The Stepmother(8)

 

Reluctantly Miss Turnbull relinquishes her cargo.

 

‘Thanks,’ I say as I move off. I refuse to look at them this time. Later. Later will do.

 

She’s still hovering. I realise she’s waiting, her whiskered chin quivering with some sort of emotion I can’t quite make out.

 

‘It’s odd, you know.’

 

‘What is?’ I am bright, fumbling for the key.

 

‘I thought I recognised your name…’

 

‘Oh it’s a common-enough name,’ I say, trying for breezy. ‘Well thanks so much. I’d better get inside before I drop this lot.’

 

It’s not enough apparently.

 

‘Where exactly did you say you moved from?’ the old woman asks.

 

Nowhere. I moved from nowhere, I want to shout.

 

But she knows already, if she’s looked at the forwarded mail. And I’d bet my last pound she has.

 

‘Sussex,’ I mumble.

 

Please go away now, I think fervently. God, I wish I was more like Marlena. I’d just turn my back, forthright and assertive with my boundaries.

 

But I am not like my sister. I am the least assertive person I know – except with my students. The only place I ever came into my own was in front of my class.

 

Back then.

 

Pushing the thoughts down, finding the key, I move to the door – but she’s still there.

 

‘Thanks again,’ I say.

 

‘Having a do?’ Miss Turnbull glares at the catering van parked next to the bashed-up old Fiesta Marlena bought Frankie for his eighteenth. The only other rubbish car parked on the curved drive.

 

I couldn’t afford to get Frankie anything much last year – but at least Marlena saw him proud.

 

This year I can do better.

 

‘I don’t know why people bother seeing New Year’s in,’ Miss Turnbull sniffs. ‘I do hope it won’t be too loud.’

 

‘I’ll make sure we keep a lid on it.’ The key’s in the door now, thank God. ‘It won’t be too noisy, I promise.’

 

A rash promise to make, if my Frankie has anything to do with it – but we’re so detached in this big old house, I doubt The xx will reach Heaven’s Gate.

 

The New Year’s Eve bash was definitely not my idea. I don’t know anyone locally, not yet, and I’ve invited no one apart from Marlena and Jill. Honestly I’d be happier nodding my head along to Jools Holland with my new husband, accompanied by a glass of Cava and a tube of Pringles – but my new husband (God, how odd that still sounds!) has different ideas.

 

‘I want to show you off,’ Matthew said when he first mentioned the idea, ever the gallant – and secretly, despite my innate shyness, I’m bursting with happiness. Despite knowing that, at the grand old age of forty-two and a half, I’m hardly a young bride worthy of being flaunted.

 

Second time round the block for him, and a lot of water under bridges. Whole oceans full, in my case.

 

And of course, I’m slightly ashamed to say, Miss Turnbull’s not invited – not as far as I know anyway. Matthew said something like, ‘That old bat will never darken my door again,’ when we saw her outside one day, sweeping up non-existent litter.

 

I vaguely remember a story about her complaints to the RSPCA, saying Scarlett’s puppy barked excessively; so much so that the RSPCA had come round and checked on the Kings.

 

What is that expression on her saggy face as she looks at me now?

 

Concern?

 

No – it’s worse than that. It’s disapproval.

 

‘I mean we don’t want any more shenanigans, do we?’ Miss Turnbull says. ‘I really don’t want to be calling the police again.’

 

‘Again?’ I stop, key in door. ‘What do you mean?’

 

‘Less said.’ She purses bloodless lips now as I gaze at her.

 

‘Please do say,’ I prompt. ‘What police? When?’

 

The old lady glances up at the house and then away. She’s not going to tell me anything else; she’s decided apparently.

 

‘Well I don’t want to be out here in the dark,’ she harrumphs, although it’s a pleasant, if cold, afternoon: there’s even a glimmer of sun in the washed-out sky. ‘You never know who might be around.’ She shoots a look down the road, as if we were in downtown LA, the Bronx – or even central Peckham, where I was hauled up. Here I’d hazard a guess a couple of dog walkers are the worst she might encounter.

 

‘Thanks so much, Miss Trunchbull—’ Horrified I stop, thinking of Roald Dahl’s horrid old headmistress – and my last boss.

 

‘Turnbull,’ she corrects crossly. ‘I must say’—she gives me a final once-over—‘you’re quite different to the last one.’