The Stepmothers’ Support Group. Sam Baker
hands. It was an unnerving thought. One that had kept her awake most of the night.
Thirty minutes later, from where she stood on the pavement, gazing across Old Compton Street, three small heads could be seen in the first-floor window of Patisserie Valerie. Ian’s three children were blonde; of course they were. She’d known that. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen enough pictures. Anyway, what else would they be? He was fair, his hair cropped close to his scalp. And Caroline had been blonde, famously so.
Not that Eve had ever met Caroline, but her cheekbones, knowing smile and flicked-back hair had been famous. They sat above her by-line in The Times, and even those who had never read her column knew her face from The Culture Show and Arena, not to mention that episode of Jonathan Ross’s Friday night chat show that came up whenever Caroline Newsome’s name was mentioned.
More gallingly, the same smile could still be found on Ian’s mobile, in various endearing family combos. Caro’s hair could just as easily have come out of a bottle, Eve thought uncharitably, but with genes like theirs, what were the chances of Ian and Caroline Newsome producing anything but Pampers-ad worthy cherubs?
Get a grip, Eve told herself.
As she loitered, the sun cleared the skyline behind her and hit Patisserie Valerie’s upstairs window, lighting the angelic host above. If she stood there much longer she was going to be late; which she had categorically, hand-on-heart, promised would not happen. And if Eve was late Ian’s anxiety would only increase and, God knew, his stress levels were through the roof already.
(‘This is a big deal,’ he’d told her on the phone the night before. As if she didn’t know it. ‘I’ve never…’ he’d paused. ‘They’ve never…met one of my friends before.’
Eve had never heard him so tense. His obvious worry only served to increase hers.
‘And please don’t be late,’ he’d added. ‘You know what it’s like with children. You have to do what you say you’ll do, when you say you’ll do it.’
Eve didn’t know what it’s like with children. That was precisely the point. She didn’t have any.)
If Ian was strung out, then the only one on Team Eve would be Eve. And with those odds she’d be lost. As if to rub it in, she caught sight of herself in a window below the awning. An average-looking brunette, with a mane of curly hair—a bit frizzy, a bit freckly—grimaced back at her.
Her trench was flung over a blue and white matelot top and jeans. Battered Converse completed the look. Kidfriendly, but not scruffy, was the look she’d been going for. Low-maintenance yummy mummy. Elle Macpherson, the high street version. Not afraid of a little dirt, more than able to handle the mothers’ race. (Do stepmums do sports day? She pushed the thought from her mind. One thing at a time.)
Rummaging in her leather tote, Eve pulled out a blue carrier bag. Sliding the children’s books out (bribes, peace offerings, late birthday presents, Easter egg surrogates that wouldn’t rot tiny teeth…) She tucked them under her arm, scrunched the plastic under the other crap at the bottom of her bag and took a deep breath. Marching purposefully through the crowds clustered around the café’s door, she pushed it open and headed for the stairs at the back.
Even in a café full of brunch-seeking tourists, there was no missing them. The round table by the window looked like an accident in a cake factory. Eve took in the mix of Power Rangers, Spider Man and My Little Ponies using an assortment of cream slices, éclairs and croissants as barricades, jumps and stable walls, and grinned.
‘Eve!’ Ian shouted the second he saw her. His voice was loud, too loud. His nerves radiated around the room like static, drawing the attention of a couple on the next table. One of them started whispering.
Pushing back his chair, he knocked a plastic figure from the table. Three pairs of long-lashed blue eyes swivelled in Eve’s direction.
‘You made it!’
‘I’m not late, am I?’ Eve said, although she knew she wasn’t. She’d set two alarm clocks and left her flat in Kentish Town half an hour early to make sure she arrived on time.
Ian glanced at his watch, shook his head. ‘Bang on time.’
‘Hannah, Sophie, Alfie, this is Eve Owen, the friend I’ve told you about.’
Eve smiled.
‘Eve, this is my eldest, Hannah, she’s twelve, Sophie is eight. And Alfie, he’s five.’
‘And two months,’ Alfie said firmly. The matter corrected, he returned to twisting Spiderman’s leg to see how far it would turn before dislocating at the hip.
Smiling inanely, Eve felt like a children’s TV presenter.
‘Hello,’ she said.
Three faces stared at her.
‘I’m Eve,’ she added unnecessarily, putting out a hand to the girl sitting nearest. Hannah might be twelve, but she looked older. Already teenage inside her head. And way taller than four feet. She exuded confidence. ‘Hannah, really nice to meet you.’
‘Hi.’ Hannah raised one hand, in token greeting, then used it to flick long, shiny golden hair over her shoulder, before reaching pointedly for her cappuccino.
‘And you must be Sophie.’
The child in the middle was a smaller, slightly prettier and much girlier version of her sister. Except for Levi jeans, there was nothing she wore, from Converse boots to Barbie hair slides that wasn’t pink.
‘How do you do?’ Sophie said carefully. She shook Eve’s hand, before glancing at her father for approval. He nodded.
‘I’m Alfie,’ the boy said.
‘Hello Alfie.’
‘Do you like Spiderman or Power Rangers? I like Power Rangers, but Spiderman is all right. You can be Venom.’ Recovering a plastic figure from the floor, he shoved it into Eve’s outstretched hand.
‘That’s kind,’ she said, feeling stupidly grateful.
‘Don’t be so sure,’ said Ian, tousling the boy’s hair until the tufts stuck up even more. ‘All that means is your figure gets bashed.’
‘Venom’s the baddie,’ said Alfie, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘He has to lose, it’s the law. Can we eat our cakes now, Dad?’
Without waiting for permission, he grabbed the nearest éclair, one twice as big as his hand, and thrust it mouthwards, decorating his face, Joker-style, with chocolate and cream.
‘Sit, sit, sit,’ Ian said, pulling out the empty chair between his own and Hannah’s. ‘I’ll get you a coffee. Black, isn’t it?’
You know it’s black, she wanted to say. When has it ever been anything else?
She didn’t say it, though. And she resisted the urge to touch his hand to tell him everything would be all right. Hand squeezing was out of bounds. As was reassuring arm touching and even the most formal of pecks on the cheek. They’d been lovers for nine months, but this was something new and Eve was still learning the rules.
This was more than girl meets boy, girl fancies boy, girl goes out with boy, falls in love, etc…This was girl meets boy, girl fancies boy, girl goes out with boy, girl discovers boy has already gone out with another girl, girl meets boy’s children.
In other words, this was serious.
Eve never expected to fall for a married man. Well, widowed, to be more accurate. But married, widowed, divorced…It just hadn’t occurred to her this was something she’d do. In fact, like boob jobs, Botox and babies, it was one of those things she’d always have said, No way.
But then she’d stepped off an escalator, into Starbucks, on the second floor of Borders on Oxford Street over a year earlier. It had