The Stepmother (14 page)

M
y psoriasis is flaring
. The backs of my knees are a mess, and my nights are filled with strange images, as I lie half waking, half dreaming until the dawn.

I
am
used to stress: used to scrabbling to pay bills or working into the night to meet deadlines at schools; I’m used to the stress of exhaustion whilst studying and trying to parent a sleepless Frankie alone. I’m used to the worries that might have come with a teenage Frank – hence our move away from Peckham, down to the Sussex coast when he was still quite young. I’m used to the typical things parents of teens always worry about.

And, of course, my own childhood was stressful I suppose.

But this is different. Or rather, maybe, this is starting to feel a little like
that
time: a childhood I’d far rather forget. A time that went on and on with no control. A time where I lost trust in those who
should
have been trustworthy.

I’m suffocating: nets are closing in.

I want to sleep for a hundred years – but I can’t. I daren’t.

I’ve got to persuade my own Prince Charming that everything’s all right in our kingdom – before I’m cast out forever.

I rouse myself.

My first action after Matthew’s fury was to ring Frankie in London, leaving a message that we must speak as soon as possible.

Answering messages has never been his strong suit, and it was a day before he called back, by which time he was planning to come home anyway.

‘What the hell are you on about?’ he spluttered when I told him what we found on his computer, and something in his tone reassured me. Frankie might have smoked round the back of the art hut, and lost his virginity too early; he might have used a bit of eyeliner during his emo phase aged fourteen; he might have once taken a pen knife to school ill-advisedly, trying to be cool, and immediately got caught – but he was never a liar.

‘Agata’s resigned, she was so appalled.’ I felt terribly weary again.

‘And you’re bothered about Agata?’

That annoyed me a bit.

‘It’s not me, Frank: it’s Matthew. He’s furious.’

‘Why? Has he never looked at a pair of tits before?’

Fear sent its cold shaft through me.

‘So you
did
do it? You need to be honest, Frank. I can’t defend you if…’

‘Do
what
? Look at girls being shagged by animals? Hardly, Mum. I’ve got more taste.’

‘It’s illegal, you know,’ I said tightly.

He sighed and said, ‘I’m sure it is. It sounds disgusting. But it wasn’t me, I swear, Mum. I didn’t do it. I really don’t get my kicks like that. I don’t know why it was on there, but it wasn’t me. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

And that had to be enough for me.

Of course it’s not enough for Matthew though.

I
debate asking
Marlena for more help, but I can’t deal with her lecturing me about being pathetic right now.

But I
do
do something somewhat out of character. Surprising myself at my own daring, I ring the college and ask to speak to Lesley Browning.

‘What can I do for you?’ She sounds harassed when she comes on the line. ‘I’m terribly busy.’

‘Please. I have to know – did someone tell you something?’ I ask. ‘Something about me?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says, but I hear strain in her voice.

‘I think you do,’ I say quietly. ‘It’d help me if you could tell me. Or if someone emailed you, then…’

‘Sorry,’ she cuts me off, ‘I’m late for a meeting. Good luck, Jeanie. I’m sure something will turn up.’ Tiny pause. ‘Your references were very good you know.’

Small comfort.

W
hen I get home
, wondering if Frankie’s on the next train, I don’t know whether I feel angry or depressed – or maybe both.

I drag myself out of the car, and then I hear something odd.

I rush up the path.

My fears are confirmed as I open the front door: Frankie and Matthew are in the hall, standing opposite one another, and it looks horribly as if they might be about to have a fight.

‘What on earth’s going on?’ I move in-between them.

‘Ask your husband,’ Frankie says. He’s deathly pale, which is never a good sign. It reminds me of a childhood sickness he had when he was tiny; when for a night or two, I thought I might lose him.

I reach my hand out towards him. ‘Frankie…’

‘You know
exactly
what’s going on, Jeanie.’ Matthew’s voice is loud, and unlike Frank, he’s very flushed. ‘I won’t have that filth in my house.’

‘I don’t look at filth,’ Frankie spits, and I can see that his rage isn’t helping. ‘It wasn’t fucking well me.’

‘Just who the hell are you swearing at?’ Matthew is growing ever nearer apoplexy. ‘I won’t have that language in my house.’

‘No? Well, strikes me you won’t have anything much in your house.’ Frankie picks up the bag he’s just arrived home with. ‘So I’ll make it easy for you and I’ll leave.’

‘Frankie, please!’ I plead. ‘Don’t go. We’ll sort it out. Wait a minute…’

But he’s already at the door – and one thing I know about my son is the sheer level of his determination when he’s set on something. ‘Frank—’

I follow him out to the drive.

