one makes three. I can still count. I’m not drunk yet, am I? Or demented.’
I shrug and go to the kitchen, wave an opener at the serrated lid and bring in a fresh bottle. I kiss the top of her woollen hat.
‘You warm enough, Nan?’
‘Just about. The heating’s expensive so I keep it on low.’ She glances up and her eyes narrow, crafty as a fox’s ‘You don’t want to worry about me, Georgina. I’m all right.’ She stares right into my eyes. ‘I’m not the only one who’s lonely, misses a bit of company.’
I shrug on the pink woollen coat, pull my boots on. ‘I’m not lonely.’
‘Get away with you,’ she chuckles. ‘I can smell it on you. You think you’re independent. But you’re getting older and you have nobody to care about you. Jade’ll be off soon enough, you mark my words. And you’ll be all by yourself, watching telly by yourself every night, cold and thinking about the past and all the opportunities you missed, with no one to talk to. You know, Georgina, what you really need is a bloody good—’
‘I’m off now. See you on Tuesday, Nan. Enjoy the football.’
‘It’s getting interesting now. The little dark-haired one is mustard. He’s got the ball again. He’s running with it. He’s a little whirlwind. He’s going to shoot. He gets a goal in a minute. We draw with them, two-all in the end.’
‘Bye, Nanny.’
I close the door behind me with a snap, put the key in my pocket and smile to myself. It’s the same every Sunday – Nan grumbling about the food and her aches and pains – and Tuesdays and Fridays aren’t much better. But she’s part of my routine and I’m used to it. I suppose I even like it. Nan’s one of those strong women, full of determination and sharp of tongue, although she’s becoming frail now. I head towards the park and check my phone but no one’s called or messaged. It’s ten past three. Nanny didn’t say thanks for lunch. But then, she never does.
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,
