by Carrie Adams
“Why don’t you join us?” asked Honor.
I glanced back at the house.
“Oh, don’t worry, no one can see.”
They did look rather wonderful, lying there, arms and legs outstretched, naked as the day they were born. Without allowing myself another thought, I threw off my funereal clothes and hurled my black boots into the undergrowth. Mum was right. I felt a rush of adrenaline surge through me. With Honor on my right and my mother on my left, I made up the circle. On instinct, I stretched out my fingers and we all held hands.
“Nice ring,” said Honor, lifting her head off the grass.
I smiled, staring up at the deep pink clouds. They were right. It did feel wonderful.
“Does it sparkle?” asked my mother.
“I’ll say,” replied Honor, turning my hand in hers. I was smiling too much to talk. They squeezed my hands.
“We heard the car,” said Mum.
“Welcome to the family,” said Honor.
“Ditto,” I replied.
Our circle fell silent and, just as my father had described it, I felt my pulse slow, my mind steady, and my soul open up to the universe.
“So, my darling, how do you feel?” asked my mother.
The ground was soft beneath my body, the air blew gentle kisses over my skin, the sky reached up to my father and back again. I closed my eyes. “Boundless,” I replied.
Epilogue
I WAS SURROUNDED BY LAUGHTER BUT DIDN’T PRETEND TO JOIN IN. I wanted to place one of my stepdaughters on my lap and hug her tight, but I had taught myself not to do that. At nine, even the youngest considered herself too old for such public displays of affection. On our own, at home, was fine, but that wasn’t when I needed her validation. I felt a hand land on my shoulder, a smile forming automatically as I turned.
“Thank you so much for everything you did for the concert,” said the woman looking down at me.
“I’m happy to help,” I replied.
“It was amazingly generous of your company.”
Maddy beamed. If her headmistress said I was amazing, I must be doing something right. I saw the woman glance at the empty seat next to Maddy.
“She’ll be here,” I said.
The headmistress smiled warmly and took her seat. I turned to James. “Cutting it a bit fine, isn’t she?” I whispered. “Should I call?”
“She’ll be here. She wouldn’t miss this for the world,” said James.
The lights dimmed and an awed murmur rose up from the assorted parents, siblings, and add-ons, and dissolved into hush. Maddy and I turned to look at the back.
“Mummy!” she squeaked, and leaped off her seat. I watched Bea make her way along the narrow aisle with ease. It had taken another year, but the final, stubborn pounds had left her. She looked terrific. I budged up one place so she could sit next to Maddy, but Maddy came too, so she’d be between us.
Bea stopped to chat with a friend.
“Sit down!” exclaimed James in a tense whisper. “It’s about to start.”
She blew me a kiss as she passed and took her seat. “Sorry,” she said. “Meeting went on.”
James put a finger to his lips and pointed toward the stage. The thick green velvet curtains were drawn back to reveal a single spotlight on stage, and there, in the middle of that glowing puddle, stood Lulu. I glanced down at the program. Lulu Kent to read a poem of her own composition. Without a quiver in her voice, without a mumble or a pause, she began to recite the verses she’d written for the school’s annual poetry competition. The winner opened the junior school’s show. And there she was. The opening number.
I could see Maddy, Bea, Jimmy, and, beyond him, Amber silently match each word in perfect synchronization, and felt warm inside.
At the interval, Amber and Maddy ran off to find their star of a sister, but parents weren’t allowed backstage, so we ambled through the crowd toward the bar. I listened while Bea and James were complimented on Lulu’s progress.
“Who would have thought her capable?” said one woman.
Bea caught me listening and winked.
“A brilliant poem. Did she really write it all by herself?” asked another.
I rolled my eyes at her. Bea laughed.
“Every word,” said James. “We didn’t even know she was entering it until she won.”
The woman pursed her lips, clearly not convinced.
“Let’s get to the bar,” said Bea.
“Who’s checking for poison this time?” asked James.
“It’s all poison,” I said. “Some demi-sec stuff. I made a note when I came in.”
“Don’t worry,” said Bea. “I have friends in high places.” We walked toward the trestle table at the side of the room. There was Carmen, her magnificent cleavage on show, pouring drinks with a flourish. She saw us coming, reached below the counter, and brought out a bottle of fizzy elderflower.
“The others probably need something a little stronger,” said Bea.
“Don’t worry,” she said, reaching under the sheet again. “I stashed a nice pinot noir.” She poured generously into two white plastic cups and handed them to James and me.
“You look good behind a bar,” said James.
“Just call me Daisy and slap my arse,” said Carmen, laughing. “Tell you what, if the alimony doesn’t come through I might be doing this full-time.”
“He’s not going to shaft you out of the money,” said Bea.
“That little cow doesn’t come cheap. She’s walking around with a new Mulberry bag.” Carmen waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever.”
Carmen was nice to me, but I got the sense she held back full acceptance of my presence as a gesture of solidarity to the First Wives’ Club. I understood why and was just grateful for her civility. I suspected Bea had insisted.
