by Cathy Kelly
Vicki nodded and went through the revolving doors. She ignored her sense of foreboding. Vicki’s brother had step-children and it had taken years before they’d all settled down into a proper family. Years. But then, it was probably different when the step-parent was a woman, and a mother to boot. Stella could manage it, sure she could.
Miles away, in her big kitchen with its antique pine and gleaming professional-sized oven, Wendy Cavaletto sat at the table and cried. Her tears were of misery and fury mingled. It was such a shock to find that Nick had somebody else in his life. He’d said there was nobody else when they’d divorced and Wendy herself had known that it was all over between them. Yet now he had this other woman and it was so soon, so soon that it had shocked her. Not even a year since they’d been divorced. It was the ultimate insult for him to find somebody else so quickly. The pig, the bastard. How dare he! Still sobbing, she stalked past the granite-topped island unit to the saucepan rack and began slamming saucepans around. Here she was, planning meals for his children, worrying about every aspect of their lives, when he was off with another woman. He was probably swanning round in restaurants, having a marvellous time while she tried to cope with two nightmarish teenagers, one who sulked non-stop and another who didn’t know how to pick up her dirty socks off the floor. Fury rose in Wendy’s throat like bile. She wanted to hit Nick, she wanted to kill him. With an absence of her ex-husband to hit, she picked up the nearest weapon and fired it viciously at the floor. Her biggest copper-bottomed saucepan made one hell of a noise as it clattered onto the terracotta tiles. Wendy wished it was Nick’s head. He’d hurt her and she wanted to hurt him. How could he find another woman to love so quickly? Where was the period of mourning for their marriage?
This was even worse than when he’d told her he was moving back to Ireland. Wendy remembered the years when she’d begged him to move home with her. But no, Nick’s career had come first and he’d insisted that they live in the UK. And then as soon as they were no longer married, he moved back to Ireland. Not for her, no. For their daughters. Wendy had wept tears of rage at that. It was as if her power over Nick had gone forever. She was at the end of the queue and the girls were at the top, with this new woman.
She wouldn’t make it easy for him. No way. He could rot in hell for all she cared. She was the mother of his children. Surely she deserved some respect and Nick’s flaunting a new girlfriend so soon was not respect.
‘Have you been talking to your father?’ she snapped at Jenna when her younger daughter slouched into the kitchen, still in her pyjamas from that morning.
‘He phoned me earlier,’ Jenna said. ‘Said he wanted to talk to me about something tomorrow night.’ She sounded gloomy. Her mother was clearly in a nark, which was nothing new since the divorce. Jenna hated her dad and mum living apart even though you were the odd one out in her school in London if your parents were married. But Jenna wouldn’t mind being the odd one out if it meant her parents getting back together again.
‘You used to complain they were always fighting,’ her friend Maya pointed out when Jenna said she hated the split. ‘Mine were the same. Now there’s no fighting and you get twice as many presents!’
Maya was right about the fights. Jenna remembered the arguments, and how the anger and tension seemed to linger in the air for days. She could hear them yell at each other about not involving the children, but honestly, did they think she was deaf? When he’d gone, her Mum had said ‘good riddance, he should have gone years ago’. But she still didn’t seem happy. They’d moved back to Ireland, which Jenna had really hated because it meant leaving behind all her friends. And then Dad had moved back too, which was great, although that made Mum even more furious for some reason. She kept going on about how she’d finally seen what he thought of her and how she was second best to her own children.
Sara didn’t seem to mind: she loved going to Trinity College, because of some guy she was going out with. And Jenna was the one who got stuck at home with Mum. Sometimes Mum was happy and hugged Jenna, saying this was the best move of their life and that they were going to make it work. Other times she sat and watched telly all night, ready to leap on Jenna if she said the wrong thing.
Jenna wanted to know when things were going to improve, the way Maya insisted they would. There were no rows now, but the atmosphere was somehow worse. It was like being in the park before a thunderstorm; scary and electric. Dad had never shouted or yelled, not like Mum. He calmed things down. Worst of all, she missed her dad more than anything. He’d said that the divorce didn’t mean he was leaving the girls, but Jenna felt as if she had lost him. He was her dad and he wasn’t there any more.
