D
espite the lavish
room and the draped four-poster bed, we are awkward as we get ready for bed. Matthew is exhausted after a hectic week at work, and I feel shaken again by the puppy and Kaye’s shouting.

Why does she seem to crop up at such inopportune moments?

Lying on my side, watching Matthew descend into deep sleep without touching me, without coming near me at all, I feel ugly and unloved.

The sheer lacy nightie I bought especially for tonight stays forlornly in my case, as one hot tear after another squeezes out of my half-shut eyes.

I
n the middle
of the night a phone starts to ring in the depths of my dream about trying to cross the river to reach Frankie.

Matthew fumbles for it, knocking his watch and keys off the nightstand with a clatter.

‘Yes?’ His voice is sleep filled and low.

I keep my eyes tightly shut. Calls in the early hours always bode ill.

‘What?’ He sits bolt upright. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Kaye! You should have told me earlier…’

Now my eyes are open too; I am wide awake, fingers clutching the sheet.

‘I’m on my way.’ Matt is scrambling out of bed, falling over as he pulls on his trousers.

‘What is it?’ My stomach is plunging like a fairground ride. ‘Matt? What’s wrong?’

‘It’s Luke,’ he says shortly. ‘He’s been rushed to Hemel Hempstead Hospital. Where the fuck’s my shirt?’

W
e race back
down the empty motorway from tranquil Oxfordshire, driving straight to the hospital. There Matthew is rushed off by a nurse through paediatric A & E to the theatre, where they are about to operate on Luke for suspected appendicitis.

I don’t know what to do for the best. I want to support Matthew – but I can’t really see myself hanging out with a distraught Kaye. We’ve never even met.

In the end, after spending a lonely hour in the lobby with no news, I call a cab and go home.

T
he dawn is
flat and unpromising. The empty house is cold. Frankie is in Glasgow this weekend with a group of friends, watching a local band they’ve started to follow.

‘They’re kind of grungy, Mum, like Drenge,’ he’d explained kindly when I’d dropped him at the station. I was none the wiser.

I put the heating on and walk into the kitchen in my coat, staring out into the forlorn February garden. A few pathetic shoots struggle to reach the light from the pots on the terrace; further down clusters of snowdrops hang their pure white heads.

Everything else looks withered and dead.

Switching the kettle on, I see my Valentine’s card to Matthew on the windowsill: a gaudy, soppy affair I made myself.

It feels wrong, misplaced somehow. I feel wrong and misplaced myself.

What is going on? Everything feels discordant suddenly.

Picking up the card, I put it in the kitchen drawer.

Then I pull my phone out and check for messages from Matthew: nothing. I send him one saying I love him and hope everything is okay and to let me know if he needs me.

Then I text my sister.

A
bit odd
? This is starting to sound like an episode of
The Real Housewives of New Jersey
or
Dynasty
or some crap, don’t you think?

I didn’t really know what her text meant at the time, but I did know it didn’t sound great for a newlywed.

And – a ghost?

I mean really?

T
he good news
is Luke’s fine, thank God.

It wasn’t appendicitis – in fact, after they put a camera inside him when he’d stopped being so sick, they couldn’t find anything wrong, which was a relief all round. They didn’t have to operate after all.

I couldn’t help feeling then that maybe the degree of urgency had been unwarranted; that the screaming on the phone had been largely hysterical and not helpful to the poor boy.

I kept that to myself though. I appreciated that if something happened to Frankie, I’d have rushed down the motorway even faster than Matthew had: a parent’s instinct kicking in – only natural. I loved Matthew even more for caring.

I just wish I didn’t feel so – excluded. Like it’s him and them, and him and me. Or me and Frankie, and him and them. I suppose that’s normal in this set-up. My book on step-parenting says it takes years to ‘blend’ a family; it says women have overly high expectations. Ridiculous expectations, in my case.

But none of it says quite how tough it is – or how bad it might make you feel.

M
atthew had stayed
at the hospital until Luke was discharged.

We’d had a muted week, and yesterday he told me he was going to take Scarlett off to see her cousins in King’s Lynn, did I mind? Luke was at home with his mum, and I was waiting for Marlena to arrive, so I said no – please go.

And then of course, just after Matthew pulled out the drive, my unreliable sister texted from Germany saying she couldn’t come at all – she’d had a new lead; she had to file her copy, blah blah – the usual excuses. She’d ring when she got back.

Trying not to feel generally abandoned, I spent the weekend mooching, doing some half-hearted prep for my new job, but mainly watching rom-coms and eating chocolate, waiting to hear from Matthew. On Sunday morning, I forced myself out for brunch in town, but I felt so pathetically alone surrounded by couples and happy couples that I soon slouched off home.

