The Stepmother by Claire Seeber Page B

for difficult conversations?
    I’m most worried about how angry he’ll be that I didn’t tell him before; that he’ll feel I tried to trick him somehow.
    If I’m honest, his anger would be justified.
    I did try to tell him; I really did. I wrote him an email, a very long, painful one that took me about three days to compose.
    He’d just told me he loved me for the first time. We had been seeing each other for a few months, and I was starting to feel so strongly about him that I thought, I can’t let this go any further without him knowing the truth – because if he can’t deal with it, I need to get out before I fall any deeper.
    The other thing was that, back then, I kept expecting him to recognise me. Even though I’d been totally exonerated, I’d graced the front covers of most national newspapers for a good week or so.
    But he never did.
    My saving grace was that Matthew isn’t a tabloid reader. His news intake is limited to the FTSE 100, which goes against all my left-wing principles (but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make life quite comfortable).
    Anyway I wrote Matthew the email over those three days – and then I took a deep breath and, with a shaky hand, pressed send.
    He was on business in Munich at the time. The next thirty-six hours were hell, waiting to hear – or not hear. Thinking that was it. I’d finally met a man who seemed good, who I could trust – and it was already all over.
    When he eventually called from Munich airport, I was so pleased to hear from him, I nearly sobbed with relief.
    It wasn’t until the following weekend, holed up in a nice little hotel in the Chilterns, all chintzy wallpaper and champagne, that I realised, with horror, that Matthew had never read the email.
    ‘So,’ I’d asked shyly, head on his chest. ‘You’re – all right about it then?’
    ‘What?’ He stroked my hair. ‘All right with you in my life? Yeah, definitely, hon.’
    ‘No, I meant – about my email?’ I sat up, feeling a shiver of anxiety. ‘You – you did read it, didn’t you?’
    ‘Wellll…’ He looked abashed. ‘I was so busy, hon.’ He pulled me down, kissing my neck, sliding his hand into my dress. ‘I didn’t have time for personal stuff.’
    I froze.
    ‘Do you want me to read it now?’ He undid my top button. ‘I can if you like…’
    ‘No,’ I said, panicking. ‘Don’t bother. Just delete it. Please.’
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    C hecking the New York stock exchange, Mathew doesn’t seem enthused by the prospect of a walk, but he agrees. ‘It’ll give me a chance to try out that new pedometer Fitbit thing I got for Christmas.’
    I am the world’s biggest Luddite: I barely know what an app is. I hate mobile phones; I hate everything about them, especially since the complaint and the spread of malice on the Internet. The great world wide web caught me in its sticky hold, and I hate it and what it means for us as a society. It’s pernicious.
    But I keep my opinions to myself.
    ‘I wanted to talk to you about something.’ I am full of apprehension. ‘If that’s okay with you.’ I know I am ever more tense with him recently, less brave.
    ‘Fuck!’ He bangs the keyboard with ill feeling. ‘This is shit.’
    ‘Work?’ I wish he’d concentrate for a moment.
    ‘The Euro’s shite because of all the Greek crap. It’s knocking on to all the markets.’ He shuts the screen down. ‘Fuck, I wish Cameron and Osborne would get their heads out of their arses.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’ My stomach rolls with nerves as I sit beside him. ‘The thing is, Matt…’
    ‘Shall we wait till the kids get here?’ He stretches and checks the time. ‘To walk, I mean. Get them away from their screens.’
    ‘The kids?’ My heart sinks.
    ‘Yeah. They love the woods. Well, they did when they were little anyway.’ Now he looks enthused. ‘I worry about all that computer shit sometimes. What effect it’s having. Get ’em outside.’
    Apparently I have forgotten it’s our weekend. But