by Jo Verity
She watched him as he idly raided the bread bin and the fridge, gathering the makings of a breakfast. She wondered when he would get around to mentioning Jordan, to asking where he was. (That was, after all, his reason for coming.) And why wasn’t Vashti with him? To be honest, she was glad but it didn’t prevent her from feeling put out that the woman hadn’t come to thank her for looking after her son.
‘Did the tour go well?’ she asked.
‘So-so.’
Alex was shovelling cornflakes into his mouth, reading the postcards on the worktop. Not only was his shirt crumpled, it was grubby around the collar. His nails needed a good scrub.
‘D’you want a shower?’ she asked, hoping to conceal the implied criticism in her offer.
‘I could, couldn’t I? It might wake me up. I didn’t actually get any sleep at all last night.’ He smiled his charming smile.
He wanted her to demand why he hadn’t slept. To berate him for lumbering her with Jordan. That was Alex all over, seeking attention, looking for an excuse to groan, ‘Don’t fuss Mum. Don’t nag.’
‘There are towels in the airing cupboard,’ she said, then pointed towards next-door’s garden where Maggie was pegging out what looked like a month’s worth of children’s socks. ‘I need a word with Maggie.’
‘How did it work out with thingummyjig?’ Maggie asked.
‘Much better than I feared. He’s quite a nice boy, when you get used to him. Alex has just come to pick him up.’
‘Did you have a good time? What did you do altogether?’
Elizabeth painted a picture of magnificent beaches and delicious meals, telling Maggie how Jordan had saved the baby and how they’d met Lenny Butler. ‘Oh, and Diane’s friend – the one we stayed with – he’s a TV weatherman. So that was interesting.’
‘What dull old lives we lead in the Metropolis. The high spot of my week was getting new wiper blades fitted on my car.’
Elizabeth thanked her for looking after the house and the cat, and presented her with two bottles of wine that she’d grabbed from Laurence’s ‘everyday drinking’ rack. She’d intended buying her something nice in Cardiff – a pair of earrings or a book, perhaps – but then the week had taken its unexpected turn. The wine seemed an impersonal gift so she added ‘And I owe you a couple of babysits, too.’
‘No need. But it would be wonderful to have a proper conversation with my husband.’ Maggie chewed her lip. ‘I have a confession to make. I hop over the wall, open your front door, and I’m in heaven. No grot. No toys. No “Muuum”. Peace, perfect peace. The other evening, when I came over to feed Stevens, I sat in your kitchen for half an hour, reading.’
When Elizabeth went back inside, Jordan was helping himself to cereal. ‘Bathroom door’s locked.’
‘It’s Alex. He shouldn’t be long.’
He ate his cereal, occasionally glancing up, observing her with his customary detachment.
‘Look Jay,’ she said, ‘before Alex comes back, we should settle up.’ She picked up her purse. ‘I’ve lost track of what I owe you.’
‘Fifteen pounds,’ he said.
She had no idea how he’d arrived at this total, and she could argue that, as he’d had such a great time in Wales, she owed him nothing at all. But she paid up without quibbling.
He tugged his hair across his forehead and cleared his throat. ‘And it’s Jordan, okay?’
She nodded. ‘Okay.’
Alex rejoined them and Jordan dived straight in with a garbled account of meeting Lenny and Joe, and of writing Runaway Heart. He told Alex about the pushchair incident. And the tent. Finally he got around to mentioning ‘a couple of girls’.
Throughout, Alex murmured appropriate words of approval, amazement and envy. Elizabeth was interested to hear Jordan’s skewed version of the past week in which she and Dafydd were barely mentioned.
‘D’you wanna hear this now?’ Jordan held up his CD.
‘In a sec. I need a few words with Mum – Elizabeth,’ Alex said. ‘Why don’t you grab a shower and we’ll listen to it when you come down.’
He seemed happy with that suggestion and disappeared, leaving Elizabeth and her son in the kitchen.
‘Thanks for everything, Mum. We had the week covered. It was just rotten luck about Toby’s father-in-law.’
