by Lucy Diamond
The problem was he was right. Of course she was curious. ‘Er . . .’
‘He does let you out, doesn’t he, old Mario? You’re not physically attached to a ball and chain?’
Robin was peering under the table to check and grinning at her, and that was when her resolve faltered: because he looked so happy when he grinned like that, and because going out with him again would be like trying on that parallel life for size, and because – damn it – he was still as good-looking and quirky and tantalizing as ever. And so, after just a single heartbeat of deliberation, India heard herself saying, ‘Okay. Sure. Why don’t you give me your number?’
Chapter Seventeen
The death and funeral of poor Alice Goldsmith had been all over the local news – a tragedy that seemed to have saddened the whole city. There was something about having been there in person, at the scene of the crash, that made even non-superstitious Jo feel like crossing herself and thanking her lucky stars. It also prompted her to text Bill Kerwin, whose wife Miriam she’d tended to on the street that day. Poor Miriam who’d been such a horsewoman, by all accounts, who’d lost both her legs due to her injuries. Hope the two of you are bearing up okay, she texted, remembering the tremor in Bill’s voice when she’d spoken to him each time, how desperate he’d sounded. Sending love and best wishes to you both.
Thanks, pet, came his reply, some hours later. We’re getting there. She should be home in a fortnight, which we’re looking forward to.
Meanwhile, Jo had been tentatively unpacking more of her things around Rick’s place, at his insistence. She’d arranged some pillar candles on the mantelpiece, plumped her berry-coloured velvet cushions on the sofa, and unpacked her collection of striped mugs into a kitchen cupboard. Mi casa es su casa, Rick had said to her expansively – ‘Make yourself at home!’ – but it was definitely going to take her a while to get over the thrill of luxury every time she glided up in that lift, unlocked the front door and stepped through onto the dense soft carpet. They even had a cleaner, who appeared like magic twice a week and left the place spotless while they were at work. Clothes that had been left crumpled on the end of the bed were neatly folded. The surfaces in the kitchen gleamed. The bathroom sparkled. It was, quite simply, heavenly. She was so lucky. And yet . . .
Oh, she was being silly. Ungrateful. There was a stereo system wired into the bathroom, for goodness’ sake, and those amazing views out over the city from the balcony. She should be jumping up and down for joy, laughing at her own good fortune to have found herself in such a life! But . . . well. It was all a bit fast. This was the warp-speed with which her mother usually conducted relationships, and not sensible, cautious Jo. (Oh God, was she turning into Helen now? Please, no.) And much as she enjoyed Rick’s company, there had been the occasional moment when Jo had really craved vegging out in a face-mask with a bag of popcorn in front of her favourite trashy TV programmes. On her own, without worrying what anyone else thought of her.
Still, that was the least of her worries really. Because with Rick came his daughter. And with Maisie came the not-so-accidental breakage of one of her mugs. And the surreptitious snipping of the wicks of her candles, rendering them impossible to light. And a hundred other tiny, petty acts of war, which Jo knew she should ignore. She’ll get over it, she kept telling herself, determined to turn the other cheek. She’ll come round to the idea. But until then, Jo was beginning to dread the days Maisie was with them. It was hard not to flinch when the girl curled her lip at her behind her dad’s back or made some derogatory comment under her breath. Because how could Jo challenge Maisie, when she was Rick’s daughter and this was Rick’s territory?
‘I remember girls like her from school,’ she said to Laura one evening after work, perched on the worktop in her sister’s small kitchen. Laura had apparently thrown herself into baking as a displacement activity, a means of distracting herself from her newly raw separation, because there was a veritable tower of cake tins in one corner, and the house smelled amazing: of caramel and vanilla and apple. ‘Do you? Those mean girls who could, like, kill another person with a single glare. Who would tell other girls’ secrets to the boys, just to put them down; who’d steal your homework and kiss someone else’s boyfriend without a second thought.’
Laura had taken a tray of fragrant fairy cakes from the oven and was prodding them to check the rise. ‘Yeah, I remember,’ she said, glancing around for room to put the tray down. ‘Budge up,’ she told Jo.
Jo jumped off and leaned against the fridge. ‘I mean, the other day I overheard Maisie talking to a mate on the phone and she said –’ She could feel herself flushing at the memory – ‘She was talking about me, and made this scathing comment: “God, this new woman Dad’s seeing, she’s the sort of person who buys her jeans at Asda” – like that made me the lowest of the low.’
‘Nothing wrong with jeans from Asda,’ Laura said, her voice muffled from where she was sorting through a cupboard of baking trays.
