The Stepmother(17)

 

‘Happy New Year!’ I muster as much enthusiasm as I can. ‘I love that picture, by the way. Did you do it?’

 

I point at the small, framed painting of an old window, surrounded by snow, a red rose growing around the ebony frame. There is a dash of blood in the snow on the sill.

 

‘It’s total shit,’ Scarlett says flatly, without looking at either the picture or me. ‘I did it in Year 7. Can you tell my dad I want him?’

 

‘Oh – why?’ I can’t help myself.

 

She looks up at me again. ‘I just do.’ We stare at each other for a moment until she begins to pout. ‘To come and tuck me in of course.’

 

Really? Then I think, She’s just being silly. Childish. She is a child.

 

‘All right.’ I back away. ‘I’ll tell him. And I’ll… I’ll say goodnight myself then.’

 

‘Night.’ She is fixated on her phone again. I am sure I’ve glimpsed a packet of Silk Cut in her dressing-gown pocket – but I leave it. Enough for one night.

 

On the way back downstairs, feeling rattled, I catch my reflection in the horrible gilt mirror.

 

Don’t be ridiculous. She’s just a little girl, Jeanie, I tell myself. She’s not a threat.

 

Still, I don’t dare rock the boat any more tonight. I am tired and a bit drunk; she is suddenly cross about something. Or rather more cross.

 

I don’t tell Matthew about the cigarettes – or the tucking up, because when I get downstairs, Frankie is looking for me.

 

‘You missed the fireworks,’ he says, and he is frowning, ‘and there’s something odd about one of them.’

 

‘What?’ I feel exhausted, my feet aching in the rarely worn high heels.

 

He walks into the kitchen. People are starting to leave, which relieves me, because I’ve had enough excitement for one day, enough smiling at strangers. I don’t really like parties.

 

‘This one.’ Frankie kneels by a box. ‘It’s called a time bomb apparently.’

 

‘Oh yes?’ I plonk myself down on a stool and ease my heels off. He shoves the box towards me. Amongst sawdust nestles what looks like old-fashioned sticks of dynamite with a handwritten tag attached.

 

‘Yeah.’ Frankie pulls it out. ‘Only it’s not a firework at all. I think it’s real.’

 

‘Real?’ I am confused. ‘Real fireworks?’

 

‘No, real dynamite.’ He looks worried. ‘And it’s addressed to you, Mum. The box has got your name on. Look.’

 

I do. It’s the box the courier brought, and it says my name, Jeanie Randall, and in smaller letters after it:

 

RIP.

 

 

 

 

 

Seven

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanie

 

 

 

 

 

1 January 2015

 

 

 

 

 

8 a.m.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A whole new year! A new start. I look out at the bare apple tree nearest the window, at the miserable wet day, and I huddle closer to a gently snoring Matt.

 

If it’s all a fresh new start, why is my stomach rolling with anxiety?

 

I turn my head from the mail locked in the dresser and from Miss Turnbull’s, ‘I thought I recognised your name’ of yesterday. It’s only a matter of time. I’ve got to tell Matt before someone else does, but…

 

I can’t bear to shatter the illusion. I can’t bear to knock the light out of his eyes when he looks at me.

 

As if he’s sensed me watching him sleep, Matthew opens his eyes and pulls me closer.

 

‘Come here, you,’ he says, kissing my neck, and I shiver and snuggle into him, thinking, I will deal with this – only not just now…

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Half an hour later I leave Matt sleeping again and slide out of bed. It is miserable and grey, and I am definitely a little hungover – unusual for me. One glass too many last night.

 

George has stayed, as well as Luke’s friend Joe, and I thought Matthew might have put one of them in the spare room – but they are on the sofa bed in the living room.

 

‘Still haven’t found the key,’ Matt had said absently when I’d talked of making up fresh beds yesterday, and I’d had another look through the key drawer in the kitchen with no luck. ‘It’ll turn up’, he added. ‘Or we’ll have to change the lock. Use the sofa bed for now, in the study.’