‘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.