The Stepmother(19)

 

‘Oh.’ I keep smiling. ‘Well there’s pancakes, American style. Do you like them? Frankie says maple syrup and bacon’s the best; I like blueberries. What do you reckon?’ Nothing. ‘You could flip some if you fancy?’

 

‘I don’t want anything,’ she says dully. ‘Mum’s picking me up now.’

 

I feel it viscerally.

 

‘She’s not actually.’ Matthew comes in, yawning, looking slightly the worse for wear. ‘She just messaged to say her car’s got a flat. I’ll give you a lift in a minute.’

 

‘I want to go now. Where’s Luke?’

 

‘Gone to play football with Michael and Joe.’ Matthew sifts through the fridge, gulping orange juice straight from the carton.

 

‘Matt!’ I reprove with a smile. ‘Do you want a glass?’

 

‘Too much cheap champagne.’ He winks at me. ‘And not enough sleep, eh, honey?’

 

I blush, thinking of last night, after everyone had gone and he’d taken me to bed.

 

‘Can we go now?’ Scarlett mutters, texting again, and I wait for him to say, Yes, after breakfast, but he doesn’t.

 

He says, ‘Have you seen my car keys, love?’ as he rifles through stuff on the side.

 

I look at all the food, the piping coffee, the stack of pancakes glistening with syrup, and for the first time since I’ve lived here, since I’ve been confronted with Scarlett’s obvious hostility, I feel a small flame of anger.

 

I bite my lip. Good girl, Jean. ‘By the recipe books?’ I suggest. ‘In the Piglet bowl?’

 

‘Aha!’ He holds up his keys triumphantly. ‘Come on, tiger.’ He ruffles Scarlett’s hair. ‘Stick mine in the oven, would you, Jeanie? Won’t be long.’

 

‘Sure.’ I smile brightly. ‘No problem. Bye, Scarlett! Have a good day.’

 

Scarlett doesn’t look back as she leaves the room; she doesn’t say goodbye, still glued to her phone.

 

‘Matt,’ I say quietly, as he waits for her to get her bag. ‘Our wedding photo – the one in the bedroom…’

 

‘What about it?’

 

‘Did you move it?’ I can’t remember if I saw it there yesterday, during all the party hullabaloo. ‘It seems to have got broken…’ I couldn’t say, Someone seems to have thrown it down the stairs, could I?

 

‘Oh, hon! It’s fine if you broke it, really! We can get the glass replaced, no sweat.’

 

‘No, but I didn’t—’

 

‘Dad!’ Scarlett commands from the front door.

 

‘Coming!’ he practically salutes.

 

When I put the pancakes in the oven to keep them warm, I bang the door very, very hard a few times, so that Frankie, sloping in wearing last night’s clothes, holds his head dramatically.

 

‘Blimey, Mum. Hold it down, would you?’

 

It couldn’t be helped, I suppose, as I think about Matthew driving over to Kaye’s new place. The amazing Kaye. Matthew has to put his children first – that is the right thing to do, I know. But the thought of Kaye galls me this morning.

 

About a month before I moved in, before I brought Frankie here to live – when I was unsettled still, trying to get my bearings – when Matthew was out one morning, I took the opportunity to seek out his past a bit.

 

The truth was I needed to know what my predecessor looked like. The not knowing was torturing me. And so I discovered the framed photos of her in Scarlett and Luke’s rooms. Well why wouldn’t there be? I picked each one up and stared for a while, trying to imagine what it was like to be this immaculate woman. Then I replaced them exactly where I found them and shut the doors behind me.

 

So I’m aware not only that Kaye looks amazing but that she also seems to have been extraordinarily good at spending Matthew’s money to achieve that look. Still is good at it, judging from the mentions Matthew’s made of the hefty maintenance he pays.

 

But it’s all part of a healthy divorce apparently, these photos: keeping the other partner present in the child’s life. My parenting book is explicit: after a split, allow the other parent to still exist. It shows the children’s welfare is more important than your own.

 

That same day I found the photographs, I’d also contemplated climbing into the attic that ran the length of the roof, suddenly paranoid, anxious I might have missed something vital – but Matthew came back just as I was about to attempt it.

 

I shoved the ladder back up and rushed back downstairs again, feeling guilty and sordid for my intentions. It was paranoia.

 

But in all honesty, I tried all the doors that day. I told myself I wasn’t prying; I was just sizing things up before I moved in. I’m not naturally nosey, or even particularly curious – unlike my little sister, who makes a living delving into the lives of others. I just wanted to understand my surroundings and what I was coming to. It was so alien to my old life.