‘I’ll tell you a bit of news about your father, shall I?’ said Wendy tearfully, banging the kettle down on its stand.
Jenna noticed the slug trails of tears down her mother’s face.
‘Your father has a new girlfriend, he’s really serious about her and he wants you to meet her. Did he not tell you that? I don’t suppose he thinks he has to tell us anything. We’re not important any more. Well, I know I’m not important but he should have told you.’
Jenna felt the pain like a stabbing sensation in her chest. Dad hadn’t told them about any girlfriend. How could he not have told Jenna? She was his best girl, his pal. He loved Sara too, but she, Jenna, was his special girl because Sara was grown-up almost and never there. And now he had someone else in his life, someone he must love more than her.
Her mother was still talking, her voice tight with anger. ‘I hope he realises how this makes me feel,’ she was saying. ‘He didn’t waste time getting my replacement, did he? She’s got a kid, too, some single mother looking for a fool to pay the bills, no doubt.’
Jenna was no longer listening to her mother’s tirade because the pain in her chest had got worse. Dad with another girl, maybe he’d bring her to the cinema. Maybe he wouldn’t care about Jenna ever again, he’d have someone else. He’d said they’d go on holiday to France this year and do Euro Disney, Jenna had always wanted to see it, she didn’t care if it was for kids, she loved that stuff. She had a snow globe with the Disney castle in it from when she was small. Dad had bought it for her and she loved it.
‘I’m not seeing him,’ she said fiercely, shoving her chair back from the table. ‘I don’t want anything to do with him again.’ She ran to her room, threw herself on her bed and let the tears come. How could he do this to her? He loved her to bits, he’d said so the day he left. That would never change, nothing would stop him loving her. But he was wrong, it had changed. He’d lied to her. She hated him.
The scent of barbecuing food filled Stella’s nostrils as she walked slowly up Delgany Terrace that evening with Amelia chatting happily alongside her. She’d driven home from the office in record time and decided to walk to Hazel’s and enjoy the evening air. It was balmy for early April, just warm enough to sit outside. Perhaps she should buy a barbecue, she thought idly. No, perhaps they should buy one. She and Nick. It was strange thinking like a couple again. It had been so long since there had been anybody but herself and Amelia. Nick might be good with a barbecue. Men liked that type of cooking. Stella had often gone to neighbours’ barbecues and drank wine with the women, while their children played and a couple of husbands wielded big metal implements and made a big deal about cremating a few steaks. It was one of the few occasions that Stella had felt a wistfulness for a male presence in her life. Barbecues had always had that effect on her. Not that she longed for burnt food, but the whole idea of the family unit around the barbecue had always reminded her of family life, with mother, father and kids, not like her own life with Amelia.
The barbecues when she’d been a child had been wonderful.
Her mother was the party queen. Entertaining had been a huge part of life in Kinvarra.
She had been lucky, Stella reflected, growing up with such a loving family background. She, Tara and Holly hadn’t appreciated just how lucky they’d been or that other families weren’t
so happy.
‘Mum, for my birthday, can I have a new bike?’ Amelia began. Her birthday was over three months away, but they had this conversation at least twice a week.
‘What about the dolls’ house?’ asked Stella, smiling.
‘I’d like a dolls’ house but I’d like a bike more and I can get a dolls’ house from Santa, can’t I?’
Stella grinned. ‘You have this all planned out, haven’t you!’
They reached their house, a redbrick terraced cottage that looked quite small from the street but which stretched out behind into a comfortable, if compact, home. In the seven years Stella had been living there, she’d transformed it so that the cottage now boasted a large living room, with a small galley kitchen off it. The kitchen led to a neat little conservatory which Stella had installed, and the back garden was a tiny white-walled courtyard complete with rambling roses and lots of plants in painted tubs. Originally, the cottage had just included two bedrooms and a compact bathroom on the ground floor but a previous owner had cleverly created a third guest bedroom out of the attic space. That was the bedroom Stella planned to clear out for Nick’s daughters.