‘More than “rotten luck”.’
‘Toby said it came totally out of the blue. No history of heart trouble. But apparently the old guy’s on the mend.’
She frowned. ‘He didn’t … die? He wasn’t shot?’
Alex laughed. ‘Shot? Where did you get that idea?’
She shrugged. ‘I must have got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘Actually Mum, I’ve got something to tell you.’ He pushed the kitchen door shut. ‘Vashti and I are splitting. Last week was kind of make or break.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In this case, break.’
He tried to smile but she could see he was close to tears. They were seated at the table, next to each other, and she put her arms around him. ‘I’m so sorry, Alex.’
‘I know you never liked her, Mum, but I wish you’d had a chance to get to know her. She’s an amazing person.’
‘I’m sure she is. Anyway, my likes and dislikes don’t come into it.’ She hugged him again and stroked his damp hair, trying to flatten the stubborn tuft that marked his double crown. ‘Is there a chance you might patch it up?’
‘We said a lot of hurtful things. Stuff that can’t be un-said.’
‘Sometimes it helps to clear the air.’
He looked surprised. ‘That doesn’t sound like you, Ma.’
I don’t feel like me.
‘When will you tell Jordan?’
‘Before we get home.’ He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. ‘At least he’s had a brilliant week. He was a bit cagey about the girls but I could tell how chuffed he was. Lenny Butler and a couple of older women. A thirteen year old’s fantasy. Maybe that’ll keep him going until things settle down.’
Thirteen? She had to hand it to Jordan Fry.
When he came back, he was wearing his Wolfman T-shirt. His wet hair clung to his scalp. His forehead was pale but the lower part of his face was tanned. She remembered thinking earlier in the week how plain he was. But there was something about his face.
He led them in to the sitting room where they listened to Runaway Heart. The song was so familiar to her now that she could sing along with it (naturally she didn’t) and it was hard to believe that it hadn’t existed until Friday night. Alex was sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, his head moving in time to the music. But she knew he was only half-listening, his mind on what he must tell Jordan on their drive back to Stoke Newington.
She watched Jordan, his skinny frame taut with excitement and pride. Poor kid. She had no idea what he thought of Alex. Perhaps her son was merely another man in a succession of men who had dipped in and out of his life. That might be no bad thing. The split might be easier, less of a wrench, if he were.
‘Okay.’ Alex slapped his knees and jumped up. ‘I’m going to take a leak then we’ll be off. Jordan, d’you have anything to say to Elizabeth?’
Jordan turned to her, his face impassive. ‘Thanks, Elizabeth.’
‘Not at all. It’s been … interesting.’ She smiled and held out her hand.
He grabbed it, waggling it in a cursory handshake.
Suddenly he became every youngster whose life was being messed around, messed up, by adults who put desires before responsibilities.
‘Hang on,’ she said and beckoned him into the kitchen. ‘Here.’ She pulled all the notes from her purse, only realising as she passed them to him that she was giving him sixty pounds.
Barely glancing at the cash, he stuffed it in his pocket. ‘Thanks. Cool.’
Alex returned and handed Jordan his car keys. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. You’ve checked you’ve got all your stuff?’
‘Yeah.’ He hoisted the rucksack onto his shoulder and opened th
e front door.
‘Jordan,’ she said.
He looked at her.
‘If you’re ever … you know … in the vicinity, you will call in, won’t you?’
He nodded.
‘And good luck with…’
Everything.
He headed down the path without a backward glance.
‘I do hope he’ll be okay,’ Elizabeth said. ‘You’d best be off.’ She kissed her son, smelling her shampoo in his hair.
He massaged his cheeks with the palms of his hands. ‘Actually, Mum, I was wondering whether I could crash here for a bit. It wouldn’t be for long. Only until I get a job. And find a flat, or something.’
She bundled the washing into the machine. In the night, when she’d been unable to sleep, she’d made up her mind to keep the red T-shirt because … well, because she had. She’d worry about the rest of Gwen’s clothes later.
