The kiss inspires me. ‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘How about an episode of The Voice on catch up?’
‘I watch The Voice with my mum.’ Scarlett just stops herself at ‘you idiot’.
‘Okay. Well I’ll make the toasties then.’
‘I’m not hungry—’ she starts, and her father interrupts with a low warning.
‘Scarlett, you’ll be polite, thank you.’
She glares at us both, about to stomp back up to her room, when the front door opens and Frankie bundles in, bringing the chill with him.
‘Afternoon all,’ he says, and I am filled with love and gratitude for his generally cheerful demeanour. ‘What’s for tea? I’m Lee Marvin.’
‘You’re what?’ Matthew’s confused.
‘Starving!’
‘Cheese and ham toasties and banana smoothies?’ I suggest. ‘Or vanilla milkshakes?’
Frankie grins. ‘Are we back at nursery again?’ He winks at Scarlett. ‘She’s such a softie, my mum. That’s why I love her so. You’re not sliding off, are you?’
So Scarlett comes back down and eats a toastie with us and thaws out a little. Once or twice she even smiles at Frankie’s jokes.
But not at mine. Still. It’s a start.
The letter to ‘Jeanie’ crosses my mind, and then I manage to cast it out again.
Ten
Jeanie
18 January 2015
In the morning Luke, who has been at football camp, is dropped off, and Matthew appears in the kitchen in a waxy Barbour and a flat cap, announcing that he and the twins are going to shoot some clay pigeons. I can’t decide if his new look’s sexy or just silly.
‘If you fancy a lesson, I’ll let you touch my gun.’ He winks.
Marlena and I used to party in Peckham in clubs where people sometimes shot each other when they were pissed off. Not my idea of a good time, recreational shooting.
‘I’ll touch your gun later,’ I murmur and flush at my own daring. It’s good for him and the kids to hang out without me, the book says. ‘I’m going to take Frank shopping. He needs new jeans. You have fun.’
‘Okay.’ Matthew selects a set of keys from the drawer, kisses me on the lips and clomps out to the garage.
I wave them off from the lounge window about ten minutes later and wonder what it is that Scarlett’s holding as she climbs into the back of Matthew’s big car.
I squint over the dead palm I was trying to save, its leaves reaching into the room like dead men’s fingers.
The thing she holds in her right hand is a shotgun apparently, the metal glinting as she pulls it in with her – and it’s almost the same size as her.
Eleven
Jeanie
30 January 2015
I haven’t told Matthew about the job interview – I want to wait and see if I get it. I really want him to be proud of me.
And it’s Friday thank God! I always look forward to the weekend with Matthew, to having some proper adult company for a few days. Frank’s on his way back from Hull, where he went to collect his stuff, but when he’s at home, he’s not really – he’s out most of the time, working at the bistro in town.
I definitely miss company in the week, rattling round here on my own – but today Matthew came home early, with Luke in tow.
They’re just finishing a game of FIFA on the Xbox when I walk in, about to get on their way to Luke’s football match. I debate going along to show my support, but I think it’s good for them to have time on their own. Scarlett takes up a lot of Matthew’s energy when they’re all together, so it’s nice for Luke to have his dad to himself.
I’m pottering upstairs when the doorbell rings. Peering down from the window, my heart sinks – it’s the red-haired pirate from the party: Kaye’s friend – Alison, I think.
But maybe this is a chance to set my mind at rest.
Running to open the door, I’m shocked by a loud explosion from the direction of the kitchen.
Confused, I don’t know what to do first.
‘Hang on!’ I shout, rushing into the kitchen. I can smell burning, and the lights on the stairs start to flicker on and off.
It takes me a minute to understand that the baked potatoes I’ve put in the microwave have exploded. There’s a fizzing and banging and the lick of actual flames behind the glass door. The smoke alarm is beeping frantically by now.
I unplug the microwave, and then I open its door and chuck a glass of water inside.
It’s a stinking, potatoey mess that I start to clean up as best I can. When I’ve chucked the potatoes away, I realise there’s something wedged in the back of the microwave. A metal fork has slipped down behind the glass plate, along with a piece of soaking-wet, folded wax paper.
In all the drama, I’ve forgotten all about the knock at the front door.
When I return to open it, the woman has gone.
* * *
I’m worried – especially after the overflowing shower the other day. Did I really leave a fork in the microwave? How stupid. But I hardly ever use it, anyway.