She tries to keep my dad away from us. She wants to start a new family without us. She bosses my dad around. She thinks she’s our mom.
Not guilty, Eve thought. Not guilty. Not guilty. Not guilty…. Only the last gave her pause. I don’t want to be anyone’s mom, I never have, she thought. But what choice do I have?
Back at the search results page Eve scanned the links for some respite. There had to be another side to it. There was. Amongst the litany, she could see that the women on the receiving end were trying to look out for each other:
The British second wives’ club
Blending a family.com
The second wives’ café
Stepmothers’ milk
Sipping her coffee, which had turned tepid in the time she’d been surfing, Eve read stories of success and failure, hope and despair, from stepmothers around the world. One site had a Stepmother of the Month. How did they do it, these women who were, more often than not, getting it so right that their own stepchildren put them on a pedestal?
Eve found the link to respond to one of the comments and clicked, but as a box opened to register for the site—her name, her e-mail address, the name she wanted to appear on her posts—she stopped, feeling exposed. How safe was this, really? Could she say what she thought? Potentially to hundreds of thousands of others.
Then a thought occurred to her. She loved all the fashion blogs she kept an eye on for work; the blogs bad-mouthing boyfriends and partners; blogs about weight loss, mothers, first loves, and the futility of diets; blogs about working in restaurants and offices; blogs about how crap people’s jobs were and how much they hated their bosses.
She could keep online the diary she’d been missing. Writing anonymously would give her the chance to get everything off her chest, thinking it through as she wrote. Like most journalists, Eve found it easier to work things out on paper. And the chances of more than a couple of dozen fellow sufferers bothering to read her ramblings when the internet had so many millions of pages of trivia to choose from were minimal.
Opening an account on blogspot, she pulled up a page and started to type. My name is…Well, it doesn’t matter what my name is. All you need to know is I’m thirty-two and I’m an Evil Stepmother.
But she wasn’t, not really. She deleted the last few words.
She was an inexperienced stepmother. An accidental stepmother. A reluctant stepmother, that was for sure. But evil? Accidental seemed apt, but somehow she liked the feel of reluctant. It summed up precisely how she felt. Somehow crap stepmother didn’t have the same ring. Although she knew that as far as Hannah was concerned, she was that too.
I’m a reluctant stepmother. And the truth is, I’m scared. Scared of a thirteen-year-old girl. How pathetic is that? As scared of her now as I would have been when I was thirteen myself. That’s just occurred to me, actually. My eldest stepdaughter (I have two, and a stepson) is all long, blonde hair and labels—whatever passes for a cheerleader in this privileged part of West London. She’s a bit spoiled, if I’m honest, but there’s a reason for that. I’ll go into it another time. The fact is, X is precisely the kind of girl who’d have looked down on me at school. She’s a cool girl, part of the in-crowd, whereas I was a swot, a geek, and definitely not someone to be seen with. Oh, the shame for X of having someone like me—an ex-geek—as a stepmother. She would have looked down on me then, and she’s doing a damn good job of it now, to be honest. I’m not saying I’m perfect. God no, I’ve screwed up left, right and center. I’ve only been her stepmother for a month, less even, and I’ve made more mistakes than I can count. Take today…
Getting the facts down, then reading them back on screen, made Eve cringe. Hannah had set her up, and she’d fallen for it. It was so obvious. Anyone reading this would be able to see in an instant that she shouldn’t have risen to the bait. But it was too late now. She had. The fault was hers, Eve could see that now. But what could she do about it? Maybe someone would read her blog, know the answer, and post it.
She decided to write that too.
I know what I should have done. Well, I do now. But I couldn’t see it at the time. How can I learn to spot the obstacles before I trip over them and they send me flying arse over tit? How can I win her over? Should I even try? That’s the question that bugs me more than anything. I understand that X misses her mom and doesn’t want me to replace her. I understand I can never truly understand how that must feel. But why does she seem to HATE me so much?
It was flowing now.
