And, of course, my own childhood was stressful I suppose.
But this is different. Or rather, maybe, this is starting to feel a little like that time: a childhood I’d far rather forget. A time that went on and on with no control. A time where I lost trust in those who should have been trustworthy.
I’m suffocating: nets are closing in.
I want to sleep for a hundred years – but I can’t. I daren’t.
I’ve got to persuade my own Prince Charming that everything’s all right in our kingdom – before I’m cast out forever.
I rouse myself.
My first action after Matthew’s fury was to ring Frankie in London, leaving a message that we must speak as soon as possible.
Answering messages has never been his strong suit, and it was a day before he called back, by which time he was planning to come home anyway.
‘What the hell are you on about?’ he spluttered when I told him what we found on his computer, and something in his tone reassured me. Frankie might have smoked round the back of the art hut, and lost his virginity too early; he might have used a bit of eyeliner during his emo phase aged fourteen; he might have once taken a pen knife to school ill-advisedly, trying to be cool, and immediately got caught – but he was never a liar.
‘Agata’s resigned, she was so appalled.’ I felt terribly weary again.
‘And you’re bothered about Agata?’
That annoyed me a bit.
‘It’s not me, Frank: it’s Matthew. He’s furious.’
‘Why? Has he never looked at a pair of tits before?’
Fear sent its cold shaft through me.
‘So you did do it? You need to be honest, Frank. I can’t defend you if…’
‘Do what? Look at girls being shagged by animals? Hardly, Mum. I’ve got more taste.’
‘It’s illegal, you know,’ I said tightly.
He sighed and said, ‘I’m sure it is. It sounds disgusting. But it wasn’t me, I swear, Mum. I didn’t do it. I really don’t get my kicks like that. I don’t know why it was on there, but it wasn’t me. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
And that had to be enough for me.
Of course it’s not enough for Matthew though.
* * *
I debate asking Marlena for more help, but I can’t deal with her lecturing me about being pathetic right now.
But I do do something somewhat out of character. Surprising myself at my own daring, I ring the college and ask to speak to Lesley Browning.
‘What can I do for you?’ She sounds harassed when she comes on the line. ‘I’m terribly busy.’
‘Please. I have to know – did someone tell you something?’ I ask. ‘Something about me?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says, but I hear strain in her voice.
‘I think you do,’ I say quietly. ‘It’d help me if you could tell me. Or if someone emailed you, then…’
‘Sorry,’ she cuts me off, ‘I’m late for a meeting. Good luck, Jeanie. I’m sure something will turn up.’ Tiny pause. ‘Your references were very good you know.’
Small comfort.
* * *
When I get home, wondering if Frankie’s on the next train, I don’t know whether I feel angry or depressed – or maybe both.
I drag myself out of the car, and then I hear something odd.
I rush up the path.
My fears are confirmed as I open the front door: Frankie and Matthew are in the hall, standing opposite one another, and it looks horribly as if they might be about to have a fight.
‘What on earth’s going on?’ I move in-between them.
‘Ask your husband,’ Frankie says. He’s deathly pale, which is never a good sign. It reminds me of a childhood sickness he had when he was tiny; when for a night or two, I thought I might lose him.
I reach my hand out towards him. ‘Frankie…’
‘You know exactly what’s going on, Jeanie.’ Matthew’s voice is loud, and unlike Frank, he’s very flushed. ‘I won’t have that filth in my house.’
‘I don’t look at filth,’ Frankie spits, and I can see that his rage isn’t helping. ‘It wasn’t fucking well me.’
‘Just who the hell are you swearing at?’ Matthew is growing ever nearer apoplexy. ‘I won’t have that language in my house.’
‘No? Well, strikes me you won’t have anything much in your house.’ Frankie picks up the bag he’s just arrived home with. ‘So I’ll make it easy for you and I’ll leave.’
‘Frankie, please!’ I plead. ‘Don’t go. We’ll sort it out. Wait a minute…’
But he’s already at the door – and one thing I know about my son is the sheer level of his determination when he’s set on something. ‘Frank—’
I follow him out to the drive.
‘I’m sorry, Mum, and I don’t mean to swear – but I think he’s a proper wanker.’ He is visibly shaken.
‘Please, Frank…’
‘He thinks the sun shines out of his own kids’ arses – but he looks at me with contempt.’ He swings his bag over his shoulder.