The Stepmother(59)

 

‘Please…’ I say feebly.

 

‘Oh, Jeanie.’ His voice is quiet; he’s calmer. We gaze at each other, and then he puts a hand out and strokes my face.

 

It must be going to be okay.

 

‘I’m not sure how much longer I can do this,’ he says, in that same soft voice.

 

Pain flares. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask stupidly. ‘Do what?’

 

‘It’s not meant to be this hard, is it, love?’ He sounds so sad, it’s heartbreaking – and it makes me think of my dad, how he left and how sad I was and how I felt it was my fault. Is it all about to happen again? My fingernails drive into my palm. ‘Maybe we’ve been foolish.’

 

‘No, we haven’t,’ I say, trying to hold onto his hand, so desperate for warmth from him, for his touch – but he drops it, turns away.

 

‘I’m going to take the twins away for a few days at the weekend.’

 

‘Great.’ I follow him. ‘We could go to the coast? Some sea air would do us all—’

 

‘Just me and them, Jeanie.’ He turns back. ‘We need to spend some time together. Me and my kids, I mean.’

 

‘Oh.’ It’s like a mighty slap. ‘Did I – have I done something wrong?’

 

Jeanie, Jeanie, Jeanie, I hear Marlena reprove. You sound like a lost child.

 

‘Yes well maybe I do – but then where the f*ck are you, Marlena?’ I say.

 

I look up to see Matthew staring at me oddly.

 

‘Who are you talking to?’ he says.

 

‘No one.’ I shake my head. ‘Myself, I suppose.’

 

‘You didn’t do anything wrong. Not really. I’ll take them away, and you can see Frank. Get your heads straight.’

 

Frank’s back – didn’t he even notice?

 

‘Our heads?’ He makes Frank and I sound like some kind of mad gorgon. And what’s the intimation anyway? That my son and I are mutually and tangentially messed up?

 

‘Look, Scarlett found out about you,’ Matthew sounds weary. ‘She saw something online. She’s refusing to come in the house if you’re here.’

 

‘Oh God,’ I say. I feel sick.

 

‘And you can see that might be a problem.’ He walks away. ‘For me.’

 

The bottom is dropping out of everything.

 

And still he won’t tell me who sent that email.

 

 

 

 

 

Thirty-Nine

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanie

 

 

 

 

 

3 April 2015

 

 

 

 

 

Matthew and the twins have gone to Brussels for a long weekend. First class on the Eurostar, rooms at a five-star hotel, puppets at the Théatre Royal de Toone, whatever that might be.

 

I think the twins might have preferred Disneyland Paris, or just a weekend shopping and eating in London – but still.

 

I have fought and fought not to mind.

 

Marlena’s promised to come up, but I’ll believe it when I see it.

 

Taking matters into my own hands, I’ve got another interview, this time at the Oaklands College in St Albans. I’ve spent a day out with Frank looking at local sights, like the Hellfire Caves near High Wycombe. Tentatively I mention the Grey Lady as we drive home and Scarlett’s prank – and he just laughs. ‘Typical teenager,’ he says, and I resist saying, ‘Takes one to know one.’ I don’t bother saying she denied being responsible for my first ‘sighting’.

 

Now I’ve decided to look for a local friend. I used to have lots of friends, once upon a time. Lots. I need at least one here too.

 

I ring Sylvia Jones, the woman who fancied Nordic walking, and ask her for coffee.

 

‘I’m pretty busy this week. I’ve taken up pottery and I’m hooked,’ she breezes. ‘Hoping to meet my own Patrick Swayze! Next week maybe?’

 

‘Great.’ I feel pathetically desolate. ‘Yes, please.’

 

I debate ringing Anne from number 52, but she’s got such a downturned mouth and deep frown lines to match, I can’t bear to.

 

I ring Marlena’s voicemail. ‘I’m coming to London tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Call me back please.’

 

I wander round the house, feeling redundant, and then I hear the mail drop onto the doormat.

 

I pick it up and flick through. Nothing of any interest here – just brown envelopes for Matthew and a final reminder from the gas board.