The Stepmother (4 page)

I pulled out a black skirt, got it halfway up my thighs, then kicked it off. During the long postpartum years I had built in a pretty good early-warning system for clothes that would not do up. I took a couple of shirts off their hangers and held them up, then spotted some black trousers I'd forgotten. I grabbed them and pulled them on. They fitted. I was suddenly enthused. High boots, nice shirt, bit of cleavage, the fabulous necklace Jimmy had given me on our tenth wedding anniversary, and I'd be okay.

I reached behind me to check what trousers they were that had been hiding from me all this time. Then I read the label. “Mimi Maternity.” I straightened up and stood stock-still. That couldn't be right. I'd given all my maternity stuff to Faith when she was pregnant with Charlie. Surely I'd read it wrong. I forced myself to peel back the waistband again. “Mimi Maternity NYC.” I sat down on the bed. If only those trousers could talk.

Jimmy had gone to New York when I was pregnant with Amber. He was about to hit the big time. Universal wanted to make him executive producer on a show he'd put together. The money was going to be brilliant. He came home with all these wonderful clothes, even though I had only a couple of months left of my pregnancy.

I pulled off the maternity trousers and threw them across the room. They had been a bad omen. The deal had fallen through. As deals do. Not that we cared. We had a beautiful baby girl. Our happiness was secure. Other deals would happen. I had a good job. We were young. What mattered was our little unit. Jesus, I was so fucking naive.

I put my jeans back on, knowing they were past the washing stage and well into the running-about-on-their-own stage. But they fitted and I felt comfortable in them. Especially with my long black jacket and the cripplingly high boots that put me at a willowy, ha-ha, five
foot six. Eyedrops and concealer covered most of the damage the Mimi Maternity trousers had caused; makeup did the rest.

When the doorbell went, I was ready. As ready as I'd ever be. Okay, over-forty single males, here I come…

“You look great,” said Cathy as I opened the door.

“So do you,” I replied.

We were both lying.

We had decided not to drive and I followed Cathy to the minicab. The “event” was taking place in a private room in a bar on the wrong side of Camden High Street. I was nervous as hell when I walked in. Naturally, the women outnumbered the men by three to one, but I was pleased to see that a lot of the women smiled semi-conspiratorially at me. Well, hey, at least I might make a friend, I thought.

“Bar,” said Cathy.

“You bet.”

It was a moneymaking racket, that was for sure. First, we'd had to pay to join this illustrious gang. Second, we'd had to cough up for the event, and third, they'd jacked up the bar prices. I peered over the bar menu at Cathy. “Can I tempt you with a gin-based Take a Chance for the reasonable sum of twelve pounds fifty?”

“You're kidding, right?” she said, trying to grab the menu. I held firm and pretended to study it again.

“Or a very refreshing The One. A fruity mix of juice and white rum served with a little false hope.”

“Bea!”

“No, hang on, found it. A very large Will You Please Shag Me I'm Desperate!” I looked up at Cathy. “That one comes with a cherry.”

Cathy was still chuckling when she ordered the wine. White for me. Red for her. Bottles. No point doing things by halves.

We watched for a while as the more experienced participators worked the room, handing out cards to all the men before the competition had a chance to stake claim.

Because I was with Cathy, I didn't find it intimidating. Instead I found it funny. Not
Blackadder
funny, more
Mr. Bean
funny, which, on reflection, isn't very funny at all. Cathy and I stayed by the bar, having a quick catch-up. It lasted so long that, after a while, the men started to sidle up to us. A
relatively decent-looking one made a beeline for Cathy, so I made my excuses and went to the loo to give her some space. When I returned, she was in full swing about her evil ex-husband who had got the babysitter pregnant. Only I knew it was an act. A bit of sport. A break from the mourning. I chatted to the young Polish girl behind the bar, who had been in England a few months and was finding life difficult. She missed her family. So did I. Water always finds its own level. But then something strange happened.

A young-looking man—might have been forty, might have been younger—came and leaned up at the bar next to me. He introduced himself as Robert. He seemed a bit too good for an outfit like this, and I wondered if he was lying about his age to get in to where the pickings didn't need picking up. I made a silent vow to myself not to seem grateful for his attention. I'd be friendly, but that wasn't the same thing. He asked me about myself. So I told him.

