‘I want to show you off,’ Matthew said when he first mentioned the idea, ever the gallant – and secretly, despite my innate shyness, I’m bursting with happiness. Despite knowing that, at the grand old age of forty-two and a half, I’m hardly a young bride worthy of being flaunted.
Second time round the block for him, and a lot of water under bridges. Whole oceans full, in my case.
And of course, I’m slightly ashamed to say, Miss Turnbull’s not invited – not as far as I know anyway. Matthew said something like, ‘That old bat will never darken my door again,’ when we saw her outside one day, sweeping up non-existent litter.
I vaguely remember a story about her complaints to the RSPCA, saying Scarlett’s puppy barked excessively; so much so that the RSPCA had come round and checked on the Kings.
What is that expression on her saggy face as she looks at me now?
Concern?
No – it’s worse than that. It’s disapproval.
‘I mean we don’t want any more shenanigans, do we?’ Miss Turnbull says. ‘I really don’t want to be calling the police again.’
‘Again?’ I stop, key in door. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Less said.’ She purses bloodless lips now as I gaze at her.
‘Please do say,’ I prompt. ‘What police? When?’
The old lady glances up at the house and then away. She’s not going to tell me anything else; she’s decided apparently.
‘Well I don’t want to be out here in the dark,’ she harrumphs, although it’s a pleasant, if cold, afternoon: there’s even a glimmer of sun in the washed-out sky. ‘You never know who might be around.’ She shoots a look down the road, as if we were in downtown LA, the Bronx – or even central Peckham, where I was hauled up. Here I’d hazard a guess a couple of dog walkers are the worst she might encounter.
‘Thanks so much, Miss Trunchbull—’ Horrified I stop, thinking of Roald Dahl’s horrid old headmistress – and my last boss.
‘Turnbull,’ she corrects crossly. ‘I must say’—she gives me a final once-over—‘you’re quite different to the last one.’
Last round to her then.
I watch her sensible lace-ups squelch through the last leaves, not cleared from the foot of the drive, disintegrating in all the rain we’ve had recently.
Glancing down at the mail, I feel a familiar squeeze of fear.
I shove the lot into my coat pocket and lug the wine glasses and the suit into the house.
My tentative ‘I’m home!’ rings false in my ears, and although I want to see Matthew – I always want to see Matthew – I feel a surge of overwhelming relief when silence greets me.
Dumping my wares in the hallway, I stick my head round the kitchen door. The scary, super-efficient caterer waves from the central island where she’s counting something called smoked salmon blinis, and I’m just wondering where Matthew is when full-blast techno pumps through the house: The Prodigy’s ‘Firestarter’, I think.
Frankie’s got the sound system up and running then.
Back soon, I ?? you
says the note stuck on the front of the fridge with an Aston Villa magnet. Matthew’s gone to fetch the twins.
It’s not his weekend, but as far as I can tell their mother – ‘the last one’ as Miss Turnbull would have it – or the only other one, in fact, plays hard and fast with the rota.
‘It’s our gain,’ I’d reassured Matthew last night after his phone had started to ping with texts. Feeling flushed and giddy with the romance of my new life, when he’d announced that she’d asked us to have the twins for New Year’s Eve, I’d been quite happy to agree. ‘It’ll be fun to party with them.’ I’d dolloped more chicken chow mein onto his plate and topped up his glass of red. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing them.’
But actually that was a lie.
I am only looking forward to seeing one of them this weekend. Frankly the other one alarms me quite badly.
Despite my best efforts, Scarlett’s proving a tough nut to crack. I’d met the twins about six weeks in, against my slightly better judgement, but I’d never anticipated such hostility from her. And I can’t help feeling partly responsible: the speed at which Matthew and I married, almost six months to the day we met, hasn’t helped, I guess.
But I couldn’t wait. ‘Do you need help?’ I shout over the music to Julie, who shouts back that she’s fine and it’s all underway (I think, though it’s hard to tell as Keith Flint is still yelling something about a bitch someone hated), and I think how strange this is, to be in this smart, large house whose inside doesn’t match its outside at all.
Inside it’s all ultra-modern and blank, neutral tones; matching three-pieces and plush rugs and every electronic mod con I could wish for – and a few more I’d never heard of before.
How very different to where I was this time last year – entirely different, in fact. I’d never have dreamt I’d be this happy; a year ago I thought I’d never see the light of day again. I’d certainly never dreamt I’d be paying a lady to make canapés for guests I don’t even know.