The Stepdaughter. Debbie Howells

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СКАЧАТЬ Without explaining why he’s late, Andrew hangs up his coat and walks into the kitchen to put the kettle on, but he never justifies anything. Even off duty, his characteristic air of authority never leaves him.

      My heart sinks as I remember. He’s talking about the end of January drinks in the pub—a village tradition, after a month off alcohol. I had forgotten. If I hadn’t, I’d have invented an excuse, but it’s too late for that. “I had, actually.” I pause, wanting to say I’m too tired. It’s true—I had an early start this morning. Instead, I glance at the clock. It’s seven thirty. “What time is everyone meeting?”

      “Eight.” Changing his mind, Andrew switches off the kettle and uncorks a bottle of red wine.

      “Fine.” My mind is restless. I’m thinking, if I’m right, if she lives locally, the chances are she’ll be there. Right now, it’s too good an opportunity to miss. “I’ll just change.”

      Pulling on a black tunic over my jeans, I knot a pale scarf over it, then brush my hair and touch up my makeup. The spritz of perfume is defiant, reflecting my mood. As I go downstairs, there’s music coming from the sitting room. I push the door open enough to see Niamh slumped on the sofa, and Hollie sprawled on the rug in front of the fire. Neither of them looks at me.

      “We’re just going out, girls. We won’t be late.” My voice is intentionally light, painting a picture that Andrew and I are off on a cozy evening out.

      Niamh turns briefly, hair the color of flax falling across her face. “OK, Mum.” Her words are expressionless, her eyes blank, as they mirror mine. Not for the first time I berate myself for not being the kind of mother who hugs, laughs, jokes. Hideous guilt paralyzes me for not being able to make everything right in her world.

      I look at Hollie. “Are you staying, Hollie?”

      Hollie Hampton lives at the other end of the village from us. At sixteen, she’s two years older than Niamh, but they’re kindred spirits somehow, probably because of shared pain. Riveted to the television, Hollie nods imperceptibly, pulling her long dark hair over one of her thin shoulders. Elfin-faced, with her translucent skin, frayed jeans under a pale silver dress, she’s diaphanous.

      “Are your parents going to the pub?”

      This time, she doesn’t speak, just shrugs.

      “There are snacks in the cupboard if you’re hungry,” I remind them. “See you later, girls.”

      Pushing the door closed behind me, I go to find Andrew. In the hallway, he’s already wearing his coat. He barely glances at me. “Ready?”

      His tone is brusque. I nod, pulling on a jacket and knitted hat, trying to remember the last time my husband was affectionate toward me.

      * * *

      We walk to the pub in silence. The air is damp, the drops of rain from earlier yet to turn into anything more. For some reason, Hollie’s on my mind. Her father, James, is a writer; her stepmother, Stephanie, is a florist. But in the last couple of years, Hollie’s seemed troubled. I’ve seen it when she appears at the door, uninvited, as if she has nowhere else to go; the way sometimes she’s quiet as if her mind is far away, while other days emotions race across her face like clouds across a sky. I’ve seen her running through the fields, her hair flowing behind her, almost a romantic figure, until you see the angst in her eyes.

      Hands in my pockets, I hurry through the darkness, trying to keep up with Andrew’s brisk, staccato steps, like everything about him, deliberate, purposeful. I wonder if he’s thinking of her. When he speaks, it takes me by surprise.

      “We should plan a holiday, Elise. I’m thinking about Dubai.”

      For the second time today, I’m hit by shock. I should be delighted, but instead, I’m outraged, upset, cynical; smothering the urge to flail my fists into the softness of his overcoat, to scream at him, Why this pretense, when we both know you want to be with her? It’s replaced by numbness. There’s no point in my outrage. He’s playing a game with me, goading me. He doesn’t want me. There’s no going back to how we used to be.

      I put my hands in my pockets. “Let’s see, shall we?” I know my cool response won’t be what he’s expecting.

      “You’re always saying you want me to make more effort,” he says through gritted teeth. “But the trouble with you, Elise, is that it’s always one bloody way—your way.”

      Angst rises inside me. It’s so far from the truth, but he never listens to what I say. But this is what Andrew does. Twists everything, until black is white, light is dark. Words fill my head, words I stuff down unspoken, because there’s no point when he stores away everything I say to use against me.

      Niamh

      From the moment I first met Hollie, I knew she was different. She was in the churchyard, standing with her back to me. I noticed her long dark hair, her pale skin as she turned around when a twig cracked under my foot.

      I stared at her for a moment. In her thin white dress, she looked delicate, as though the wind could blow her away. “I’m Niamh.”

      Her wide eyes darted around before settling on mine. “I’m Hollie.”

      “I know.” Imagining Hollie as a ghost surrounded by the silent graves between us, I felt myself shiver. I was about to walk away, but curiosity got the better of me. “Are you OK?”

      As she nodded, I saw loneliness in her eyes. The first raindrop fell on my skin. Then as more started to fall, I glanced up at the sky just as the heavens opened.

      Hollie nodded toward the church. “Maybe we should go in.”

      I nodded, following her toward the wooden door, which creaked open as she lifted the heavy latch. In the doorway watching the deluge, neither of us spoke for a moment.

      “I like your dress.” My words were almost drowned out by the rain falling on the tiled roof as I gazed at her, her dress translucent where the rain had caught it.

      She didn’t reply. Instead, I watched her shiver. “You can feel them, can’t you?” she asked, her arms tightly hugging herself. I could tell from the way her eyes roamed across the churchyard, she was talking about the souls of the dead.

      I nodded, imagining the heartbreak of their families lingering in the air, wondering if after enough time passed, the rain washed it away.

      “Do you ever think about all the people who’ve come here? The christenings, weddings, funerals...” Her words echoed through the church as she fell silent. “My mum died. I was ten. I wasn’t allowed to go to her funeral.” Her voice was small, choked with tears.

      The crash of thunder overhead startled me. I thought of my father, spending another Sunday in a fug of red wine and temper; how my mother was never happy. Without thinking, my hand reached for hers.

      At first, she didn’t respond. Then she muttered, “They think she killed herself.” Her eyes were blank as she stared outside at the rain. For the first time, she raised her head to look at me; then her eyes widened. “They’re wrong. I know they are. She wouldn’t have done that.” She sounded angry. “But no one believes me.” She broke off.

      I didn’t know what to say. In the streak СКАЧАТЬ