The Stepmother (18 page)

They all look at me, and their faces are blurry and going in and out of focus, like the circus hall of mirrors. I start to laugh, and then I can’t stop, and then I think,
Oh, God, I’m going to be sick.

‘Are you all right?’ Alison asks, and I wonder why she’s frowning.

And then I pass out.

I
wake
in the bedroom alone with the worst headache I think I’ve ever had.

I can barely remember last night, but I know without doubt I have disgraced myself.

Matthew didn’t come to bed last night. I think he said I needed space – but I also think, really, it’s space of a different kind he means.

I lie here, sick and mortified – and, frankly, scared. I don’t understand what the hell’s happening.

‘
W
hat the fuck
did you take?’ Matthew asks before he leaves for work, his jaw almost rigid. ‘More of that Xanax crap? You were talking complete gibberish you know. It was so bloody embarrassing – and I really needed it to go well.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I feel utterly wretched in every way. ‘I swear I didn’t take anything.’ But why
do
I feel this awful? ‘Honestly. It might just be the same bug Kaye and Scarlett have.’

‘Maybe,’ he says grimly. ‘Whatever it was, we need to talk properly at the weekend.’

He leaves without a backwards glance.

He’s right though. We absolutely do need to talk. There are a few things I need to say to him too.

W
hen I stop feeling quite so
terrible, I haul myself out of bed to see if Frankie’s here, but he’s off visiting Jenna. Luke’s gone to school; at least I don’t have to face his embarrassment too. I vaguely remember his worried face last night at the foot of the stairs as I was carried up to bed.

My head pounds.

So.

I go back to the room that I looked in yesterday, which is now not locked any more – although Matthew doesn’t know that.

It is like a shrine.

Cupboards of clothes. A flouncy white dressing table of perfume and make-up. Antique prints of old nursery rhymes on the walls: ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, ‘Mary, Mary Quite Contrary’, ‘Little Bo Peep’. One’s missing, a lighter square on the wall where it must have hung.

‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’ –
the queen is in the parlour, eating bread and honey.

Matthew’s Queenie.

Why did Matthew not just say he couldn’t bear to get rid of Kaye’s stuff? That that’s why the mirror still hangs out there on the stairs too? That hideous mirror that reflects how I don’t fit in every time I pass it.

He couldn’t bear to move on, so he must have left it all there. Complete. And yet broken. Incomplete.

I stagger downstairs to get some water. The post is on the mat; I scoop it up as I pass.

A postcard to Frankie from his mate Saul, who’s travelling round Thailand. A few more bills for Matthew.

And another letter to Lisa, from HMRC – only this time there’s a full name on the front of the envelope.

Lisa Daisy Bedford.

In my bedroom, I ring Matthew. When he doesn’t answer, I leave a message.

‘Who is Lisa Daisy Bedford?’ I ask urgently. ‘And why didn’t you tell me what was in the spare room? Why have you still got all Kaye’s stuff?’

He texts me later.

He doesn’t answer either question.

All right.

If that’s how he’s going to play it.

I go to his computer again, and I log in quickly, before I can change my mind. He’s not changed the password, so he can’t be that worried about me, I think, with relief. And there’s another bloody email from that bastard. It says:

Feeling sick but braver now – or just with nothing left to lose – I skim the other emails to see if Kaye’s sent anything recently. Are they in cahoots? But there have been no emails from her for weeks. I feel inordinately relieved.

I get dressed, and I text Marlena.

Then I’m overtaken by another huge wave of nausea, and I have to lie down.

I stare at the bedroom ceiling. I have to prove I’m not mad, that someone has it in for me, before I lose either my marriage or my sanity entirely.

And then I think,
Do I even want this marriage?
Do I want to be married to a man who has been lying to me?

Who might love someone else still?

Even if I’m not losing it, I know I’m on borrowed time now.

I
can’t help myself
. It is wrong, but I do it anyway.

Around five, I get up. I scrub the work surfaces and the kitchen floor. My compulsion to tidy is getting worse; the CBT last spring stopped it for a bit, but it’s definitely rearing its head again. I know now that it’s about creating order when I feel I’ve lost control, but even that knowledge is not helping.

