‘I’m used to the dinners in a box.’ She reaches for the pint glass, slurps and leans forwards. ‘Kick-off now, Georgina.’
Nan’s almost finished all the dinner and her glass is empty. The big clock on the mantelpiece ticks loudly. She clanks her cutlery, a sign that she’s making an effort with my substandard cooking. I close my eyes and listen to the commentator’s voice rise in pitch, speeding up, his voice cracking with excitement. I ease myself to stand, feeling bloated, and pick up Nan’s tray.
‘Nice Sunday lunch?’
She grunts. ‘I got it down me.’
I pile our plates, turn towards the kitchen. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Guinness’d be nice.’
‘I’ll make us a pot of tea.’
I take a pace forwards and she calls out, ‘Wait. This is the first goal. Watch. It’s a good one.’
I turn back to the screen and blink. A small player in a blue jersey is running alone down the pitch at full pelt, his body bent forwards. He weaves past two tall players and one falls over. He has nifty legs, an agile body, and his face is determined. His fringe is tied in a knot on the top of his head and the rest is longish, dark and straight. He has deep-set eyes, thick brows and a handsome face. Another player, the one with the yellow hair, tackles him and the little player pushes the ball behind him. He twists, leaps into the air with it on the end of his toe and, with a deft overhead scissors kick, he launches it, a crack shot into the back of the net.
‘Goal!’ yells Nanny from the chair.
The little player runs, a wide grin on his face, and blows a kiss to somewhere in the seats at the front of the stadium.
The commentator shrieks, ‘And it’s a superb goal from the Spanish striker, Luis Delgado,’ and the camera pans to the cheering throng, to glimpse for a second a burgundy-haired young woman in a smart new cream-coloured coat, smiling and blowing a kiss back, before the camera whirls back to the player running on the pitch. I almost drop the tray. It’s Jade.
On Tuesday morning, our first customer arrives in reception just before nine o’clock. It’s Sue McAllister – freckled, forty, tall, always smiling – for her leg wax. Amanda breezes in and asks if she’ll follow her to the treatment room. I sign the first customer in the appointments book and hear the front door open and close. A young woman in a bright green ski jacket and leggings stands in front of me, carrying a green sports bag.
I hold out a hand. ‘I’m Georgie Turner. Can I help?’
She has a charming American accent.
‘Good morning. I have an appointment with Jade Wood. Personal training. Nine o’clock.’
I scratch my head: Jade’s not back from her weekend in Brighton yet. I texted last night as I thought she’d be home that evening and received the curt reply: Don’t fuss, Mum – back first thing. I smile at the American woman. She has long fair hair in a loose plait that loops over her shoulder. She’s in her late twenties, a smooth face, pale and earnest. I check the appointment book.
‘Heather Barrett?’
She nods.
‘Can I offer you a cup of coffee?’
The woman looks alarmed. ‘I never drink coffee. Perhaps a glass of water.’
I move over to the water dispenser and fill a cardboard cup. The young woman takes it from me, frowns and sips. I glance at the clock: 9.05. My first appointment is 9.15, an aromatherapy facial. I smile at the American woman and I’m just about to make some vague excuse, when the door clicks opens and Jade’s standing in reception, grinning, glossy hair, dark sunglasses, a cream-coloured wool coat over her workout gear.
‘Sorry I’m late. It’s Heather, isn’t it? Shall we go straight down to the gym?’
Jade turns to go, whips off the sunglasses and winks in my direction. I know she’s had a good weekend. I beam back and mime drinking a cup of coffee. She nods and mouths, ‘Later.’ I breathe out relief.
We’re busy all day, ships passing. I have an appointment with a bride-to-be and her mother, planning make-up for two hours, then I pop over to Nanny Basham’s for an hour while Jade and Amanda have lunch separately. It’s almost six o’clock by the time we lock eyes again.
‘Shall we have a cuppa?’ I wave a mug hopefully.
‘Sorry, Georgie, love. Rhys has a dose of man flu and he’s working the late shift. I want to see him off.’
Amanda shrugs on a heavy green coat and, when she leaves, a chill breeze weaves through the door, cooling the warmth of the reception area. I turn to Jade, who’s in a Lycra crop top and leggings and looks exhausted. We lock the door and go upstairs to the kitchen. I put the kettle on and inspect a couple of potatoes to bake, making an effort to keep my voice light.
‘Nice weekend, Jade?’
She rolls her eyes, grins and nods.
‘He’s a talented lad, your Luis Delgado.’
She jerks her head and I think she’s about to come back with a cutting reply, but her face breaks into a smile.
‘He is.’
‘He was on TV at Nanny’s. He scored a great goal. And he blew you a kiss.’
‘Did you see it, Mum?’
I nod. ‘You were on telly, in the crowd.’
Her face has taken on a dreamy look.
‘I’m going up again on Thursday night. I’ve only one appointment on Friday so I’ll move it. He has a big game this weekend. It’ll be lovely.’
I chew my lip and hold back all the comments about love in haste, regret at leisure, and I ask, ‘Does he have a place in London?’
‘No, I told you, Mum. Didn’t you listen? He has a beautiful flat overlooking the sea in a little village outside Brighton. He and his friend, Roque, live on different floors. The view’s spectacular. Two bedrooms, en suite: Luis has sauna facilities. He has a driver, too, for when he and Roque don’t want to use their cars or the train. It’s in his contract. We don’t need to go out, really. But there’s so much to do in Brighton, which isn’t far away, and we’re only a couple of hours from London. It’s perfect.’
‘You’ll soon want to move down there, then?’
She shoots me a guilty look. ‘He’s special, Mum. I can’t wait for you to meet him.’
I move the conversation forwards. ‘How do you get on with the language? Is his English good?’
‘Not bad. Much better than my Spanish. And we have the language of love.’
I sigh and stick a skewer through the jacket potatoes, throw them into the oven. I shift my position to stand opposite Jade, lean against the worktop and decide I should speak frankly to her, tell her to be careful and not get hurt. I pull a bag of salad leaves apart and take a breath.
‘It must be very glamorous, being a footballer’s girlfriend.’
She pulls a face. ‘He’s my boyfriend first, Mum. Luis won’t be a footballer forever but we plan on being together—’
‘Jade, this is all very sudden.’
‘It’s called love, Mum.’
‘But you’re young and carried away by the passion, the excitement …’
‘That’s what love is.’
‘No,