by Jo Verity
‘It’s very sweet of you both to be so accommodating,’ she said. ‘We’d love to come. I’ll text Di our progress and … see you soon.’
She knocked Jordan’s door and, without waiting for an answer, went into the room and flung open the curtains. ‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’
He seemed not to have moved since she saw him last night. He certainly hadn’t undressed although he wasn’t wearing the hat.
She opened the window, delighted to see him wince as the morning air flooded the stuffy room. ‘It’s a lovely day.’
She felt suddenly apprehensive, unsure where or how to begin, as though what she had to tell him was an intimate secret. ‘Jordan …’
‘Yeah?’
‘I quite understand that the last thing in the world you want is to be stuck with me for the week …’
She paused, not expecting him to contradict her but hoping to see his expression soften. He stared at her blankly.
‘And, to be quite frank, you were right. I wasn’t altogether thrilled when you turned up yesterday. But all we can do is make the best of it and try to rub along.’ She faked a smile. ‘I was planning to visit a girl – a woman – I was at school with. I’ve explained what’s happened and she’s very kindly invited you to come too. You’ll like her. She’s an artist, and her partner’s a musician.’
He glanced up. ‘Like in a band?’
‘No. Not exactly. Carl plays in an orchestra. They live in Cardiff?’
‘Cardiff? You don’t expect me to go to Cardiff.’
‘What’s wrong with Cardiff? It’s a lively capital city?’
‘So’s Mogadishu, but no one in their right mind would want to go there.’
She was impressed with his geopolitical awareness but rattled by his reaction to her suggestion. She’d known he would be reluctant but had counted on there being a hint of willingness to negotiate.
‘Let me put this another way. I want to go and I can’t see what difference it will make to you whether you’re sitting in this house or sitting in Diane’s house. Because, if I’m looking after you, don’t for one minute imagine I’ll allow you to go gadding all over London. Do I make myself clear?’
He tugged at his hair. ‘Mum wouldn’t want you to take me to Cardiff.’
‘It’s obvious that your mother doesn’t give a toss where you are,’ she snapped without pausing to think that her observation might hurt the boy.
He looked up, fixing her with a steady gaze. ‘Mum arranged for me to stay with Charlie, not you. It wasn’t her fault that his granddad died.’
She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. But you must know how frustrating it is when you’ve been looking forward to something only for it to fall through.’
‘Yeah.’ He pulled the hat from under his pillow and clamped it on his head. ‘Charlie’s dad promised he’d take us on the London Eye.’
There was nothing to be gained by trading disappointments. ‘Why don’t you shower then come down and have breakfast? I’m sure we can work something out.’
He studied her face for a moment and she noticed that his eyes weren’t blue as she’d first thought, but greyish-green.
‘You’re a teacher, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘No, I’m not.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Alex said you worked in a posh girls’ school.’
‘I do. I’m the school secretary. I run the office. And it’s not that posh.’
‘I bet it’s posher than mine.’
‘Would you like to go to a posh school?’
‘’Course I wouldn’t.’
When he came into the kitchen twenty minutes later, his hair was wet and he had discarded the hat, both of which Elizabeth took as positive signs. Today he was wearing a different black T-shirt but his jeans had that welded-on look that resulted from an extended period of wear. For the first time she registered how skinny he was, barely a skim of flesh covering his lanky frame. He resembled a marionette, his hands and feet too big for his thin limbs.
‘Will toast do? I’m afraid there’s no milk for cereal.’
He shrugged.
‘Have you thought any more about our trip?’ She coupled the inclusive pronoun with the indefinite destination, hoping to persuade him that they were buddies, ready to take to the open road.
‘Yeah.’ He stared past her at the garden, chewing a mouthful of toast. ‘How much will you pay me if I go to Cardiff?’
‘What?’ she said.
‘How much will you—’
‘I heard what you said, Jordan. I’m having difficulty in believing that you had the nerve to say it.’
