The Stepmother(83)
‘I’m not. Sorry, but it’s true. Frankie Randall – in black and white. Robo managed to trace the IP address the email account was set up from. It’s not hard, apparently, if you know how.’
I realise I’m gaping like a goldfish. ‘But why would Frankie send that email to Matthew? Or to the college? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Maybe he hasn’t forgiven you. Maybe he…’ She trails off, looking really uncomfortable. Picks up her coffee cup, bangs it down again. ‘Maybe he was jealous of you and Matthew. He could be. He was so used to having you to himself.’
I think of my son; my beautiful boy. I think of how happy he seemed when I started seeing Matthew properly – and how he gave me his blessing. Sure, he didn’t want to leave Sussex particularly, but he was so grown-up about the whole thing, and I’d been really proud of the way he behaved. And he knew, I guess, that he was going to be leaving soon himself, so he took it on the chin. He was scared I’d be alone when he went – so it worked for him.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I say stubbornly. ‘Forgiven me for what?’
‘For – choosing someone else over him.’
‘I didn’t. I just…’ I hesitate to say fell in love. It sounds so chocolate-boxy, especially given everything that’s happened since.
Could all the horror really have been partly of Frankie’s making?
I don’t want to think about how he and Matthew never really bonded – and how it got worse and worse until it imploded.
Did I push him to that point?
‘I don’t believe it,’ I repeat.
‘Well you’re going to have to believe it.’ Marlena’s curt. She checks the time on her phone. ‘It’s there in black and white – it’s indisputable. You need to speak to Frank as soon as possible. Sort this shit out, Jeanie. You don’t want Frank getting into something bad like this.’ She stands, dragging her leopard-skin jacket off the back of the chair. ‘You need to sort it out now.’
* * *
I try to call Frankie in France, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. There’s no denying I feel sick about what Marlena’s just disclosed – but I also feel uncertain. How can it actually be correct?
Yet there’s a part of me that thinks, Well yes – Frank might just have been so pissed off with me that he did send those emails.
And if that’s true – then I deserved it.
* * *
6 p.m.
* * *
When Frankie calls me back that evening, he denies it all. He’s horrified that I’d even consider such a thing to be true. ‘Why would I do that, Mum? Do you really honestly think I would?’
And I say, ‘No, not really.’ I’m just so glad to hear his voice, and hearing it reassures me. I try to remind myself I’m bound to believe him, because I want to think he’s innocent of the charge – but the truth is I can’t help it. I do believe him.
I remember Simon accusing him of breaking something in the Brighton flat. I remember defending Frankie to the hilt. I remember what happened next. I will always defend my son. Always.
Except: Marlena had evidence. She showed it to me.
I tell him so.
‘Well look at my computer if you don’t believe it.’ Frank sounds stressed. ‘I don’t want you to think it was me, Mum.’
It’s in storage though, his old PC, waiting for me to decide my next move after Derbyshire. He begs me to search his history – and I remember all the arguments we’ve ever had about computers, which have long been a source of disagreement between us – his inability to switch off lights, TVs, computer screens.
‘It’s your generation who’ll have to pay when the planet frizzles up,’ I’d plead, and he’d laugh.
‘Because your lot messed it up, right?’
If I go through his computer now, it’ll be like searching Matthew’s all over again – and Matthew’s fury is hard to forget. I hate bloody computers at the best of times, the way they trap us savagely in the technological jaws of our age.
Especially since what happened with Otto.
I decide to believe Frank – and I’ll leave it at that for now.
We swap news. He tells me about the vineyard and the smelly caravan he’s sleeping in; I tell him about the job in the Peak District. He’s happy for me. ‘As long as you’re happy, Mum.’