Just before I went totally mad, my phone rang. Marlena – back from her trip abroad.

‘What’s up?’ Marlena was typically frank. ‘You sound like shit.’

‘Thanks a lot! I’m just a bit – tired.’ I explained the events of the past week briefly. ‘He’s okay now, Luke, so that’s the main thing.’

‘That’s kids for you. And so?’

‘So what?’

‘You said things were “odd”. Is that cos you’ve actually told your old man the whole shebang now?’

I nudged the coffee table gently with the tip of my toe.

‘Jeanie?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I’ve told him some of it. Just not – quite all of it.’

She let out a long breath. ‘Really?’

‘Don’t. I have tried, Marlena, honestly. Quite a few times, but it’s just not very easy with all this going on—’

‘For God’s sake, Jean!’ She’d been tapping on her computer whilst we’d been talking, I had heard her busy hands on the keyboard, but she actually stopped now. Ever the hack, my sister – never fully concentrating on her own life.

‘Look, really, I didn’t put myself on the line for you to fuck yourself up even further.’

‘Yeah, all right.’ I felt a surge of irritation at her selfishness.

She ignored my tone; she was in her stride now. ‘I mean doesn’t the man ever use Google? You know he’s going to find out anyway some time, and it’ll look fucking awful if it doesn’t come from you…’

‘Okay, okay,’ I said meekly. ‘I will. I’m just…’

‘What
?
’

I sighed heavily. ‘Scared he’ll chuck me out I suppose.’

‘Well if he does, he’s an even bigger arsehole than I took him for.’

‘Marlena! I thought you quite liked him?’

‘Now, when, dear Jeanie’—I heard her lighting a cigarette—‘did I
ever
say that?’

I
t started
to snow very lightly as I put the phone down, the flakes falling in sudden soft flurries past the window. I was depressed about being alone all the time, about my attempt to tell Matt failing yet again. Admitting my apathy to myself was hard.

Still, at least Frankie was on his way back; he’d been in Scotland all week. Now he was on some kind of Megabus, unlikely to be here before dawn, knowing him. I had no idea what time Matthew would be home; they’d stopped off to see friends in Cambridge apparently. I’d give this entire week up as a bad lot, I decided, and go to bed.

My legs had gone to sleep curled beneath me, and as I stretched them out painfully, I heard an odd rattle.

The hairs on my arms all stood up on end. Not that bloody ghost again…

I held my breath, listening.

God I wished this house wasn’t so isolated. Tower blocks had never felt as unsafe as all this space.

Everything was quiet now.
I should get up and check out the noise,
I thought – and then the garden light sprang on.

I heard my own surprised gasp.

Don’t be so stupid, Jeanie!
I tried to laugh at myself – and then the noise came again.

I got up. Limping to the switch, I turned all the inside lights on as bright as they’d go. Taking a deep breath, I opened the kitchen door to investigate, thinking of
Peckham or Hove’s electric street lights with considerable nostalgia.

Crossing the kitchen, I could feel a blast of cold air. The sliding doors were very slightly ajar, the February wind blowing through the crack. Then I heard a woman’s voice, murmuring from somewhere.

Oh Christ.

I ran to shut the doors – realising, with a sob of relief, that it was the radio talking.

The respite I felt at finding the source of all the noises was tempered by confusion as to why the doors were open. Sometimes the catch stuck and didn’t slide in right; someone must have missed it. But I hadn’t gone out today; I hadn’t noticed they were open…

Agata, Matthew’s cleaner, might have been here earlier I supposed – when I’d gone to the shops. I could never remember when she came – but she
could
have left them open. Except – it was Sunday.

There’s always an answer, Jeanie.

Fumbling with the handles, I heard a baby start to cry outside in the freezing night.

Just a fox barking somewhere nearby, Jeanie.
There were so many foxes here, ruling the gardens. Quickly I flung the doors back to push them shut properly.

A flicker of light at the end of the garden perhaps – there, shivering across my eyes behind the lightly swirling flakes – and then gone again.

Instinctively I looked down, away from the light. That’s when I saw them.

Two blackbirds, one much bigger than the other – a mother and a chick, maybe –together beneath a couple of glass bells, perfectly symmetrical on the decking outside the doors, an old wooden clothes peg next to one.

Snow speckled the cloches, and it would have been quite picturesque really – except both of the birds, sprigs of holly stuck into their guts, were absolutely and brutally dead.