Читать книгу The Age of Misadventure - Judy Leigh - Страница 9

I finish a second glass of Chablis and the sound of heels makes me look up. Her voice is high, aghast, panicking.

‘Georgie, I can’t believe it.’ Bonnie rushes back into the room, waving her phone. She grasps my arm and I’m amazed at the vice-like squeeze. ‘Something’s happened. I need your advice.’ She propels me towards the huge patio doors, heaves one open and thrusts me out into the garden. ‘That was Demi.’

I shiver. The grass is damp and my boots sink into the softness of soil. There are snowdrops on the lawn, creamy white, pale orange, a patchwork of colour leading to the swimming pool complex. I imagine how nice it would be to be in their sauna – my skin is suddenly gooseflesh.

Bonnie’s eyes are wide. ‘Demi rang me.’

‘From the three-month Thailand honeymoon?’

She takes my wrist, squeezes the skin.

‘She’s phoned me to say that she’s having such a good time in Thailand, they might go on to Australia and stay for a bit. Isn’t that awful? What do you think?’

‘They’re young. They have no ties. They don’t need to rush back.’

‘Adie’ll be furious – she didn’t ask him first.’

‘There’ll be plenty of time to finish off the decorating in their extension, to paint the feature wall in the new shade of Addiction. Perhaps that’s why Demi and Kyle are extending their honeymoon. Perhaps they want to stay away from Adie.’

She wails, ‘What about me? I’ll miss her. She said they might be away for another three months. What shall I do?’

‘I think they’ve made a good decision, Bon.’

She’s staring at me.

‘Adie paid a fortune for the refurbishment of the extension for them in time for the summer. A new kitchen, a bathroom suite. He’ll be livid.’

I watch my sister and wonder why she’s so loyal to him.

‘Demi and Kyle want to be together. By themselves. They just got married. It’s a good thing, Bonnie.’

Her face crumples and she starts to snuffle. ‘My baby’s gone … All grown up and gone away. Now there’s just me.’

I hug her again. I’ll give her a few seconds and then I’ll suggest she comes to my house, moves into the spare room and starts a new life for herself. Or that she starts to think for herself; that she becomes her own person rather than a cardboard cut-out wife.

I’m about to tell her that it’ll all work out for the best, but she pushes me out of the way.

She announces, ‘I have to tell Adie,’ and her heels are tapping through the breezy patio windows; she’s sashaying through the dining room and towards the steps down to the next level, down to Adie’s lair below.

I belt after her, leaving the patio door wide and the draught swirling, the cold air wafting above the warmth of the underfloor central heating. I catch up with her at the bottom of the steps, by the big oak door, which is ajar. She’s about to knock.

Voices rattle inside. Adie’s hushed tones and another voice, a more throaty bark. My fingers close over Bonnie’s wrist, stopping her from knocking, and I hold my breath. Adie’s said something about handing over money. He won’t be able to do it for a week or two. The guttural growler tells him a deal is a deal and there’s no room for negotiation. He then raises his voice and I recognise a Scottish accent.

‘This is a big investment. You owe me – with interest, Adie.’

The reply is sycophantic, slippery as syrup.

‘I won’t let you down, Duncan.’

Bonnie’s hand has fallen from my grip. She raps softly on oak, then she pushes the door wide. I stare over her shoulder. Inside, the office is all white walls and polished wood. Adie’s standing behind his desk, his shoulders hunched. The other man is opposite, staring. He’s short but broad-shouldered, around sixty years old, in an expensive checked brown suit, pale red hair curled close to his head. His hands are in his pockets and, as he turns to us, his face hardens for a moment and then relaxes. He surveys Bonnie and beams.

‘Well, who do we have here?’

Bonnie is all breath, gushing. ‘Demi rang. She and Kyle have some news. Adie, she wants to extend the honey—’

Adie stiffens. ‘Not now, darling.’ His teeth come together. There’s no affection in the endearment. ‘I’m busy right now.’

The red-haired man opens his arms wide, palms up, taking over, his expression expansive. He turns to us and smiles. His face is broad, craggy, and his teeth are even. I notice thick eyebrows, red wiry hair, ice blue eyes as he stares from Bonnie to me and back to Bonnie.

‘So, you’re Mrs Carrick, I presume?’

She extends a hand. ‘Bonnie.’

She’s done this many times before, the practised smile, the tinkling laugh. Adie’s reliable showpiece. I frown and feel protective again.

The man chuckles, his accent strong. ‘Bonnie by name and bonnie of face.’ He holds her small hand in his large fist. ‘Charming. I’m Duncan Beddowes, by the way. I’m sure Adie’s mentioned me?’

Bonnie nods, unsure whether it’s polite to say yes or be honest and say no.

Beddowes raises his eyebrows towards Adie, who’s squirming for some reason.

