The truth was I needed to know what my predecessor looked like. The not knowing was torturing me. And so I discovered the framed photos of her in Scarlett and Luke’s rooms. Well why wouldn’t there be? I picked each one up and stared for a while, trying to imagine what it was like to be this immaculate woman. Then I replaced them exactly where I found them and shut the doors behind me.
So I’m aware not only that Kaye looks amazing but that she also seems to have been extraordinarily good at spending Matthew’s money to achieve that look. Still is good at it, judging from the mentions Matthew’s made of the hefty maintenance he pays.
But it’s all part of a healthy divorce apparently, these photos: keeping the other partner present in the child’s life. My parenting book is explicit: after a split, allow the other parent to still exist. It shows the children’s welfare is more important than your own.
That same day I found the photographs, I’d also contemplated climbing into the attic that ran the length of the roof, suddenly paranoid, anxious I might have missed something vital – but Matthew came back just as I was about to attempt it.
I shoved the ladder back up and rushed back downstairs again, feeling guilty and sordid for my intentions. It was paranoia.
But in all honesty, I tried all the doors that day. I told myself I wasn’t prying; I was just sizing things up before I moved in. I’m not naturally nosey, or even particularly curious – unlike my little sister, who makes a living delving into the lives of others. I just wanted to understand my surroundings and what I was coming to. It was so alien to my old life.
The only room I couldn’t look into was the locked one on the first floor. Unsurprising, though, that a key is missing in a house with two spare rooms, four used bedrooms, a study, a utility room and a tiny gym – weights, running machine – behind a partition in the double garage.
I live in a place the likes of which I’d barely imagined.
* * *
Some time during New Year’s Day, as the rain lashes the windows and we turn the designer fire up, I remember to ask Matt what has been niggling me since last night.
‘Who’s Daisy?’ I ask, and he looks surprised.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Alison. She asked Scarlett how she was.’
‘Oh I see.’ He moves a cushion irritably. ‘Daisy was Scarlett’s dog.’
‘I thought so!’ I grin sheepishly, feeling guilty I’d thought anything else. ‘Is that the puppy old Miss Trunchbull reported?’
‘Think so…’ Matthew moves again and then winces. ‘Can’t get comfy. Think I sprained my wrist slightly at squash the other day.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to look at it?’
‘No, it’s fine, hon.’ He smiles as the phone rings; I leave it for him to answer. No one really has my number here yet.
‘Hello? Hello?’ He frowns. ‘Can you hear me?’
I look up. ‘Who is it?’ I mouth.
‘Hello?’ he repeats and then tosses the receiver aside. ‘Bloody cold callers.’
‘They’re a pain, aren’t they?’ I look for the remote to turn the sound back up.
‘Especially when they just heavy breathe down the phone.’
I glance at Matthew again, unsure whether he is joking. But he is laughing at Jimmy Carr now, and I leave it alone. I don’t mention our wedding picture again either, because I know Matthew thinks it was me, covering my misdemeanour up.
But cold callers on New Year’s night? Seems unlikely somehow.
Eight
Jeanie
5 January 2015
10 a.m.
* * *
Matthew’s gone to Manchester for a business meeting. I’ve written various thank-you emails to people, done some final changes of address. Now I’m packing up the Christmas decorations, the drone of daytime TV in the background – and I’m thinking about work. Or worrying rather.
If I don’t get a job, what on earth will I do with myself? I’ve worked really hard all my life – too hard, often, crawling in and out of bed, completely exhausted, getting through the days. Two jobs when I was at college, juggling childcare when Frankie was little and I was alone…
I’ve certainly never had a choice before whether to work or not. And if I don’t, I will feel useless.
But after what happened in Seaborne last year, I feel useless anyway. Redundant and afraid. What I thought I had to offer no longer feels so tangible. Despite my new happiness with Matthew, I don’t know which way to turn. And I feel increasingly on edge.
* * *
On Sunday I went for a January run, which meant I had about another four weeks of forcing myself round the local streets before not running again until next January. I was panting home, listening to a podcast of a show about Joplin’s life, when a white Range Rover pulled around the corner too fast, nearly taking me with it.
I jumped back quickly, banging my ankle on the kerb.
‘Hey!’ I called crossly, but the car disappeared round the corner, oblivious to pedestrians.
At home, the television was blaring away to itself.
‘Did you check the roast?’ I called, planning to slip straight upstairs before I was spotted for the red-faced sweaty mess I was.
‘Jeanie?’ I heard Matthew from somewhere deep in the house.