The Birds and the Bees(21)

‘Joanna? But she's married,' said Stevie, taking her place on the stage to receive her Oscar for ‘best shocked actress'.

‘She's … er … split up from Adam at last. As I found out last night. So … er … I'll need the house back as soon as I can.'

Stevie felt shaky and sick. ‘What? You're moving her in already – after one night?'

‘No, of course not. Don't be silly.' Matthew's hand went nervously to  his hair again and then he started rubbing his neck. He really wasn't  very good at lying.

He must think I'm an idiot to believe all this, thought Stevie, suddenly  filled with a boiling rage which took over her mouth, totally bypassing  her brain.

‘Well, actually, I was going to tell you, Matthew, that I've found  somewhere and I'll be out by Wednesday. I can't make it any earlier than  that, I'm afraid, so I hope that will be okay with you?'

‘Oh yes … great.'

Great? He actually said great. The rage temperature shot up a few more  centigrade. She was not even letting herself think of what she was  saying; she just wanted to show him she was in control and okay and  bigger than this. Even if she wasn't. Even if inside she was vibrating  with anger and fear and hurt, outside she would look as if she could  cope. Stevie stood up, surprised that her legs had been strong enough to  support her.

‘I'll pop my keys through the letterbox when I leave. Let's say, by Wednesday noon.'

‘Five o'clock would do,' said Matthew, seemingly unable to cover up the  sweat of his relief. If he'd had a handkerchief handy he would have  probably mopped his brow at this point, Stevie thought. Like Louis  Armstrong singing ‘Wonderful World'.

‘Okay, five o'clock then.'

‘Right. Brilliant.'                       
       
           



       

‘So let's get your post,' Stevie said, rising to her feet. ‘Where are  you staying?' She clung on to the amicable smile. It was like hanging  onto something burning; it hurt and she couldn't wait to let go of it.

‘Oh, just one of the hotels in town.'

Hotel. So it wasn't a grotty little B&B after all then. She wanted  to ask which one, and whether Jo was staying there too, and watch him  squirm because, had she had any life savings left, Stevie would have put  them on the perfidious pair being holed up together in a double room in  this mysterious and nameless ‘hotel in town'. But that's what he would  be expecting her to do, cross-examine him, so she didn't. She played  outside his expectations. There was something she did need to ask,  though.

‘So, about our wedding,' she began, her voice croaking like a frog on forty Woodbines a day.

Matthew didn't say anything; he just looked at her with big, apologetic, brown eyes.

Stevie gritted her teeth and said, ‘I thought so. Well okay,' she  managed, with a ‘let's get on with it then' hand clap. ‘You tell your  parents and your relatives, I'll do the rest.'

‘Sorry,' he said, as if he had just accidentally stood on her toe and not smashed up her life with a sledgehammer.

‘To be expected in the circumstances. Especially if you're asking other  people out,' she said, her upper lip so stiff, she doubted it would  soften in three tons of Lenor.

‘Bye, Stevie, you're such a lovely, understanding person,' he said, and  he shocked her with a big grateful hug after he picked up his post and  stuck it in his pocket, which at least proved to her just how surprising  the unexpected could be. She extricated herself, battling the urge to  stay there and fill herself with the smell and the feel of him and to  beg him not to leave her.

‘Bye, Matthew.'

She lasted five seconds after the door closed before breaking down. How  could she have been so stupid as to think a nice hairdo and a few pounds  off would make any difference? Hadn't she learned anything from last  time?



When she first suspected Mick had been having an affair, she had post  mortemed herself to shreds. What was she? Too porky, too blonde, too  unfit, too arty, too short, too straight-haired, too blue-eyed, too  incredibly clumsy, too crap at cake baking? What was it that had caused  Mick to turn his attentions to another woman? Then she had found out who  he was having an affair with. A barmaid – Linda: hook nose, yellow teeth  and proud owner of incredibly fat ankles.

‘This hasn't happened because you've got a slightly bigger bum than you  should have, girl,' said a nice, kind part within her, eager to give  some comfort. It hadn't stopped her from wanting to know just why it had  happened then, to pin his actions to a reason. Why was it so hard for  blokes to understand that all an ex might need to go forward was a  two-minute explanation? Why did they hold up an aggressive crucifix  against the demon of ‘closure'? Even, ‘I ran off with Linda because I  happen to have a thing about women who look like bulldogs,' would have  been better than the not-knowing why. But the cowardly swines saw no  advantage in facing up to what they had done and so women started  ripping into themselves trying to find the answer, as they would their  house if a ring had been lost and leaving no stone unturned to find it.  No wonder they started boiling rabbits and sewing prawns into curtains.  Well, Stevie wasn't going to go mad this time. She wasn't going to hide  Matthew's clothes, follow him in his lunch-hour, starve herself or give  him her full emotional repertoire in a misguided, desperate attempt to  get him back. All that would do was drive him further away, as she knew  to her cost with Mick.

Stevie crunched herself up into a small ball and sobbed quietly, so  Danny wouldn't hear, though she wanted to keen and howl at full belt  like a wolf at the moon and let out all the pain. And what the buggery  bollocks had made her say she had somewhere else to go? In three days'  time too? ‘So what are you going to do now?' the sensible part of her  brain shouted at the smartarse side. The smartarse side was not  forthcoming with any answers.

She couldn't stay at Catherine's, although she knew the Flanagans would  shift and jiggle to accommodate her and Danny. There would be no space  to work, plus she wouldn't be able to work anyway from the guilt of  inconveniencing them. Her mother lived too far away for Danny's school  and anyway, Edna Honeywell only had a one-bedroomed flat, and a life in  which there was even less room for them both. As for her father – well, he  wasn't even in the short-list of people to ring with this one.                       
       
           



       

Stevie sobbed some more, letting herself wallow in rare self-pity. Five  months ago, she had had her own house, a nice full bank account and a  fabtastic boyfriend who loved her just as she was. So how had she got to  this place – grossly depleted savings and three days away from being  homeless? She hated to admit this, but there was only one person who  just might be able to stop everything slipping away from her. Stevie  went out to the recycle bin in the garage where all her scrap paper was  kept awaiting collection, scavenged around until she found what she was  looking for, and then she rang the number on the retrieved business  card.

‘Hellooo,' said a voice full of nails and razor-blades.

‘Hello, Mr MacLean. It's Stevie Honeywell. I think I'm ready to talk.'





Chapter 19




It was with a certain amount of cockiness that Adam MacLean swaggered up  the short path and rang the doorbell of 15 Blossom Lane the next  morning, at nine thirty, as arranged, and it was with a certain amount  of humility that Stevie received him. He accepted her offer of a cup of  coffee and followed her into the kitchen where a percolator was already  chewing on some beautiful-smelling beans. The room looked completely  different when it wasn't covered in flour, he thought. She had obviously  tightened up her act a bit since Matty Boy left. It was gleaming  actually, and so was the front room that they went into when the coffee  was ready, give or take a bit of mess that made a home  comfortable – Spiderman slippers, jotters and pens, a big tub of Lego and a  very strange head made out of a sock sitting in a jam jar with grass  for hair. Adam sat down on a sofa that was meant to hold four people and  took up nearly half of it. On the coffee-table there was one of those  infernal books that daft women read, called The Carousel of Life by  Beatrice Pollen. He picked it up, gave the back cover blurb a quick  dismissive read and put it back down again in such a way that gave  Stevie no doubt of his opinion of it.

‘So?' he said, rather smugly. ‘You changed yerrr mind.'

‘It wasn't an easy decision.'