The Stepmother(89)

 

Breathe, Jeanie. I sit down. What can I do that would be helpful?

 

I debate ringing Scarlett – but it might just make things worse. I don’t dare make anything worse.

 

So I ring Kaye. She doesn’t answer.

 

I ring Marlena. She doesn’t answer either – but I leave her a message, half sobbing into the phone, begging her to call me back.

 

Then I go to work. I have no choice.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

I limp through the hot, sticky day, thoroughly distracted, constantly wanting to check my phone.

 

By two o’clock the kids have sensed my lack of concentration and are really playing up. I set a composition on the topic of ‘Suspicion’ for the last half hour and warn them that if isn’t done, there’ll be consequences next week.

 

I don’t go to the staff meeting after class. I plead a migraine and cycle home. The weather has broken, and it is drizzling a fine misty rain now.

 

But I haven’t heard back from anyone, and Matthew isn’t answering my calls either. I keep ringing until he messages me:

 

Stop calling – it’s harassment.

 

 

 

 

 

I eat half a sandwich alone at the old wooden table. It is humid and sticky and horrible despite the open windows. I feel horrible. I chuck the second half of the sandwich away.

 

How different this is to last night – last night when there had been some kind of hope again. God – what an idiot. What a terrible stupid fool I’ve been.

 

I opened myself up to him – and just look what had happened. I hate myself.

 

Tears threaten – but I think, vehemently, I will not cry about this. Action not tears.

 

I try Frankie again; still not even a voicemail to leave a message on. But I have at least found the web address of the vineyard. There doesn’t seem to be a phone number, so I write an email in my poor French, asking them to please pass a message on to my son Frank Randall to call me ‘immédiatement’.

 

Marlena had sent a text as I’d pedalled home; I’d read it as I trudged in the front door.

 

Keep calm and carry on. I’m in Turkey, back tomorrow night – will call then x

 

 

 

 

 

She’d put a rare kiss at the end of the message.

 

Was it pity perhaps?

 

I go to bed early, wanting this day to be over. Before I do so, I check every door and window.

 

In the early hours, a noise wakes me from a broken sleep.

 

I sit up, listening intently.

 

Nothing – I’ve imagined it…

 

Haven’t I?

 

The owl is flying, calling his mournful warning as he makes his regular sweep above the fields behind the cottage.

 

I lie back down.

 

The noise again – a kind of scrabbling on wood. A rat maybe? I hope it is a rat.

 

I get out of bed very quietly and stand at the top of the stairs, listening again. It’s not a rat— There is definitely someone down there.

 

I have no weapon – I have nothing. I am wearing only a T-shirt and pants; my phone’s downstairs; there’s no landline to call from up here.

 

So I have no choice. I pull my jeans on quickly and creep down a stair or two.

 

‘Who’s there?’ I call bravely, trying not to let the tremor creep into my voice. Nothing – but still the scrabbling. Perhaps it is an animal after all.

 

I edge down a few more stairs. ‘Is someone there?’

 

I can just make out the room, veiled in darkness, and suddenly a hand comes through the window and I scream – and then a voice is saying, ‘It’s me! Don’t scream, Jeanie, it’s only me.’

 

I turn the light on.

 

It is Scarlett.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When I’ve calmed down enough to let Scarlett in the front door – ‘The sensible and normal way to come in,’ I point out – I ask her what on earth she’s doing here.

 

I don’t mention the bank account or her father; I don’t know if it is linked to this sudden appearance, but it all seems very odd.

 

‘I’m assuming your parents don’t know you’re here?’

 

‘I’m meant to be on a geography field trip,’ she says. ‘Part of my coursework. I’m starving, Jeanie. I ran out of money at Leicester. Can I have something to eat?’

 

‘How did you get here?’