The Age of Misadventure Read online

  Chapter Two

  As I walk through the park, the sound of a police car siren drifts from the road. I shiver and automatically check my phone. Still no messages – I’m worried. My heart’s started to squeeze itself tight like a soft rubber ball in my chest. I give in: I press buttons with my thumb to dial. After a few seconds, Jade’s voice is loud in my ear. ‘What is it, Mum?’ I wonder why I didn’t phone her before. Of course, I know why. I don’t want another Jade tirade, accusing me of being the embarrassing smothering mother. I hear a sharp intake of breath at the other end.

  She says, ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I was just wondering where you are—’

  She puffs out air. Her way of telling me I’m exasperating; my maternal concern has annoyed her. ‘I’m with friends. But last night I—’

  ‘Last night you what?’

  ‘Never mind, Mum. I’ll be home later.’ There’s a pause; I’m waiting for her to tell me more. ‘Is there anything the matter?’

  ‘No, Jade. I just wanted to make sure you …’ I’ve already said too much.

  ‘Fine, I’ll see you later, okay?’

  The phone clicks before I have time to reply. I’m pleased she’s all right but there’s the sinking feeling that I’ve interfered where I shouldn’t. I play back the call in my head. She’s told me nothing, except that she’s not happy that I’ve phoned and that something may have happened last night. At least I know she’s all right. I try to infer something from her words: where she was, who she might have been with, and there are no answers. Just my imagination overloading me with worrying images: Jade drinking too much; in clubs with the wrong sort of people; the wrong sort of men; the wrong man. I remind myself she’s streetwise; she’s at a friend’s, staying over, celebrating or sleeping it off. But something wriggles, niggles: mother’s instinct, perhaps, or just plain worry. I put my phone back in my pocket and try to put my fears away with it. They stay in my mind, buzzing like flies on a hot day.

  I pick up my pace. I’m not far from home and, in my mind, I already have the kettle on. Maybe I’ll cook something nice for Jade, for when she comes in. I’ve decided some nourishing soup will do her good after being out on the town all night. In our house, food has always been part of the family culture: something to share, to nourish, to make with love for those we care about. My grandmother’s recipe for Scouse was passed down to my mum and to Nan. There wasn’t much money in our house, but my parents would offer a good meal to anyone who came to the door. We’d all sit round the table, chattering and laughing, and I try to keep the tradition: the family who eats together stays together. Of course, that’s no longer true in my case with Terry gone, but I try to make sure everyone who sits at my table shares food and drink and feels welcome.

  As I approach my house, I walk under a hazel tree. Little golden catkins are beginning to form. I turn into the drive, my boots crunching on gravel. My car’s parked outside and it’s comforting to see the sturdy profile, the 2010 black BMW X5. It was an extravagant buy but it always felt safer to be driving alone inside something solid and strong. Like driving inside Iron Man’s suit, protected and smart at the same time. A car with status for a woman with status, I told the handsome young assistant at the garage when I bought it second-hand five years ago. Having an ex who works in computers has had its uses although, in truth, once I’d paid the deposit on the house, there was nothing left of the divorce settlement. I struggle to make ends meet each month, but there’s always just enough to pay my assistant Amanda and Jade, to meet the mortgage and to put food on the table. I manage: I’m in control of my destiny, that’s what’s most important. On my own, living off my wits. Which is good, of course – I’m independent and I’m never short of wit.

  There’s something on the front doorstep, a package. As I approach, I notice it’s a bouquet of flowers: roses – red, white and pink – perfect blooms, expensively arranged. I pick them up in both arms like an old-fashioned prima ballerina and bring them to my nose. They have a light, sweet fragrance and I smile. I consider doing a low curtsey but decide against it in the heeled boots.

  There’s a card, thick and embossed in gold. I pull it out and stare at the words: Thank you for looking after my Bonnie last night. Adie. I push the flowers away as if they’ve started to stink. In a way, they have. I hold them by the stalks, petals hanging down, heavy as a dead rabbit, open the door and march inside. I throw them in the sink and take out my phone. It rings for a while; Bonnie doesn’t answer. I wonder if he’s tied her up, gagged her. I make myself a cup of tea.

