The Stepmother(11)

 

‘Come on, hon.’ Matt holds out a hand, and the expression on his face is one I can’t read. No, maybe I can. It’s one of pride, I think.

 

Cheeks flaming, I’m proud to inspire this reaction. ‘You…’ I look down at myself shyly. ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’

 

‘You’re beautiful,’ he murmurs. ‘Lovely girl.’

 

‘God, Mum!’ Frankie bounds up the stairs. ‘Are you wearing that? You look—’

 

‘What?’ I’m nervous all over again. ‘Ridiculous?’

 

‘Like you’re about twenty-five!’ His freckly face breaks into a grin.

 

‘Ah, get away with you,’ I scoff, sounding like my Great Aunt Margaret from Enniskerry – but inside I’m glowing. How could this not be addictive – approbation from my two favourite people in the world?

 

‘Yeah, right.’

 

Another imaginary whisper?

 

Halfway down the attic stairs stands Scarlett, wearing the tiniest dress I think I’ve ever seen: yellow shiny skirt just skimming her thighs, sequined blue bodice glittering in the low lights, long slim legs in fishnets, chunky silver and black heels higher than my headdress.

 

My stupid awkward headdress that hit the top of the bedroom door as I came out to be ‘observed’.

 

And who on earth am I kidding? Mutton dressed as lamb.

 

‘Blimey,’ Frankie mutters, the air between Scarlett and him crackling uncomfortably. Slowly she blinks.

 

‘You look very pretty.’ I smile at her, feeling the heat creep up my chest. I’ll be all blotchy within the minute.

 

‘You look very – silver.’ Scarlett is blithe. ‘Like a big piece of tinfoil.’

 

‘Scarlett Bianca King!’ Her father’s solidarity warms me. ‘That’s bloody short.’

 

I realise the reprimand is for the outfit, not for the way she spoke to me.

 

‘It’s a fairy-tale dress, Daddy,’ she pouts, giving a twirl. ‘Just like you ordered.’

 

The look on Frank’s face is one I recognise from days gone by: days of forcing him to eat his greens. It is almost mutinous.

 

‘Really?’ Matthew’s sigh is hearty.

 

‘I’m Snow White, Dad. You can hardly object. It’s your theme – fairy tales.’ The whine creeps into Scarlett’s voice. ‘You said…’

 

I hear Marlena: I’ll give you tinker, you little…

 

I glance at Frankie. I wouldn’t like to guess what’s going through his head right now.

 

‘Oh, but I can object.’ Matthew really frowns now. ‘And I do. Go and put a proper dress on immediately. People are about to arrive.’

 

Scarlett flicks me a look. One chance…

 

‘Leave her.’ I put my hand on his arm. ‘She looks gorgeous. And it’s a special occasion.’

 

She steps towards us, and I see our reflections in the great gilt mirror. Scarlett and I held together like a photograph in the curling frame.

 

Who is the fairest of them all? I think wryly.

 

Of course it’s Scarlett, without any doubt. She does look gorgeous – and far, far older than her fourteen years. Matthew’s right – it’s entirely inappropriate. The whole look is almost pornographic: shiny red lips glistening above a low-cut Snow White bodice, laced to within an inch of its life; face young and wide-eyed as a fawn’s; a creamy cleavage most would die for.

 

She’s about as innocent as Hannah Montana in her reincarnation as Miley Cyrus.

 

Before anyone can move, Luke canters down the stairs, almost shoving his twin sister over as he skids to a halt.

 

‘I can’t get my stupid quiver to stay on.’ He leans over his shoulder awkwardly. ‘It keeps slipping down.’

 

‘Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen!’ Frankie winks at the boy.

 

Luke. Slightly overweight and solid where his sister is svelte, not so handsome – but amiable where she is spiky. Always worried whether everyone is all right, used to soothing the neuroses of the female egos around him, I’d imagine.

 

‘Here.’ Frank adjusts the strap for him. ‘There you go, Mr Hood. Nice costume, mate. Very cool!’

 

Luke beams. I think he rather reveres Frankie. ‘Thanks a lot.’ No edge to him. ‘I like your costume, Jeanie!’

 

‘Thank you.’ I smile at the boy fast becoming my favourite stepchild, and he tips his pointy green hat to me. A most gallant Robin Hood.

 

It goes without saying that Frankie hasn’t bothered with a costume, but he’s scrubbed up well, my boy, in a white shirt, his freckly face open beneath artfully tousled hair. But he’s less than friendly again now, still mutinous, refusing to look at Scarlett at all.