by Alice Ross
Miranda had never had a problem making friends in the past. In fact, she’d been pretty popular at the Comp. But she soon discovered that the cliques at Briardene were constructed with the same impenetrability as Norman fortresses. With her pitiful armoury of a strong local accent, a gangly awkwardness, and a blatant lack of upper-class breeding, she didn’t have a hope of infiltrating a single one of them.
Her weekly phone calls to her parents were strained. ‘I know it’s hard, love’ was batted back with depressing regularity. ‘But it’s for the best. You’ll soon settle in. You’ll see.’
But Miranda knew the chances of her settling into Briardene were as likely as a penguin calling the numbers in her mum’s bingo hall. In the absence of any better distractions, she threw herself into her studies. Despite the huge amount of money being invested in her education though, and her parents’ unwarranted confidence in her academic ability, she remained just as average at Briardene as at the Comp.
Its one saving grace was that she didn’t have to share a bedroom. Her little room on the second floor, with views over the extensive playing fields, became her haven. Every possible minute, she would scurry off there, close the door and block out the alien world behind it. Her walls were crammed with reminders of home – photos of her parents and friends, of happy times when she hadn’t a care in the world. The highlight of every day became the ritual crossing off of the date on the calendar. One day less at Briardene. One day nearer the school holidays and going home.
In fact, in the days before social media, Miranda’s only contact with her Jarrow friends was during the longed-for holidays. It soon became obvious, however, that she no longer belonged to that world either. Her attempt to modify her broad accent to fit in at her new school caused some consternation back home.
‘Listen to you. You’ve gone all posh,’ remarked Tina, when Miranda telephoned her during her first Easter holidays.
‘No, I haven’t,’ countered Miranda. ‘I’ve been away so long you’ve forgotten what I sound like, that’s all.’
A brief – and uncomfortable – hiatus followed.
‘Fancy going into town tomorrow afternoon?’ Miranda asked, desperate to rekindle the close relationship the two of them had always enjoyed. ‘Or we could go to the cinema.’
‘I, um, can’t,’ replied Tina. ‘Got to go to some, er, family thing. Sorry. Look, I’ll give you a call later in the week, okay?’
And before Miranda could reply, she hung up.
‘I thought you were going out with Tina today,’ her mum commented the following day.
‘She’s busy,’ muttered Miranda miserably.
‘Well, why don’t we go into town, then?’ her mum suggested. ‘We could do a spot of shopping. Have our lunch out.’
In the absence of any better offers, Miranda agreed.
Having mooched around the shops for a couple of hours, they were deliberating where to go for lunch when they spotted Tina over the other side of the road. Arm-in-arm with another girl from school.
‘Oh, look,’ said her mum. ‘There’s …’
Miranda felt as though someone had plunged a knife into her innards. Tears burning her eyes, she spun around and marched along the street in the opposite direction.
Back home, her mum did her best to cheer her up. ‘Don’t worry about Tina, sweetheart. Girls are fickle. They change best friends more often than they change their underwear. What about your new pals at Briardene? You’re always welcome to invite them here over the holidays, you know.’
Miranda gawped at her mother. She didn’t have any ‘pals’ at Briardene. And even if she had, how could she possibly invite anyone from there to a council house in Jarrow? The bathrooms in their stately homes would be bigger than the entire semi. And have bidets. Her mum didn’t have a clue.
‘Look, Mum,’ she pleaded, for what must’ve been the two-hundredth time. ‘I really hate Briardene. Why can’t I go back to the Comp? Then you and Dad can use all the money you’ll save to buy a nice new house or something.’
But for what must also have been the two-hundredth time, her mum shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we’ve made up our minds. I know it’s not easy settling into a new school. Especially at your age. But it’ll pay dividends in the end. Just you wait and see.’
Miranda didn’t want to wait and see. She didn’t care about dividends. She wanted her old life back. The life she’d loved so much – when she’d been happy and popular and carefree. In a world she’d belonged to.
