The Stepmother(84)

Jenna’s going to visit him soon, he says proudly. He doesn’t ask about Matthew – but he does say that Scarlett called him once.

 

It’s not until later that I think, I never did ask how she got his number.

 

‘I swear it wasn’t me, Mum,’ he insists as we say our goodbyes. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you. You can’t even think that.’

 

But if it wasn’t Frank, who was it?

 

 

 

 

 

Fifty-Three

 

 

 

 

 

SNOW WHITE’S TALE: HER FLIGHT TO SAFETY…

 

 

 

 

 

So Snow White escaped the dangerous court in the nick of time, where her father didn’t seem to be helping much – too busy shagging his new queen perhaps.

 

Snow White lived in the cottage in the forest, although it meant that, after the hunter left her out there, she had to pretend she was dead.

 

The hunter had a deer’s heart to show her arch-enemy that Snow White had been destroyed, and so our heroine was safe – for a while at least.

 

By the way, forget the funny little dwarves: they’ve got no place in our tale. It’s not all about Sneezy and silly Dopey and that miserable old git Grumpy.

 

Snow White did have, before you start fretting, the animals in the forest for company. She had all her chores to keep her busy and from missing her home too much. And that was all all right – until the day her rival looked in the mirror – oh treacherous Mirror – and realised the hunter had lied. But he was long gone by then.

 

And so Snow White’s life was in danger again, because the old mirror kept speaking its truth.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

But I wonder who exactly was the nasty rival trying to hurt?

 

The king, the pure-of-heart heroine or the memory of the dead queen – the ‘ideal mother’?

 

Answers on a postcard please. Address it to Walt Disney if you like.

 

 

 

 

 

Fifty-Four

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanie

 

 

 

 

 

25 May 2015

 

 

 

 

 

When I arrive at the cottage, Jon helps me inside with my cases and then makes himself scarce. He’s flying to Africa in two days’ time.

 

‘Tying up loose ends, saying a few goodbyes,’ he says – but I think he’s actually giving me space.

 

He’s stored most of his personal things, just leaving the pictures on the walls and the furniture. I’ve brought hardly anything: just clothes, books and some photos of Frankie, at all ages.

 

I’ve got the wedding picture of Matthew and I that was smashed on the stairs in January, but I leave it in my suitcase.

 

I think of my last ‘fresh start’ and how wrong it went.

 

But from my new bedroom window I can see the green that stretches out behind the house, scattered with cotton-wool sheep. I can see the orchards at the foot of the hills, and I grin at the sight of actual rabbits bounding in the field behind the garden hedge.

 

‘It’s so pretty,’ I say when Jon returns with fish and chips for two. ‘Sort of – magical. Very Walt Disney.’

 

‘Isn’t it? And another plus – the fish and chips are infinitely better than anything down south,’ he jokes.

 

We sit on the wooden bench in his tiny front garden, next-door’s black-and-white cat rolling in the sun, and I feel a sense of calm that’s been missing for a while.

 

I could grow accustomed to this peace.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Marlena’s promised to come up soon – but she’s enmeshed in this story that she’s keeping very quiet. She’s not so quiet about her anger about the plight of the migrants and the lack of publicity they’re getting.

 

‘It’s just not considered “sexy”, so we can’t make the front pages,’ she complains on the phone. ‘And I have a very, very bad feeling about Nasreen too. I’m waiting for the DSI at Hounslow to get back to me.’

 

She’s about to go to Turkey. I asked her if it was anything dangerous just before I left London, and she promised it wasn’t, but the way she fiddled with her thin silver bracelet meant I knew she was lying.

 

‘Have you spoken to Frankie about those emails?’ she says now, and I tell her he’s flatly denied it.