‘Exactly! I bloody love mine. But, to Maisie, it’s like the worst thing you can say about someone. I mean, she’s so shallow like that. Judging me on what I wear, what I look like, my supermarket clothes – just because Polly, her beautiful model-esque mother, is into fashion and probably buys all that second-mortgage couture stuff . . .’
‘Mmm,’ Laura said, emerging with a wire cooling rack. ‘And what does Rick say about this?’
‘Rick? Well . . .’ Jo hesitated. ‘He says to ignore her. But then again, he doesn’t see or hear half the things she does, anyway; it’s all sneaky and furtive, behind his back.’ She sighed. ‘In his mind, she’s this golden child, the perfect daughter. If it came down to me versus her, then . . .’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I know he’d choose her.’
Laura didn’t say anything for a moment, busily scooping the hot cakes from the moulded tray onto the wire rack, and Jo remembered with a lurch that she was supposed to be cheering her sister up, not burdening her with more problems. ‘Sorry,’ she said guiltily. ‘You don’t want to hear me moaning on, do you? How are you getting on? Have you heard anything from Matt?’
Laura’s face tensed and there was a clatter as she threw the empty baking tray into the sink with rather more force than was necessary. ‘I just think,’ she said, ‘that maybe you should make more of an effort with her. Isn’t it worth it – trying to bond with Maisie – for the sake of your relationship? Instead of seeing her as the enemy, can’t you try and make a friend of her?’
Jo gave a hollow laugh at the idea of Maisie ever wanting to be her friend. ‘Ha,’ she replied. ‘Not sure that’s possible. You met her, remember? She’s not exactly overflowing with love for me. And vice versa, might I add.’
‘But have you tried? I mean, really tried? She’s only thirteen, she’s just a girl. A girl whose parents have split up and who probably feels a bit lost and confused. She might end up being your stepdaughter one day, after all.’ Laura’s brow had tightened and suddenly Jo realized just how crass she’d been in complaining, when her sister would probably have given her last possession to have any kind of daughter right now.
‘You’re right,’ she said humbly. ‘I will try. I’ll make the effort.’
‘Just do something with her,’ Laura said. ‘Baking, for instance. Or have a rootle through my stash of freebies from work, help yourself – you could have a pamper session, if she likes that kind of thing. Find out what she’s into, what makes her happy. It can’t be that hard. Ask Eve for ideas. Grace is that age, isn’t she? She’ll be able to help.’
Jo swallowed, knowing that her sister would have done a far better job with Maisie than her. Knowing too that to say as much might very well bring tears to Laura’s eyes again. ‘Good thinking,’ she replied instead. ‘I’ll get on the case.’
Project ‘Bonding’ starts here! she thought the following Friday evening, as she finished work and set off for the flat, mentally rolling up her shirt-sleeves and trying to be positive. Polly was away in London for a few days appar
ently, so they had the pleasure of Maisie’s company for the duration. And Laura was right in this instance, Jo told herself: it was high time she remembered who was the adult, and worked on the relationship. Act charming and friendly – win the girl over. Somehow. She remembered that narrowed-eye glare that Maisie seemed so quick to give her, that raised middle finger, the scorn that seemed to pulse from her whenever Jo voiced an opinion, and flinched inwardly at the prospect. But faint heart never won fair boyfriend’s daughter, or however the saying went. And Jo had never been one to shy away from a challenge.
Eve, unfortunately, hadn’t been much help when Jo had called to ask for advice. ‘What’s Grace into?’ she repeated. ‘Er . . . selfies; arguing with me; having a secret boyfriend apparently; stealing my perfume and tights.’
She’d sounded so uncharacteristically downbeat that Jo was taken aback. ‘Eve, is everything all right?’
‘Sorry. Yeah. Just feeling a bit . . . I don’t know. Like everything’s getting on top of me. You know?’
Jo did know, full well – but Eve was never usually one to admit to a vulnerability. ‘Can I help at all?’ she asked worriedly, but it was as if the admission had never happened, because then Eve was talking again, in her more usual, brisk way.
‘Let me think, though – well, they spend ages on their phones, gossiping, social media, pouting into the camera. Not that you probably want to go there, mind. There are certain series on Netflix they all watch avidly – I’ll text you a list; you could find out what she’s into and maybe watch something together? Oh, and anime. Lots of them are into that. Shopping. Hanging out in great packs around town. Also younger stuff too, when they’re not trying to be cool – pets, baking, books if you’re lucky. Sorry if that’s vague, there’s no real generic “thing”; it’s finding out what Maisie herself is really passionate about. Apart from being mean to you, obviously.’
‘Thanks,’ Jo said, trying to assimilate all of this. ‘And if I can ever help with anything in return—’
‘It’s fine, I’d better go. Give my love to Laura. And good luck!’
