The Stepmother(85)

 

‘I believe him,’ I confess.

 

‘Hmm,’ she says – but she is Frankie’s greatest fan, and I know she’d far rather believe he was innocent too. ‘I’ll get Robo to look at it again,’ she promises, but I know it’s not top of her agenda.

 

Matthew wanted to meet me before I left London, but I didn’t answer that call.

 

I’m not ready.

 

 

 

 

 

Fifty-Five

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanie

 

 

 

 

 

3 June 2015

 

 

 

 

 

Sitting in the bedroom window, I go through my post. I have two letters – well a letter and a card.

 

One from Frankie, extolling France’s charms.

 

I thought I’d do it old-fashioned style, he writes, and anyway, the Internet connections are crap out here. Write back, Mum. It’s awesome here – the mountains are immense.

 

 

 

 

 

The card is from Matthew; it’s that Hockney print of a swimming pool – no imagination, Marlena would say. He says he’s sorry. He needs to see me, he reiterates.

 

I send Matthew a brief email. I don’t say I miss him, but I am polite. The truth is I’m glad to hear from him, but I won’t admit it.

 

I eat spaghetti Bolognese outside, but it’s cold when the sun goes down. Afterwards I sit inside to write a proper letter to Frankie.

 

Midway I hear the ping of an email coming in. I look, half hoping it’s from Matthew.

 

But it’s not. It’s from [email protected].

 

The header reads: F*** OFF AND DIE. My hands shake a little as I open it.

 

Dont you know when it’s best to leave things alone?

 

 

 

 

 

The punctuation’s wrong, is my first thought.

 

My second is: Lock the door.

 

 

 

 

 

Fifty-Six

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanie

 

 

 

 

 

5 June 2015

 

 

 

 

 

I settle into class quite quickly. They’re a nice enough bunch of kids: not the special-needs group I was led to expect but more what we’d have called ‘remedial’ back in our day – or what Nan would have called plain naughty!

 

‘They can be – challenging,’ the head had said at my interview, pulling an ‘I blame the parents’ face, and during my first week, I can see what he meant.

 

But I have nothing to prove, and they don’t alarm me. I’m just glad to be back in front of a blackboard – or, more accurately, a whiteboard. My mind is so occupied during the day, it prevents me thinking about other things.

 

I don’t receive another email, and I don’t hear back from Matthew.

 

 

 

 

 

Fifty-Seven

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanie

 

 

 

 

 

11 June 2015

 

 

 

 

 

When I get back from school, pushing the bike up the hill because I need to work on my thigh muscles a bit more – especially with a rucksack of exercise books on my back – a car is parked outside the cottage. A big black car that I recognise. My heart gives a lurch.

 

My husband.

 

I contemplate jumping on my bike and freewheeling down the hill into the town and out the other side – but it isn’t a very strong urge.

 

The stronger urge is to find out what Matthew wants.

 

As I near, I see him leaning on the front wall, holding an enormous bunch of red roses and talking on the phone. When he sees me puffing up towards him, he rings off abruptly.

 

‘Hi.’ I feel shy – and out of breath. I should have kept the running up.

 

‘Hi, you,’ Matthew says.

 

I look at him, seeing him through the eyes of a stranger, sensing he wants to be conciliatory – but I trust nothing any more.

 

‘Nice bike,’ he says. His smile seems genuine enough. In fact, he looks almost nervous.

 

‘It’s not mine actually.’ I lean it against the low wall. ‘So this is a surprise. What are you doing here?’