The Stepmother Read Free

Too much hot air was dangerous. Explosive. My knuckles were white. I stretched my fingers, half-expecting to see rope burns crossing my palm.
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    I RETREATED TO MY SAFETY zone. The women at the bar. Women I would be friends with irrespective of the accident of birth. Don’t misunderstand me, I like most of the women at this school—that’s three classes of thirty mothers—but there’s a big difference between like and like-minded.
    Angie slapped me on the back.
    â€œWhat are you all laughing about?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t. It’s too painful,” she said. She had one girl at the school and three boys elsewhere.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLast week’s Save the Animal Day.” She grimaced. “I forgot. Poor Ella was the only one in uniform. She screamed blue murder when she realized she wasn’t an endangered animal.”
    â€œI don’t know. Regent’s Gate School girls are a pretty rare breed,” I said, “especially the non-Russian-speaking ones.”
    Carmen had left her post behind the bar. She prodded me.
    â€œCareful,” I said, pulling my jumper down. “You’ll lose your hand.”
    â€œDon’t be silly,” said Angie.
    â€œI not only took mine to school the day after the term finished,” said Theresa, a GP who ran her own practice, “I brought them back a day early. My therapist would say I’m subconsciously afraid of being left alone with my children. He’d be right.” Everyone laughed.
    I racked my brain for a story of my own hopelessness, but couldn’t come up with one. You know what? It embarrassed me. Angie and Theresa worked full-time, as I used to, and Carmen still worked part-time. Sometimes it ran smoothly, sometimes it didn’t. But now I had nothing other than my children to think about, so they went to school with their ballet kit clean and ironed; their homework done; a fresh, healthy snack in their bags every day without fail.
    â€œTherapist?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.
    â€œFantasy therapist, along with the fantasy Pilates classes, fantasy diet, and fantasy lie-ins. He’s quite dishy, puts his hand on my fevered brow and tells me I’m doing brilliantly.”
    â€œYou are doing brilliantly,” I said.
    She shrugged. “I know, but sometimes it would be nice to be told.”
    â€œI’ll drink to that,” said Carmen. The women raised their plastic cups.
    Then Carmen gave her perfect, sexy smile, and a second later I felt hands on my shoulders. I know that Jimmy is one of everyone’s favorite dads, boasting a near-full head of hair, a sense of humor, and an innate ability to talk to women. In a popularity contest with me, he’d win hands down. Years ago I trained myself not to mind.
    â€œReady to go?” he said.
    â€œYou’ve got the girls?” I asked, surprised.
    â€œNo.”
    I imagine only the other women heard my short sigh while I silently listed the irritations Jimmy’s “no” had created. But female subtext to men’s ears is like a dog whistle to any human’s: they simply don’t hear it. “I’ll get them,” I said. I’ll be the bad guy. Years ago I would have sent Jimmy, but experience had taught me that he would come back empty-handed. He couldn’t force his will on his eldest daughter, because, where she was concerned, his only will was hers. I left him with my friends and sought out my shining star first.
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    A MBER WAS HOLDING COURT BUT I could tell she was tired. Overtired, in fact, and that meant dangerous. Highs like that come at a hefty cost. I held back, forming a quick strategy. Finally I came up with something I thought had a chance of success. “Amber, darling, Dad’s offering to take us to Nando’s on the way home and pick something up.”
    â€œNando’s! Yum, I’m starving,” said her friend Emily.
    â€œLucky you!