The Stepmother(12)

 

‘Dancing Queen’ suddenly belts out of the conservatory.

 

‘Jesus! Abba? I told George not to let anyone tinker with the system!’ Frankie is incensed. ‘For God’s sake…’ He thunders down the stairs. ‘ “Royal Blood” is our first track.’

 

Scarlett tries to slink down after him as the doorbell rings.

 

‘Hey!’ Matthew barks at her. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

 

‘Please, Daddy.’ She drops her head, lower lip trembling. ‘I’ll make it up to you…’

 

‘Matthew,’ I say, gently.

 

For a moment Matthew looks at me as if he doesn’t know me – and then he smiles, the kind of smile that still makes my tummy flutter.

 

‘Ah, Jeanie, all right, you win,’ he sighs. ‘You’ve got your stepmum to thank, Scarlett. Just don’t tuck into the mulled wine, okay?’

 

‘Course not.’ She smiles prettily, tugging her skirt over her neat little bottom. ‘Thanks, Daddy. Thanks, Jeanie.’

 

But I’m sure the look I catch in the mirror as her father guides her downstairs isn’t gratitude.

 

Plodding behind them, Luke’s look of sympathy doesn’t entirely placate me either.

 

‘Is Mum coming?’ is the last thing I hear from Scarlett as they disappear round the staircase’s bend.

 

Mum? Oh God. I really, really hope not.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

7.15 p.m.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Alone on the landing, outside the room that’s always locked, I hoick my corset up in the ostentatious mirror. My cleavage certainly doesn’t look so eye-catching now I’ve seen Scarlett’s.

 

But is anything ever what it seems at first sight? Isn’t there always more beneath the surface than we are capable of first imagining?

 

The big mirror is out of place here, fitting so badly with Matthew’s minimalist style I don’t know why Kaye didn’t take it – especially as she seems to have fought for so much else.

 

Perhaps it didn’t match her new décor.

 

Décor that’s cost Matthew at least one limb, in a two-floor penthouse apartment in a gated estate on the other side of town.

 

But we don’t dwell on the past much, he and I. Matthew is all about fresh starts. Which has suited me, of course – up to a point. Sometimes though it’s bewildering to live with someone I know so little about. I’m learning on the job.

 

A new wave of fear washes over me, and I struggle against it. I’ll sort this all out in the next twenty-four hours – then we’ll be safe again.

 

Still, I wish passionately that Marlena was coming tonight. But why would my little sister, no doubt seeing the New Year in with the great and good – or, more likely, the malign and glamorous – eschew swigging Cristal in the capital’s most fashionable haunts to drag herself out to the sticks for curling canapés – even if they are made by a top-notch firm called Classy Catering (yes, really).

 

No, I realise Marlena won’t abandon the bright lights to dance with a sweaty accountant who’ll get too close after one glass too many; to sing a tuneless ‘Auld Lang Syne’ at midnight with a load of drunk suburbanites she’ll never see again.

 

And if Marlena isn’t in high society tonight, she’ll be on the trail of someone from low society, pursuing her next story.

 

Perhaps I could have been more honest about why I need her now…

 

‘Jeanie!’

 

I jump again.

 

Matthew’s waiting at the foot of the stairs. Quickly I switch on my smile and walk down to meet him.

 

‘Come on, Mrs King.’ He holds a hand out.

 

I greet the first arrivals awkwardly in the doorway: the Thompsons from number 52 whom I met over Christmas drinks – he a jovial solicitor, she a dowdy housewife. They hover in their coats, uncomfortable with their gaudy costumes – too early, they’ve just realised, too late.

 

Are they comparing me to Kaye?

 

Don’t be such a drip, Jean, Marlena’s voice resonates in my head.

 

I am a drip though. The good girl: always the staid, boring one, that’s me.

 

This is your home now! Don’t be scared, for Christ’s sake.

 

I draw myself up to my inconsiderable height, push my shoulders back and slip my hand into my new husband’s.

 

‘Hello.’ I smile at Anne Thompson. ‘Can I take your coat? Oh you do look nice.’ She looks entirely ridiculous as a crêpe-chested Cinderella in pink satin, wearing so much foundation it’s collected in her wrinkles. But I see trepidation in her eyes, and I feel sorry for her. ‘That colour of pink really suits you. And where did you get your lovely cape?’