And then there’s the house. My partner—future husband, God that sounds weird—is a widower. His first wife died in a car crash (Eve had been going to write “from cancer” but she didn’t want the blog’s author to be that easily identifiable) and the house is the one he lived in with his wife. It wasn’t a clean death, and obviously the children, especially the elder two, were affected by it. Hence all the spoiling I mentioned earlier. He doesn’t want to disrupt the children by moving, and I get that. I do. They’ve been through enough (that’s his mantra, by the way).
I know it sounds ridiculous, but the place feels almost haunted. It’s her presence; even though he says he has started to change things, she’s everywhere. Pictures on the walls, bowls in the cupboard, her face on their children…I don’t even know how much of the decor she chose, but I’m willing to bet it was most of it. But it’s more than that—she IS the house. It sounds stupid, but I feel like I’m in Rebecca or something. Like their mother is Rebecca and X is a sort of mean-girl version of Mrs. Danvers.
Eve read it back. It sounded mad, especially that last paragraph. Could she really post it? Why not? Nobody would know it had anything to do with her. The internet was a big place, after all. Chances were no one else would even read it.
What the hell, Eve thought, and clicked Post.
Seventeen
Only one chocolate coin.”
“Two!”
“Rosie, you can have one. Look how big they are,” Lily cajoled. “They’re almost big enough to eat you!”
“Want two!
“Rosie, you can’t have two.”
The negotiations had been in progress for several minutes now, and Lily was pretty sure she wasn’t winning. Crouching down to bring her eyes level with the three-year-old, Lily tried to keep her voice even so she sounded more in control than she felt, then counted to ten.
The little girl met her gaze, then tipped her head to one side, her topknot swinging as she did so. The look on her face reminded Lily of Liam…Liam when he was trying to get around her. “Can I have juice?”
“You already have a juice, Rosie.”
“Want chocolate coin.”
“We’ve got a chocolate coin, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart, my foot, Lily thought. The child was being a brat. Lily blamed its parents. Speaking of which, where the hell was this weekend’s parent?
“Three chocolate coins.” Rosie was trying a new tack. “One for Rosie, one for Daddy, one for Lily.”
“That’s a nice idea, Rosie, but Lily doesn’t want one.” Lily could feel disapproving eyes burning into her back in the Caffè Nero line and tried not to turn into one of those shrieking women who can’t control their children Clare always rolled her eyes at in Tesco.
“One for Rosie. One for Daddy,” Rosie said reasonably.
Lily weighed her choices. She didn’t want to cave in to this knee-high Kissinger and buy two, having said no countless times already. But one for Rosie, one for Daddy was such a reasonable request that she didn’t see how she could refuse.
“OK,” she relented. “One for Rosie, one for Daddy!”
Rosie beamed. “Thank you, Lily,” she said.
Man, the kid was cute. Cute but lethal.
Having paid for the coffees, and with a tray laden with cups and chocolate coins, Lily threaded her way through a tight network of tables toward a corner at the back, trying to keep one eye on the small girl who was working the room like a pro.
Just as Lily re
ached the table, Liam rushed up behind her.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he muttered, pecking Lily on the cheek and swinging Rosie up and under his arm to tickle her. The child squealed with pleasure. Bright orange juice squirted onto her pink T-shirt, and Lily wondered which was the lesser of two evils: washing it herself when they got back to the apartment or risking the wrath of Siobhan by sending the child’s dirty T-shirt back with her.
“Am I late?” Liam asked. Knowing the answer perfectly well, he made his “please don’t be mad at me, I’m having a bad day” face.
Lily sighed. “Bloody late,” she hissed, knowing swearing was well out of bounds where three-year-old ears were concerned. “Three and a half hours bloody late, to be precise.”
“Come off it, Lil,” Liam said. “You know I had to be at work when Siobhan dropped Rosie off. You said you’d cover. That was three and a half hours ago. I’m only half an hour late to meet you here.”
