I’m starting to see it’s best not to argue too much. The vein on his forehead stood out alarmingly last week when Frankie said he was a Marxist at heart.
‘A communist?’ Matthew spluttered. ‘Well you won’t want your subscription to the Grand Prix mag then, will you?’ That had been Matthew’s idea of the perfect Christmas present for Frank and not really up Frank’s street at all – but I’d wanted Matt to feel that he was contributing emotionally as well as materially, so I’d demurred.
Matthew reacts very quickly to Frank and doesn’t seem to get his humour. It’s starting to occur to me that my husband and my son are clashing; tension’s growing by the minute.
Luckily Jenna is sweet and perceptive, asking Matthew about his work, which goes down well. Although Matthew seems stressed recently, I have to say; far more so than when I met him.
‘What’s Malum House named for?’ Jenna asks as I cut the cherry pie. ‘It means evil, doesn’t it – malum?’
‘Evil?’ Matthew seems shocked. ‘No, it’s the Latin for “apple”. It was built on the old orchards. There are a few apple trees left in the back garden actually.’
‘Oh I’m sorry.’ Jenna smiles at him. ‘I thought it seemed odd. I must have misremembered my Latin. It’s been a while.’
‘Custard, lovey?’ I change the subject quickly. ‘Hope it’s not too lumpy. Not my forte, custard.’
* * *
Jenna leaves, and the headache that has crept up during the afternoon gets worse. I just can’t shift it, so I go to bed early.
‘I’ll be up soon.’ Matthew blows me a kiss from in front of Match of the Day. ‘Take some more pills, hon.’
An hour or two later I wake up, needing a drink of water.
Matthew isn’t in bed.
I can hear voices; maybe he and Frank are chatting? But Frankie is asleep when I peer into his room.
I realise the voices are coming from above – from Scarlett’s room. I creep up the stairs, and the light is on.
When did she arrive?
Unsettled I creep back down and into bed.
I am relieved when, about twenty minutes later, Matthew comes to bed too. Reeking of alcohol, I notice, as I turn over to sleep. But at least he is here.
Twenty-Eight
SNOW WHITE’S TALE: THE STEPMOTHER SNOW WHITE’S TALE: THE STEPMOTHER
Let us take a pause here in our story. Allow me to pose a question, if I may…
Why exactly do you think, dear readers, why do you think little Snow White’s stepmother struggled with her so?
Was it merely because the girl was younger – and youth is always to be coveted?
Was it because the girl was the queen’s daughter, who was first recipient of the king’s great love?
Was it, perhaps, because the king loved her – his little Snow White, firstborn – more than he could ever love the stepmother?
Or was it because Snow White was a spoilt, precocious little cow, used to getting her own way all the time?
Twenty-Nine
Jeanie
1 March 2015
When I open the bathroom door, the blood in the basin is very red against the white porcelain. So red it shocks me.
I look at it, and then I run the taps – and it washes clean away.
Scarlett shocked me too today. She’s friendly again, which is a huge relief. Well not even again – friendly for the first time.
I didn’t ask why she’d arrived in the middle of the night, but I got the feeling she’d had some kind of altercation at home. She’s got a new kitten apparently, a fluffy Burmese this time, called Bella, who is safely at Scarlett’s mother’s house – thank God!
At least, I thought, somewhat bitterly, looking at the photo of the kitten on Scarlett’s iPhone, if anything goes wrong, I can’t be blamed this time.
‘Sam Smith, the singer, loves these apparently,’ I said as we made smoothies together: peanut butter and jelly ones. I hoped Scarlett would appreciate my trivia knowledge.
‘I told my mum how pretty you are.’ Scarlett ignored the trivia, licking jammy fingers.
‘Oh.’ I was really surprised. ‘Gosh.’ I turned the whizzer on to hide my shock, the rush of sudden emotion.
‘She wants to meet you.’ She was intense suddenly.
‘That was very nice of you, to say that.’ I was flushing, I knew, but I was very touched. I didn’t know what had changed – but it was nice.
I caught our reflections in the window opposite as I whizzed up the mixture again. We would never pass for mother and daughter: she was all pale skin and dark hair like Matthew, with her mother’s blue eyes, I assumed. I was shorter, brown-eyed and – mousey? Dark blonde, my friend Jill used to tease. Mousey, I’d say.
And I didn’t want to talk about meeting Kaye now. ‘I think you’ll like this.’ I handed Scarlett a glass. ‘And it’s pretty healthy too. That’s a win-win in my book!’