The Stepmother(49)

 

‘God I can’t wait to get back to Barbados at Easter,’ Kaye is saying as they leave the room. ‘Daiquiris are calling! You remember Slow Joe’s place? We had fun, didn’t we, babes? Back in the day.’

 

Oh just f*ck off, I find myself thinking.

 

Alone, shaken, I pour some cold coffee into the old mug Matthew has brought in, the mug that says ‘World’s Best Washer-Upper’ on it. I wonder why I got this chipped old thing.

 

But it is obvious, I suppose – I get the homely mug because this is my home now. Kaye gets the best china to show off.

 

This warped civility confuses me. They didn’t do things like this down my way – a middle-class sharing of kids after marriages collapsed. Generally the mothers were left to cope alone. Calling Matthew and Kaye friends was stretching it – but they were friendly enough to chat about arrangements.

 

And yet God only knows what has gone on between them.

 

When my mum and dad split up, we almost literally never saw him again. Once, I think, when he was trying to soft-soap some landlord about back rent and tried to play happy families – and once when he fancied some woman who worked in the local nursery. Turned out she loathed kids.

 

My mum, when she could get out of bed, or wasn’t slumped in front of the old television, watching old Hollywood black and whites, brought home a string of miscreants and no-hopers, most of whom hated us, ignored us – or, on the odd occasion, liked us a little too much.

 

I shudder.

 

Marlena has espoused therapy during the last few years, several times – partly after her own spectacular misdemeanours and then again when I had my ‘incident’ – but the truth is I’d rather eat my own heart than pour it out to a therapist.

 

Through the window I watch Matthew open the car door for Kaye – and then lean forward towards her.

 

Oh God he’s going to kiss her, right in front of me.

 

Horrified, I can’t tear myself away.

 

But he doesn’t kiss her. He just peers into her eye as she blinks, looking up to heaven. She must have something in it.

 

I walk away and sit slowly on the sofa.

 

Kaye’s lighter is lying on the coffee table. I think about rushing out to return it, then think again. She deserves no favours from me.

 

Picking it up, I read the inscription.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

To my darling Queenie on her birthday.

 

Love, always.

 

Your King, September 2013

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was from him, from my husband. Matthew King.

 

Only ten months before I met him.

 

I shove it down the side of the sofa and wait for him to come back from bidding his ex-wife farewell.

 

This is it now. No more hiding.

 

There is no choice any more.

 

 

 

 

 

Thirty-Two

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanie

 

 

 

 

 

5 March 2015

 

 

 

 

 

After meeting Kaye, I know I can’t put it off any more. I can’t let her be the one who mentions it before I do.

 

Matthew is in a good mood the day after she’s been round because Aston Villa have won, so I think I’ll seize the opportunity. We stay in bed late, and it is like when we first met, and I have real hope.

 

I decide to cook an amazing meal, slipping out that afternoon to the best butcher’s on the high street to buy him veal, planning to make a huge cheesecake with chocolate and caramel sauce…

 

But someone gets to him before me.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When I walk in from the shops, my hands curled freezing round the basket, planning on a hot shower, a ton of subtle make-up and my most alluring outfit – that Ghost dress maybe, the clinging burgundy one that Marlena made me buy two summers ago in the Lanes – an ashen-faced Matthew is waiting for me.

 

Later I will cringe thinking about my crass na?vety; about why on earth I ever thought it would be all right.

 

‘What is it?’ I panic. ‘Is it one of the kids?’ I check for my phone automatically. ‘Is it Frankie?’

 

‘No.’ He is terse. ‘It’s this.’

 

He shoves his own phone into my hand. I squint at the screen, but without my glasses, I can hardly read it.