The Stepmother(3)

 

Frankly I took friendship where I could get it during those awful months. Judy had cleaved to me a few years before at Seaborne, after I’d taken pity on her isolation when the staffroom hadn’t warmed to her Tory views. We shared an occasional warm cider after I left, although I suspected it was largely because the depths to which I’d fallen made her feel better about her own life.

 

I pulled the door quietly behind me.

 

Outside I felt the air, damp and salty, on my face. I paused for a moment, savouring it, listening to the seagulls cry like kittens. The sea was only at the end of the road, and I contemplated the walk down to the beach for a last look – but the day was grey, and glancing at my watch, I thought, I’ve got somewhere new to be. Frankie’s train was getting in at 11 a.m.

 

I turned away from the sea and got into the car, and despite my resolution, it felt very final.

 

To a soundtrack of Joplin and Joni, I took the M23, my tummy rolling with nerves and excitement. Still, there was more than a tinge of sadness, despite what happened here eighteen months ago. Brighton had been our sanctuary for the past twelve years, ever since Simon meted out his punishment. I’d miss it badly.

 

But it was time to push those thoughts away; it was time to start afresh. Not everyone gets this second chance at happiness, I reminded myself firmly and cranked up Janis’s top notes.

 

At Berkhamsted Frank’s train was delayed, so I sat outside the station, nursing a coffee and contemplating this new place we were coming to. Such a neat and tidy town compared to the tangy sprawl of the south-coast town that burst with gay bars and hen parties, the busy little Lanes and the neon fairground on the Pier. Berkhamsted, on the other hand, is not Bohemian, cool or chavvy in any way: it is proper, grown-up suburbia.

 

As I watched from my seat, neat little families poured out of 4 x 4s and a clutch of affluent older couples in beige headed to Waitrose. Across the street, yummy mummies ran in and out of the coffee shops in Uggs and fake fur, glued to smartphones. It was all so nice: we might just end up being the sore thumb, my son and I.

 

The truth was I didn’t want attention any more; no more whispers and sniggers, no more covert looks across the street.

 

But what is nice anyway? Nice is so often only on the surface in my experience. The debris usually lies beneath.

 

Frank’s arrival curtailed my musings. He didn’t see me as he loped out of the station in his skinny jeans and scuffed Converse, an old parka falling off his narrow shoulders, and I watched him with joy.

 

‘Oh gosh, I’ve missed you.’ I hugged my son hard, shocked at how tall he was – taller even than when he’d left for Hull three months earlier, breaking my heart as he left the nest entirely empty: only me left.

 

‘Don’t say it, Mum,’ he grinned.

 

‘What?’

 

‘All grown up!’

 

So I didn’t – I just grinned at him. But it did cross my mind that day, yet again: would I have given into Matthew with such abandon if Frankie hadn’t packed and gone north?

 

Now he released himself from my hold and swung his rucksack up, and I noticed a new tattoo poking from his jacket sleeve. ‘New ink?’ I teased, and he swiped my hair.

 

‘Yeah, something like that.’

 

In the car he told me about his new mates, about his halls and then finally that he wasn’t convinced he was doing the right course. ‘I’m thinking of changing to music production,’ he said. ‘More me.’

 

And despite his chatter, as we neared Malum House, my stomach turned over again. I was looking forward to showing Frankie his new home. The prospect of giving him something more than we’d ever dreamt of was tantalising – but I was suddenly terrified.

 

What if they didn’t get on?

 

Sure, they’d been all right the few times Matthew visited Brighton; they got on fine, that was true. They chatted about football, and a bit about music, though their tastes differ vastly. But – what if…

 

Matthew flung the door open wide before I even knocked, soothing my nerves, all smiles, damp dark hair and faded old jeans. He’d been waiting for us with fresh coffee and croissants in the big white kitchen. Leading us in, it was obvious he wanted us to both feel at home, kissing me and giving Frankie a jovial back slap.

 

‘Welcome to Malum House,’ he said, his hazel gaze on me. My stomach flipped over – with excitement this time.

 

‘Nice.’ Frank took his cup to the French windows. ‘Cool view. What’s Malum when it’s at home?’

 

‘The house was built on the site of Malum Farm’s old orchards, in the seventeenth century.’

 

‘Oh right; well old, then.’ Frankie nodded sagely.

 

It was Matthew’s turn to grin. ‘Malum’s the old Latin for “apple”.’

 

‘I see,’ said Frank. Then he grinned and admitted, ‘I never did Latin actually. One year of Spanish just about did me.’