The Stepdaughter. Debbie Howells

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      1

      Elise

      As the aircraft accelerates down the runway and takes off for London, from my crew seat I watch the woman in front of me. Her blond hair is shoulder length, her eye makeup minimal, her lips red. I envy the biker jacket over the green dress she’s wearing, as I’m drawn to a line on the cover of the magazine she’s reading. Only ten percent of people are good. Ten percent . . . It’s a small number. I frown, trying to work out if I’m one of them.

      The ground falls away and I glance through the window as the world shrinks and snowcapped mountains come into view. Then the seat belt sign goes out and I get up, glancing for a moment down the length of the aircraft. One hundred and twenty-three faces seeing my neatly pinned-back hair and mask of immaculate makeup, my navy uniform dress and smart shoes. One hundred and twenty-three lives I know nothing about, just as they know nothing about mine.

      As I set up the drinks trolley, the statistic on the magazine cover stays with me, and I think about how many people cause suffering to others. I used to believe that extreme behavior could be explained by abusive childhoods or desperation or personality disorders—and sometimes it can. But that was before I realized people have choices; make decisions. That innate brutality exists.

      The passengers are mostly students in big coats and running shoes; blank-looking business travelers; wealthy Italians in designer wear. As I serve cups of tea, I’d usually imagine them as parents, families, friends, vacationers. But today, as I look at their faces, I’m wondering which of them are in the ten percent. It’s impossible to tell. None of us know what we’re capable of in extreme circumstances.

      Now and then, I glance through a window to take in the bird’s-eye view I never tire of, a world that’s endlessly beautiful. Beneath a pale blue sky, mountains have given way to a sea of snowfields, broken here and there by a circular town or a spider’s web of serpentine roads; by monolith chimneys from which vertical smoke rises, scored into the whiteness. Over northern France, the snow reduces to an icing-sugar dusting. Then as we start our approach into London, as the clouds thicken, the reality of my life comes flooding back.

      * * *

      While the passengers disembark; on the crew bus to the crew room; on another bus that takes me to the parking lot, I wear the mask. Only when I’m alone in my car does it slip. As I leave the airport perimeter road, I open the window and light a cigarette, suspending my reality for as long as I can: of the neighbors who think they know me; my cheating husband whose patients think he’s God; my changeling daughter, who lives in her own world; our family life tenuously held together by my silent promise.

      Abingworth is a thirty-minute drive from the airport. As I turn off the main road, I light another cigarette, my eyes narrowing when I think of Andrew, wondering who she is; grateful for small mercies. As far as I know, this is his fourth, though I’ve no reason to believe there haven’t been more. So far, she’s been discreet. The humiliation of not being enough for your husband is multiplied a hundredfold when everyone else knows.

      Slowing down as I reach the village, I pass the sign reading ABINGWORTH. When we moved here five years ago, it was with a tacit agreement that this was a chance for a new start. But under no illusions, I made another silent promise, to myself. If Andrew cheated on me once more, I’d make him pay.

      Now, as I drive toward our house, I try to remember the feeling I had back then. Hope, weighted with mistrust, a jaded anger with my husband, a need to protect my family. It isn’t Niamh’s fault her parents’ marriage is a mess. I’ve learned the hard way not to trust Andrew; that the most practiced liars hide behind blank eyes and cold smiles; wield blame, criticism, and belittlement to mold their world and everyone in it.

      Slowing down, I turn into our lane, then through tall gateposts into our driveway, feeling my tension ease. The garden is surrounded by flint walls, the cedar trees in front of the house giving it seclusion, privacy. There’s no sign of Andrew’s car. My relief that I’m alone is instantly squashed by the thought that’s never far from my mind. He could be with her.

      At one time, I would have phoned his practice, desperate, cobbling together an excuse for calling when I didn’t need to, but I no longer care enough. Today, I park by the back door and take my crew bag inside, thinking about the three days off I have, imagining tidying the house and going for a run; catching up with one or two friends before next week’s flight schedule starts. Maybe I’ll take Niamh shopping and get her out of those awful velour leggings she lives in. Maybe Andrew will dump his lover. Actually see me properly. See Niamh. See anyone but that fucking bitch he’s sleeping with. But even if he did, I’m not sure I’d want him. Swallowing hard, I blink away the hot tears filling my eyes, hating how the thought of him makes me feel.

      In the kitchen, my heart skips a beat as I see the light flashing on the house phone. I leave it until I’ve showered and changed, until I’ve made myself a cup of coffee. Putting it off until I can’t. When I play the message, there are no distinguishable words, just a faint crackle. After it plays through, I delete it, then retrieve the caller’s number, my blood like ice in my veins. I write it down with shaking hands, knowing it’s his most recent lover. It’s what always happens. It’s just a question of when.

      There is no escape from my husband’s betrayal. Even in my home, I’m surrounded by the ghosts of his lovers leaving their silent messages of possession. Most women would have left, but I haven’t. Not yet. But I will. The only way through this is to wear the mask. Hide the truth from Niamh, let Andrew do what he wants to do, knowing the day will come, one way or another, when it ends for good. Picking up my mug, I sip my coffee, finding it cold, bitter. My hands still trembling, I hurl it at the wall.