The Stepmother(52)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When I finally go home, hours later, Matthew is back.

 

‘You’re early.’ I reach up to kiss him, but he pulls away.

 

‘I had to come back. The alarm company called, saying it was going off.’

 

‘Oh?’ I put the kettle on, overcome with lethargy. ‘Agata must have forgotten to set it when she left. I’ll remind her next week.’

 

‘You won’t. Agata’s resigned.’ He is grim. ‘She’s not coming back.’

 

‘Oh, God, really?’ I am surprised by the velocity of his statement. ‘Why?’

 

Personally I’m not bothered. Telling Matthew I’ve lost my job before I’ve even started is worrying me far more than Agata’s resignation. It seems like some odd admission of guilt to say they don’t want me – especially as he’s already so angry. And I’m more than happy to do the cleaning myself; my first job out of school was cleaning offices at nights, paying to put myself through college. Underpaying some Eastern European isn’t high on my agenda of social arrival.

 

‘Because of this.’ He shoves a note at me, handwritten in a childish scrawl:

 

I cannot work here when this is okay!!

 

 

 

 

 

‘From Scarlett? What does she mean?’

 

Scarlett has obviously been here whilst I was out. Her pencil case and her fluffy pink pen are on the side; they weren’t there earlier.

 

‘No – it’s from Agata.’

 

‘When what’s okay?’ I get the teapot down. ‘Do you want tea?’

 

‘For Christ’s sake, woman.’ He slams the note down furiously, making me jump. ‘We’re lucky she didn’t call the police.’

 

He has my full attention now. ‘Why on earth would she do that?’

 

‘Why don’t you ask your son?’

 

‘Why?’ My skin has gone clammy. ‘What’s he meant to have done? I don’t think they’ve even met…’

 

And Frankie isn’t here anyway. He is in London, shopping for vinyl, staying for a few days with Marlena, as his passport is taking longer than he’d hoped.

 

‘You don’t want to know.’ Matthew is about to leave the room. I scurry after him.

 

‘No, I do! Matthew, what is it?’

 

‘All right,’ he says. ‘But don’t blame me when you don’t like it.’

 

Grabbing my hand, he drags me up the stairs to Frankie’s room, at the opposite end of the landing from ours. ‘It’ll make you sick, Jeanie.’

 

‘What?’ I cry, terrified now as he throws open Frank’s door, his fingers still clamped round my wrist.

 

Below the huge poster of a dishevelled Kurt Cobain, the clown’s face Frankie uses as a screensaver blinks and winks at us, and I shiver, jamming my feet into the carpet like a child would. ‘Please, Matthew…’

 

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ Matthew pulls me across the room.

 

‘You’re hurting me!’ I remonstrate. ‘I won’t run away; let me go…’

 

Dropping my wrist, he jabs at the laptop’s keyboard.

 

The hideous clown disintegrates, leaving behind an image of a girl: peroxide haired, wet lipped and naked apart from some kind of leather thing wound round her waist, a girl who doesn’t look much older than Scarlett, who looks barely conscious, having sex with a…

 

‘Oh my God.’ My voice is barely more than a whisper, so stunned am I. For a moment I can do nothing but stare in horror. ‘Please switch it off.’ I feel really sick.

 

‘Too f*cking right: oh my God.’

 

‘But – I’ve never known Frank to use porn,’ I say – and then stop. That isn’t entirely true. ‘I mean, he’s just not the kind of boy to be into this type of – depravity…’

 

‘Really?’ Matthew’s expression is scornful. ‘And what kind of boy would that be anyway? What teenage son would divulge this little penchant to his mother?’

 

‘But we’re so close, me and Frank.’ I stare at my husband, willing him to believe me. ‘I trust him, Matthew, and you should too. I just need to talk to—’

 

‘Oh come on, Jean,’ he says. ‘The evidence is irrefutable. Agata was hysterical! We all know your precious son can do no wrong in your eyes, but you’re going to have to face facts.’

 

‘That’s not fair,’ I protest.

 

‘Isn’t it?’