The Stepmother (8 page)

N
o comment
.

I
listen
to the shower as I drink my tea, watching the finches in the bare branches of the apple tree as they pick at the pale lichen.

I have nothing to feel guilty about, I must remember that; I just have to be honest with Matthew. I have to trust he knows me well enough by now, loves me deeply enough, to understand.

And he hasn’t told me everything either, I remind myself, thinking of last night’s uncomfortable conversation.

I feel both relief and terror about what I must do, still chastising myself for not having told him before. It’s so stupid, I see that clearly now – but it wasn’t so clear before.

Matthew emerges, wrapped in a towel. His physique is good for a man of nearly fifty: toned and fit. Again I feel a wave of…

‘What are these, Jeanie?’ He’s holding something in his hand that I can’t make out.

‘What?’

‘These pills?’ He extends the packet. ‘Xanax?’

‘Xanax? They’re not mine,’ I say quickly, seeing his face. ‘Where did you find them?’

‘They must be yours. They were in our bathroom cabinet, and they are most definitely not mine.’

I get out of bed and pluck them out his hand, turning the packet over.

‘See, they don’t even have my name on.’ I study the label. Then I lay my hand on his bare chest. ‘Why don’t you come back to bed for a bit? I wanted to talk to you…’

‘I can’t. It’s already late.’ He frowns again, pulling away to get dressed. ‘I need to check my emails.’

‘Just for five minutes?’ I plead. It’ll only take five.

‘I’m waiting to hear from Tokyo.’ He has that bullish look that I’m starting to recognise as stress. ‘It’s important.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, as he pulls on his jeans. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to annoy you.’

His face is inscrutable.

‘I’ll be down soon.’ I try to smile, but I feel oddly like crying. When he leaves the room, I sit on the edge of the bed, pills in hand. I look out at the bare apple tree. There was a pair of blackbirds, but they’ve gone. All the birds have flown off, scared by something nearby. A cat? A fox.

The foxes are always prowling here.

I stare out. I can’t shake my feeling of unease.

D
ownstairs Matthew’s
on the computer.

I make some toast and then, nervously, I suggest a walk when he’s finished, to the nice café near the woods. I’d rather be out in the open when I tell him. Neutral territory: isn’t that what they always advise for difficult conversations?

I’m most worried about how angry he’ll be that I didn’t tell him before; that he’ll feel I tried to trick him somehow.

If I’m honest, his anger would be justified.

I did
try
to tell him; I really did. I wrote him an email, a very long, painful one that took me about three days to compose.

He’d just told me he loved me for the first time. We had been seeing each other for a few months, and I was starting to feel so strongly about him that I thought,
I can’t let this go any further without him knowing the truth – because if he can’t deal with it, I need to get out before I fall any deeper.

The other thing was that, back then, I kept expecting him to recognise me. Even though I’d been totally exonerated, I’d graced the front covers of most national newspapers for a good week or so.

But he never did.

My saving grace was that Matthew isn’t a tabloid reader. His news intake is limited to the FTSE 100, which goes against all my left-wing principles (but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make life quite comfortable).

Anyway I wrote Matthew the email over those three days – and then I took a deep breath and, with a shaky hand, pressed send.

He was on business in Munich at the time. The next thirty-six hours were hell, waiting to hear – or not hear. Thinking that was it. I’d finally met a man who seemed good, who I could trust – and it was already all over.

When he eventually called from Munich airport, I was so pleased to hear from him, I nearly sobbed with relief.

It wasn’t until the following weekend, holed up in a nice little hotel in the Chilterns, all chintzy wallpaper and champagne, that I realised, with horror, that Matthew had never read the email.

‘So,’ I’d asked shyly, head on his chest. ‘You’re – all right about it then?’

‘What?’ He stroked my hair. ‘All right with you in my life? Yeah, definitely, hon.’

‘No, I meant – about my email?’ I sat up, feeling a shiver of anxiety. ‘You – you did read it, didn’t you?’

‘Wellll…’ He looked abashed. ‘I was so busy, hon.’ He pulled me down, kissing my neck, sliding his hand into my dress. ‘I didn’t have time for personal stuff.’

I froze.

‘Do you want me to read it now?’ He undid my top button. ‘I can if you like…’

‘No,’ I said, panicking. ‘Don’t bother. Just delete it. Please.’