‘This is how I see it. I’ve got something you want – in this case a week of my time – so we have to negotiate a price. It’s called the principal of supply and demand. We did it in school last term.’
‘That’s a despicable suggestion.’
‘You said you wanted us to “work something out”. I was only trying to be helpful.’
Outrageous though his proposal was, it did present a possible solution to the impasse.
‘Did you have a figure in mind?’ she asked.
‘Twenty quid a day,’ came back in a flash.
‘In your dreams,’ she laughed and left him to stew for a few moments. ‘Ten.’
He shook his head. ‘Eighteen. And that’s under half what I’d get for a shift in McDonald’s.’
‘You’re too young to work in McDonald’s so I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.’ She returned the butter to the fridge and slammed the door shut. ‘Okay. Fifteen. And that’s my best offer.’
He considered for a second or two then nodded. ‘Done.’
‘And before you even think of asking for payment in advance, you’ll get the money daily, in arrears.’
She recalled the breezy message that Alex had left yesterday, particularly his parting phrase: ‘Keep a tally of anything we owe you.’ Jordan’s ‘wages’ would be the first item on the list.
Seeing Maggie in the back garden, she popped out to tell her that the trip was back on but she didn’t mention the deal she’d struck with Jordan.
As Elizabeth got into the car, she looked back, checking for the umpteenth time that the windows were shut. Securing the house was Laurence’s job and, whether they were going away for a long weekend or a month, he discharged this duty to the same scrupulous degree, turning off the water and disconnecting every item of electrical equipment hours in advance so that it all had to go on again if they wanted a last-minute cup of coffee. He’d made such a good job of hiding the spare sets of house and car keys that, on their return from Corsica last year, it was three days before she’d found them stuffed inside the roll of cling film. Annoying though his diligence could be, she wished he were here to confirm that everything was as it should be.
‘Seat belt on please, Jordan,’ she prompted.
She had her own car – an old but reliable Polo which they used for supermarket trips and outings where they might have to park somewhere ‘dodgy’ – but Laurence’s Audi had six gears and air-con, making it more comfortable for long journeys. She enjoyed driving and would have relished a spin down the motorway, a relaxed week with old friends stretching ahead, were it not for the sullen boy lolling in the passenger seat.
The sat-nav indicated a door-to-door distance of one hundred and forty-eight miles. It was eleven thirty. If they stopped at a service station for coffee they should be in Cardiff by three-thirty at the very latest.
Before pulling away, she texted Diane. Just leaving. See you soon. E & J!
The top-boxes, bikes and surfboards lashed to the cars and camper vans streaming westward out of London, indicated that the world and his wife were off on holiday. Laurence maintained that it wasn’t juggernauts or white vans that you needed to worry about but ‘Sunday drivers’ who took to the motorways once a year and thought the safest strategy was to pootle along in the middle lane. As if to prove her husband’s point, the
car in front suddenly and for no apparent reason, slowed to fifty. With something sporty coming up fast in the outside lane, she had a few sweaty moments as she eased her speed down.
Elizabeth was glad that Jordan had earphones rammed in his ears, eliminating any possibility of conversation, leaving her free to concentrate on George Clooney. She had a bit of a ‘thing’ going with George. It was nothing heavy or vulgar. George was a friend, always there for her when she felt taken for granted, and she for him when the pressures of celebrity drove him to seek refuge from the limelight. It had started when he was a young doctor, sensitive and competent yet with an inclination to rebel whenever bureaucracy threatened to overrule compassion. Their relationship had continued through his multiple incarnations. The loveable con man. The singing convict. The straight-as-a-die lawyer. She wasn’t one of those sex-crazed females who could see no further than Johnny Depp’s tight little bum. Perceptiveness, empathy and truthfulness were what she craved – desired – in a man. (Although George did have devastatingly soulful eyes. And lovely teeth.)
