‘Put who up to what?’
‘I should have listened to my instincts about your son.’ He grabs his trousers and pulls them on. ‘So stupid, getting sucked in again.’
‘What is it? What’s wrong? Are you talking about Frankie?’
‘Yes, bloody Frankie, Jean, well done. Where the f*ck are my socks?’ He’s so angry. ‘Have you bloody well hidden them?’
‘Matthew, you’re scaring me.’ I see his socks beneath the chair and clamber out to give them to him. ‘What is it?’
He grabs the socks, muttering to himself as he buttons his shirt.
‘Please calm down…’ I start, and he stares at me like I’m mad.
‘I’m not at all calm. And I won’t be any calmer when I find him,’ he spits, and I feel an intense fear I’ve never really felt before, not even when the whole Otto thing erupted. ‘You’re a f*cking liar, Jeanie. I saw all those bloody pills again – and now this. God, I should have known.’
‘Please tell me what you’re talking about?’ I try to grab his arm, but he shakes me off like a dog would shake a rabbit, making me stumble so I fall against the bed. I crack my knee painfully on the wall, gasping with pain. ‘Matthew?’ I’m really scared, scrambling up again. ‘Please!’
‘And this f*cking time I’m calling the police.’ Frenetic in his haste, he scoops up the rest of his clothes, his shoes, his jacket and leaves the room. Then he sticks his head back round the door. ‘You’d better tell him to get a f*cking good lawyer. He’s going to need it.’
‘What’s he done?’ I follow him down the stairs as he fumbles to get his shoes on, swearing to himself. Has he found out about the emails? That Frankie might have sent them? But that was directed at me, not at Matthew…
‘Matthew, just tell me what the hell’s going on, for God’s sake!’
My shouting surprises both of us, I think.
He actually looks at me now. ‘Your bloody son. That’s what’s going on.’
‘But Frankie’s not even in the country.’
‘Yeah, well he’d better stay away if he knows what’s good for him.’
‘Why? What’s he meant to have done?’ My heart’s beating so hard I think it’s going to come clean out of my chest.
‘He’s cleared out Scarlett’s f*cking savings account. There was thousands in there. Fucking thousands! Where the f*ck are my keys?’
‘What bank account?’ Ice needles me now. ‘How do you know? Was that Scarlett?’
‘No, that was her mother on the phone. She’s totally distraught.’
‘Scarlett?’ I say stupidly.
‘No, Kaye. Scarlett doesn’t even know. Christ, the thieving little bastard…’
‘Kaye’s rung you to say Frankie’s taken Scarlett’s money? Are you sure?’
‘Kaye rang to say’—his tone is quiet and icy now—‘that she’s seen the account is empty.’
‘Empty?’
‘Yeah, empty.’
‘But how does she know it’s Frankie?’
He’s out of the front door now, key in hand, into the car. ‘She’s got evidence, she says.’
I run out into the tiny front garden in my dressing gown, to the passenger door, but it’s locked.
I rap at the window. ‘Don’t go like this please,’ I cry. ‘Please! We can sort it out together…’
What together?
And Matthew refuses to even look at me as he revs the car and pulls out and heads down the hill, his tyres squealing on the tarmac. He hits the wing mirror of an old Jeep further down the road, taking it clean off – but he doesn’t stop.
Another squeal of tyres round the corner and he’s gone. The only sign of him is the metal mirror rattling in the middle of the tarmac.
And it’s only when I turn to go back inside that I see the note, pinned to the door by an old tack.
This is not right is it, baby Jean? it says. This wasn’t how it was meant to go.
* * *
Frantic, I try to reach Frankie in France, but his phone doesn’t even ring. Perhaps his pay-as-you-go isn’t working any more.
Where is the email with the details of where he’s living? I rifle through things, hands shaking, folders of bills and letters I’d brought with me, but I am so panicked I am just making a mess of everything and not finding anything I need.