‘You didn’t tell me you had such a lovely wife, Adie. You must be proud of such a treasure.’

She shakes her long curls and Adie mumbles something about Mr Beddowes being a business partner. Beddowes is staring at her wrist.

‘May I?’ He lifts her sleeve and the bracelet gleams underneath. Bonnie stands poker stiff and the man says, ‘Oh, well now. Look at this. What a lovely piece. Solid gold.’

‘A present from my husband.’ Bonnie flushes but Adie has blanched, his face the colour of the walls.

‘How very generous of you, Adie. What a wrist full of symbols.’

Adie’s about to say something.

The Scot turns to me. ‘And are you a friend of the family?’

Something makes me want to say no, just ignore me, I’m the Invisible Woman, but Bonnie’s still holding his hand and her eyes dance.

‘This is my sister, Georgie. We’re having lunch. Would you like to come up and share some smoked salmon? There’s plenty left.’

The probing blue eyes stare into her face a moment too long, then he says, ‘I’d like to stay but, unfortunately, I have to go home.’ He nods. ‘My wife’s expecting me for dinner.’

Adie’s hunched behind him, frowning, awkward. Bonnie doesn’t notice. Duncan Beddowes delves into his pocket and produces a mobile phone.

‘Would you mind if I took your photo, Bonnie, standing here with me? A selfie? And your sister, too? I know my wife would love a picture of you both. She’d be fascinated by your lovely taste in clothes, not to mention that gorgeous piece of jewellery. She’ll be very jealous. She’s always asking me where I’ve been, who I’ve met during the day, and I’ll be able to show her.’

Adie shakes his head, just a little, but Bonnie’s already posing, beaming, and the man holds his phone in place. He raises his eyebrows and I sidle behind my sister. He sticks a grin on his face and snaps away.

‘Oh, that’s a nice one. I know Jeanette’ll love to see that. Well, Adie, I’ll take my leave. It’s a long drive back. But I’ll be in touch soon. As we agreed.’

They grasp hands for a fleeting moment. Bonnie’s delighted; she fingers the charm bracelet and giggles. I bite my lip. I never heard of a man who’d want to show his wife a picture of himself flanked by two unknown women. I take a step back, my instincts shouting that I shouldn’t be there at all.

Adie’s silent on the journey home. I ask him if he enjoyed the spa hotel and he grunts. I ask about the Scottish man, if he was a regular business partner, one he’d worked with before, and Adie grunts again. For some reason, we drive through Norris Green, although it’s not on the way home, and he stops the Boxster outside a terraced house. The sky is splashed with grey, the street lights like soft haloes. It’s late now and the light has faded to a watercolour wash. The terraced houses have bay windows, closed curtains with dim lights, and the road is silent apart from a passing kid on a bike who veers too close to the car.

‘I’ll only be a minute. I need to see someone. It’s business. Keep an eye on the Porsche. Perhaps no one’ll steal it if I leave you in it.’

He lifts a small leather case from my footwell and steps outside, moving with fast strides. He rings a bell at a plastic door with no lights inside and someone opens – a tall, slim man in his twenties in a thin T-shirt and cargo pants. In the time it takes me to look at the telegraph wire running between the roofs, where someone has abandoned a battered pair of trainers, their laces tied, swinging from the line in the wind, Adie’s back. He shuts the car door with a clunk, pushes his case behind him and starts the engine. We speed away.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

His brow’s knotted. ‘No, not really. It was to do with my business partner, the one you met, Duncan. I was expecting a payment from the man who lives in that house. I’ll have to call back later in the week. A nuisance, that’s all.’

I glance out of the window as we turn into another side street. ‘Do you have many business partners round here?’ I offer my best smirk.

He doesn’t glance at me. His eyes are on the road and then, furtively, behind him through the mirror. I try again.

‘It’s good news about Demi extending the honeymoon and going to Australia.’

He doesn’t answer, or even acknowledge that he’s heard me. The sky’s darker now. Car headlights swerve towards us from the road and I blink. We reach Aigburth and he pulls at the handbrake sharply as we stop outside number 5, Albert Drive. I hope he won’t ask to come in, but he’s absorbed in something: he seems to be completely uncommunicative. He barely looks at me, so I slither out of the Boxster, bend towards the window from the pavement and say, ‘Thanks, Adie.’

He nods once. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Georgie,’ and he’s off, leaving me standing with exhaust fumes whirling round my ankles.

I raise my hand, but it isn’t to wave goodbye: I clutch my keys. Indoors, I climb the steps to the kitchen and put the kettle on. On my phone, there’s a text message from Amanda about a bargain cocktail dress. Nothing from Jade and nothing from Bonnie. I make a cup of tea and put my head in my hands. I’m not really sure what happened today in Adie’s office, but my instincts are buzzing like crowding bees and I’m not feeling comfortable. Adie’s clearly out of his depth.