On they sped, past Reading Services, George in the seat behind her, his warm hand resting on the nape of her neck. Her daydream was interrupted by a thin discord, soft but insidious, coming from the seat next to her. Jordan’s eyes were closed, fingertips tapping his thigh as he sang along to his private music. She frequently witnessed the phenomenon when she was on the Tube – a headphoned youngster mangling an unidentifiable tune, mortified when they realised that they were entertaining the entire train carriage.
‘Did you say something, Jordan?’ she asked unkindly.
He blushed, clamped his lips together and gazed out of the side window.
She checked the clock on the dashboard. ‘We’re making good time. We’ll take a break at Membury.’
‘Whatever.’
Twenty minutes later, they joined the traffic crawling up the slip road to the service station. The zone designated for cars was chaotic with manoeuvring vehicles and passengers carelessly opening doors. Not wanting to risk the paintwork on Laurence’s car, she parked in a quieter spot, some distance from the building, watching a dog defecate on the grass verge as she waited for Jordan to disengage himself from the seat belt. They headed across the oily tarmac towards the cafeteria, Jordan following a good ten yards behind her.
‘What would you like?’ she asked once they were inside.
‘Do I have to pay for it myself?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘In that case, I’ll have a Coke and…’ he glanced around the franchises that lined the central space, ‘chips.’
She hesitated then remembered that Jordan Fry’s diet wasn’t her problem. ‘Okay. I’ll be over there somewhere.’ She indicated the area of seating near the window. ‘I’m expecting change,’ she said, holding out a five-pound note.
While he slouched off towards Burger King, she made her way to the Costa counter. Having come close to criticising his unhealthy choice of snack, she felt obliged to ignore the Danish pastries and limit her order to a filter coffee.
Four people sat at the adjacent table – a man and woman, and two teenage boys. A family? More than likely (although anyone seeing her and Jordan might assume that they were mother and son). The boys looked older than Jordan. One of them was fiddling with a mobile phone, the other with an iPod. ‘Dad’ read the the Daily Mail sports page, whilst ‘Mum’ stared into the middle distance, rolling a paper napkin between her fingers. During the five minutes Elizabeth watched them, not one of them acknowledged the others’ existence. Then suddenly, without a word, the man folded his paper, stood up and made for the door. The boys followed but the woman lingered, tidying the mess of cups, plates and napkins, the debris of their meal. As she pushed the chairs neatly under the table, she caught Elizabeth’s eye and, shrugging, gave a tight-lipped smile.
Women like that irritated Elizabeth. They were the instruments of their own downtrodden destiny. Most mothers would crawl over burning coals to protect their children – a natural and laudable instinct. But, often, mothers of sons took this impulse too far. They did everything for their ‘princes’, laughing indulgently – ‘Give it here. It’ll be quicker if I do it’ – as they washed, ironed, tidied and cooked themselves into the ground, turning helpless boys into helpless men and making life tougher for the next generation of women. She’d made sure that Ben and Alex understood that cooking and cleaning wasn’t ‘women’s work’ but a contribution to the well-being of the whole family. She’d shown them how to sew on buttons and iron a shirt. (She’d even taught them to knit and, in a box somewhere in the loft, were two scruffy little scarves to prove it.) They were both capable of looking after themselves (that was the theory anyway) although what man wouldn’t sit back and let a woman take over given half a chance?
Jordan arrived at the table. ‘The Coke was one ninety-nine and the chips were two pounds fifty.’ (The polystyrene tray contained a maximum of thirty chips.) He handed over a few coins then pushed the tray towards her. ‘Want one?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I’m going to the loo,’ she told him when they’d finished. ‘See you back at the car in ten minutes.’
‘Okay. Thanks for…’ He nodded towards the puddle of ketchup on the tray.
As she washed her hands, she studied her face in the soap-spattered mirror above the sink. To remind herself that she could, she smiled inanely at her own reflection, and took out her mobile. Hi, Di. Just leaving Membury. So far so good. ×
5
SUNDAY: 1.45PM
Jordan was waiting, sprawled on the embankment behind the car. Spotting Elizabeth, he stood up, waved and smiled. ‘Hi.’