Once the surfaces shine, I get dressed, make a thermos of coffee and two ham, lettuce and mustard sandwiches – one for Frank, one for Matthew’s tea when he gets home.

I wrap Matthew’s very carefully. Inside the wrapping, on which I write ‘M’, I slip a little note. It just says,

Afterwards I’ll remember the word I chose.

I’ll remember the desperation with which I wrote it.

I
drive south
, back to where I came from, skirting London, out into the brown and green fields.

Somewhere along the way I get a text. I hope it is Matt, but it isn’t.

I am driving too fast to text her back.

Nearing the coast, I wind my window down, thinking I can smell the sea.

I miss the sea. For all its danger, it’s more benign than the scary old house I live in.

I loop my way up over the hills, through the lamb-filled pastures, and the sun comes out at one point, fingers of light dancing over the sea, and I think,
Maybe it will be all right.
Maybe.

I
know
where they live from before.

Their small terraced house is what they called ‘bohemian’, and what I’d just call a mess. Broken window boxes full of weeds; half a rusty bike, missing a wheel; and, plonked in the middle of the front garden, the pièce de résistance: a ridiculous pink and orange sculpture with a sagging middle, courtesy of the woman Frank called Mrs Twit or Ma Lundy. It is entitled, according to the hand-painted sign, ‘Birth’. Not like any birth I’ve ever witnessed. And it only costs £235, if you care to ask.

I take a deep breath and knock.

In the grand scheme of things, I’m glad it is Pa who is in and not Ma. He is definitely the more sympathetic of the two – which isn’t saying much.

‘What the hell do
you
want?’ He is bleak, though he seems unsurprised to see me. He really is the most unprepossessing man: dirty fingernails on the door catch, lank hair pulled into a ponytail, old food down his fleece. He looks like he smells; I try not to get too near.

‘You’re not meant to be anywhere near here.’

How such a man managed to father such a beautiful child I’ll never know.

‘Have you been telling people about me?’ I say quickly, before he shuts the door in my face.

Pa Lundy looks at me like I am quite mad, a running theme of my life recently. ‘What?’

‘Have you been emailing people? About – what happened?’ I feel dizzy. Have I eaten today?

‘No, we bloody haven’t.’ He is ferocious. ‘Why would we?’

‘For the same reason you thought I had an affair with your son?’

There’s a nick on his cheek where he’s cut himself shaving; dark blood has bobbled up there. ‘But you know exactly why we thought that.’

I feel so deflated I could just crumple up right there.

‘You should go, before Sue gets back. She’ll give you far shorter shrift than me.’

That I don’t doubt – and Sue weighs at least three stone more than he does. I realise, too late, that even if they
had
sent the emails, there’s no way on God’s earth they’ll ever admit it.

A mangy ginger cat winds its way round my ankles. Pa Lundy looks at it like it’s some kind of traitor. ‘Come
here
, puss.’

‘How is Otto?’ I can’t help myself. ‘Is he here? Is he okay?’

Otto’s father would have slammed the door in my face, but the cat gets in the way, so he makes do with telling me to get lost.

I
sit
in the window of the dilapidated fish-and-chip shop on the seafront. Before me the sea rolls indolently up and down.
What a fool
.

I eat half the chips I ordered and a bit of the fish.

How has it come to this?
I think, stirring my tea full of sugar.

The truth is it would be easier if it
was
the Lundys sending those messages. Because if it wasn’t them, the truth is even more unpalatable.

I text Kaye back:

A few minutes later, a reply
:

As I finish my sugary tea, my phone rings.

‘Frankie says you’re down south?’ Marlena sounds urgent.

‘Yeah, I’m in Brighton.’ I watch a seagull dive-bomb the bin outside.

‘Why?’ She sounds anxious. Most unlike Marlena.

‘I wanted to know if the Lundys had sent that email.’

‘But you’re not meant to go near those stupid Twits, are you?’

‘I don’t know.’ I’m not. ‘But I just wanted to check.’

