The Stepmother(72)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

8.45 a.m.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

‘What the f*ck did you take?’ Matthew asks before he leaves for work, his jaw almost rigid. ‘More of that Xanax crap? You were talking complete gibberish you know. It was so bloody embarrassing – and I really needed it to go well.’

 

‘I’m sorry.’ I feel utterly wretched in every way. ‘I swear I didn’t take anything.’ But why do I feel this awful? ‘Honestly. It might just be the same bug Kaye and Scarlett have.’

 

‘Maybe,’ he says grimly. ‘Whatever it was, we need to talk properly at the weekend.’

 

He leaves without a backwards glance.

 

He’s right though. We absolutely do need to talk. There are a few things I need to say to him too.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

10 a.m.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When I stop feeling quite so terrible, I haul myself out of bed to see if Frankie’s here, but he’s off visiting Jenna. Luke’s gone to school; at least I don’t have to face his embarrassment too. I vaguely remember his worried face last night at the foot of the stairs as I was carried up to bed.

 

My head pounds.

 

So.

 

I go back to the room that I looked in yesterday, which is now not locked any more – although Matthew doesn’t know that.

 

It is like a shrine.

 

Cupboards of clothes. A flouncy white dressing table of perfume and make-up. Antique prints of old nursery rhymes on the walls: ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, ‘Mary, Mary Quite Contrary’, ‘Little Bo Peep’. One’s missing, a lighter square on the wall where it must have hung.

 

‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’ – the queen is in the parlour, eating bread and honey.

 

Matthew’s Queenie.

 

Why did Matthew not just say he couldn’t bear to get rid of Kaye’s stuff? That that’s why the mirror still hangs out there on the stairs too? That hideous mirror that reflects how I don’t fit in every time I pass it.

 

He couldn’t bear to move on, so he must have left it all there. Complete. And yet broken. Incomplete.

 

I stagger downstairs to get some water. The post is on the mat; I scoop it up as I pass.

 

A postcard to Frankie from his mate Saul, who’s travelling round Thailand. A few more bills for Matthew.

 

And another letter to Lisa, from HMRC – only this time there’s a full name on the front of the envelope.

 

Lisa Daisy Bedford.

 

In my bedroom, I ring Matthew. When he doesn’t answer, I leave a message.

 

‘Who is Lisa Daisy Bedford?’ I ask urgently. ‘And why didn’t you tell me what was in the spare room? Why have you still got all Kaye’s stuff?’

 

He texts me later.

 

I won’t be back tonight. I’m meeting Sean in town. I’ll stay there. We need to talk properly when I’m back tomorrow. I got another email. PS Stay out of that room please.

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t answer either question.

 

All right.

 

If that’s how he’s going to play it.

 

I go to his computer again, and I log in quickly, before I can change my mind. He’s not changed the password, so he can’t be that worried about me, I think, with relief. And there’s another bloody email from that bastard. It says:

 

You were warned. Why don’t you do something?

 

 

 

 

 

Feeling sick but braver now – or just with nothing left to lose – I skim the other emails to see if Kaye’s sent anything recently. Are they in cahoots? But there have been no emails from her for weeks. I feel inordinately relieved.

 

I get dressed, and I text Marlena.

 

Have you found out anything? He’s had another one.

 

 

 

 

 

No, she texts back, but I’m on it, I promise. Hang in there.

 

 

 

 

 

Then I’m overtaken by another huge wave of nausea, and I have to lie down.

 

I stare at the bedroom ceiling. I have to prove I’m not mad, that someone has it in for me, before I lose either my marriage or my sanity entirely.