Free The Woman Before Me by Ruth Dugdall Page A

the cold cup away, and make another. In time he began to drink the tea, eat the food she cooked, and he seemed to forget that she wasn’t really supposed to be there.
    I didn’t forget. I watched her, knowing that she wasn’t my mum. She had no right pretending.
    I couldn’t tell you the exact day Mrs Carron moved in. It should have been memorable, dramatic even, the moment when my mother was replaced, but she moved quietly like she was playing grandmother’s footsteps. One day I turned around and she was there, ready to tap me on the shoulder, before I had chance to scream.
    Things were different for my brother. After mum died Peter took things hard. He was so angry he would kick a kitten if it came too close, but when Mrs Carron came to live with us he was quieter. He wasn’t a clever boy and Mrs Carron treated him like a baby, hugging him to her breast and ruffling his hair. She bought him an electric guitar for his birthday and he said it was his best ever present. He liked Mrs Carron, once he called her Mum and she kissed his cheek. I would never call her Mum. She had stolen my father.
    When I think of it I’m back there again. I’m no longer in prison; I’m just a girl.
    I need to know Mrs Carron’s secret. I need to know why Dad loves her so much that he’s forgotten Mum.
    He doesn’t know that Mrs Carron is not naturally beautiful. But I do. I’ve seen how she does it. I’ve watched her sleep, in dad’s bed, on the side where Mum used to lie. I’ve sneaked in and touched her bare back. Once she woke to find me standing over her, and she yanked the sheet up over her breasts, hiding her brown nipples, and called me a freak. I couldn’t let that happen again.
    Dad’s wardrobe door doesn’t shut snug, and I like hiding among his dusty jackets. I like the smell, like a library. Stuffy but safe with old air and too much heat.
    Through the crack I see Mrs Carron slide into her dressing gown and peer at herself in the mirror. She sits, twisting her hair into a loose knot, clipping it high. Then she dabs from a glass bottle onto her fingers, smoothing musk over her neck and cheeks. I can tell by the eyeshadow she puts on what colour clothes she will wear, and today it’s green. Her sparkly finger strokes her closed lids. But it’s the lips I like watching best. She stretches her face, opens her mouth and eyes wide, like she’s had a fright, paints pink over nude lips. Then she takes off her gown and stands naked in front of the other wardrobe, so close I can see her chest rise with each breath. I can see the mole on her hip. I pray she can’t hear the thumping of my heart.
    Later, downstairs, Mrs Carron stops speaking when I enter the shop, and Dad eyes me cautiously. I place my money in the till and select a glass jar. I’m tall enough to reach now.
    “Rose, you never bring any friends home,” Dad says, “is everything alright at school?”
    “Yeah.”
    I busy myself in weighing out a quarter of lemons; the dusty sherbet rises in the bag. I can smell her musky perfume. I pop a sweet in my mouth and suck.
    She says, “I know it must be hard for you, with your mum gone.” Gone. I wince at the sharp tang of the sweet. “But we don’t need to make the situation harder than it is.”
    My bedroom is next to Dad’s and the walls are as thin as cardboard. If I peel the Bananarama poster from the wall, a bit of plasterboard comes away with the Blu-Tac. That was how I got the idea of making a hole in the wall. I couldn’t hide in the wardrobe forever. It was too risky.
    The knife was soon blunt and I had to fetch a screwdriver from the kitchen drawer to finish the job. I was careful to make the hole the right size – large enough to see through, small enough to be invisible. Luckily the wallpaper in Dad’s bedroom is a floral pattern and the hole is in the centre of a blowsy flower. The hole is high, so I have to stand on tiptoe.
    I hate the screech of Peter’s electric guitar, but at least he’s in