‘Just getting in the shower!’ I ran up the stairs. There was a strange exotic smell in the air: definitely not roast beef.
Matthew appeared silently above me on the landing.
‘Oh hi!’ I’d been rumbled. ‘Don’t look at me please!’
‘Why?’ He was shoving something into the back pocket of his jeans.
‘Oh nothing, just being silly.’ I sniffed. The smell was stronger up here. ‘What’s that smell? Like – roses, or something…’
‘I don’t know.’ Matthew’s jaw was very set as I drew level with him.
‘Has something happened?’ Fear shot through me.
‘Has Mum gone?’ Luke appeared in the hall below us. ‘My tablet’s in her car. I’ve got homework I need to look up.’
‘Mum?’ I was surprised to see Luke. I didn’t remember Matthew telling me they’d be here, but…
‘No, she’s gone.’ Matthew gave me a quick squeeze as he went down past me. ‘I need to check the potatoes, hon.’ Which meant he hadn’t checked them earlier. He didn’t like cooking – that was becoming evident, though I didn’t mind. It gave me something to do; I quite liked feeding everyone.
‘I thought she was still with you.’ Luke sounded plaintive. ‘I heard you up there.’
Upstairs?
‘Lucas, she’s gone, all right?’ Matthew disappeared into the kitchen, the door banging loudly behind him.
‘She said they had stuff to sort out.’ Luke looked up at me apologetically. ‘They were talking in the kitchen, so I didn’t want to disturb them – but then they went up. Dad gets a bit cross if I interrupt.’
‘Don’t worry, love.’ Something about his worried round face reminded me a bit of Smudge, the old dog we inherited as kids from Gloria along the stairwell when she moved back to Trinidad. That was before my mother gave up on us, pets and home for the last time.
‘Perhaps you could use Frankie’s iPad? It’s probably in the front room on the bookshelf.’ Too late I prayed Frankie hadn’t logged into anything like the Kardashian sex tape, as I’d caught him doing a few years back on our ancient PC in Hove. I didn’t want to be responsible for my stepson being corrupted in any way.
‘Thanks.’ Luke looked cheered. ‘I want to look up the ghost of Malum House.’
‘The ghost?’
‘Yeah.’ His round eyes brightened. ‘Hasn’t Dad told you? About the Grey Lady? She died in the old turret, and now she walks the corridors at night – and you can smell violets too.’
‘Oh wow!’ I said. ‘Violets, eh? No, I hadn’t heard about her. I’ll keep an eye out…’
‘I’ve heard her because I’m sympathetic,’ he said gravely, disappearing into the lounge. ‘But Dad says I’m imagining it.’
* * *
Getting in the shower, I couldn’t quite place the reason for the heavy weight in my stomach – but I did feel most uncomfortable at the idea of Kaye being in the house when I was out.
It was daft though. Obviously she’d lived here for a while before the divorce, and I’d always known that. They’d bought the house together when Matthew got his promotion to partner, the job he had now. She’d redesigned the interiors using some swanky architect – and then got bored, apparently, leaving Matthew to decide on everything.
When I moved to Berkhamsted, Marlena said, ‘God, don’t you think it’ll be strange to live in another woman’s trappings? Redecorate why don’t you?’
But I put that comment down to therapist rubbish. Frankly I was used to rented places, and I didn’t give it much thought.
I had more important things on my mind.
At lunch Scarlett was in a strange mood, more garrulous than usual, rattling on about things I didn’t understand to do with her maternal grandma up in Cambridge and her mother’s friends. She’d stop mid-subject and ask what I thought about her grandpa’s dog or the new car her aunt had just got. I tried to enjoy being included – but of course I could have no opinion, really, on anything she said. My conversation was punctuated with, ‘Oh goodness,’ or, ‘I don’t know, I’m sure that’s very nice though.’
After that Scarlett turned her attentions to Frankie, telling him about some nightclub she and her mate Gemma had been to last week, until Matthew raised an eyebrow and she realised the story wasn’t appropriate. Luke plodded through his beef, glancing up every now and then to cast me his hangdog look, as if to apologise.
I thought Scarlett seemed younger again, picking at her food, twisting her hair round and round her finger, silver glitter nail varnish chipping away as she gazed at Frank.
In response Frankie was polite but quiet – strained, even, as he concentrated on eating.
I steered us on to a new, safer subject: favourite films. This was a topic beloved of Frankie ever since his film studies A level.
‘Hitchcock’s my favourite.’ He was typically enthusiastic now. ‘He’s a proper master of his craft.’
‘But – Psycho?’ Matthew pulled a face. ‘That’s a horrible film, isn’t it?’