Now she didn’t belong anywhere.
She was like a flailing fish out of water, desperately grabbling for air.
And it was all her parents’ fault.
And so passed the next three years, Miranda’s resentfulness towards her parents burgeoning with every one of them. After the first summer she’d given up begging to return to the Comp. Despite all her tears, reasoning and misery, her parents continued to insist that it was for her own good, and attributed the ensuing surliness to teenage years.
At sixteen Miranda announced she would be leaving Briardene.
‘But what about your A-levels? University?’ her parents entreated.
‘I’m not going to university so there’s no point doing my A-levels,’ Miranda batted back.
Disappointment settled over their faces. But Miranda was devoid of sympathy. What did they expect? She’d suffered long enough.
The day she walked out of Briardene for the very last time, she’d felt as though a ten-ton weight had been lifted from her young shoulders. Freedom loomed. But what to do with it? Until Briardene, she hadn’t much considered her future, subconsciously assuming it would involve a local job, a local lad, and a couple of kids. Now, though, none of that seemed right. She no longer belonged in Jarrow. She didn’t belong anywhere. Nor did she have any remarkable skills or talents. What she did have, thankfully, were her looks. When she’d started at Briardene she’d been a gawky, gangly teenager with braces and spots. But, just after her fifteenth birthday, things began to happen. She filled out – in all the right places. The braces came off to reveal perfectly straight white teeth. Her skin cleared. And, like a true student of the school, she grew her hair.
Feeling devoid of roots, she came up with what she considered the perfect career: cabin crew. At least Briardene had ensured she achieved all the requisite qualifications – her not-too-lacking list of GCSEs thankfully including maths and English. The minimum age for applications being eighteen, she bided her time working in shops and restaurants in and around Jarrow, gaining experience serving the great British public. Her parents, naturally, had been gutted. Having invested a small fortune in her education, they’d expected more. But Miranda refused to feel guilty. She’d done her bit. She’d stayed at Briardene for as long as she could endure it.
The most depressing result for Miranda wasn’t her status-lacking career choice, but the vast rift which now existed between her and her parents. They’d been so close once: a tight, loving family unit. Now they existed in parallel universes. And the most depressing part of all was that Miranda couldn’t imagine ever finding a way to mend the rift; couldn’t imagine ever forgiving them for subjecting her to Briardene.
Consequently, she spent as little time as possible in their presence, treating her bedroom exactly as she had her room at school. Spending every spare moment she could in there; crossing off the days on her calendar until her eighteenth birthday.
Tina and her other friends in Jarrow having long since deserted her, on her days off she’d catch the bus to Newcastle airport and watch the cabin crew strutting through the departure gate, soaking up every detail of their appearance, right down to the way they walked and talked. On the day of her eighteenth birthday, her application was in the post. And, after a gruelling round of tests and interviews, she was accepted. The day she received the news was the day Miranda felt her life was about to begin.
And so it had.
Based in Manchester, she’d left Jarrow without as much
as a backward glance, taking to her new career like a duck to water. After only a few months, she was assigned the New York route, upon which travelled several regular faces. Doug’s included. Doug’s was a nice face. Not conventionally handsome, but with pleasant features, and kind brown eyes. Miranda correctly estimated him to be about ten years older than her, in his late twenties. At well over six feet, he literally stood out from the crowd, always immaculately dressed, and, unlike some of the punters who treated the crew as nothing more than skivvies, always polite.
She bumped into him one day outside Macy’s. He’d been returning to his hotel after a business meeting. Miranda had been shopping. He invited her for a coffee. She accepted. And, surprisingly, for the first time in years – ever since she and Tina had been close in fact – Miranda found herself relaxing in someone else’s company. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was about Doug that made her feel like that. It could have been any number of things: his easy-going charm; his kind brown eyes which, on closer inspection, twinkled with humour; the fact that he shared her working-class roots, but had relentlessly followed his vision of success. He was so clever; so capable; so grounded; so in control. And he knew exactly where he belonged.