‘I’m sorry, Mum, and I don’t mean to swear – but I think he’s a proper wanker.’ He is visibly shaken.

‘Please, Frank…’

‘He thinks the sun shines out of his own kids’ arses – but he looks at me with contempt.’ He swings his bag over his shoulder.

‘He doesn’t…’ I begin, but then I wonder: maybe he’s right – maybe Matthew does. Is it true?

What have I done? What care have I taken of Frank in the search for my own happiness? I think of my own mother, who cared nothing for our welfare whenever it meant she could have a bloke around – blokes who were always unsuitable, never the least bit interested in us.

Am I following in her footsteps?

Hardly
! I hear Marlena say.
You’ve done everything for that boy. Everything. It’s time you had a life of your own, Jeanie.

Is
that what she’d say though? Or have I simply sacrificed Frankie’s happiness for my own?

Or maybe this is just normal life? Kids and parents battling it out for a bit of equality. I’ve never had a man around, not really; not since Simon, and it’s hard to know what’s normal…

‘I’m going to George’s,’ Frank says dully, and he kisses me on the cheek. ‘Take care, Mum. You need to take care.’

‘Don’t go, Frank, please,’ I plead, but he’s already slouching down the drive. ‘I’ll ring you later, darling,’ I call after him, and he raises one weary hand in farewell, but he doesn’t look round.

Slowly I turn and walk back into the house.

N
ow
what are
you looking at?

Okay, yes, that
is
what I’d have said about Frankie and Jeanie. She’d done everything for that boy – above and beyond the call of duty.

Everything. Which was especially difficult, given the early circumstances of his life.

But let’s not discuss that right now, all right?

Yes, I’m getting upset.

Leave it there please.

And Jeanie did deserve happiness, of course. But when you’ve got no blueprint for a healthy relationship, how do you know where to find it? It wasn’t surprising she thought her dreams would be wrapped up by finding her Prince Charming.

Prince Charming’s a stupid old fantasy though, isn’t he? He doesn’t exist. You only need to look at the divorce statistics to know that.

W
aking this morning
, I feel a sense of dread that I can’t quite place.

Then I remember: I’ve lost my job before I even started it, Frankie’s not here – and the twins are coming for the weekend.

Frankie’s still so angry about his row with Matthew, he’s still refusing to come home. Last night I took a bag of clean clothes to George’s, humiliated further when George’s mum looked at me like I was useless.

I should be used to people looking at me like that.

It still hurts though.

The gardener is outside again, mowing the already shorn grass.

I force myself out of bed and downstairs, but I can’t be bothered to go for a run. The running’s definitely on the slide.

Someone on breakfast television is talking about subverting negative thoughts. ‘It’s so easy to get into a downward spiral. We’ve all been there, haven’t we?’ the glossy life-coach lady says cheerily to the presenter, her bright earrings jingling. ‘But if we’re feeling down, why not make ourselves think
up
!’

She makes it sound so easy – and she looks like she’s never been
there
in her life.

They move on to an item about making your own pizza dough. I switch the television off and sit staring into space.

The gardener clomps across my sight line, and I duck out of view. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.

The phone breaks into my thoughts about being more positive, about approaching the twins’ forthcoming stay with positivity. If I can do that, it will be a positive experience for us all.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Kaye, Jeanie. How are you?’

‘Oh,’ I say blankly. ‘Fine, thanks. Matthew’s at work actually…’

‘It was you I wanted,’ she says. ‘I just…’ Slight pause. ‘Well I wanted to apologise.’

‘Apologise?’ I feel my brows knit. ‘Why?’

‘I was a bit – hostile, maybe, the other day. I didn’t mean to be. You seem like a really nice lady. And I think Scarlett needs all the help she can get, Jean. Would you be an angel and keep a special eye out for her?’

‘Sure.’ I am completely nonplussed by Kaye’s camaraderie. ‘But – why? I mean, are you worried about something in particular?’

‘Oh you know, not really. It’s just – it’s a difficult time for her, isn’t it? Puberty and all that! And everyone knows what teenage girls are like, don’t they? I mean, we both were one once.’

‘Yes, well, that’s true.’

‘And she’s such a daddy’s girl.’

‘Is she?’ I am cautious now. What’s Kaye driving at?

‘Of course she is! Although I’m so close to her…’

‘I suppose…’ This is my chance. ‘I wondered, have you had any suspicions she might be cutting herself?’