  The steaming liquid comforts me. I think back and the images come quickly, remembering when Bonnie first brought Adie home and he was so well mannered and courteous. She’d been gullible with men before Adie, gravitated towards the overconfident type, had her heart broken a few times but moved on quickly enough with encouragement from me.

  Adie was different, cunning: he saw Bonnie as a trusting, good-natured clip-on status symbol. I disliked him the first time I saw him and my views never changed. She was shy with him, but I could tell she was smitten, her heart lost in a moment. And Adie was cardboard-stiff in his best suit, like he’d just stepped down from the witness box, straight-faced and slimy, taking a slice of cake and murmuring, ‘You make the best gateau in Liverpool, Mrs Turner.’ Bonnie had giggled into her hand and turned shining eyes on him, as if he were a saint.

  I was going out with a drummer called Magic who played in The Shipperies every Sunday night, wore eyeliner and looked like a Greek god. I had no time for my sister’s creepy suitor. As she poured tea, my mother said, ‘And what do you do, Adrian?’ His smile was just teeth and no expression in the eyes. ‘I buy old property, do it up and sell it on, make money.’ Bonnie was all breath and excitement. My mum managed to make it to their wedding, but she wasn’t well. She died a few years after that. She’d have hated to see Bonnie now.

  I was a godparent at Demi’s christening seven years after they were married. Jade was two years old, wriggling and bawling in Terry’s arms all the way through the starched service. Bonnie hovered by the altar in a pink fitted suit and heels, nervous with little Demi Adrienne in her arms, the tiny baby swathed in metres of shining silk looking like the Christ child, while Adie shook the vicar’s hand and whispered, ‘Thanks for letting me have the Saturday afternoon slot at such short notice. I’ll give you a cheque for the Orphans of Somalia. Will a grand be enough?’ I saw Terry’s face. He didn’t like Adie either: he found him too competitive, too flash, whereas Terry was laid-back, good-natured, kind.

  Then years later, Bonnie became thinner because Adie said he preferred women to be fashionably slim and she started to wear dresses that came to her knees because he said he liked his women tastefully glamorous. He paid for Dad’s funeral eight years ago and Terry hung back in the corner staring at guests he’d never seen before, his hands in his pockets, while Adie told everyone he’d given his beloved father-in-law the sending-off he deserved.

  I sat with Nanny Basham in a corner while she’d cradled a bottle of brandy and sobbed, telling me about Dad and Mum and Wilf, the good times I’d heard about a hundred times before. Terry grumbled afterwards that he’d never had respect for Adie. That was something we agreed on. Adie Carrick was only out for himself. Bonnie was just a trophy, his in-laws just an opportunity to show how magnanimous he was.

  Demi went to a private school, where she was demure in a grey blazer and tartan skirt. Jade was popular at the local comprehensive; it was a good school and she was sporty and bright, but Adie insisted on making comparisons. ‘You get what you pay for in this life.’

  I always replied, ‘I’m not having my child at school with kids whose parents are politicians and gangsters.’

  I’ll never forget how he looked at me. Eyes like bullets. Then Terry moved out. We’d been arguing a lot. I’d been doing the arguing; Terry retreated into himself: he met Rabbity Alison and the rest is history. I became Georgie Turner again, not Georgie Wood. After Terry
left me, Adie squeezed my arm one day when I was making coffee in Bonnie’s kitchen, his lips against my ear. ‘If you need any money, Georgie, just say. We’re family, and family sticks.’ But I walked away, stared through the window at the patio and the swimming pool complex, and promised myself I’d manage just fine without his charity.

  Meanwhile, Bonnie stayed in the background smiling sadly; years passed and she became quieter, more timid. Then she found lipstick on his collar, not her shade, and suggestive messages on his phone. A year later, there was a lacy G-string in his car. He claimed he knew nothing about it, then he suddenly remembered he’d lent the car to a friend the night before. I’d have left Adie for that, but Bonnie swore it was a one-time incident, she’d been neglecting him, it’d never happen again: he loved her.

