The Stepmother(53)

 

We stare at each other, and the feeling in my stomach is one of lead, a weight that says: this is not good; this is not good at all.

 

‘Face it, Jeanie…’ he starts again, but I don’t want to hear it.

 

‘All right, Matthew.’ For the first time ever, I walk away from him, out of the room. ‘I’ll talk to Frankie when he gets back.’

 

‘Yeah, you will.’ Behind me the door slams, and Matthew stalks past me, down the landing, into his study. The threat in his voice shakes me. ‘I think,’ he says, over his shoulder, his voice seeming dangerously quiet, ‘that’s a very good idea indeed.’

 

Then he shuts his door in my face.

 

 

 

 

 

Thirty-Four

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanie

 

 

 

 

 

12 March 2015

 

 

 

 

 

My psoriasis is flaring. The backs of my knees are a mess, and my nights are filled with strange images, as I lie half waking, half dreaming until the dawn.

 

I am used to stress: used to scrabbling to pay bills or working into the night to meet deadlines at schools; I’m used to the stress of exhaustion whilst studying and trying to parent a sleepless Frankie alone. I’m used to the worries that might have come with a teenage Frank – hence our move away from Peckham, down to the Sussex coast when he was still quite young. I’m used to the typical things parents of teens always worry about.

 

And, of course, my own childhood was stressful I suppose.

 

But this is different. Or rather, maybe, this is starting to feel a little like that time: a childhood I’d far rather forget. A time that went on and on with no control. A time where I lost trust in those who should have been trustworthy.

 

I’m suffocating: nets are closing in.

 

I want to sleep for a hundred years – but I can’t. I daren’t.

 

I’ve got to persuade my own Prince Charming that everything’s all right in our kingdom – before I’m cast out forever.

 

I rouse myself.

 

My first action after Matthew’s fury was to ring Frankie in London, leaving a message that we must speak as soon as possible.

 

Answering messages has never been his strong suit, and it was a day before he called back, by which time he was planning to come home anyway.

 

‘What the hell are you on about?’ he spluttered when I told him what we found on his computer, and something in his tone reassured me. Frankie might have smoked round the back of the art hut, and lost his virginity too early; he might have used a bit of eyeliner during his emo phase aged fourteen; he might have once taken a pen knife to school ill-advisedly, trying to be cool, and immediately got caught – but he was never a liar.

 

‘Agata’s resigned, she was so appalled.’ I felt terribly weary again.

 

‘And you’re bothered about Agata?’

 

That annoyed me a bit.

 

‘It’s not me, Frank: it’s Matthew. He’s furious.’

 

‘Why? Has he never looked at a pair of tits before?’

 

Fear sent its cold shaft through me.

 

‘So you did do it? You need to be honest, Frank. I can’t defend you if…’

 

‘Do what? Look at girls being shagged by animals? Hardly, Mum. I’ve got more taste.’

 

‘It’s illegal, you know,’ I said tightly.

 

He sighed and said, ‘I’m sure it is. It sounds disgusting. But it wasn’t me, I swear, Mum. I didn’t do it. I really don’t get my kicks like that. I don’t know why it was on there, but it wasn’t me. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

 

And that had to be enough for me.

 

Of course it’s not enough for Matthew though.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

I debate asking Marlena for more help, but I can’t deal with her lecturing me about being pathetic right now.

 

But I do do something somewhat out of character. Surprising myself at my own daring, I ring the college and ask to speak to Lesley Browning.

 

‘What can I do for you?’ She sounds harassed when she comes on the line. ‘I’m terribly busy.’

 

‘Please. I have to know – did someone tell you something?’ I ask. ‘Something about me?’

 

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says, but I hear strain in her voice.

 

‘I think you do,’ I say quietly. ‘It’d help me if you could tell me. Or if someone emailed you, then…’