‘Well don’t bother with them. They’re not the answer.’ There’s a pause while Marlena speaks to someone in the background. ‘I’m worried about you,’ she says when she comes back on the line.

‘Why? What’s happened?’ My ears prick up. ‘Did you find out who
did
send it?’

‘No, but my mate Robo’s on it. Are you going home now?’

‘Home?’

‘Back to Hertfordshire?’

‘Yeah, I’m driving back soon.’

‘Drive carefully, Jeanie,’ she says. ‘I’ll be in touch really soon, I swear.’

W
alking back
to the car park near the Lanes, my heart stops and then soars when I see Otto, in the midst of a group of teenage lads outside one of the arcades. They are as rumbustious as a bunch of puppies, piggybacking each other down the road, shouting and laughing, sharing rollies and cans of shandy.

I quicken my step and raise my hand, eager to catch the boy’s eye – but when I get nearer, I see it’s not Otto.

Or, if it was, he didn’t see me. He slipped around the corner silently with his raucous friends.

I don’t belong in Brighton any more, I realise, as I drive away from the town. Everyone was right – I should stay away.

I thought this was my true home, but I know now it’s not.

I just don’t know where home is any more.

If I ever did.

W
hen I reach the house
, I can’t remember the route I took to get here.

Dusk is drawing in, and the house is empty. Matthew must be working late, I guess, and I feel that strange pulsating fear I remember from last year.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve started to feel angry too – only I’m really not sure
who
exactly I’m angry with.

Everyone. No one. Myself.

I lie on the sofa, thinking I’ll just shut my eyes for five minutes…

An hour later I wake in the dark, sweating, from a nightmare that’s slipping away. I scrabble to remember the field of small children – they kept running away from me towards a river – I was terrified they were all going to fall in, and I chased after them, frantically shouting, ‘Come back,’ but…

Still bewildered, I hear a clatter from the hallway.

‘Hello?’ I pull myself up to sitting. ‘Who’s there?’

A figure walks through the door, though the gloom, towards me. My heart speeds up, and confused, only half awake, I stare into the shadows. I knew it – I knew it was only a matter of time before he came…

And then I realise it’s Scarlett standing above me. She’s holding something high in her hand, and for a moment I think it’s a knife. She’s going to stab me. And then I laugh…

‘What?’ Her pretty little face is ugly with anger. ‘Why are you laughing?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I just had a silly thought. A really silly one.’ I swing my feet to the floor and turn the table lamp on. ‘I must have dozed off. How are you? Haven’t seen you for a while.’

She shrugs. ‘Okay, I s’pose.’ But she doesn’t look okay. She slumps down in the armchair opposite, holding her phone, Dr Dre headphones balanced round her neck. It was her phone in her hand, not a knife at all. I can hear music blaring out of it, something about not having a gun, I swear.
Nirvana,
I think, recognising Frank’s favourite band.

I’m still feeling bleary, trying to rouse myself. Scarlett’s distracted, messing with the phone as usual.

‘What’s up?’ I ask. I haven’t seen her since she wouldn’t talk to me again.

‘It’s just – I dunno. Everything’s gone weird,’ she says eventually, not meeting my eye.

I wait, poised for her to say something about what she’s found out about my past, but instead she says simply, ‘I miss my dad.’

‘Oh, love!’ Pity floods through me. ‘Well your dad’s always here you know.’

‘ ’Cept he’s not, is he?’ She scowls. ‘He’s never here, and he never used to be either.’

‘Oh?’ I say. ‘Was he away a lot before then?’

She laughs drily. ‘Yeah, always away. Always working, so we could have nice things apparently. But I didn’t want nice things.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘And then my mum was always busy, and then neither of them were here. We even had a nanny for a bit…’ She trails off, biting her lip.

‘A nanny?’ News to me. ‘Was she nice?’

‘Oh it wasn’t for long. But Luke didn’t like her, and he was getting bullied at the time.’

‘Bullied? About what?’

‘Stuff. Too much coding club. Being a geek. Dad and Mum divorcing, that kind of stuff. So she… she had to go. Can I have a drink?’ She changes the subject abruptly.