‘Cutting?’

‘Like – self-harming? It’s pretty common in girls of her—’

‘Are you joking?’ Kaye’s voice is rising. ‘Cutting? She’s not doing that, Jean, I’m sure of it. I’d know.’

‘Okay.’ It isn’t my place really. ‘Of course I’ll keep an eye out for her anyway.’

‘Thanks, Jeanie.’ She recovers herself. ‘That’s so kind of you. Let’s be pals, shall we? It’ll be better for all of us, won’t it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Great. I’ll drop the kids round in a bit.’

B
reakfast TV has been most
helpful today: now I’m making home-made pizza for everyone. Cooking’s always therapeutic I find; I have since I was a kid – something about providing for people. And all kids like Italian food – even the fussy Scarlett. I text Frankie and ask him if he might come home this evening. Please. I tell him how much I miss him.

He doesn’t answer.

Whilst I’m assembling the margherita topping my mobile rings.

‘It’s Lesley Browning here,’ the voice says rather anxiously. ‘I just – it’s a quick call. I thought you deserved a little more explanation.’

‘Right.’ I’m wary, balancing the phone between ear and shoulder as I tip tomatoes into the blender.

‘It’s just – your suspicion was right. Someone did send the head an email. I have to say’—a sharp intake of breath—‘it was very vicious.’

‘Oh.’ Of course. ‘Vicious?’

‘It was a link to a Sunday-paper spread. It said you were…’ Is her pause one of embarrassment? I’m not sure.

‘Yes, I know what it said.’ I keep my voice quiet. ‘Could you tell me who sent it?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see the actual email. But I believe it was anonymous. From someone who called themselves a well-wisher, that type of thing.’

A well-wisher.

‘Okay. Well thanks for telling me.’

I put the phone down and turn the blender on, watching the soft red flesh spatter against the sides. Almost immediately, the landline rings. It’s the twins’ school this time.

‘Just to make sure Mr King knows about the parents’ evening a fortnight on Monday?’ the woman coos. That’s what you get when you pay for education: cooing. ‘We’ve not had a reply to the letter, you see. It starts at 6 p.m. on the dot.’

Cooing and dots. Efficiency and timetables. Personal phone-calls. Not like my last schools.

‘I’ll make sure he knows.’ I wipe tomatoey hands on my apron to scribble the details down on the phone pad.

Luke comes in just as I’m hanging up for the second time.

‘Oh hello! That was your school on the phone,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve got parents’ evening in a couple of Mondays’ time.’

‘Oh right.’ But he’s not much interested. ‘Is Dad here? I need to order some new football boots online.’

‘Not yet. I’m sure he’ll want to go to your parents’ evening.’
Positivity,
I think. ‘He’ll want to hear about all your achievements.’

‘Maybe.’ Luke pulls open the fridge, hanging heavily on the door. I bite my tongue about hurrying to shut the door. He takes a can of Coke, slamming the fridge so that the whole worktop judders.

Now Scarlett waltzes in, all skinny legs and overly made-up eyes and flyaway hair: dramatic as ever.

‘Hello.’ I smile at her. ‘There’s fresh orange if you fancy it?’ She doesn’t like sugar normally.

‘I’d rather have a Coke, like Luke. I’m totally dying from starvation!’ Scarlett eyes my sauce dubiously. ‘Can I have a snack?’

No,
I bite back,
wait for supper –
like I’d tell Frankie. But I know I must be the nice guy. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I say. ‘Crisps in the cupboard? Or a Kit Kat maybe?’

‘Great.’ She shoves her head into the cupboard like someone who hasn’t eaten in days.

‘Can you just move that for me, sweetheart?’ I ask Luke, who’s loitering, swilling Coca-Cola round his mouth noisily. ‘That pad, before it gets all covered in food?’

He reaches out to move it and somehow – I don’t know how exactly, because I’m stirring the sauce and trying to open the dried oregano at the same time – he’s suddenly screaming in pain.

My heart nearly stops.

‘Oh my God, Luke, what’s happened?’ I drop the herb jar, scattering oregano everywhere.

Coca-Cola runs in a sticky brown torrent over the floor, and Luke’s clutching a hand covered in blood I think – or is it tomato sauce? I can’t quite make it out because I’m panicking – and he won’t stop screaming.

‘Luke, it’s okay.’ I try to calm him, trying to look at his hand – but his screams increase, as if he’s being murdered, as if he’s in the most agonising pain ever…

‘You must show me!’ I’m sick with fear. Maybe he’s not okay…

‘Luke.’ Scarlett’s little face is angry now as she drops her prawn-cocktail crisps and faces her brother. ‘Stop screaming!’