C
hecking
the New York stock exchange, Mathew doesn’t seem enthused by the prospect of a walk, but he agrees. ‘It’ll give me a chance to try out that new pedometer Fitbit thing I got for Christmas.’

I am the world’s biggest Luddite: I barely know what an app is. I hate mobile phones; I hate everything about them, especially since the complaint and the spread of malice on the Internet. The great world wide web caught me in its sticky hold, and I hate it and what it means for us as a society. It’s pernicious.

But I keep my opinions to myself.

‘I wanted to talk to you about something.’ I am full of apprehension. ‘If that’s okay with you.’ I know I am ever more tense with him recently, less brave.

‘Fuck!’ He bangs the keyboard with ill feeling. ‘This is shit.’

‘Work?’ I wish he’d concentrate for a moment.

‘The Euro’s shite because of all the Greek crap. It’s knocking on to all the markets.’ He shuts the screen down. ‘Fuck, I wish Cameron and Osborne would get their heads out of their arses.’

‘I’m sorry.’ My stomach rolls with nerves as I sit beside him. ‘The thing is, Matt…’

‘Shall we wait till the kids get here?’ He stretches and checks the time. ‘To walk, I mean. Get them away from their screens.’

‘The kids?’ My heart sinks.

‘Yeah. They love the woods. Well, they did when they were little anyway.’
Now
he looks enthused. ‘I worry about all that computer shit sometimes. What effect it’s having. Get ’em outside.’

Apparently I have forgotten it’s our weekend. But it was our weekend
last
weekend too. This doesn’t seem quite right.

But this is their home, of course; it was their home long before it was mine. And I imagine how I’d feel if Frankie’s dad didn’t make him welcome – except, of course, Frankie’s dad has never been on the scene.

‘No problem.’ I smile. ‘Let’s take them too. Only I just wanted to tell you something. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now, but…’

As if they’ve been summoned by my surprise and fear, we hear the crunch of tyres on gravel. That shiny white Range Rover is outside, the children’s mother obscured by Scarlett in the passenger seat.

There’s not enough time to do it now. We need to be alone.

I need to steady myself.

‘I’ll just be a minute.’ I slip out of the room; I don’t need to witness the hearty hellos. They need time alone with their dad anyway.

Catching my reflection in the curly gilt mirror, I pull a face at myself. I’m going to ask Matthew to move the bloody thing. I hate it. Better still, Kaye could take it with her now.

Mirror, mirror
… Kaye is the fairest of them all, no doubt. Even if she does pay a fortune for her blonde.

I am going to be bolder. I must speak my mind more.

In our bedroom I sit at the dressing table, staring at myself. I look washed-out and pale – well it’s that time of year I suppose, where we all fade a bit.

If I look better, I’ll feel better perhaps. Fumbling for my blusher, I feel panic rise, dropping make-up brushes, knocking the key to the drawer onto the floor clumsily.

Without thinking, I pick it up and slip it into the lock.

The drawer is empty.

I scrabble my hand around it frantically – but there’s nothing in it. Nothing – apart from an old receipt for Opium perfume, bought at Heathrow airport, around two years ago. And a hairgrip with a little flower on it.

Someone – not me –
someone
has removed everything I put in here. All the evidence is gone.

Where the hell has it gone?

Mind racing, trying to think what to do for the best, I feel like I’m struggling to breathe – and then I think I might be about to have a panic attack. After Seaborne I had a couple of them. I had to learn to control my breathing and to… breathe deep, and to remember I’m still breathing, and…

I put my head between my knees, feeling like this is not reality, trying to remember to breathe, just breathe…

And I’m shocked when Matthew comes in. I sit up too quickly, shoving the drawer shut as he sidles up behind me and leans down.

‘Looking for something?’

‘No, sorry, I just felt a bit – faint for a minute.’ I feel light-headed and giddy and sick now; it’s the truth.

‘Well you smell gorgeous,’ he murmurs. ‘Are you coming down to say hello?’

He pulls me up and kisses me hard.

‘Matthew,’ I say, still light-headed, clinging onto him for literal support. ‘Kaye’s not here, is she?’

He says, ‘Shhh!’ and kisses me again, harder this time, and, despite myself, I find myself responding – until a small yap makes us both jump.

Luke is standing in the bedroom doorway, holding a tiny white puppy in his arms.