  Of course, Adie simpered, playing the part of the trustworthy brother-in-law; he told me that now I was by myself, now my man had left me, he’d keep an eye out for me, or lend me money. As he turned away, I pointed down my throat with two fingers and thought I’d rather roll naked in the gutter. I’m not afraid of Adie Carrick. I’ve never liked him or the way he treats my good-natured sister. I have suspicions about the property he buys and sells, and the money he makes, which seems to slide through his fingers like poker chips.

  I put the mug down and reach for my phone. A text has come in: it’s from Bonnie. I read it, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. Of course, I’m right. Adie and I have decided to give it another go. We’re off to a spa hotel for a week. See you soon. I throw the phone on the table and put my head in my arms. I picture them both, driving from Frodsham in his Boxster to an expensive hotel in Cheshire. She’ll have a facial there, paying ten times as much as I charge downstairs for a better aromatherapy one; he’ll have a full body massage from some young girl in a white overall with make-up as thick as a death mask, who giggles at his anecdotes about how hard he works for his money and how he dines on yachts with film stars.

  I imagine Bonnie and Adie at a linen-covered table that evening, fresh from their treatments, him devouring bleeding steak, while she pushes salad leaves around a plate and frets about the four-poster room they’ll slink off to after he’s guzzled another bottle of Beaujolais. Suddenly I feel tired. Tired and glad I’m single. Tired, glad I’m single and yet not altogether sure. I rub my eyes and a feeling of misery lands on my shoulders and sinks into my muscles like cement. I shake off the loneliness, smear a lipstick smile on my face and set to making some supper for Jade and myself. At least we’ll have a pleasant evening together.

  By ten thirty, the pan of chowder is cold, a translucent skin settled on the surface. The banana cake I’ve made is untouched and I’m sitting in front of the television, my glass empty after two gin and tonics. A key rattles in the front door and I jerk myself bolt upright.

  Seconds later, I beam at Jade, who’s surveying me with arms folded and a frown on her face. She looks cold in the short dress and skimpy jacket she wore to the wedding. Her dark burgundy hair is well cut and hangs perfectly, glossy as glass, framing her face, and her eyes are round, dark velvet and soft as a doe’s. I grin, make my voice bright.

  ‘I made some lovely chowder. Sit down, love. I’ll bring you some.’

  I recognise the glare. She’s about to tell me not to bother but she’s starving – she probably hasn’t eaten all day – so she flops down from full height onto the sofa, ignores me and stares at the television. I know this is the sign for me to bring her food, to wait for the right moment to ask how she is. Or, as usual, I won’t wait, I’ll ask the wrong questions, she’ll bite off my head and then there’ll be an argument.

  She sits with the tray on her knee, spooning a stream of soup without shifting her gaze from the screen. She’s pretending to be glued to the new serial about a cop whose wife has been abducted, determined to ignore me, concentrating on waving the spoon towards her face. She clanks the cutlery against the bowl and starts on the banana cake, her movements automatic, her eyes hypnotised, staring at the television. She finishes eating and I wait for a few seconds.

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  She waits a few more seconds.

  ‘Whatever. If you’re having one.’

  I use the interlude as the kettle boils in the kitchen to decide what to say, how to be subtle and frame my questions. Then I march into the lounge, put the cup between her hands and blurt out, ‘So, where the hell have you been since yesterday afternoon?’

  I expect her to ignore me or shout at me. Or ignore me then start shouting. I glance at her and I have to focus my eyes to believe what I’m seeing from my usually tough daughter. A tear is rolling down her face. She sniffs and wipes it away with the back of her hand. Another tear tumbles and her voice is tiny.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to know what I feel …’

  I rush over to her. ‘Jade …’

  She holds out a hand to push me away. ‘Don’t start, Mum.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve been with friends since this afternoon. I had to talk to someone who’d understand …’

  ‘Are you in trouble, Jade?’

  ‘No, no, it’s all right …’

  I’m next to her, sitting on the chair arm, trying to hug her. She’s twisting away, furious, her hand over her face, making all the signs that she doesn’t want me to ask her anything. So, naturally, I persist.

  ‘Jade, what’s happened? Where have you been all night? Has something bad happened? Has someone hurt you? If they have, I swear I’ll—’

  She gulps. ‘I’m all right, Mum.’