There had been no word from Diane. Once or twice, forgetting that things had changed, she’d been on the point of texting her. (She’d have to watch that.)
She buttered four slices of white bread and made chunky marmalade-and-raisin sandwiches. She cut the sandwiches into ‘fingers’, placed them higgledy-piggledy in a greased Pyrex dish then poured sugary, eggy custard over them. Finally she grated fresh nutmeg on top, covered the dish with cling film and put it in the fridge.
Around four o’clock the phone rang.
‘Darling? We landed early. I’m just waiting for my bag. I’ll jump on the train and I should be with you, what, five-thirtyish? Had a good week?’
‘Yes, lovely thanks. You?’
‘Oh, hectic, exhilarating, infuriating. Nice people. Beautiful location. Your trip went well?’
‘Yes. I met some nice people, too.’
‘Good. Boys okay?’
‘Yes. Well. Alex and Vashti?’
‘Hang on, darling. I can see my bag.’
‘Laurence?’
‘Yes?’
‘See you soon.’
She went upstairs to finish putting her things away, surprised to see that Jordan had stripped Alex’s bed. (‘Alex’s bed?’ Another thing she’d have to watch.)
Her son had assumed she was joking when she’d said no, he couldn’t come back home. Eventually realising that she meant it, he’d tried first charm then petulance. ‘Just for a couple of weeks, Ma.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. You must have friends who’ll put you up. It’s … not convenient.’
‘Not convenient? You’ve got plenty of room. What’s the problem? It’s Dad isn’t it?’
Laurence wouldn’t be thrilled to have his out-of-work, fiddle-playing son loitering around the house. But that wasn’t ‘the problem’. Even without Alex back home, needing her, distracting and diverting her (and expecting her to do his washing), she might discover that, in fact, there was nothing keeping her and Laurence apart; that this was as good as it was ever going to get. But she’d never find out with Alex there, pulling her this way and that.
She took clean bed linen from the airing cupboard and began wrestling the duvet into its cover. Her son would hate her for a few weeks but denying him a bolt-hole might encourage him to get a grip on his future. It would be wonderful if he decided to return to university but having Laurence nagging away, night and day, would ensure that he didn’t. They’d been through that before.
She dumped a pillow into a pillowcase and shook it until the two sat square. Perhaps, as he kept telling them, he could make a go of this music thing. People did. Lenny and Joe had.
She tossed the pillow on the bed. He might even iron out his differences with Vashti. It was his life – his choice. (And it would be good for Jordan.)
She turned to check that everything was in order, only then spotting Jordan’s hat on the windowsill. He’d spent most of the week with it either on his head or stuffed in a pocket. He had Lenny’s bandana now but, even so, he wouldn’t have overlooked something so important. She held the hat by its crown, plaited ties dangling, remembering her frustration when he’d turned up on her doorstep. Somehow, without noticing, she’d grown accustomed to having him around, almost enjoying their tussles and negotiations. He was pretty smart for his thirteen years. She didn’t like to think that she wouldn’t see him again. She’d text him and let him know his hat was safe. Then it would be up to him.
The telephone rang and she took it in the hall. She half expected it to be Alex, with some ploy to regain his bedroom, but it was Laurence’s mother.
‘He’s not back yet? Good Lord, he’s been away for weeks.’
‘Eleven days, actually. Is there anything—’
‘He promised he’d run his eye over this ridiculous letter I’ve had from the council. Tsk. What’s the point of having a solicitor in the family if he’s never available?’
Elizabeth let her ramble on, tuning out, wondering if she should change her clothes and whether to put a bottle of something special in the fridge.
‘I had a lovely time in Wales,’ she said when Phyllida paused for breath.
This seemed to faze her mother-in-law. ‘Wales? I see. Well, I must get on,’ she said, as if Elizabeth were the one who had phoned and interrupted something important.
She checked her mobile. Nothing from Diane. She wouldn’t realise it yet, but their friendship had expired, a fact that would only become apparent when she wanted something or when the next calamity struck. With luck, that wouldn’t be for a while.