‘Course. Must have been really hard for you both.’ I stand, turning the overhead lights on now. ‘I’m going to make some tea.’

I feel like my bones are heavier than they’ve ever been.

In the kitchen, I think about the manner in which Scarlett delivered this information.

This house
is
haunted. No, not haunted – no more ghost stories. Tainted. I didn’t notice it at first, but I notice it more and more now: the air is dark and sullied.

The sandwich I made Matthew is still in the fridge I see as I get the milk out. The sandwich with the note inside.

I take it out of the fridge and throw it in the bin, and I’m wondering how I can rectify things between us when the telephone rings.

‘Hello?’ I answer without thinking. It’s rarely for me.

‘You stay away, you fucking bitch,’ a voice says. I nearly slam it down again – but then I realise I recognise the voice.

Ma Lundy.

‘How did you get this number?’ I ask.

‘It wasn’t hard; you’re in the phone book, love.’

‘Phone book?’

‘Or 118 – whatever you call it these days. So stay away.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I only wanted to know if you—’ I start, but she cuts across me, in her familiar raspy tone.

‘Stay away from my boy if you know what’s good for you.’

Sue Lundy is the archetypal jealous mother, despite neglecting her son badly.

When I tried to talk to her at the time of the allegations, she refused to believe my story; she refused to believe I hadn’t pursued her beloved son to within an inch of his life.
She
loved him – her version of love anyway – so every other woman in the world must love him too.

When she was warned by the school that nothing had been proven, the woman made it a vendetta that she passed on to Otto’s father. He posted on social media about me until the Facebook administration agreed to take the page down. Next the Lundys began to tweet about me, trying to get anything in the press.

By this time avarice had taken hold, I was sure; they were looking to sell their ‘tragic’ story – a story less tragic than farcical.

‘I meant no harm – really. I never meant any harm, you must know that,’ I say – and then I realise Matthew’s standing behind me, staring at me.

‘Who was that?’ he asks suspiciously as I hang up abruptly.

‘It’s a long story.’ If I try to explain where I went today, it won’t look good, I know that – so what’s the point? ‘It’s not important now.’

Matthew frowns, as if he doesn’t believe me, but he leaves it. ‘Where’s Scarlett?’ he asks. ‘Is she here?’

‘She’s in the living room. It’s nice to see her – she seemed fine with me,’ I reassure him – but he’s not listening.

‘Scarlett?’ He crosses the hall and pushes open the door, and I follow him.

The television is blaring,
Hollyoaks
or some teenage nonsense. Someone’s shouting that they love someone else, but they know they shouldn’t, and Scarlett’s not there. Matthew turns it off – and the DVD player comes on.

Images of Scarlett and her mother fill the screen, on some open-air ice rink, Alpine perhaps: Kaye clad in beige cashmere and fur, skating well as she flashes smiles for the camera.

But it’s Scarlett I’m more interested in. I stare at the expression on the girl’s face. I realise what it was that I found so odd before.

‘Scarlett?’ Matthew says again. ‘She’s obsessed by these old home movies.’

‘She’s probably upstairs,’ I suggest, my eye caught by a vivid blur outside the patio doors.

A big healthy fox runs across the terrace, something in its mouth. It’s a muscular creature, and Matthew hates them with a passion.

‘Bloody things,’ he swears. ‘One’s just killed all Sylvia’s chickens you know.’

Good,
I think.
Good
. I have nothing against chickens, but I don’t like Sylvia one tiny bit.

Matthew slides the patio doors open to chase the animal off, and I go to call Scarlett.

Above me I hear giggling and a burst of music as a door opens and shuts. Frankie’s rusty little car is parked haphazardly on the drive, in front of Matthew’s big black beast.

Frank must have come home whilst I was sleeping.

I call them again – and then suddenly Matthew’s inside, face like he’s about to kill someone, and he’s pushing past me on the stairs.

‘Get the hell off her,’ he’s yelling, taking the stairs two at a time. He’s headed for Frank’s room. ‘I can see you, you little fucker.’