The Stepmother(20)

 

The only room I couldn’t look into was the locked one on the first floor. Unsurprising, though, that a key is missing in a house with two spare rooms, four used bedrooms, a study, a utility room and a tiny gym – weights, running machine – behind a partition in the double garage.

 

I live in a place the likes of which I’d barely imagined.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Some time during New Year’s Day, as the rain lashes the windows and we turn the designer fire up, I remember to ask Matt what has been niggling me since last night.

 

‘Who’s Daisy?’ I ask, and he looks surprised.

 

‘Why do you ask?’

 

‘Alison. She asked Scarlett how she was.’

 

‘Oh I see.’ He moves a cushion irritably. ‘Daisy was Scarlett’s dog.’

 

‘I thought so!’ I grin sheepishly, feeling guilty I’d thought anything else. ‘Is that the puppy old Miss Trunchbull reported?’

 

‘Think so…’ Matthew moves again and then winces. ‘Can’t get comfy. Think I sprained my wrist slightly at squash the other day.’

 

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to look at it?’

 

‘No, it’s fine, hon.’ He smiles as the phone rings; I leave it for him to answer. No one really has my number here yet.

 

‘Hello? Hello?’ He frowns. ‘Can you hear me?’

 

I look up. ‘Who is it?’ I mouth.

 

‘Hello?’ he repeats and then tosses the receiver aside. ‘Bloody cold callers.’

 

‘They’re a pain, aren’t they?’ I look for the remote to turn the sound back up.

 

‘Especially when they just heavy breathe down the phone.’

 

I glance at Matthew again, unsure whether he is joking. But he is laughing at Jimmy Carr now, and I leave it alone. I don’t mention our wedding picture again either, because I know Matthew thinks it was me, covering my misdemeanour up.

 

But cold callers on New Year’s night? Seems unlikely somehow.

 

 

 

 

 

Eight

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanie

 

 

 

 

 

5 January 2015

 

 

 

 

 

10 a.m.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Matthew’s gone to Manchester for a business meeting. I’ve written various thank-you emails to people, done some final changes of address. Now I’m packing up the Christmas decorations, the drone of daytime TV in the background – and I’m thinking about work. Or worrying rather.

 

If I don’t get a job, what on earth will I do with myself? I’ve worked really hard all my life – too hard, often, crawling in and out of bed, completely exhausted, getting through the days. Two jobs when I was at college, juggling childcare when Frankie was little and I was alone…

 

I’ve certainly never had a choice before whether to work or not. And if I don’t, I will feel useless.

 

But after what happened in Seaborne last year, I feel useless anyway. Redundant and afraid. What I thought I had to offer no longer feels so tangible. Despite my new happiness with Matthew, I don’t know which way to turn. And I feel increasingly on edge.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

On Sunday I went for a January run, which meant I had about another four weeks of forcing myself round the local streets before not running again until next January. I was panting home, listening to a podcast of a show about Joplin’s life, when a white Range Rover pulled around the corner too fast, nearly taking me with it.

 

I jumped back quickly, banging my ankle on the kerb.

 

‘Hey!’ I called crossly, but the car disappeared round the corner, oblivious to pedestrians.

 

At home, the television was blaring away to itself.

 

‘Did you check the roast?’ I called, planning to slip straight upstairs before I was spotted for the red-faced sweaty mess I was.

 

‘Jeanie?’ I heard Matthew from somewhere deep in the house.

 

‘Just getting in the shower!’ I ran up the stairs. There was a strange exotic smell in the air: definitely not roast beef.

 

Matthew appeared silently above me on the landing.

 

‘Oh hi!’ I’d been rumbled. ‘Don’t look at me please!’