Stella took off her high shoes as soon as she stepped inside her front door. Picking them up, she went into her bedroom to get ready for Nick, while Amelia scooted off to her own room to dump her school things. Stella had taught Amelia not to leave things lying around, partly because she was tidy by nature and partly because in such a small house, junk cluttered the place instantly. It had worked: Stella had often noticed her daughter tut-tutting when Becky and Shona scattered belongings around in Hazel’s.
‘Look at this mess,’ Amelia had said crossly one day, hands on hips, imitating her mother perfectly. Hazel and Stella had to hide in the kitchen and stuff their hands in their mouths to stop themselves laughing out loud.
‘I wonder where she picked that up?’ Hazel said wickedly.
‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ Stella added, shaking her head. ‘It just shows, you can never forget they’re listening.’
Stella hung up her jacket but left on her pink skirt and white cotton shell top. In the bathroom, she brushed her hair and took a look in the mirror, wincing at the sight of mascara smudged under her eyes. Wetting a finger, she rubbed it away, knowing that such treatment didn’t do anything for her wrinkles. And there were definitely more wrinkles these days. She gently pulled the skin around her eyes taut, trying to imagine what she’d look like after an eye lift. Would plastic surgery be worth it? Stella wasn’t sure, but she wished Nick had met her when her face was smooth and unlined. Until she was thirty-five, her skin had been perfect without the slightest effort on her part. Her women friends had told her she was lucky not to be plagued with PMT spots, dry patches or pores the size of dinner plates. But suddenly, almost as soon as the ink was dry on her thirty-fifth birthday cards, everything in her face had gone downhill at the speed of an avalanche. Now her dark eyes had a fan of tiny lines around them and she needed to draw a firm line around her mouth to make sure the lipstick stayed put and didn’t bleed.
Still, she wasn’t too bad. Age meant her cheekbones were more pronounced, giving her face a sculpted air it had never had as a full-faced twenty-something. Being on the road to forty had its compensations. She spritzed herself with perfume and then went to phone Holly and Tara to discuss the ruby wedding present conundrum. Neither of them was home yet, so she left messages and had only just put the phone down when she heard Nick’s key in the door.
‘Hello,’ he said loudly from the hall.
Stella rushed out like a schoolgirl. He came into the sitting room looking tired, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual ‘He’s got that lived-in look,’ Tara had pronounced after their first meeting in Stella’s for Sunday lunch. Tara loved to get people’s descriptions right instantly. Part of being a scriptwriter, Stella knew. She couldn’t pass a stranger in a phone box without writing a mental précis.
‘Lived in, but sexy,’ she’d added approvingly. ‘You lucky thing. I’m dead jealous.’
Stella had grinned proudly, knowing that Tara, with the gorgeous Finn in tow, was only kidding about the jealousy.
‘Hi, Stella, hi, Amelia,’ said Nick, dropping his briefcase and several shopping bags onto the floor.
Smiling, Stella went towards him but Amelia got there first. Now dressed in a lurid purple dressing-up fairy costume that her Aunt Holly had got her the Christmas before, Amelia danced up to Nick and did her twirl. ‘Isn’t that good, isn’t it?’ she demanded.
‘Perfect,’ said Nick. ‘You’re a fairy ballerina, then?’
‘No, a swan princess,’ Amelia corrected. ‘We had ballet today and the teacher said I was very good.’
‘You need someone to lift you up to do proper ballet,’ Nick pointed out. He lifted her up by the waist and she pointed her toes as he bounced her along, her feet barely touching the floor in an imitation of a pas de chat.
‘Stella, you should have dancing music on the CD player,’ Nick reproved, his eyes shining as he met Stella’s.
‘Yessir,’ she said, saluting. Nothing could have made her happier than the way Nick and Amelia got on with each other.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Amelia eagerly, keen to make the entire ballet experience more realistic.