Perhaps Coca Cola could teach the world to sing.
She pressed the key fob and the car lights flashed. ‘Ready?’
Jordan turned and beckoned a young woman who was sitting, cross-legged, a little way from him on the grass. She hoisted an outsized rucksack on to her shoulder and joined them.
The girl might have been anywhere between sixteen and twenty-two. Elizabeth had seen how girls at school morphed from children into young women once they swapped school uniform for teen fashion. A dozen tiny plaits, incorporating beads and coloured ribbons, punctuated her fashionably unkempt dark hair. Despite the heat she wore several layers of blouses and cardigans. A diaphanous purple skirt covered her legs, swirling around the tops of her Ugg boots. Ugh – not on a hot day like this. She was pretty, with a waifish quality but without a trace of the ingénue. The aesthetic might be described as hippy nouveau – less tie-dyed and more contrived than its precursor. (Elizabeth guessed she dressed this way not out of allegiance to a philosophy but because it flattered her slight figure.)
‘This is really kind of you.’ She had a confidence about her suggesting that she was older than she looked. ‘I’m Layla. After the song.’
Elizabeth looked at Jordan and raised her eyebrows.
‘We can give her a lift, can’t we?’ he said. ‘Mum always gives people lifts. She says it’s good karma.’
And, clever lad, you’ve lifted the most attractive hitchhiker on the M4.
Laurence never gave people lifts. He said it was asking for trouble. ‘They make horror films about hitchhikers. Why is that, d’you think?’ Elizabeth was with Laurence on this but a refusal now risked sparking off a showdown, something she didn’t relish in such a public arena. Not trusting herself to say anything, she opened the boot of the car and shifted the bags to one side. Layla heaved her rucksack in.
When they got in, Jordan insisted that the girl sit in the front whilst he stationed himself in the back, behind the driver.
‘We’re only going as far as Cardiff,’ she warned as they gathered speed down the slip road, wanting to make it clear that she had no intention of going out of her way for her uninvited passenger.
‘Yes. Jay told me.’
Jay? Elizabeth peered into the rear-view mirror, but Jordan had sunk into the corner, out of sight.
‘That’
ll be fantastic,’ Layla continued, ‘it’s really, really kind of you.’
It was obvious from the girl’s effusive thanks that she sensed Elizabeth’s annoyance and was trying to win her over. She pegged away. ‘I love your earrings. Gorgeous blue. What is it?’
‘Lapis lazuli.’
‘Lapis lazuli. The blue and silver look fantastic with your skin tone.’
Elizabeth was finding the girl’s schmoozing hard to stomach. ‘Thanks.’
Layla picked up the CDs that Laurence kept stacked in the space beneath the player. ‘Elgar. Stravinsky. Bruckner. Great selection.’
Oh, come on.
After several minutes of unrequited conversation, the girl swivelled in her seat, directing her attention at Jordan, thus relegating Elizabeth to role of tolerated taxi driver.
What had he told this Layla girl while they were in the car park waiting for her? How had he described their connection? Elizabeth’s my mum’s partner’s mother. Was that how he’d put it? Of course all the girl was bothered about was getting a lift so it would have been of little interest to her.
More to the point, how was she going to explain Jordan to Diane’s friends? (She was sure to meet some during the coming week.) This is Jordan Fry. He’s my son’s lover’s child from a previous extra-marital liaison. Pick the bones out of that.
Alex had been with Vashti for less than a year. Elizabeth had tried, once or twice, to find out about her but all she discovered was that they’d met at a music festival in Cornwall the previous summer. At the time he’d been ‘seeing’ an amenable girl called Rachel, but poor Rachel had been dumped within weeks. Presumably Ms Fry had run through a string of partners before Alex came along. Or maybe not. Jordan must have been a turnoff for the majority of young men. They wouldn’t have put up with the limitations that a child imposed. Charismatic though Vashti clearly was, Alex might not have been so keen to team up with her had her son been three months or three years old, still requiring nappy changes and babysitters.