The Stepmother(69)

 

‘Are you really all right?’ he asks. ‘Perhaps’—he stares down at me—‘you need some help?’

 

‘What kind of help? I’m fine, Matthew, really.’

 

‘Well that’s good, because Alison and Sean are coming to dinner tonight. If you can hold it together that long.’

 

‘Oh right,’ I say slowly. Had I forgotten that too? ‘Shall I cook something nice?’

 

Matthew does his tie up in the mirror. He looks tired, I notice, and his shirt is slightly tighter than it was four weeks ago. He definitely seems more distracted recently. ‘If that’s okay,’ he says gruffly, ‘I’d appreciate it.’

 

‘Of course.’ I feel more enthused than I have done in days – in weeks. The kitchen is my domain; I’ll prove I’m not as useless as he obviously thinks. ‘I’ll get my Delia out.’

 

‘I prefer Nigella,’ he says, and he actually smiles. ‘Better tits.’ Then he leans over the bed and kisses my forehead. He smells nice. ‘I need it to go well, Jeanie. Sean’s been a great help recently. I need to say thanks.’

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Before I go shopping I knock on Sylvia Jones’s door.

 

She doesn’t answer, so I go back home and sit in my little car in the drive. I just sit there, waiting and watching.

 

About an hour later, just when I am going to give up, just when I am so cold I am getting cramp, Sylvia walks round the corner, her little dog in a matching coat, heading towards the woods.

 

My hands icy from sitting, my legs bloodless, I run across the road to confront her.

 

She actually flinches when she sees me.

 

‘Why did you text Matthew?’ I demand. ‘Why didn’t you talk to me first?’

 

‘I hope you’re not threatening me.’ She squares her shoulders in her horrid pink Puffa jacket. ‘I thought he deserved to know.’

 

Oh how blind I’ve been! I think. She’s jealous. Of course! A widow, around Matthew’s age, looking for her ‘own Patrick Swayze’. And then I come along and snaffle him. She’s really annoyed.

 

We’re all just looking for love.

 

‘Deserved to know what though?’ I stare at her pretty, saggy face. ‘There was nothing to tell. Why are you meddling in our business?’

 

‘I’ll call the police’—Sylvia’s voice is shrill—‘if you don’t go away.’

 

‘Gladly.’ I am shaking with anger. ‘But I’d like you to keep out of my marriage.’

 

‘I’m not the least bit interested in your marriage,’ she retorts.

 

‘Did you send him an email too? A very helpful email?’

 

‘No, I did not,’ she spits. ‘I have better things to do than get involved with your sordid life. Poor man.’

 

‘Poor man?’

 

‘First that dreadful Kaye, spending all his money – and then that girl – and now you.’

 

‘There’s nothing “poor” about Matthew,’ I retort. ‘He’s fine, thanks very much. As long as you stay away.’

 

Then I go to the high street, frozen and shaken, and buy all the ingredients for dinner, along with some flowers and some candles.

 

What girl?

 

At home, I start to make a casserole, but I find it hard to concentrate. On the radio they are talking about a new production of Macbeth in the West End.

 

What girl?

 

Something wicked this way comes.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

7.15 p.m.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Alison and Sean are coming at seven forty-five apparently. I’m running out of time as I finish the food; I still need to get changed myself, and Luke has turned up for the night. Kaye and Scarlett are both ill with some sick bug, so he’s hiding out here.

 

Frankie and Luke are playing FIFA in the lounge.

 

‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Frank looks concerned when he comes to get himself and Luke a drink.

 

‘Of course,’ I say breezily, but I’m not; I keep forgetting to add things to the sauce and finding them on the side. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

 

‘What were you doing earlier? I heard you banging around upstairs this afternoon, didn’t I?’

 

‘I don’t think so.’ I move the bread. I’m getting quite good at lying.