The sink is cluttered with bowls: the one I used to make the Yorkshire pudding mix, the one I used to make gravy, plus the saucepans for potatoes and carrots and peas, which are cooked and steaming in a colander. The meat is resting and the Yorkshires have risen. I’m trying to wash the dishes before the hot water runs out.

‘There’s a lot of clanking about in my kitchen, Georgina.’

‘Yes, Nan.’

‘And it smells. And there’s steam everywhere.’

‘I know, Nan.’

‘You should’ve just bought me a dinner in a box again.’

‘I thought we could eat Sunday lunch together. I’ve made Yorkshire puddings from scratch.’

‘I’m used to the dinners in a box.’

I sigh. ‘I’m just about to bring it out, Nan. Proper gravy. You’ll love it.’

‘I liked the old food we had best, me and Wilf together. A proper pan of Scouse. I used to make mine with beef, though, not lamb. Lamb hasn’t had a life. Carrots, onions, potatoes, an Oxo cube. Lovely. This modern food doesn’t taste of anything.’

‘I’ll bring your roast.’

‘Get me a Guinness first, there’s a good girl.’

I wash the last of the saucepans in tepid water then lean over to the fridge, pull out a bottle and flip the top. I carry the glass through as I pour and deposit it, full and frothy, in front of Nan, lifting the empty one. She gazes up, her eyes glinting through thick glasses. She has a brown circle, a wide froth of beer, across her top lip.

‘Where’s this dinner you’ve been promising me for an hour?’

‘Just coming, Nan.’

‘I won’t eat it if it’s cold. I can’t stand cold dinner.’

I rattle about in the kitchen, cut meat, pile vegetables and Yorkshires, pour gravy and return with a steaming plate on a tray, settling it on her knee. She sups a noisy mouthful of beer and replaces her glass carefully.

‘I can’t eat all this.’

‘Try your best, Nan.’

‘All these Yorkshires.’

‘Two?’

‘It’s not gone cold, has it?’

‘Don’t burn your mouth, Nan.’

‘I don’t know why I couldn’t just have a dinner in a box.’

I bring my plate and a fork and sit in the other armchair. The television’s blaring. It’s a sports pundit giving his views on all the clubs in the league table. I fork a piece of Yorkshire pudding to my mouth and chew. It’s crispy on the outside and fluffy in the middle.

‘Anything good on TV, Nan?’

‘The game’s on now. London boys against the Southern Saints.’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘Will it be any good?’

She has a mouthful of potatoes, making a soft sucking sound.

‘I saw it yesterday. The Londoners win three nil. It’s a good game. One of the Saints gets sent off. The one with all the yellow hair. He kicks the goalkeeper.’

‘You’ve seen it already, then?’

She ignores me and snuggles back into the chair, chewing.

‘This meat’s a bit tough, Georgina.’

She hasn’t touched the meat yet. I roll my eyes. ‘Best beef.’

We chew quietly for a while. Nan’s half cleared her plate.

‘I’m used to the dinners in a box.’ She reaches for the pint glass, slurps and leans forwards. ‘Kick-off now, Georgina.’

Nan’s almost finished all the dinner and her glass is empty. The big clock on the mantelpiece ticks loudly. She clanks her cutlery, a sign that she’s making an effort with my substandard cooking. I close my eyes and listen to the commentator’s voice rise in pitch, speeding up, his voice cracking with excitement. I ease myself to stand, feeling bloated, and pick up Nan’s tray.

‘Nice Sunday lunch?’

She grunts. ‘I got it down me.’

I pile our plates, turn towards the kitchen. ‘Cup of tea?’

‘Guinness’d be nice.’

‘I’ll make us a pot of tea.’

I take a pace forwards and she calls out, ‘Wait. This is the first goal. Watch. It’s a good one.’

I turn back to the screen and blink. A small player in a blue jersey is running alone down the pitch at full pelt, his body bent forwards. He weaves past two tall players and one falls over. He has nifty legs, an agile body, and his face is determined. His fringe is tied in a knot on the top of his head and the rest is longish, dark and straight. He has deep-set eyes, thick brows and a handsome face. Another player, the one with the yellow hair, tackles him and the little player pushes the ball behind him. He twists, leaps into the air with it on the end of his toe and, with a deft overhead scissors kick, he launches it, a crack shot into the back of the net.

‘Goal!’ yells Nanny from the chair.

The little player runs, a wide grin on his face, and blows a kiss to somewhere in the seats at the front of the stadium.

The commentator shrieks, ‘And it’s a superb goal from the Spanish striker, Luis Delgado,’ and the camera pans to the cheering throng, to glimpse for a second a burgundy-haired young woman in a smart new cream-coloured coat, smiling and blowing a kiss back, before the camera whirls back to the player running on the pitch. I almost drop the tray. It’s Jade.