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The Birds and the Bees(9)

By:Milly Johnson


‘Me too,' said Stevie. Paris and Brandon would have to wait. If only she  could write her own destiny as easily as she could theirs. Then again,  maybe that wasn't wise, with the self-destructive mood she was in at the  moment. She would only have had herself trampled by Brandon's horse  just to get some relief from the pain gnawing away inside her.

Well, she couldn't curl up and do nothing, that was for sure. Cooping a  bored child up in the house with a bored adult was like mixing petrol  and struck matches.

‘Danny, get your wellies on and your big coat,' she said impulsively.

‘Cool. Where are we going?'

‘Bluebelling,' said Stevie.

There was a lovely wood at Pogley Top that she had once discovered with  Mick when they had driven aimlessly out to christen her new (well to  her, anyway) car. The ground had been far too muddy to explore in his  best shoes and her heels, which was a shame as Mick was all for having  his wicked way with her, right there on the thick carpet of scented  bluebells. It was on that day he proposed.

Matthew had taken her there too one warm spring day when they had first  started courting. He had made up a basket that was full of the most  delicious food, only for most of it to get wasted when they spent all  afternoon snogging on the gingham tablecloth under the trees, feeding  each other the odd Twiglet to keep up the strength in their lip muscles.                       
       
           



       

Danny sat in the front of the car on his booster seat, trying to read the road signs and asking what they meant.

‘Why's that say "n"?'

‘It's not an n, love, it's an upside down u. It means No U-turns – you can't turn round there.'

‘What's that one mean, Mummy?'

‘Hump-back bridge,' said Stevie, checking for oncoming traffic and then  taking the bump at a speed not conducive to good car maintenance. Her  son gave a thrilled little scream, the way she used to on the trip to  the grand annual Church picnic at Higher Hoppleton Park. Every Sunday,  Stevie was shunted off to St John's, whilst Edna gave the house a good  bottoming. It was one of her better moves though, for Sunday School gave  Stevie most, if not all, of the lovely warm moments she would carry  with her into adulthood, the picnics being top of her list. The kindly  old men of the church would ferry everyone from the holy meeting-place  to the park, overtaking each other en route, much to the delighted  shrieks of the 300 kids piled up on the back seats well before the days  of rear seat car belts. Then, young and old, little old ladies in hats  and the Reverend alike had played rounders, football, picked bluebells,  eaten egg and cress sandwiches, and butterfly buns. Aw, those picnics  had been so wonderful. She loved May bluebells for the fond memories  they evoked. They seemed to feature in all her happiest memories.

There were nicer woods than Pogley Top, but none felt quite as magical.  Maybe it was because the trees all conspired overhead to give it a dark,  mysterious feel. Maybe it was because it was sheltered on all sides and  the air seemed extra still there. She had come here so many times when  things turned bad with Mick, hoping to rewind time to that perfect day.

‘Come on, mate,' said Stevie, holding the car door open for her son and  then helping him out. His little wellies were sucked down straight away  into the squelchy mud and together they went for a drunken, giggly walk  in between the trees. That musty, pungent smell never failed to take her  back to happier times. If ever there were fairies, she was sure they  resided in these silent bluebell woods, where their fragile wings would  never be blown off-course. As if to add credence to her imaginings,  there was an Enid Blyton fairy ring at her feet that her trendy pink  welly narrowly missed.

They picked a way through the flowers, collecting armfuls, although  Danny dropped three for every two he picked up. Stevie laughed. He would  definitely need throwing in the bath when they got home, clothes and  all, but what the hell. The fresh air wasn't taking any of the pain  away, but it was nice to splash around on some soggy land and get mucky  with nature.