‘Oh – how adorable!’ I say, although the truth is I’m wary about dogs since Smudge. I was never that keen to be honest, having been badly bitten once by my Uncle Rog’s Alsatian, Kaiser. Rog had been on yet another bender and hadn’t fed or watered the poor animal for days. The smell of dog shit still reminds me of that horrible night.

But Smudge sneaked into my heart, despite my misgivings. What eight-year-old wouldn’t have loved him, with his liquid brown eyes and the wet nose he pushed hopefully into my hand? The truth was I needed someone to love – or someone to love me – unconditionally. Without wanting something back.

When Smudge died, just before my tenth birthday, I thought I would die too – I was so devastated.

‘He’s Scarlett’s,’ Luke says. ‘Yassine got him for her from his friend.’

‘Who the hell’s Yassine when he’s at home?’ Matthew looks thoroughly irritated.

‘Mum’s new boyfriend. He got scouted for West Ham when he was fifteen.’ Luke looks so excited that I smile, but Matthew’s face has set in that way it does whenever Kaye is mentioned. ‘He can do one hundred keepy-uppies in a go.’

‘Typical,’ Matthew mutters. He scratches the little dog’s fluffy head. ‘He’s cute – but we don’t want him here, mate. We’re not set up for dogs.’

‘But Mum’s going away for the weekend.’

‘She is, is she?’ Matthew looks even more pissed off.

‘Yeah, and she said we had to bring him.’ Is Luke’s lower lip trembling now? These children are so vulnerable it seems.

‘Oh we’ll manage, won’t we, Matt?’ I say quickly. ‘It’s okay, Luke.’

‘I suppose so.’ Matthew sighs again. ‘Well tell your sister that if he craps on the carpet, she’s cleaning it up.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘We can take him to the woods with us. What’s his name?’ I tickle his chin – but I won’t look into his eyes. That was my mistake with Smudge.

‘Justin,’ Luke says.

‘As in time?’ Matthew jokes. ‘Ridiculous name for a dog.’

‘No.’ Luke rolls his eyes at his father’s stupidity. ‘As in Bieber.’

W
e wrap
up warm and take the dog on the walk. He doesn’t have a lead, so we stop at the pet shop on the high street, and the twins choose a purple suede one, as well as a dog bed and some toys.

As we amble through the trees, Matthew’s arm around me, I’m pleased that even Scarlett seems to be enjoying herself – although the poor little puppy gets confused a few times and, by the end, has to be carried, none too enamoured with the brambles or the scary big trees.

Still, it’s the most family-oriented time I’ve ever spent with the twins – and I haven’t even worried about Matthew showing me affection in front of them. I’m ebullient as we drive home, singing along to Ellie Goulding – although there are some rumblings in the back about ‘proper’ music.

It’s only when we get back and I run upstairs to change my muddy jeans that I remember the missing letters.

Downstairs Matthew is busy in the kitchen for once. He makes popcorn and hot chocolate for the kids, pours us a glass of wine and reveals a load of old home movies he’s had transferred to DVD.

I perch on the arm of the sofa, my sense of security dissolving as reality sets in. Watching their old memories is hard.

The home movies are mainly of the twins, of course – holidays, special occasions, birthdays and school plays – but occasionally there are shots of Kaye, usually in huge sunglasses and a miniscule bikini or a radically cutaway swimsuit, lounging by a turquoise pool or watching a sunset. There’s a whole five minutes of the twins shooting on the range at Gleneagles, high-fiving and laughing, and then Kaye in a stupid fur hat grinning into the camera.

Am I wrong to mind?

When eventually in one sequence she begins to turn faultless cartwheels on a tropical beach straight from a Bounty ad, I stand up.

‘Burgers and wedges okay for tea?’ I ask, and they chorus approval, their eyes firmly on Kaye’s perfect behind flipping up, over and around, Scarlett following faithfully in her mother’s tracks.

In the kitchen, alone, I bend double, trying to slow my breathing. In and out, in and out…

Luke comes in, looking for water for the puppy.

‘Are you all right?’ He looks concerned. ‘Are you ill?’

‘I’m fine, love,’ I say. ‘Just – feeling a bit tired.’

Matthew comes in for more wine as Luke leaves.

‘Where’s the bottle?’ Matthew glances at me. ‘Are you okay, hon?’

‘Yeah, fine,’ I say, and he kisses my forehead.