I’d had much less welcoming receptions from some of the other mothers at the school gates on the few occasions when Bea had been caught up at work and we’d put our tag team into operation. She and I had both become part-time working mothers in the year since my father’s death. Bea had got back in touch with her maid of honor, Suzie. Suzie had started a successful business with her husband, but when he died, everything collapsed. Bea and Suzie were rebuilding it together. As partners. She did twenty hours a week while the girls were at school; I did twenty hours a week being a stepmother. The rest of the time I was a lawyer and a wife. Though not in that order.
“Had the usual ‘compliments’?” Carmen asked Bea.
“A woman I thought liked me practically accused Lulu of plagiarism.”
“Darling, you’ve lost half your body weight. No one likes you anymore, and I mean no one. Including me.” Carmen opened some cheap-looking long-life orange juice. “I’ve got to say, the change in Lulu is remarkable, though,” she said.
“Well, it was Tessa who called it,” said Bea. “Dyslexia had never crossed my mind.”
“Rubbish. It was you and Mum,” I said.
“No, it wasn’t, it was you.”
Carmen raised her glass to me. “Well, whatever, it’s a delight to see.”
“Mrs. Kent!” called a voice from the crowd. I turned. So did Bea.
A woman I didn’t recognize was waving in our direction.
“Yours,” I said.
“I’ll give you fifty if you take it,” said Bea.
“What’s she after?” I asked suspiciously.
“School scrunchies,” said Bea.
“No way,” said Carmen, slamming down a bottle. “Your scrunchy days are over.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
James intercepted. “Miss Peterson,” he said. “How are you?” Miss Peterson, I noticed, flattened down her unruly hair before taking his hand. “I wanted to talk to you about an idea I’ve had to get fathers more involved in the school. The gates can be a daunting place for us dads.”
“Surely not for you, Mr. Kent.” Bea and I took a surreptitious step backward.
“A father-and-daughter away-day. We all
take a day off work, no exceptions.”
Miss Peterson clasped her hands in delight. “Oh, Mr. Kent, you are marvelous.” I couldn’t look at Bea, because I knew she was giggling into her plastic cup.
“Come on,” said Bea, grabbing my arm. “I think we’re wanted.” Three red heads were poking through the gap in the curtain and waving frantically. I fell into step behind her and walked toward my stepdaughters. I smiled happily to myself. Bea was right. We were wanted. Both of us.
Acknowledgments
There are a great many people I would like to thank for this book, and a few special ones without whom I would not have been able to write it at all. However, since I think it better not to name names, these acknowledgments may look a little thin. That doesn’t mean you are not in my thoughts. You are. I think marriage is one of the few remaining taboo subjects, and talking about it isn’t easy. So, to those people who were brave or drunk enough to share their inner fears, suspicions, annoyances, joys, dependencies, infidelities, frustrations, and fantasies, I thank you. Most of you know who you are; others, whom I accosted in coffee shops, bars, buses, and ladies’ rooms, never will, but I thank you all the same.
There are a few, however, I can name. Gaby, I don’t think I would have survived the year without you. You gave me the keys to your house twice and a place to work. You feed my children, order my shopping, and keep me laughing when I feel like screaming. Your mother would be so bloody proud of you. I am. Priya, I wish you didn’t live so far away, I wish you weren’t my expert on MS, I wish I could work out how to use Skype. Your advice has been invaluable. And Cath, for a thousand little things, on top of which you scooped me up when I was on my knees and whisked me off to France again. Open the rosé, I feel a song coming on…To my sisters, as always, for their inherent understanding; frankly, I wish you’d both come home. To my parents; we named our daughter Ruby to salute your fortieth wedding anniversary, it is a joy to see you both so content. You are a great incentive to hold on to the mast. Thank you for being such incredible grandparents. To Electra, again, for strong hands and wise words. To Marion, for the magic.
On the other side of the pond Dorian Karchmar at the William Morris Agency, NYC, took me on—the book did the talking and we became instant friends. I feel so fortunate to have her wisdom and wiles on my side—I raise a glass of Greco di Tufo to you in thanks. Jeanette Perez at HarperCollins also took me on—editing a book with a lactating, hormonal head-case must have been a challenge. You met it, then supassed it. The book is better because of you. Thank you. Back on home turf, I’d like to thank Eugenie Furniss—can’t believe I didn’t manage to put you off! To Merla, for practically everything else. I feel privileged to have such impressive women on my side.
Thanks to everyone who works at Chez Christophe. What would I have done without your coffee, cakes, and wi-fi? This book only got finished because you gave me a place to hide.
I owe a debt of gratitude to TG Teoh and the amazing team at St. Mary’s who got me out of a tight spot. Thank you. Especially the registrar, Chrissie, whom I forgot to thank the first time. I thank you all for your calmness; I knew I was in the best possible hands.
Lastly, forever, to Adam. It passed! Bloody hell, it’s hard, but it’s worth it. Sometimes I don’t know how we’ll manage to get to the end of the day, other times I know in my soul we’ll make it, and what scares me then is that the rest of our lives will be nowhere near long enough.
About the Author
CARRIE ADAMS is the author of The Godmother. She lives in London with her husband and three children.
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Also by Carrie Adams
The Godmother
Credits
Cover photo © Getty Images
Jacket design by Christine Van Bree
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE STEPMOTHER. Copyright © 2009 by Carrie Adams. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition FEBRUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780061842177
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