Lily rolled her eyes indulgently, but something nagged at the back of her mind. Her friends…they would die laughing if they could see her now. Not that most of her college friends’ opinions of Liam bore a second hearing anyway: divorced, three-year-old kid, over ten years her senior…they just hadn’t gotten it. She had thought they’d be happy for her; they had thought she was mad. In the end, their constant attempts to fix her up with “one of the crowd” whenever they’d met for a drink had worn thin. She hadn’t seen much of them since she’d moved in with Liam.
“What have you got there, Rosie-posie?” Liam was saying, tucking Rosie onto his knee. “Two chocolate coins? Goodness! How did you manage that?”
“They’re not—,” Lily started to say.
“Easy, Daddy,” Rosie announced. “I asked for three!”
Liam roared with laughter. “That’s my girl!”
Lily stared, dumbstruck. She’d been had. By a three-year-old. But, she was starting to realize, not just any three-year-old. One whose dad was a man who hadn’t just kissed the Blarney Stone—he’d swallowed the damn thing whole. And if the toddler could pull that off, what was her father capable of?
She didn’t know who to be more furious with: Rosie for being deceitful or Liam for thinking it was the best joke he’d heard all day. Come to that, she didn’t know whether to be furious with herself for being so gullible.
Later that night, with Liam putting Rosie to bed and the child’s giggles echoing from the other end of the apartment, the incident still rankled. It wasn’t so much that Lily minded a three-year-old setting her up. Clearly it wasn’t Lily’s finest hour, but she could work it into a routine, not that she’d done much stand-up lately. It was Liam’s pride in his daughter’s skills that bothered her.
What hope did the kid have if her father thought it was the funniest thing in the world that she’d conned Lily into buying her two chocolate coins?
Not conned, negotiated. Lily forced herself to be charitable. After all, Liam’s own negotiating skills were legendary. He’d scored exclusives that other sports reporters only dreamed of, simply by talking his way in.
Although she was reluctant to admit it, Lily was beginning to see where Liam’s ex was coming from, and she wasn’t sure she liked being put in that position one little bit.
“So, what would you do?” she asked Eve, looking up from her latte.
“What would I do?” Eve pulled a face. “Since when did I become the font of all stepmother knowledge? Seriously, don’t ask me. I’m one big screwup on the stepmother front. Would you take skin-care advice from one of those scary saleswomen in department stores who assault you with fragrance and look like they’ve been Tangoed?”
Lily shook her head.
“Then don’t take childcare advice from me!” Eve smiled to soften her words, but she knew she sounded fed up.
“I know it’s none of my business…” Mandy had been so quiet that the others had almost forgotten she was there. In fact, Eve had been surprised she’d turned up at all, and she suspected that Lily had dragged her. Melanie had already pulled out of that evening’s meeting, her e-mail citing some unspecified crisis at work.
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself. Both of you. But especially you.” Mandy looked straight at Eve, her gray eyes surprisingly steely.
Eve looked away. Mandy had had her highlights redone since the last OMC meeting, and she was wearing jeans. They suited her. She seemed more confident, somehow. Eve was beginning to see how Mandy controlled five teenagers on the weekends when John’s children came to stay.
“Go on,” she said.
“If you don’t mind me saying,” Mandy said, “coping with children is a learning curve, and a steep one, even when they’re your own. When they’re not, you don’t have the benefit of automatically loving them, no matter what.”
“On a good day,” Clare put in.
“On any day. Even when you’re furious. They’re yours, your flesh and blood, for what that’s worth, and I don’t care what anyone says, it is worth something. When you inherit someone else’s children, like Eve has, full-time, it’s straight in at the deep end. No letup.”
“You’re not trying to say I didn’t screw up with Hannah?”
“Of course not. I mean, I wasn’t there, so I only have your account to go on. But from what you and Clare say, you did. Royally.”
“Cheers.” Eve was taken aback.
“But you weren’t evil or wicked or any of those stupid labels. You made a mistake. That’s all. Real parents make mistakes all the time. And you want it to work out so badly you’re trying too hard.”
