sell this house.â
Maggie couldnât fathom her motherâs attachment to the ugly seventies bungalow at the end of a sleepy cul-de-sac, or why her mother didnât just kick her dad out. Surely the law was there to protect her? Or was it more about ending up alone? Her mother did always care about keeping up appearances . . . Maggie used to wonder what she did all day. When she left to go to school in the morning, her mother was already fully made up and wearing her grandmotherâs pearls, and she was the same when Maggie came home, only with more cigarette butts in the ashtray.
Maggie had done everything she could to avoid the stifling confines of her house, where her parents seemed intent only on destroying each other. She couldnât wait to grow up, leave school and move to London with her best friend, Kate. During those few awful years, Kateâs family had essentially adopted her as one of their own, and sheâd spent more time with them than with her own family. Kate was small, blonde and sunny â Maggieâs polar opposite in many ways â but they were as close as sisters. Kateâs home was a short bus journey away in the older, more established part of town. It was less spacious and more rundown, but with much more character and warmth than the aspirational bungalow in the new suburban estate her mother clung on to so fiercely.
Perhaps it wasnât surprising, then, that Maggieâs table was an almost exact replica of the one owned by Kateâs family. Looking at it now, it occurred to her how obvious the connection was: eating meals with Kateâs wonderful parents, Jean and Don, and Kateâs older brother, David, feeling part of their tribe . . . The only time Maggie had felt anything close to safe and loved during those turbulent years.
Maggie touched the soft surface of the table wistfully, then blinked and checked her watch. Hell, what was she thinking, tidying up? There was barely any time left. She bounded up the stairs to rap on the door of her stepdaughterâs bedroom. There was silence from within.
âStella? Iâve got to rush but thereâs sourdough on the board and granola in the cupboard. Itâs ten to eight.â
Maggie waited for the insults she expected to be hurled at her from behind the wooden door, but there was only silence. Stella had been getting progressively ruder and ruder over the past few weeks, and Maggie had had to take deep breaths on several occasions just to stop herself becoming caught up in a huge row.
Maggie knocked again, tentatively cracking the door open a few inches. She peeked inside. Stellaâs bed was a shambles of sheets, pillows and duvet. But no surly teenager lay curled up in the messy bedclothes, and the drapes were shifting in the breeze from the open window. She must have snuck out, Maggie realised, via the low roof and fence, to avoid Tim asking her about school. There was no way sheâd have been able to walk down the stairs without either Maggie or Tim noticing. She wondered, with a sinking heart, what Tim would have to say about this. Stella was meant to be studying for her exams, but judging by the state of her room â with its piles of discarded clothes, empty tea cups and crumpled chip packets â there was precious little evidence of any books, notes or studying going on at all.
Panicked, Maggie checked the time again. She couldnât call Tim â heâd go ballistic, and she didnât have the time or energy to get into a prolonged conversation about Stella. Besides, Maggie knew there was no way theyâd be able to find her unruly stepdaughter if she didnât want to be found. Stella would come home when she was good and ready, the way she often did.
Thinking that sheâd better close the window â at least for a semblance of household security â Maggie stepped inside the bedroom. It was strewn with a tangled collection of clothing and accessories,
Maggie couldnât fathom her motherâs attachment to the ugly seventies bungalow at the end of a sleepy cul-de-sac, or why her mother didnât just kick her dad out. Surely the law was there to protect her? Or was it more about ending up alone? Her mother did always care about keeping up appearances . . . Maggie used to wonder what she did all day. When she left to go to school in the morning, her mother was already fully made up and wearing her grandmotherâs pearls, and she was the same when Maggie came home, only with more cigarette butts in the ashtray.
Maggie had done everything she could to avoid the stifling confines of her house, where her parents seemed intent only on destroying each other. She couldnât wait to grow up, leave school and move to London with her best friend, Kate. During those few awful years, Kateâs family had essentially adopted her as one of their own, and sheâd spent more time with them than with her own family. Kate was small, blonde and sunny â Maggieâs polar opposite in many ways â but they were as close as sisters. Kateâs home was a short bus journey away in the older, more established part of town. It was less spacious and more rundown, but with much more character and warmth than the aspirational bungalow in the new suburban estate her mother clung on to so fiercely.
Perhaps it wasnât surprising, then, that Maggieâs table was an almost exact replica of the one owned by Kateâs family. Looking at it now, it occurred to her how obvious the connection was: eating meals with Kateâs wonderful parents, Jean and Don, and Kateâs older brother, David, feeling part of their tribe . . . The only time Maggie had felt anything close to safe and loved during those turbulent years.
Maggie touched the soft surface of the table wistfully, then blinked and checked her watch. Hell, what was she thinking, tidying up? There was barely any time left. She bounded up the stairs to rap on the door of her stepdaughterâs bedroom. There was silence from within.
âStella? Iâve got to rush but thereâs sourdough on the board and granola in the cupboard. Itâs ten to eight.â
Maggie waited for the insults she expected to be hurled at her from behind the wooden door, but there was only silence. Stella had been getting progressively ruder and ruder over the past few weeks, and Maggie had had to take deep breaths on several occasions just to stop herself becoming caught up in a huge row.
Maggie knocked again, tentatively cracking the door open a few inches. She peeked inside. Stellaâs bed was a shambles of sheets, pillows and duvet. But no surly teenager lay curled up in the messy bedclothes, and the drapes were shifting in the breeze from the open window. She must have snuck out, Maggie realised, via the low roof and fence, to avoid Tim asking her about school. There was no way sheâd have been able to walk down the stairs without either Maggie or Tim noticing. She wondered, with a sinking heart, what Tim would have to say about this. Stella was meant to be studying for her exams, but judging by the state of her room â with its piles of discarded clothes, empty tea cups and crumpled chip packets â there was precious little evidence of any books, notes or studying going on at all.
Panicked, Maggie checked the time again. She couldnât call Tim â heâd go ballistic, and she didnât have the time or energy to get into a prolonged conversation about Stella. Besides, Maggie knew there was no way theyâd be able to find her unruly stepdaughter if she didnât want to be found. Stella would come home when she was good and ready, the way she often did.
Thinking that sheâd better close the window â at least for a semblance of household security â Maggie stepped inside the bedroom. It was strewn with a tangled collection of clothing and accessories,
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