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