When they got home, they stuck the flowers in conventional vases, and  then when they ran out, in milk bottles and the cream jug. Once Danny  was tucked up in bed and well on his way to Sleepyland, Stevie took up  Paris's plight of unrequited love again, but still her head wouldn't  play the game. There was no conviction in Brandon's proclamation of  love. She only wanted to warn Paris that he was bound to bugger off at  some point, if not right then, and the omnipresent bluebell scent in the  room only served to remind her of kissing Matthew, or being besotted by  Mick. Or even to take her further back, with memories of those  sunshine-filled May picnics, when she was someone who still believed in  fairies and magic and that princesses got their princes. And that there  were such things as happy endings.





Chapter 9




Two days later, when the bluebells had started to wither, Adam watched  Stevie enter the gym, swinging her bag, and present her entry card at  the front desk. She had spotted him, he knew, but was trying to pretend  she hadn't by whistling a merry tune and looking everywhere but in his  direction. Pathetic really. She had been here every morning since she  joined; he had checked her records to find out when that was precisely.  The date alone had made it pretty obvious why she was pounding away on  the treadmills, although she wasn't going to lose a lot of weight  building up a mad sweat and then going off and eating half the  restaurant like he had caught her about to do on what he now realized  was her first day. Yeah, great start.

Her friend's hair had looked infinitely better then, he had noticed. In  fact, she looked quite a classy piece, having got rid of the weird pink.  She had had hers done too, but he so wanted to drum it loudly into her  obviously less than bright skull that it wouldn't do any good. She  should have thought of making such improvements before she drove her man  away. Did she think she was seriously going to lure him back by cutting  off a few dead ends? Not when faced with the mighty attributes of his  beloved Jo. She could not even hope to come near to Jo, who could knock  any woman off the planet with her looks. She would be far better  following his plan of action but she wasn't going to listen to him, she  had made that perfectly clear. In fact, from her snotty attitude, he  actually had the impression that she thought some of this might be his  fault! How, he hadn't worked out yet, and he wasn't going to ask the  little madam how she'd drawn that conclusion. Well, he just hoped she  didn't cock up his plans for reclaiming his woman. He was going crazy  without her. He could hardly sleep for the nervous excitement that her  homecoming tomorrow was giving him.                       
       
           



       



Stevie went into the gym with a heart that was stuffed full of blame and  looking for a target, but Matthew was as protected and cloaked as the  starship Enterprise during a Klingon attack. Her head just wouldn't let  her attack him, because surely he was a victim in this – emotionally  outmanoeuvred, a sitting duck. She wasn't even starting to allow herself  to think what she wanted to do to Jo, but she had to grudgingly concede  that even Joanna MacLean was a sort of victim too, and you didn't need  to be a genius to point to the source of all this heartache: that  Scottish animal, masquerading as something human and respectable behind  that desk, the wildman who had come into Stevie's life and tried to  wreck it. Oh yes, she had seen the blame in his eyes, the belief that  this was somehow her fault. She didn't know how he worked that one out,  but then again, his type never took responsibility for their own  actions.

That cocky look he was giving her just made her want to storm over there  and tell him that if he hadn't been such a psycho-nutter, if he had  treated his wife like a woman should be treated, if he hadn't brought  her low with mental torture and physical violence, she would not have  had that air of vulnerability which had been obviously irresistible to  her soft-hearted, gentle, uncritical Matthew. In comparison with him,  Matthew had looked like a knight in shining armour, and no woman could  resist that.

This mess was all Adam MacLean's fault. She despised him.



MacLean was trying to pretend he hadn't seen her, which was good because  she didn't want to talk to him either. What on earth could they  possibly have to say to each other? Besides which, she didn't want to  talk to anyone today, not even Catherine. She was too busy with her  preparations for tomorrow, and trying to cling onto her dwindling  reserves of inner strength. The house was extra-sparkling clean, the  fridge was stocked up with lovely goodies and treats, and all Matthew's  favourite nibbly things. The bills due had all been paid, the banking  was done, although the joint-account status had been a bit of a shocker,  but she would sort that one out with Matthew later. All that was left  was to get on that treadmill and start running, in the hope that by some  miracle she would have lost a stone by the time Matthew landed  tomorrow, and also that she might burn off some of the hatred she felt  for that red-haired gorilla.