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
