you.’
‘He’s smoking dope in his bedroom.’
She pretended to look prim, but her smile widened. ‘I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.’
‘Does your dad know?’
She just snorted merrily and carried on scrunching up newspaper. I looked around the room. On a writing table beside the fireplace I spotted a collection of photographs in silver frames, and I leaned over for a closer look.
There was a little dark-haired girl, presumably Lucy, sledging in the arms of an expensive-looking brunette. I held it up. The woman wore a ski jacket and wraparound shades. ‘This your mother, Luce?’
She glanced up. ‘Yep. That’s Mum.’
I knew her mother was dead. She’d mentioned it once or twice, but I’d never asked her any more.
‘I think I’ve told you,’ said Lucy. ‘She died when I was four.’
‘D’you remember her?’
‘Um, yes, in a shadowy way. She had a brain tumour and it all happened very fast. We were living in Germany at the time.’ She piled kindling onto the paper, pressing it down. ‘So we had a nanny instead of a mother.’ The words were spoken with finality, as though the subject was at an end, but after a few seconds she added, ‘And the nanny was Deborah.’
She flicked a lighter, holding it to the paper. Surprised, I turned back to the photographs. There was Matt wearing a waxed jacket and holding up two dead rabbits with a smug look on his face; Matt holding up a dead trout with exactly the same smug look on his face; and Lucy and Matt, aged perhaps eleven and four, on a beach. They were posing before an enormous sandcastle, and they both had smug looks on their faces. There was also a picture of Perry in uniform, looking rather distinguished.
Then I saw a photo hiding at the back, and picked it up. A youngish woman in a straw hat gazed warmly out at me, her mouth puckered into a smile, her eyebrows slightly raised as though she was laughing with the photographer. She had a little constellation of freckles scattered across her cheekbones, and wisps of fair hair escaped from under the hat. Behind her, I thought I could make out a white sail and brilliantly turquoise water.
‘Wow! Who’s this?’
‘Which one? Oh.’ Lucy yawned. ‘That’s Deborah. I took it, actually, a few years ago. We were on a sailing holiday in the Greek Islands.’
I took another look at the woman in the photo. She couldn’t have been much older than thirty. Although she was tanned to a light gold, her nose was peeling slightly, just across the bridge, leaving a small white patch. It was a delicate nose, and her eyes were the same blue-green as the glittering water around her. Blue-green, with yellow flames around the pupils. Like Matt’s.
‘I imagined someone . . .’
‘Older?’
‘Well.’ I stared at the freckled, smiling face. ‘I certainly didn’t expect her to look like this . She’s a kitten.’
‘Cat, more like,’ Lucy said coldly. ‘It’s out of date. And it doesn’t do justice to her innate ghastliness.’
‘What’s ghastly about her?’
‘Where do I start?’ Lucy picked up a poker, jabbing it moodily into her smoking pyre. ‘She’s the most dishonest and manipulative person I’ve ever met. Got herself pregnant, then Dad had to marry her. A cheap trick, don’t you think?’
‘Oldest in the book.’
‘And now she’s frolicking around Africa when she’s needed here. ’ To emphasise the word, Lucy aimed a deathblow at a poor, blameless log. Sparks flew up the chimney.
The woman in the picture laughed out at me. I tried to imagine her—the scheming stepmother—arranging flowers and polishing the silver before setting off to collar an African bandit. I was still wrestling with this image when I heard a door slam, and Matt came clomping down the stairs. Even his footsteps were sulky. He slumped into the living room, ignoring us both, snatched up the TV remote, and threw himself full-length onto the sofa.
‘Matt, I gather you’ve met Jake.’ Lucy nodded in my
‘He’s smoking dope in his bedroom.’
She pretended to look prim, but her smile widened. ‘I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.’
‘Does your dad know?’
She just snorted merrily and carried on scrunching up newspaper. I looked around the room. On a writing table beside the fireplace I spotted a collection of photographs in silver frames, and I leaned over for a closer look.
There was a little dark-haired girl, presumably Lucy, sledging in the arms of an expensive-looking brunette. I held it up. The woman wore a ski jacket and wraparound shades. ‘This your mother, Luce?’
She glanced up. ‘Yep. That’s Mum.’
I knew her mother was dead. She’d mentioned it once or twice, but I’d never asked her any more.
‘I think I’ve told you,’ said Lucy. ‘She died when I was four.’
‘D’you remember her?’
‘Um, yes, in a shadowy way. She had a brain tumour and it all happened very fast. We were living in Germany at the time.’ She piled kindling onto the paper, pressing it down. ‘So we had a nanny instead of a mother.’ The words were spoken with finality, as though the subject was at an end, but after a few seconds she added, ‘And the nanny was Deborah.’
She flicked a lighter, holding it to the paper. Surprised, I turned back to the photographs. There was Matt wearing a waxed jacket and holding up two dead rabbits with a smug look on his face; Matt holding up a dead trout with exactly the same smug look on his face; and Lucy and Matt, aged perhaps eleven and four, on a beach. They were posing before an enormous sandcastle, and they both had smug looks on their faces. There was also a picture of Perry in uniform, looking rather distinguished.
Then I saw a photo hiding at the back, and picked it up. A youngish woman in a straw hat gazed warmly out at me, her mouth puckered into a smile, her eyebrows slightly raised as though she was laughing with the photographer. She had a little constellation of freckles scattered across her cheekbones, and wisps of fair hair escaped from under the hat. Behind her, I thought I could make out a white sail and brilliantly turquoise water.
‘Wow! Who’s this?’
‘Which one? Oh.’ Lucy yawned. ‘That’s Deborah. I took it, actually, a few years ago. We were on a sailing holiday in the Greek Islands.’
I took another look at the woman in the photo. She couldn’t have been much older than thirty. Although she was tanned to a light gold, her nose was peeling slightly, just across the bridge, leaving a small white patch. It was a delicate nose, and her eyes were the same blue-green as the glittering water around her. Blue-green, with yellow flames around the pupils. Like Matt’s.
‘I imagined someone . . .’
‘Older?’
‘Well.’ I stared at the freckled, smiling face. ‘I certainly didn’t expect her to look like this . She’s a kitten.’
‘Cat, more like,’ Lucy said coldly. ‘It’s out of date. And it doesn’t do justice to her innate ghastliness.’
‘What’s ghastly about her?’
‘Where do I start?’ Lucy picked up a poker, jabbing it moodily into her smoking pyre. ‘She’s the most dishonest and manipulative person I’ve ever met. Got herself pregnant, then Dad had to marry her. A cheap trick, don’t you think?’
‘Oldest in the book.’
‘And now she’s frolicking around Africa when she’s needed here. ’ To emphasise the word, Lucy aimed a deathblow at a poor, blameless log. Sparks flew up the chimney.
The woman in the picture laughed out at me. I tried to imagine her—the scheming stepmother—arranging flowers and polishing the silver before setting off to collar an African bandit. I was still wrestling with this image when I heard a door slam, and Matt came clomping down the stairs. Even his footsteps were sulky. He slumped into the living room, ignoring us both, snatched up the TV remote, and threw himself full-length onto the sofa.
‘Matt, I gather you’ve met Jake.’ Lucy nodded in my
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