“I'm forty-two, I have three daughters and got divorced two years ago.” If I were a product, my label would read “No Frills.”

“Do you work?”

I felt the shame creep into my cheeks. “No. Well, I look after three kids.”

“That must be tough,” he said kindly. “On your own.”

“Sometimes I think it's easier,” I replied honestly. “The parenting bit. You get to do it your way. Total autonomy. Except every other weekend and Wednesdays.” Except those Wednesdays when something came up.

“Who decides these things? Why is it every other weekend and Wednesdays? I think it should be split equally.”

“Why? Nothing else about parenting is equal.”

He took a step back and raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn't mean to sound so defensive.”

“No, no, fair point, I'm sure.”

I was crap at this. I searched my stagnant brain for a cheery opening. Reopening. Nothing came to mind.

“So, how old are your children?” he asked.

“Fourteen, nine, and eight.”

“Ouch,” he said, squirming as if he'd bitten into a bad skate.

Now what had I done?

“Two pregnancies in under two years, brave woman.” I thought he was being nice, but I could have sworn he glanced at my stomach. I shifted in my seat.

“So they're at school now?”

“Shit!” I slapped my forehead. “I knew I'd forgotten to pick something up.”

He laughed unnecessarily loudly. I couldn't decide which of us was regretting the conversation more.

“So, you have a bit of time to yourself, then.”

“Not really,” I replied, wanting to end this stilted, fruitless exchange.

“But you can find an hour here or there, can't you? If you're honest with yourself.”

I frowned in confusion. What on earth was he going to suggest? That I cancel all my coffee mornings, ha-ha, and meet up for a quickie?

He pointed a finger at me. “Good,” he said. “You should be easy.”

“Excuse me?”

“Settle down.” He leaned closer to the name tag still plastered onto the lapel of my obviously-doesn't-quite-hide-everything jacket. Then he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a card. He handed it to me. “Bea,” he said, “my name is Robert Duke. I'm a personal trainer. Use me, and you won't ever have to come to one of these tragic functions again.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but was so stunned I couldn't find any words.

“Listen, I know I've shocked you, but, Bea, you more than anyone in this place needs to be shocked. Remember the beautiful woman you were before pregnancy, breast-feeding, and exhaustion ripped you apart? She's still there. Underneath all this shit.” He shook me slightly. I felt things wobble but was incapable of resisting. “I understand how hard it is, how frightening, but you can change. And I will help you every painful step of the way. But, my God, it'll be worth it. Think of it—you could be in a bikini by the summer.” All I could do was stare at him. My resistance, my voice, my spine…gone. Who was this guy—the divorcée whisperer? “I know you've been through hell, Bea, but I can help you. This I know. You're a great lady in bad shape.”

Again I opened my mouth. Again nothing came out.

Then he touched my shoulder, so gently that I almost fell off the stool. “Wouldn't it be nice to be a bad lady in great shape?”

With that, he squeezed my shoulder and was gone. The spell, or whatever it was, shattered. A strange sob came out of my mouth as I found myself sitting in a shitty bar on the wrong side of a bad bottle of wine at a soul-shatteringly sad event for leftovers like me. I stared at the card. “Bastard!” I hissed. It felt good. “Motherfucking-bastard-shit!” I threw back the rest of my wine, ripped up the card, and ran.

 

W
HAT FOLLOWED AT HOME WAS
nothing short of disgusting. What saddened me most was that it wasn't the first time it had happened. Worse than that, I knew I had sworn over the heads of my sleeping children that it wouldn't happen again, but there I was, cramming food into my mouth without the slightest idea of how to stop. The first to go were, of course, the bloody Crunchy Nut Corn Flakes. I didn't bother with the bowl. Four stale Wagon Wheels biscuits that had been sitting in the cupboard since Christmas chased the cereal. My kids don't like Wagon Wheels. They're right. Foul things. Didn't stop me scoffing the lot.