After that first meeting, they made every effort to see one another as often as possible. Not half as often as either of them would’ve liked given their hectic work schedules, but often enough for an astounded Miranda to find herself pregnant four months later. She’d been on the pill, but with jetting all over the place, and the time differences, had obviously slipped up somewhere along the line. Surprisingly though, for one so young, and only just starting out on her career, the idea of having a baby or, more precisely, the idea of having Doug’s baby, appealed to her. She’d already decided to keep it, whatever his reaction. But, albeit slightly baffled by the news at first, his surprise had quickly turned to joy.
‘Why don’t we get married?’ he’d suggested, completely out of the blue, two weeks later.
An ecstatic Miranda hadn’t needed long to consider her reply.
Having no siblings, a limited social circle, and zero inclination to involve her parents, Miranda insisted on a small wedding. Doug agreed, whisking her off to Gretna Green where the marital party had consisted of the bride and groom, the registrar, and four American tourists.
On their return, Miranda moved into Doug’s apartment in Manchester where, a few months later, Josie joined them. Miranda had been slightly daunted at first at having such a tiny being completely dependent on her 24/7. Doug, though, in his easy, capable way, slipped effortlessly into his new role, and his work schedule settled into a pattern which involved only a couple of short foreign trips a month. For the best part of a year Miranda’s life was idyllic, often sparking memories of her own childhood. Of course she’d taken Doug and Josie to meet her parents. And while they’d cooed over Josie and did their best to make Doug welcome, the visits left Miranda sad and empty. Imagining how different things would have been had her dad never received the inheritance made her want to cry. But then again, had it not been for that same inheritance, she most likely would never have left Jarrow, never have met Doug, and wouldn’t have Josie.
Miranda started as the shrill tone of her mobile blasted through her thoughts, sending her hurtling back to the present. She whipped up her bag from the passenger seat and fished out the phone. Rather spookily, given her recent musings, her parents’ number beamed at her on the screen. Miranda pressed the End Call button. The last thing she needed today was to talk to her mother. Her only conversation these days revolved around lists of physical complaints. And Miranda, frankly, had enough complaints of her own.
Leaning back against the soft cream leather seat, she wondered how her parents would have felt if she’d carried on driving straight into the wall. She only saw them once a year now and made no attempt to disguise the fact that her visit was purely of a dutiful nature. She doubted they would miss her much if she was no longer there. In fact, she doubted if anyone would care, or indeed notice, if she was no longer there. She played no significant role in anyone’s life. Nobody needed her. Not even her daughter. Josie was a resourceful kid, who could happily look after herself. And Doug had his own life in which she featured only fleetingly. In a nutshell, she was of no use to anyone – which led her to conclude that perhaps she really should have carried on driving into the wall after all.
Chapter Three
Ask anyone who knew her, and they would all agree that Julia Blakelaw was generally an easy-going soul, phlegmatic and resigned to her existence. Since her run-in with Max in the supermarket a few days ago, however, Julia had demonstrated none of those traits. A deluge of discontentment and despair had swept away all other emotions. While never placing herself in the ‘Ecstatically Happy’ category, Julia had, however unwittingly, accepted her lot and got on with it. Since bumping into Max, though, it all seemed completely futile – a feeling exacerbated by a surreptitious rummage through her old photo albums. The albums she kept hidden in a battered old suitcase in the bottom of her wardrobe. The albums crammed with photos of her and Max.
‘Has my blue striped shirt been ironed?’
Propped up against the pillows still abed on Monday morning, Julia observed her husband, Paul, as he flicked through the rainbow of shirts in his wardrobe. Fresh from the shower, he had a towel wrapped around his waist. He wasn’t in bad shape for a man just the wrong side of forty, Julia concluded. Courtesy of his twice-weekly squash games, there wasn’t so much as a hint of a paunch. And the grey bits in his dark curly hair served only to make it more interesting. Totally unfair.
