The Stepmother(9)

 

Last round to her then.

 

I watch her sensible lace-ups squelch through the last leaves, not cleared from the foot of the drive, disintegrating in all the rain we’ve had recently.

 

Glancing down at the mail, I feel a familiar squeeze of fear.

 

I shove the lot into my coat pocket and lug the wine glasses and the suit into the house.

 

My tentative ‘I’m home!’ rings false in my ears, and although I want to see Matthew – I always want to see Matthew – I feel a surge of overwhelming relief when silence greets me.

 

Dumping my wares in the hallway, I stick my head round the kitchen door. The scary, super-efficient caterer waves from the central island where she’s counting something called smoked salmon blinis, and I’m just wondering where Matthew is when full-blast techno pumps through the house: The Prodigy’s ‘Firestarter’, I think.

 

Frankie’s got the sound system up and running then.

 

Back soon, I ?? you

 

 

 

 

 

says the note stuck on the front of the fridge with an Aston Villa magnet. Matthew’s gone to fetch the twins.

 

It’s not his weekend, but as far as I can tell their mother – ‘the last one’ as Miss Turnbull would have it – or the only other one, in fact, plays hard and fast with the rota.

 

‘It’s our gain,’ I’d reassured Matthew last night after his phone had started to ping with texts. Feeling flushed and giddy with the romance of my new life, when he’d announced that she’d asked us to have the twins for New Year’s Eve, I’d been quite happy to agree. ‘It’ll be fun to party with them.’ I’d dolloped more chicken chow mein onto his plate and topped up his glass of red. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing them.’

 

But actually that was a lie.

 

I am only looking forward to seeing one of them this weekend. Frankly the other one alarms me quite badly.

 

Despite my best efforts, Scarlett’s proving a tough nut to crack. I’d met the twins about six weeks in, against my slightly better judgement, but I’d never anticipated such hostility from her. And I can’t help feeling partly responsible: the speed at which Matthew and I married, almost six months to the day we met, hasn’t helped, I guess.

 

But I couldn’t wait. ‘Do you need help?’ I shout over the music to Julie, who shouts back that she’s fine and it’s all underway (I think, though it’s hard to tell as Keith Flint is still yelling something about a bitch someone hated), and I think how strange this is, to be in this smart, large house whose inside doesn’t match its outside at all.

 

Inside it’s all ultra-modern and blank, neutral tones; matching three-pieces and plush rugs and every electronic mod con I could wish for – and a few more I’d never heard of before.

 

How very different to where I was this time last year – entirely different, in fact. I’d never have dreamt I’d be this happy; a year ago I thought I’d never see the light of day again. I’d certainly never dreamt I’d be paying a lady to make canapés for guests I don’t even know.

 

All right, correction: I’m not paying her. Matthew is.

 

Everything’s happened so fast. The issue of my finding a job now that I live in his house, in this town, hasn’t arisen yet, and it’s another subject we need to discuss soon.

 

There are a few things that have been overlooked – the most important of which I know I need to rectify immediately.

 

The letters crackle in my pocket as I push by the kitchen counter.

 

But I’ve missed my chance today. When Matthew returns, it’ll be with his kids – and I can’t tell him when they’re here.

 

I just need to get through tonight – to pass the initiation test, I suppose…

 

What if I don’t pass though?

 

What if…

 

I head upstairs. When I get to the master bedroom – our bedroom – I close the door firmly and sit on the bed.

 

I stare out into the huge back garden, past the bare old apple trees, their lichened branches sprawling towards the bedroom window, down to the great lawn sloping into a cluster of old trees at the end: big oaks that provide a canopy of dark and dappled light I’ve not explored yet and other naked, December trees. Beyond them is the high wall that keeps us in.

 

Someone’s strung up fairy lights around the terrace this end, planted outdoor candles along the path. Silver lanterns adorn the lawn’s edges. It’s very pretty – magical almost – perfect for the theme of tonight’s party.

 

It’s my home – and yet I feel like a fish out of water still, and I fear my days might be numbered if I’m discovered before my confession.

 

Pulling the new mail from my pocket, I feel sick with fear.