Robert Duke. I spat out chunks of marshmallow and biscuit as I regurgitated his name. “I'll show you a bad lady!” Cheese next. Cheddar. The cheap, waxy kind that has a suspicious buoyancy. I bit into the slab and squeezed it between my teeth and gums until my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth; then washed it down with a carton of apple juice. I saved myself a few calories by spilling a lot.

I was halfway through a chicken breast—cooked, at least—when I felt the first swell of my stomach juices. I heaved, swallowed the bile, and, squirting mayonnaise out of the squeezy bottle straight into my mouth, managed to get the rest of the chicken down my throat. Feeling bloated, strange, and angry, I paced the kitchen floor, panting, throwing open cupboards, searching for more, a couple of crackers here, some nuts there, a handful of raisins—but then the spirits left me as quickly as they had possessed me, and I was suddenly empty and bereft. I mean empty of energy, chi, power, self. My belly hurt like hell.

I slumped to the floor, undid my jeans, and let my bloated torso ooze out over the cold linoleum. I felt as if my stomach was tearing. I wanted to split it open and take it all out. I started clawing at my jacket,
my shirt, my disgusting overweighted bra, but however hard I pinched my sorry fat pink flesh, it wouldn't let me get inside.

After what seemed like a nighttime, I heaved myself onto all fours, exhausted. I stopped, staring at my body as it hung down, loathing it with a hatred I didn't know what to do with. Eventually, I crawled down the corridor to the loo. I threw back the seat and stuck my fingers far enough down my throat to feel my larynx. I heaved a dry, tight, painful retch. But nothing, not one damn crunchy nut, came out. It never fucking does.

 

A
T SIX O'CLOCK THE FOLLOWING
evening the house was immaculate. The shelves were restocked. The bathroom shone. The air was fresh. The beds were made. The ironing was done. When I heard Amber's key in the lock, I jumped up from my listening post at the kitchen table, threw open a cupboard, and busied myself with rearranging perfectly arranged tins.

“Mum! We're home!”

I peered around the open cupboard door. “Hi, you guys, just coming.” I gazed at the baked-bean tins, counted to ten, closed the cupboard, then returned to my rightful place in the world. I went into the hall, took the bags, the wet swimming things, the coats, hats, and scarves, the dirty school uniforms, and my exhausted children through to the kitchen. Like a machine, I sorted everything into piles. Jimmy followed us and, watching me, leaned up against the kitchen wall. I put a load of uniforms into the washing machine.

“I'm starving,” said Amber.

I looked at Jimmy with comedy knowing eyes.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn't realize the time. We were swimming.” I nearly kissed him. I had to use all my willpower to stop myself smiling and instead feign weary disapproval. I clicked the machine to quick-wash, and straightened up. My heart was leaping for joy inside its well-covered cage. “Sit down, all of you. How about a cheese-and-ham omelet, with beans on the side?”

I got unanimous approval from the girls.

“God, that sounds good,” said Jimmy.

“Well, why don't you sit down too?” I said. “It'll only take ten minutes.” Actually, it took five.

We sat down like a proper family. Even though the girls were tired, they helped set the table. It wasn't much—a knife, a fork, a plate, some glasses—but they all helped. It made me think that maybe they were happy to be home. Jimmy was all about big gestures: water parks, fairgrounds, toy shops, pizza, late-night telly, telly, a bit more telly…But sometimes the little gestures mean more. I sat and watched them eat. Me? I drank hot water with lemon. Involuntarily, I glanced at the kitchen floor and saw my bloated self, heaving about on all fours. Never again. This time I meant it.

I must have breathed a huge sigh, because Jimmy looked at me. “You okay?”

“Just thinking how nice this is.”

“It is, isn't it?”

I held his gaze and the strangest thing happened. My stomach flipped. I looked away. Must be hunger. I had eaten a boiled egg for breakfast, a small chicken salad for lunch, and I was determined not to touch the children's food. I'd have some vegetable soup when they'd gone to bed. I was going to change, not because of Robert Duke or antiseptic dates, or even Faith's aborted attempts to talk to me about my weight. I was going to change for me. The time had come, the walrus said, and, my, what a walrus I had become.

“You look well, Bea,” said Jimmy.

“I did some exercise for the first time in a decade. Nearly killed me.”