The Stepmother(22)

 

‘Hitchcock’s my favourite.’ He was typically enthusiastic now. ‘He’s a proper master of his craft.’

 

‘But – Psycho?’ Matthew pulled a face. ‘That’s a horrible film, isn’t it?’

 

‘It’s brilliant,’ said Frank. ‘But I prefer Vertigo. Or Rebecca. God, the atmosphere he creates in that.’

 

‘I really hate The Birds.’ I shuddered. ‘I mean, it’s a great film – but I do actually hate birds.’ Something to do, I suspected, with Uncle Rog’s manic mynah bird who’d tormented me and Marlena as kids, swearing at us, pecking at our heads and hands – until Rog’s starving Alsatian tore it apart one day.

 

‘All beaks and claws and…’ I shuddered again and fetched the apple crumble.

 

‘We’re thinking about getting a dog,’ Scarlett was saying as I returned.

 

Matthew pulled a face. ‘Is that really a good idea?’

 

‘Dad-dy,’ she said in her best cross voice, and he sighed.

 

‘Well you’ll have to keep it at your mother’s this time.’

 

‘Blimey, is it raining inside?’ Frankie said, wiping drips off his face. We all looked up.

 

‘Shit!’ Matthew leapt to his feet. Water was cascading through the ceiling. We ran upstairs to find my mistake.

 

Apparently I hadn’t turned the shower off properly when I got back from my run – though I could have sworn I did.

 

I was quite sure I did.

 

‘It’s buggered, hon,’ Matthew said later, after he’d cleaned up and I’d apologised profusely. ‘The grout’s so wet at the base it’s not safe to use. Use the spare bathroom for now.’

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

‘What exactly did happen to that puppy?’ I asked Matthew tentatively later, half watching a boring costume drama.

 

‘What puppy?’ He was half asleep, drowsy with food and wine.

 

‘The one Miss Trunchbull complained about.’

 

‘Oh. It got out. It got run over.’

 

‘How awful.’ I thought of Smudge and how distraught I was when he died. ‘Did you get a new one?’

 

‘No.’ He reached over for the wine. ‘That’s the only pet they ever had. That and Luke’s hamster he had aged six, who lasted about two weeks. Two animal tragedies was enough.’

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

11 a.m.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

I call the plumber about the leaking shower, and then I lug the Christmas box into the spare room that isn’t locked, trailing tinsel behind me.

 

As I drop the box onto the bed, I see an earring on the carpet – a big silver hoop. It must be one of Scarlett’s, because it’s definitely not mine.

 

I sit for a minute to catch my breath, and it’s then that I spot the handwritten envelope with my name on it, leaning against the dresser mirror. Jeanie…

 

Matthew, I think joyfully. A love letter? He’s surprisingly romantic for a businessman. Tickets for something maybe, judging by the size and padding of the envelope. I remember my surprise on our third date – tickets to see Kings of Leon, after an early, expensive supper at Mark Hix’s place in Soho. I’d never heard of Mark Hix before, but I’d gathered this was a place you got taken if your partner wanted to impress you.

 

Am I meant to open the letter now?

 

I struggled with presents as a small child – probably because they were so rare. I got walloped if I got caught squeezing packages, and it wasn’t long before I learnt they were always disappointing. Something cheap and plastic, something out of hock, something that got stolen back or broken.

 

I hate surprises now – that’s the truth.

 

I pick the earring up and put it on the dresser, staring at the envelope.

 

I can’t resist it.

 

I take the envelope downstairs to the kitchen and switch the kettle on.

 

Feeling like George Smiley, I steam it open, grinning to myself. After I’ve read it, I’ll reseal it and pretend I never saw it.

 

Unfolding the A4 sheet, I see it’s a photocopy of something. A picture, a clue? I turn it over.

 

It’s a bad, grainy copy of…

 

Oh Christ.

 

I sit heavily on a kitchen stool, hands shaking.

 

It can’t be from Matthew.

 

I could make a guess at who it was from, except…