The Stepmother(29)

 

* * *

 

 

 

I listen to the shower as I drink my tea, watching the finches in the bare branches of the apple tree as they pick at the pale lichen.

 

I have nothing to feel guilty about, I must remember that; I just have to be honest with Matthew. I have to trust he knows me well enough by now, loves me deeply enough, to understand.

 

And he hasn’t told me everything either, I remind myself, thinking of last night’s uncomfortable conversation.

 

I feel both relief and terror about what I must do, still chastising myself for not having told him before. It’s so stupid, I see that clearly now – but it wasn’t so clear before.

 

Matthew emerges, wrapped in a towel. His physique is good for a man of nearly fifty: toned and fit. Again I feel a wave of…

 

‘What are these, Jeanie?’ He’s holding something in his hand that I can’t make out.

 

‘What?’

 

‘These pills?’ He extends the packet. ‘Xanax?’

 

‘Xanax? They’re not mine,’ I say quickly, seeing his face. ‘Where did you find them?’

 

‘They must be yours. They were in our bathroom cabinet, and they are most definitely not mine.’

 

I get out of bed and pluck them out his hand, turning the packet over.

 

‘See, they don’t even have my name on.’ I study the label. Then I lay my hand on his bare chest. ‘Why don’t you come back to bed for a bit? I wanted to talk to you…’

 

‘I can’t. It’s already late.’ He frowns again, pulling away to get dressed. ‘I need to check my emails.’

 

‘Just for five minutes?’ I plead. It’ll only take five.

 

‘I’m waiting to hear from Tokyo.’ He has that bullish look that I’m starting to recognise as stress. ‘It’s important.’

 

‘Sorry,’ I say, as he pulls on his jeans. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to annoy you.’

 

His face is inscrutable.

 

‘I’ll be down soon.’ I try to smile, but I feel oddly like crying. When he leaves the room, I sit on the edge of the bed, pills in hand. I look out at the bare apple tree. There was a pair of blackbirds, but they’ve gone. All the birds have flown off, scared by something nearby. A cat? A fox.

 

The foxes are always prowling here.

 

I stare out. I can’t shake my feeling of unease.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Downstairs Matthew’s on the computer.

 

I make some toast and then, nervously, I suggest a walk when he’s finished, to the nice café near the woods. I’d rather be out in the open when I tell him. Neutral territory: isn’t that what they always advise for difficult conversations?

 

I’m most worried about how angry he’ll be that I didn’t tell him before; that he’ll feel I tried to trick him somehow.

 

If I’m honest, his anger would be justified.

 

I did try to tell him; I really did. I wrote him an email, a very long, painful one that took me about three days to compose.

 

He’d just told me he loved me for the first time. We had been seeing each other for a few months, and I was starting to feel so strongly about him that I thought, I can’t let this go any further without him knowing the truth – because if he can’t deal with it, I need to get out before I fall any deeper.

 

The other thing was that, back then, I kept expecting him to recognise me. Even though I’d been totally exonerated, I’d graced the front covers of most national newspapers for a good week or so.

 

But he never did.

 

My saving grace was that Matthew isn’t a tabloid reader. His news intake is limited to the FTSE 100, which goes against all my left-wing principles (but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make life quite comfortable).

 

Anyway I wrote Matthew the email over those three days – and then I took a deep breath and, with a shaky hand, pressed send.

 

He was on business in Munich at the time. The next thirty-six hours were hell, waiting to hear – or not hear. Thinking that was it. I’d finally met a man who seemed good, who I could trust – and it was already all over.

 

When he eventually called from Munich airport, I was so pleased to hear from him, I nearly sobbed with relief.

 

It wasn’t until the following weekend, holed up in a nice little hotel in the Chilterns, all chintzy wallpaper and champagne, that I realised, with horror, that Matthew had never read the email.

 

‘So,’ I’d asked shyly, head on his chest. ‘You’re – all right about it then?’

 

‘What?’ He stroked my hair. ‘All right with you in my life? Yeah, definitely, hon.’