The Stepdaughter. Debbie Howells

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      When we reach the pub, I hover outside, thinking of the charade ahead of me on the other side of the door.

      “What’s wrong with you?” Andrew is unsympathetic.

      “Absolutely nothing,” I tell him. “I just remembered something.” I’m putting off the moment, when the last thing I want to do is go inside. But I’ve long stopped caring about lying to him because Andrew’s entire life is a lie. There’s the amiable doctor, the caring father, the solicitous husband, the solid neighbor making his entrance into the pub, when the real Andrew is a cruel, manipulative liar.

      “It’s too cold to stand around out here.” He sounds impatient.

      “Then don’t.” I say it through gritted teeth. Then instead of turning around and walking home, I push past him and open the door, latching on to the first familiar face I see inside, feeling my heart sink. “Julian!” Unbuttoning my jacket, I pin on a smile. “How lovely to see you! Is Sophie with you? How was Goa?”

      “Hot.” As he kisses my cheek, the smell of his aftershave is cloying. “She’s over there.”

      Across the pub, Sophie raises her hand, looking anxious. Craning my neck, I see she’s been snared by Christian. I pull a sympathetic face at her, before turning away.

      “Drink, Elise?” Andrew’s voice comes from behind me.

      “Vodka and tonic. I’ve never been.” I’m talking about Goa.

      “Julian... good to see you. Can I get you another?”

      After he comes back with my drink, I leave him and Julian, before drifting in the direction of Sophie, who’s the only person I’m remotely interested in talking to, waiting while she extricates herself from Christian’s lengthy monologue.

      Looking around, I see James and Stephanie Hampton, Hollie’s parents. As I catch Stephanie’s eye, a look of recognition flickers across her face. It occurs to me to bring up my concerns about Hollie. But then Sophie comes over. “Bloody circus, isn’t it?” She kisses me on both cheeks. “I don’t know why we put ourselves through this.”

      “You know as well as I do. So that we can gloat over our successes and crow over each other’s failures. You look great, Sophie.” Her hair is lighter, her skin sun-kissed. But the Calders are often away somewhere hot.

      “After two weeks in Goa, I ought to have a tan... It won’t last around here in this god-awful weather. Luckily we’re off to Barbados for a fortnight. Are you going anywhere?”

      “Apparently Andrew wants to go to Dubai.” My words are expressionless. I’ve still no idea why he even mentioned it, unless it’s lip service to his role as dutiful husband. “I won’t be going with him.”

      There’s an odd look on Sophie’s face. “Have you told him?”

      I shake my head. “Not yet.” It’ll cause another fight I don’t have the energy for; like everything else to do with Andrew, it would be pointless.

      She frowns at me. “Are you alright?”

      “Fine.” I sip my drink, unable to taste the vodka, putting it down. Then I close my eyes for a moment. “Actually, I’m not. My vision’s gone blurry.” Sophie knows I get migraines. I search my bag for my pills. “I can’t believe it. They’re in my other bag.” I glance around, noticing Andrew deep in conversation, on the other side of the room. “Do me a favor and tell him, would you? I should go home and take a pill before it gets any worse. Can we catch up another time? I want to hear about Goa.”

      Sophie’s concern is genuine. “He should take you home. I’ll get him.”

      I’m shaking my head. “Please, don’t. We’ve only just got here. I’ll be fine on my own.”

      “You’re sure? Would you like me to walk with you?”

      I shake my head. “If you could just tell Andrew...”

      Slipping outside unnoticed, I take a deep breath. I have no migraine, just an intolerance for an evening wasted with people I don’t want to see. I’d rather be alone. As I walk home, I know Andrew won’t come after me, or even call me to check if I’m alright. I have no guilty conscience about the lie. In a life that’s full of them, one more makes no difference. I think of the expression on Sophie’s face when I told her I wasn’t going away with Andrew, and it creeps into my mind that she could be his latest. But she’s been in Goa, I remember, relieved, because Sophie’s the only person around here that I actually like.

      Through the darkness, the sound of an owl reaches me. When we moved here, I thought I’d grow to love the countryside and the changes of the seasons, but I haven’t. Instead, it suffocates me. In a small village, there is no privacy. Everyone sees you. I wonder how much longer I can keep up the pretense that Andrew and I have a functioning marriage, just as I wonder how many people already know we don’t.

      Just before I reach our drive, I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps running on gravel, then Hollie springs through the open gate, her hair caught in the dim glow from the lamps on top of the gateposts. Without looking round, she carries on up the lane, and I hear her sobbing. Hollie’s always been melodramatic, but lately . . . I shake my head. There’s something different about her. But the trouble with Hollie is her hype. When nothing small ever happens to her, it’s impossible to know what to believe.

      Inside, I linger in the kitchen. Upstairs, I can hear Niamh moving around; then she comes downstairs, no doubt checking why I’m back so soon. If she’s surprised to see me, I can’t tell.

      “I have one of my migraines,” I explain. “Have you eaten?”

      Niamh’s face is blank as she looks at me. “We had pizza.”

      Out of the corner of my eye I see the empty box on the side. “Was Hollie OK?”

      “She’s fine.” But Niamh’s answer is too quick.

      “I passed her just now.” Hollie clearly wasn’t fine. I wonder if something happened between them in the hour I was out. “She came running out just as I got back. She seemed upset about something.”

      As Niamh shrugs, I know she isn’t going to tell me anything. Then she wanders out of the kitchen and I hear her light footsteps on the stairs. Fetching a glass, I make myself another drink—full strength this time, not like the insipid version the pub serves—then go over to the sofa at the far end of the kitchen, flicking the TV on.

      The kitchen is my favorite room—calm, light yet cozy. Looking around, I imagine Andrew in the pub, no doubt smugly holding forth to anyone who’ll listen. I allow self-pity to wash over me, but only fleetingly. Sipping my drink, I remind myself, I chose this life, just as I choose to stay, not because I love this lifestyle or this house, because I don’t. It’s for Niamh. It won’t last forever.

      * * *

      By the time Andrew gets home, I’m in a vodka-induced slumber, which absolves me of having to talk to him and from which I awake late the following morning to find the bed empty. As I lie there, the sound of Andrew crashing around the kitchen reaches my ears, then the quieter sound of Niamh’s bedroom door opening, her footsteps fainter as she goes downstairs.

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