Nick put her down and she rushed off to the sound system to look for CDs with pictures of ballerinas on them. Nick smiled at Stella and moved forward to hold her. They fitted together perfectly, her body just the right height for his, her head able to rest perfectly against his shoulder. At five eight,
Stella was a tall woman and Nick was four inches taller than her, tall enough for her to wear high heels with him.
‘You wouldn’t be threatened if I wore platform shoes and was taller than you, would you?’ she teased once.
‘I’m too old to feel threatened,’ he replied truthfully.
That was the lovely thing about Nick. She knew that some women’s partners were made uneasy by clever women but not Nick. He was proud of her. He loved her cleverness just as much as he loved her kindness.
‘How are you?’ he murmured now, content to hold her close and let the stresses and strains of the day wash away from both of them.
‘Better now,’ she murmured back, breathing in the familiar scent of his body, his cologne and his jacket. She loved that Nick-smell that lingered on the pillows when he’d gone: a hint of vanilla from his cologne and the smell of him.
‘Did you remember to buy a free-range chicken?’ she asked, still leaning against him dreamily.
‘You old romantic, you,’ he replied. ‘Should I have got one with giblets or one without?’
‘Stop talking dirty to me,’ she said, giggling. She planted a kiss on his cheek and made to move away to start work on the chicken, but Nick held her firm. ‘Do giblets turn you on?’ he asked, a glint in his eyes. ‘If only I’d known that, I wouldn’t have bothered with chocolates and flowers.’
His mouth, smiling, came down upon hers and they kissed as new lovers kiss, softly at first and then deepening, eyes closed and sighing. Finally, they drew apart.
‘I’m ravenous,’ he confessed. ‘Can you roast a chicken quickly?’
‘No. But I could carve it up, slice the breast and we could make a speedy stir-fry?’
They ate their dinner of stir-fry chicken in the conservatory and afterwards, Stella got Amelia ready for bed.
When Amelia was dressed in fresh flowery cotton pyjamas, Stella realised that the bottoms were now at least two inches above Amelia’s ankles.
‘You’re getting so big,’ she sighed.
‘I know,’ said Amelia proudly. ‘Hazel says I’m going to be tall, not a little fairy like Becky.’
Stella smiled at the thought of Becky as any sort of fairy.
‘Mummy, Becky isn’t as good at ballet as me,’ Amelia announced.
‘Don’t say things like that, Amelia,’ Stella said, absentmindedly. ‘That’s very unkind. Becky is your friend.�
� She picked up her daughter’s discarded clothes for the laundry basket, thinking that it only seemed like yesterday when Amelia was a tiny baby, snuggled in Babygrows.
Amelia’s bottom lip wobbled, a sure sign that she was tired.
‘I know you didn’t mean to be unkind,’ Stella said, backtracking. ‘I’m sure Becky will be good too if you help her. Now, what story do you want tonight?’
When Amelia’s light was out, Stella and Nick sat down on the low russet sofa and talked about the holiday they’d been planning and their days at work. Stella skirted cautiously round the subject that had been niggling at her all day. ‘I’ve been thinking about the girls. Your girls,’ she said finally. ‘It may take them some time to get used to the idea that you’ve got somebody new in your life.’
‘Kids adapt,’ Nick said easily. He looked so content that Stella almost didn’t have the heart to ruin it for him. But she had to. These girls would be her stepchildren, give or take a wedding ring. There were two families to be carefully joined together and she and Nick needed to talk about this.
‘It might not be that straightforward,’ she said carefully. She looked up at Nick. His face was still happy. ‘They may find it hard to deal with, you know…me and you being together so soon after the divorce. Just because your marriage is legally over, doesn’t mean it’s over in the eyes of your kids. I’ve been reading this book on divorce and stepfamilies and it can take a long time for kids to get over the trauma of a split.’ Stella paused. ‘Their mother might find it hard to deal with too, and that will affect how they feel about us,’ she added. ‘People don’t just get over a divorce that quickly…’
Nick’s mouth set in that uncompromising line. ‘Wendy will have to learn to live with it, then, won’t she?’ he said, the content look vanishing to be replaced by a taut expression.
