The Stepmother(34)
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Frankie comes home just after Matthew leaves and, oh God, I’m pleased to see my lovely boy. I miss him as he forges his own life – but I’m increasingly relieved he has so much wherewithal.
Frankie has been at George’s all weekend, but he senses something’s wrong immediately. I tell him about the puppy – but I don’t say that people seem to be blaming me for its death. What’s the point?
I put tea on a tray, and we sit in front of the fire. The garden is empty again: I’ve checked and rechecked. The gardener’s gone.
‘So was Scarlett as moody as ever?’ Frank asks, turning on an old episode of Sherlock. The twins love it; own the whole series on DVD. ‘She’s such a little madam.’
‘She was okay, actually, at first,’ I stare at the screen absently. I seem to be doing a bit of that recently. ‘She was thawing out a bit. Until the poor dog died.’
‘Don’t take it personally, Mum.’ He helps himself to a stack of chocolate digestives. I can’t be bothered to tell him off. ‘Her not liking you. Jenna says that it’s very common for girls to hate the women their fathers date. Or even their own mothers. It’s called the electric complex apparently.’
‘Electra, you mean?’ I feel so leaden my smile is muted.
‘Yeah, that’s the bird. Girls who hate women who like their fathers. Something like that.’ He loses interest in what he’s saying as a pretty woman knocks on Sherlock’s door.
‘I see.’ I do grin now. ‘And who is this extremely knowledgeable young lady? I’m guessing she’s a young lady anyway.’
‘Jenna? Just a mate of George’s.’ Frankie turns a faint pink. ‘From the pub. She’s studying psychology.’
‘And why were you talking about Electra complexes?’
‘Because.’ Frankie shrugs. ‘I have noticed that Scarlett’s not being exactly – friendly. It’s hard not to. Notice, I mean.’
‘Yeah,’ I admit. ‘She’s not really. But she’ll come round.’
I think about her furious little face; her screwed-up eyes, blue and hard as sapphires, as she looked at me earlier like she hated my guts. I’m not as convinced as I was a month ago that we’ll ever be able to bond.
I think of her lying in her father’s lap. Of them shut in her bedroom. I push away my discomfort.
‘I suppose it’s hard for her to accept the changes.’
Dr Watson is saying something silly and Sherlock is saying something clever. Frankie’s distracted again. Then he turns to me. ‘Well I do know it’s hard to make transitions…’
‘Oh-ho!’ I’m amused, despite myself. ‘Is that something the lovely Jenna says too?’
‘Perhaps. But, it’s just – I want you to be happy, Mum. You deserve it. After…’ Frankie pauses. ‘After everything.’
We never talk about ‘it’, about ‘everything’ – we have both been so glad to put it behind us, I think, since we came here.
But it was so bloody awful at the time; we both carry our scars – hidden, maybe, but definitely there. And yet it linked us in a way I couldn’t explain to anyone else. We have a bond, Frank and I, that I share with no one else. And yet I’m realising I’m going to have to sever it soon, when he leaves again. I will have to learn to live without my beloved boy.
‘I am happy,’ I insist – but for the first time since I got married, I’m not being entirely honest. I was feeling a new happiness. A state that’s fading rather quicker than I’d anticipated.
Something’s not quite right at the moment: something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
‘Did you see the gardener when you got back?’ I glance out of the window, but it’s already nearly dark. He must be long gone. I meant to ask Matthew about him, but I was distracted…
‘Who?’ Frankie’s phone beeps. He glances at it then frowns, chucking it down again without texting back.
‘Everything okay?’ I recognise that belligerent look.
‘Fine,’ he shrugs.
‘Frankie Randall!’ I pause the television. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s just…’ He runs his hand through his hair until it sticks up on end. ‘That bloody girl.’
‘Who?’ I’m confused. ‘Jenna? But I thought you liked her?’
‘Not Jenna, no.’ He grabs for the remote, but I hold it aloft.
‘Frank! What girl?’
‘Scarlett,’ he mutters, and my heart sinks.