Her camera was on the worktop. During the week she’d taken maybe two dozen photographs. The beach – Dafydd and Diane paddling. The garden – Dafydd and Jordan setting up the barbecues. The Downs – Dafydd chasing Mimi. The path down from the pub – Dafydd smiling at her. Seated at the kitchen table, she scrolled through them, blessing and cursing the technology which allowed her to zoom in on a hand, or a shapely calf; to inspect the hairs on an arm or the creases at the corner of an eye.
She no longer had reason to visit Cardiff so she wouldn’t be seeing Dafydd Jones again. She might bump into him on the Bakerloo line or in a bookshop in Charing Cross Road – there were only, what was it, eight million people in London? But, unless fate intervened, that was that.
And yet. Where would be the harm in meeting for a drink when he came up to Town, or making the occasional call to check how he and the girls were getting on? Where would be the harm in keeping in touch with a friend?
Laurence would be delighted that Diane Shapcott was out of their lives. But what would he make of her replacement? (Who is it, darling? Tell me again.) A college friend from way back in those washing-up-rota days? A work colleague with whom she’d developed a friendship over the years? No. This was a brand new friend; a man friend. She’d met him last Tuesday (and slept with him on Thursday night).
There would be the harm.
She checked her watch. Five-to-five. Laurence was on the Heathrow Express now, or even at Paddington.
She showered, only remembering when she took her damp towel from the rail that this was the second time today. Nerves fizzed in her stomach. Why not let well alone? Leave things as they were and their lives would continue their polite, predictable progress. Was that such a terrible prospect? The trouble was that Dafydd had talked her into wanting more.
She opened the wardrobe door. White shirt and navy trousers? Navy shirt and taupe trousers? And in that instant George Clooney raised his hand, flashed his perfect smile and slipped out of her day-dreams, leaving a stocky Welshman to take his place.
That’s your – yoo-er – problem, cariad, you play it too safe.
She dug out her old wrap-around skirt, dark green with splodges of turquoise flowers. It wasn’t the kind of thing she usually wore but she’d bought it in Greece when she’d been looking for something to stop the mosquitoes from devouring her legs. Next she unearthed an orange vest top – a ‘mistake’ made in a buy-one-get-one-half-price panic in M&S. Finally she chose her prettiest underwear, the lacy set reserved for special occasions.
She dressed quickly, turning to study the result in the long mirror, the uncertainties of the afternoon dissolving as she examined her reflection.
That’s better, cariad. A bit of colour suits you. And remember what I said – you’ve got to stop being so bloody polite.
She smiled and, hearing footsteps on the front path, hurried downstairs to let her husband in.
Also by Jo Verity
Sweets from Morocco
978 1 906784 00 3
£7.99
Tessa and Lewis are unnerved by the arrival of baby brother Gordon disrupting their perfect childhood. Something must be done. Secretly they construct an effigy of the interloper and transport it to a phone box at the edge of town. They don’t wish the baby dead, just gone… But when Gordon does disappear, it blights the lives of the whole Swinburne family.
Coming to terms with the past doesn’t get any easier with the years, and the ties binding Tessa and Lewis grow tighter and tighter as their secret stalks them into middle age.
‘A richly detailed and absorbing narrative journey’
Andrew Cowan
Bells
978 1870206 877
£6.99
Jack has fun playing away – not with loose women, but as part of a Morris dancing team. But when a gig is cancelled and he falls for the young woman behind the desk at The Welcome Stranger, he is launched into a world of love-struck subterfuge.
Meanwhile, his wife, Fay, rashly offers a home to one of her son’s ex-bandmates just days before she’s forced to house her frail but argumentative mother-in-law. To top it all, she’s in the throes of an illicit passion for her best friend’s handsome son.
Will Jack and Fay’s marriage survive the promise of new and exotic liaisons? Will the chime of Morris bells turn a woman’s head in the days of iPods?
‘Excellent’ The Bookseller
Everything in the Garden