‘Julia. My shirt?’ he repeated. ‘Has it been ironed yet?’
Dragged out of her reverie, Julia shrugged. ‘If it isn’t there, then probably not.’
The look on Paul’s face told her this was not the answer he’d been hoping for. ‘But I need it.’
Julia heaved an almighty sigh and folded her arms over her chest. ‘Why? You’ve got thirty others to choose from.’
‘But I need that one. I’m presenting to the Board today and it’s the only one I feel really comfortable in.’
Julia rolled her eyes. She didn’t have the energy for an argument. ‘All right. All right. I’ll iron it.’
‘Thanks.’ He flashed her a smile as she clambered out of bed.
Well, at least that was something, mused Julia, tying the belt of her robe around her waist. ‘Thanks’ was not a word uttered with much regularity in the Blakelaw household. Her positivity, though, was short-lived.
‘And can you do it quickly?’ he added. ‘I need to be in the office half an hour earlier today.’
‘Right,’ she muttered through gritted teeth.
On the landing, she bumped into Faye.
‘Oh. If you’re ironing, could you do my denim skirt?’
‘Of course,’ said Julia, plastering a saccharine smile onto her face. ‘Anything else?’
Faye narrowed her eyes and screwed up her nose. ‘No. Just the skirt.’
Reaching the spare bedroom which doubled as an ironing room, Julia flung the door shut and plopped down on the bed, causing the mountain of creased clothes on it to topple to the floor. She’d spent the entire weekend running around after them all – as usual. But this weekend, it had felt so different. So … wrong. She rested her forearms on her thighs and dropped her head into her hands, anger and resentment spinning through her veins. Since when had she become such a doormat? Since when had she allowed people – and her own family at that – to treat her as nothing but a domestic slave? Once upon a time she’d harboured dreams, ambitions. She’d wanted to travel, have a successful career, achieve something – all the things that made life worth living. But that seemed a million years ago. What had happened to that lively, feisty girl? The girl who had been so full of energy, with a natural zest for life? The girl that had captivated Max Burrell …
Julia had scarcely believed it when Max had shown an interest in her. They’d both been
seventeen, in the first year of sixth form. Julia – pretty and popular – had been academically capable, but nothing special. Unlike Max. He’d joined the school the year before, and in no time at all assumed his place as captain of the rugby team and star of the debating society, in addition to smashing all of the school’s athletic records. Undeniably brilliant, he was destined for great things – a dead cert for Oxbridge. Add devastating good looks to the package, and Max could have had any girl he wanted. But the only one he did want was Julia.
It had all started at a house party where Julia, losing her balance on ridiculously high stilettoes, had sent a huge glass of cider over Max’s trendy shirt. She’d been mortified, he amused. She’d thought he’d run a mile. He stuck to her like glue. Then, at the end of the night, he’d kissed her on the cheek and asked her out. Julia thought it must be a joke; an adolescent bet, with his mates sniggering around the corner. But it wasn’t and they weren’t.
Much to the apparent bemusement of the rest of the school, they soon became a couple, ‘Are you really going out with Max Burrell?’ being asked on more than one occasion; and ‘I can’t believe Max Burrell is going out with her,’ being overheard on several others.
Not that Julia was surprised. There were heaps of prettier girls in the school. Quite why Max had singled out her, she couldn’t fathom.
‘Because you’re gorgeous, genuine and funny,’ he insisted.
But, try as she might, Julia couldn’t get her head around it. Every time they went out she almost had to pinch herself to prove that it was real. Not only because she was actually with Max, but because of the way he treated her – gazing at her with a glint of tenderness in those grey-green eyes. Placing his hand on the small of her back each time he opened a door for her. And, best of all in Julia’s opinion, casually draping his arm over her shoulders whenever they walked down the street.