  I put my hands on my hips, stand upright. ‘I can see you’re not. You’re upset. I’m not having this. Come on – out with it. Has someone …?’

  She stares up and the anger in her eyes dissolves. Her lip trembles and I squat down, take her hands.

  ‘Jade …?’

  She shakes her head. ‘You wouldn’t understand, Mum.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You just wouldn’t. You’re not the type. You wouldn’t get it.’

  ‘Try me.’ I squeeze her hands in mine. With effort, I make my voice soft. ‘What is it, sweetheart? You can tell me anything.’

  Her eyes meet mine and I notice tears, huge spheres swelling and tipping over. Then she swallows, takes a breath.

  ‘I’ve met someone.’

  ‘And?’ I lean forwards.

  ‘And nothing.’ Her breath shudders. ‘I just met someone. I know that he’s the right one for me. I’m sure.’

  A motor seems to rev and roar in the vicinity of my heart, a loud, fierce engine, and my mind accelerates with it. So does my mouth. My hands grab her shoulders.

  ‘Oh. I see. You’ve met a man. And I suppose he’s married, is that it? He loves you but he won’t leave his little wifey? Is that how it goes? Some two-timing, sneaky—’

  ‘Mum.’ She wriggles away from me. ‘I knew you wouldn’t understand.’

  I feel my face become hot and I take a deep breath. ‘Sorry, Jade. I didn’t mean to go off the deep end. I just worry.’

  ‘I’m twenty-four.’

  I take a moment, smile, beam, try to make my face resemble an Oscar winner in the middle of paparazzi. ‘I’m so glad you met someone, love. So, tell me all about him.’ She frowns; her eyebrows cross suspiciously, so I grin even more. ‘I’m all ears.’

  She waits for ten seconds, another ten, then her voice is quiet. ‘I met him at a private party. We spent yesterday evening and the whole of last night together.’

  I’m about to jump in with a comment about it all being a bit sudden and then hit her with the follow-up remark about contraception and STIs, but I clamp my lips together and wait. She snuffles.

  ‘We were together briefly this morning. He stayed on to be with me. We talked and talked. He’s amazing, Mum. Kind and sweet and really nice. And we both said it together. It’s been instantaneous for us both and we both know it’s right.’ She checks my expression and I make sure I’m not doing my cynical face.
I’m doing my happy-adoring-approving-Mum face. She whispers, ‘We love each other.’

  My cheeks ache with grinning and I need to relax them by speaking, so I say, ‘That’s wonderful, Jade.’ I pause, hoping she notices my full, unswerving support, then I try again. ‘So, why so sad?’

  The tears tumble again and she’s sobbing too hard to find breath to talk. I hug her and she leans on my shoulder. My neck has become damp and she whispers, ‘It’s awful, Mum. He’s gone back home. I won’t be able to see him often. He’s away a lot of the time. It’s his job.’

  I try not to say that absence is a positive, to tell her the cliché that it makes the heart grow fonder. I don’t know what to say, so I settle for, ‘Is he in the army, then?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, Mum. It’s worse than that.’

  My mind is filling with all sorts of frightening scenarios. She’s fallen in love with a gangster. Drug dealer. Long-distance lorry driver. Illegal immigrant. Travelling salesman. Undercover investigator. Tramp.

  I opt for something positive and safe and ask, ‘Is he an airline pilot?’ and wait until her sobs subside.

  Then she whispers, ‘No, Mum. He lives in Brighton, works in London. He travels all over the country, all the time. He trains every day, all hours, all week, plays games all over the world. I’ll hardly ever see him. His job is his life … He’s a professional footballer.’

  Chapter Three

  Business is frantic for the whole week in the salon. Although Jade has several clients in the gym each day, she spends most of her time ringing and texting her new boyfriend. I even hear her speaking Spanish to him, although I’m sure that’s for my benefit, as I know her Spanish isn’t fluent, given her compulsively bad behaviour in modern languages when she was at school. My friend Amanda, who trained as a beauty therapist with me years ago, is my full-time assistant in the salon. She and I are working through a fully booked schedule, doing manicures, pedicures, massages, tanning, waxing. It’s non-stop.