He doesn’t, so she slaps him – hard.

Now he does stop. He stares at his twin, and she says quite levelly, like a little grown-up, ‘You’re hysterical. Calm down.’

Luke’s eyes are like an owl’s.

I search for the cut that’s caused all the fuss. It’s tiny, on the fleshy edge of his palm, and I was right – quite a lot of this is tomato sauce from the utensils on the side.

‘Can you stir the sauce?’ I ask Scarlett, and I take Luke to the downstairs loo, wash his hand and find a plaster.

B
y the time
Matthew comes home, I’ve cleaned up, the twins are watching
The Hunger Games
and the table is groaning with food.

You’d never know there’d been any drama.

I am also a little tipsy. Sploshing red wine into the pizza topping, I couldn’t help but be tempted. It’s been tough recently.

‘Hello.’ My husband smiles at me, kissing me with more enthusiasm than he has for ages. ‘Something smells amazing, you clever girl.’

I lean into him, feeling his hand on my hair, and I feel a vast whoosh of relief. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready,’ I say. ‘Just going to get my cardigan. It’s cold, isn’t it?’

At the top of the stairs, I feel even more chilled as I walk past the mirror – and something catches the corner of my eye. A shadow that passes over the light—

Looking up, with a start I see the ghost reflected there – the Grey Lady. She’s slightly different to before, wispier perhaps… but there’s no doubt she’s there. She’s walking towards me, arms outstretched, eyes like black holes behind the veil, her mouth a vivid red slash in her deathly face—

‘She’s here!’ I shriek, stepping back, so near the top of the stairs that I nearly overbalance. I grab the bannister. ‘Matthew, quick!’

A sigh of air. A slamming door somewhere inside the house.

Giggling, giggling nearby.

‘It’s only me, Jeanie,’ a grinning Scarlett pops her head round Luke’s bedroom door. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you. It worked though!’

‘What was you?’ My heart is hammering so fast I can barely breathe. The ghost has gone, but I feel very lightheaded.

‘Look…’ She shows me the projector she’s set up on the landing. ‘It was for a school thing, in media studies. We had to create our own visual motif for our homes.’

‘I see,’ I say, still trying to calm down.

‘I got the idea from
Sherlock
.’ Proudly Scarlett shows me how she’s projected the image from behind the door, into one mirror, where the reflection bounced into the other.

‘Was that you then? Before? A few weeks ago?’

‘Oh, when Dad said you thought you saw something? That’s what gave me the idea actually,’ she says. ‘Honest, it wasn’t me that time though.’

I don’t believe her. But I don’t have the energy to argue now.

S
itting down to eat
, Scarlett is distracted, looking at her phone.

‘Put it down please,’ Matthew says. ‘The phone.’

She does, reluctantly. ‘Where’s Frankie?’ she asks with nonchalance. ‘Isn’t he coming down for tea?’

‘Scarlett fancies Frankie,’ Luke crows. ‘Scarlett and Frankie, sitting in a tree…’

‘Luke!’ Matthew’s tone is a low warning as the girl blushes the same colour as her name.

‘I do not,’ she mutters.

‘K-I-S-S-I-N-G…’

‘Leave it there right now, Lucas!’ Matthew thumps his glass down.

Scarlett looks mortified – her ill-hidden secret’s out. Matthew’s face has darkened. I don’t want to make things worse for Frank now.

‘Luke, tell us about your football game,’ I change the subject quickly. ‘Did you score?’

‘Durr!’ he says. ‘I’m a defender, not a striker!’

‘Oh.’ I grin. ‘Sorry! I don’t know the first thing about football really.’ I’m about to say that this is because Frankie hates sport, but bringing his name up again won’t help the mood. And then I feel like a traitor. ‘So was the lovely Beckham a striker or defender?’

T
hat night Matthew
and I have sex for the first time in a week, and afterwards I almost cry myself to sleep with relief.

The rest of the twins’ stay goes without incident, and I feel a little better – although I feel inordinately annoyed about the ghost thing, and, far worse, I miss Frankie badly. But he’s answered my text, at least, and he’s coming home tomorrow, thank God.

I need to broach the subject with Matthew, but I feel I’m walking on eggshells all the time at the moment. I’m biding my time, waiting for the right opportunity to clear the air. Perhaps we’re getting a little nearer now. Perhaps I can bring everyone together safely, bring the boat safely in to moor.