Читать книгу The Verdict - Olivia Isaac-Henry - Страница 15

It would have been difficult to find two women of the same age who contrasted more than Julia’s mother and Genevieve. Despite driving two hundred miles to Guildford in an overstuffed car on a hot day, Audrey’s navy blue suit remained crease-free, and she only needed a hat to look as if she were going to church. With her neatly curled crop, a splash of Rive Gauche and discreet gold stud clip-ons – Audrey considered pierced ears to be vulgar – she could have stepped straight out of the 1950s.

For Genevieve, the 1970s were an unending inspiration. She answered the door in loose silk trousers and a kimono-style top, the fabric impregnated with the scent of lemon and cinnamon. Julia was relieved she’d at least dispensed with the turban. Instead, enormous gold and jade earrings swung to her shoulders. Her hair was pulled away from her face and a single long plait, which Julia assumed to be a hairpiece, hung to her waist.

‘You must be Julia’s mother. Delighted.’ Genevieve tilted her head and flicked her eyes upwards, in an almost flirtatious manner. ‘Do come in,’ she cooed, oblivious to Audrey’s incredulous look. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea, Mrs Winter?’

‘It’s Hathersley. And no thank you,’ Audrey replied in an icy tone.

As before, Genevieve behaved like a theatre director giving a backstage tour.

‘The bathroom,’ she said with a dramatic sweep of the arm as if it were Sir Laurence Olivier’s dressing room, leaving Audrey’s eyebrows disappearing under her hairline.

‘Does she smoke marijuana?’ she asked Julia when they were unpacking together in the bedroom.

‘How should I know?’

‘She looks the sort. If there’s anything like that going on, you move out straight away. Go to a hotel. I’ll send you the money.’

‘It’ll be fine. I don’t need looking after, Mum. I’m twenty-three. You were married with a kid at my age.’

‘That doesn’t stop me worrying. Things are different now. Twenty-three is young. I’ve still no idea why you had to move so far. If it was to get away from Christian, you could just as easily have gone to Birmingham or Worcester, not the other end of the country. I can’t see how it’s any easier to find someone new down here than at home – probably harder, they’re not so friendly, unless they’re like your landlady, which is not the sort of company you want to keep.’

Audrey gave the door the disapproving look she’d like to have given Genevieve.

‘Finding someone new? That’s the last thing I want.’

‘Now, Julia, you don’t want to end up like your Aunt Rena.’

‘I’d love to be Aunt Rena.’

‘Julia, no!’

For Audrey, Aunt Rena was a sad example of what could befall a woman who didn’t secure a man young enough in life. In her fifties, single and childless, Rena was to be pitied. ‘I’d feel a little more sympathy for her if it wasn’t all her own fault. If she had just made an effort with any of her men, I’m sure one of them would have married her.’ The fact that Aunt Rena seemed perfectly content, had travelled the globe, published several bestselling travel memoirs, and was currently residing in Buenos Aires with a younger man called Norberto was scant consolation to Audrey. And any attempt to persuade her Rena could be happy was met with utter incredulity.

‘I just mean, I don’t want to end up with someone on the rebound,’ Julia said. ‘I need to give it some time.’

‘Not too much time,’ Audrey said.

Arguing was pointless. Audrey’s opinions were as inflexible as her spine, and Audrey Hathersley never slouched.

Julia stood back and let her mother organise her clothes, alphabetise her books and move the bed to use the available space more efficiently. Only as Audrey was leaving did Julia realise she didn’t want her to go. They had never been apart for any significant length of time. Aunt Rena told her that Audrey had suffered several miscarriages and, before Julia arrived, Audrey had believed she was unable to carry a baby to full term.

‘Even after you were born, she hovered over your cot. Convinced you were about to stop breathing,’ Rena said.

And fourteen months later, Julia’s father died. She couldn’t mourn a man she’d never known, but it must have devastated Audrey, though she never spoke about this period in her life. The wrench at their separation must have afflicted Audrey as much as Julia. But displays of emotion weren’t Audrey’s way. She considered them as vulgar as pierced ears. Julia could think of no reason for asking her to stay longer, and as she had said earlier, she was twenty-three, an adult, not in need of her mother.

‘I better go, it’s a long drive,’ Audrey said. ‘Give me a hug.’

Julia gave her a longer squeeze than usual and was engulfed by the scent of Rive Gauche. Audrey handed her fifty pounds in cash, ‘for emergencies’, then went out to the car. Julia followed her and watched as the little blue Fiesta chugged to the end of the road.

Genevieve had gone out to meet a gentleman friend and the house stood empty. Julia returned to her room, sat on the bed and looked out of the window. Audrey would be getting onto the motorway by now. In a couple of hours, she’d be hundreds of miles away.

What was she doing here? Escape to overcome heartbreak should have meant adventure – not a corporate job at a medium-sized firm in the Home Counties. She should have gone to France, lived in Paris, the Latin Quarter, had an affair with a handsome artist called Emile, who lived in a small flat above a café. They’d stay in bed till noon, making love and smoking Gauloises. Later, they’d amble downstairs to the café, share a bottle of wine with friends and talk politics and philosophy until the late evening, before falling back into bed.

Instead she was fetching an iron from the utility room to press the clothes for her new job at Morgan Boyd next week. She took the iron and ironing board to her room and allowed it to heat up as she fetched coat hangers from the wardrobe and pulled her work blouses from her case.

Her escape didn’t have to be France. She could head south to Portugal or Spain, work in a bar and send a postcard to Christian – Wish you were here?

Mechanically, she pressed the blouses, the steam having little effect on the deep creases. She could leave now. Repack and catch a train to London. Pearl would let her crash on her floor until she found a job. She stopped ironing. London was no more likely than France. It wasn’t lack of language skills stopping her. It was cowardice. Julia craved safety and certainty, a proper job with steady money. Adventure was for other people.

She hung the blouses in the wardrobe, returned the iron and board, then sat on the bed and pushed her back to the wall. The elation she’d felt at leaving home, the hope of catching up on exciting life experiences, evaporated. She no longer felt the thrill of sticking two fingers up at Christian and his new girlfriend, Ellie – See, I don’t care, I’ve got a new life. Christian and Ellie would be glad she was gone. They could carry on their perfect lives without the anxiety of running into Julia at unexpected moments, prodding their consciences, a reminder of their lies and broken promises.

It was Saturday night and Julia was alone, in a house and in a town where she knew no one. She was the only one suffering for her choice. Tears bubbled up and she couldn’t stop herself sobbing. What on earth had possessed her to come to this place? She wished she’d gone back with Audrey. She wished she’d gone home.