“You’re saying Hannah can smell it?” Eve asked. She was intrigued. “The way cats always head for the person in the room who’s allergic to them?”
“Yes, but I’m not really talking about Hannah, I’m talking about you. I think you expect too much of yourself. You can’t be a brilliant mom straight off. You can’t even be a brilliant stepmom.”
“Ahh,” Clare smiled wryly. “That’s where your argument falls down. Eve’s been straight As her entire life. No fuckups, no flaws. Perfect degree. Perfect job. Now perfect man. She’s not about to tolerate B minus at this point.”
“I’m here, you know.” Eve tried forcing a smile, but none came. “You’re talking about me like I’ve gone to the loo.”
“Am I wrong about straight As?”
“Very.”
“OK. What have you ever fucked up?”
“Plenty of things.” Eve wasn’t planning to expand.
“The point is,” Mandy interrupted, “you’re not used to being around children all that much, let alone full-time. I’m impressed you’re doing so well with Alfie.”
“Alfie’s easy,” Eve said. “It’s not that I’m good with him. He’s good with me.”
“See, there you go again,” Lily said, leaning forward. “Mandy’s right. Give yourself some credit. You’ve been brilliant with Alfie from the start. He loves you. Clare told me.”
Eve glanced at Clare, who nodded.
“So,” Mandy said. “You’re great with Alfie. What about the younger girl?”
“Sophie? So-so. I thought I was doing well, until that Saturday happened. Then she went and hid with Hannah for hours, and we haven’t been right since.” Eve took a deep breath. “To be honest, I’m scared I’ve blown it with her too.”
“I doubt it,” Mandy said. “She’s, what, eight? Nine?”
“Nine.”
“Well, then, she’s bound to be influenced by her big sister. You can get around that. It’s Hannah you need to reach some sort of compromise with.”
“Easier said than done,” Eve muttered into her coffee. She’d thought she’d needed some advice. Now that she was getting it, she wasn’t so sure.
“Teenagers are a different kettle of fish,” Mandy explained. “They’re going through all sorts of stuff, even without what Hannah has already experienced. She’s lost her mom, remember. She watched her deteriorate. That’s not easy for anyone, let alone a ten-year-old. And gi
rls are more of a challenge than boys for a new woman coming into the picture. In my experience, anyway.”
Eve caught Lily’s eye and knew they were both thinking the same thing: Clare had definitely been a challenge for the Stepmonster.
“What experience do you have with teenagers?” Mandy asked.
“I’ve been one!” Eve said flippantly.
“Seriously.”
“Seriously? None. I don’t know where to start.”
“Yes, you do!” Clare said. “What about Lou? She thinks you walk on water. It’s Auntie Eve this, Auntie Eve that. Gets on my nerves, to tell the truth.”
“Lou’s different, Lou’s my goddaughter, give or take the God bit. I’ve known her since she was a baby. Plus…” Eve’s voice trailed off.
“Plus what?” Mandy asked.
Eve wondered if she dare say it. It was one thing to think it, even to write it in a blog, but saying the words out loud felt like a betrayal of Hannah, of Ian, of everything.
“Plus what?” Mandy repeated.
“She’s not spoiled to death and she doesn’t hate me.”
There was a silence.
“I’m willing to bet Hannah doesn’t hate you,” Mandy said at last.
“She does!” Eve said. “She wants me out.”
“No, she hates the idea of you. She hates the change. She hates there being an important new person in her dad’s life, in her house, but she doesn’t hate you. There’s a crucial difference. Think how well you get on with Clare’s daughter. And even allowing for all the obvious complications that exist between you and Hannah, there have to be some bits of your relationship with Lou that you can draw on with Hannah.”
Clare glanced at Eve. They were seeing another side to Mandy. This Mandy ran an office, a home and an extended family like a military operation. There was nothing diffident about her words, and her voice had strengthened. It made Eve wonder what Mandy would have been like if she’d gotten her roses around the door or gone to university like the rest of them.
The Other Mothers' Club Page 17