Good luck – well, she was going to need that, Jo thought now, letting herself into the apartment block and taking the lift up to Rick’s floor. You’re the adult, she reminded herself. She’s a sad, confused girl and she just needs some boundaries and friendship. Don’t let her see your fear.
‘Hi,’ she cried with deliberate cheer, pushing open the front door a few minutes later and walking into the flat.
‘It’s the most gorgeous woman in Manchester!’ cried Rick in reply, as he came out from the kitchen area to greet her. He always gave himself an early finish on Friday – perks of being the boss, he reckoned. ‘Hello.’
She smiled at him, feeling more confident already as they kissed and embraced, and she breathed in his lovely smell: ironed shirt and the last faint notes of aftershave. Maisie, meanwhile, was sprawled on the sofa, pretending to retch onto the carpet, but Jo chose to ignore that little display.
‘Hi, Maisie, good day at school?’ she called breezily. You will not defeat me with your fake sick noises.
‘Er . . . no,’ came the deadpan reply.
‘Oh dear. What’s up? Was there a drama?’ She pulled a box of cream cakes from her bag and set it on the breakfast bar with a flourish. ‘Ta-dah! Will a cake help?’
‘No, because I’m not pathetic enough to rely on comfort-eating as a crutch,’ Maisie said witheringly. ‘Also because Mum says they’re like a million calories and really bad for you?’ She then muttered something that might have been ‘Some nurse, you are’, but it was under her breath and not wholly distinguishable.
Ah – there was the first mention of Polly, in today’s round of Maisie-bingo: tick. Jo, however, was not going to be drawn in to comparisons or to beat herself up today. ‘Oh well, all the more for me and your dad,’ she said airily. ‘Isn’t that right, Rick?’
Rick was frowning at something on his phone. ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said distractedly, thus earning him a glower from his daughter. Ha, thought Jo with perhaps more triumph than was strictly necessary. ‘Listen, I’m just going to have a shower, then maybe the three of us could go out for dinner somewhere?’ he went on.
‘Lovely,’ said Jo, determinedly upbeat. ‘Cool.’
Maisie wrinkled her nose as Rick left the room ‘Cool,’ she mimicked. ‘Only old people say that.’
‘What do young people say, then?’ Jo asked conversationally, perching on one of the stools at the breakfast bar and spinning round to face her. ‘What are the in-phrases these days?’
Maisie gave a snort and didn’t respond.
‘So my friend’s daughter – Grace, she’s your age – she’s really into this new series on Netflix apparently,’ Jo burbled, trying and failing to remember any of the names Eve had told her. ‘And . . . er . . . animation.’
‘Animation?’ Maisie snorted again. ‘Do you mean anime?’ She started typing something into her phone. ‘Animation, oh my God. How lame.’
Jo felt as if her armour of friendliness had just taken a blow. What even was anime? Perhaps she should have done more research. She busied herself unpacking the rest of the groceries she’d bought – eggs and bacon for the morning fry-up that she was planning (everyone loved a fry-up, surely); popcorn and ice cream, just in case they got stuck into a film or TV programme together (now looking less likely, granted); oh, and baking ingredients too, in the vain hope that Maisie might deign to spend a bit of time with her in the kitchen. Jo wasn’t about to bet her life savings on it, but she had to keep trying.
‘So I was wondering,’ she began, casual and light, as if it had only just occurred to her, ‘maybe you and I could do stuff together this weekend – get to know each other a bit?’
‘Er . . . no?’
‘Maybe we could bake something, or watch a movie, or . . .’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Or . . . I don’t know, whatever you fancy. Don’t tell your dad, but I love a bit of trashy telly myself. All those modelling shows. Dieting shows. Really cheesy American sitcoms – how about you? What sort of thing are you into?’
Sneering, no doubt at Jo’s schlocky lowbrow taste, Maisie lifted one shoulder in a limp, can’t-be-bothered shrug and went back to her phone.
One last try, Jo told herself. ‘Because I was thinking, it would be really nice, while I’m staying here, if we could—’
‘Look, I said, no,’ Maisie snapped, getting to her feet. ‘I’m not interested, okay? I don’t give a shit what you think.’
Slam! went the bedroom door as she hurled herself inside, and Jo felt her spirits sink all the way down to the ground floor of the building. So that had gone about as badly as possible, she thought, grimacing.
She’s just a sad, confused girl, Laura recited again in her head, but the memory only made Jo roll her eyes in derision. Sad and confused – what, Maisie? Spoiled, rude and unpleasant were more fitting adjectives, where she was concerned.
Jo took a deep breath, tried to put the exchange behind her, and resisted the urge to pour herself a large glass of something alcoholic to knock back in a single gulp. If the last few minutes were anything to go by, this could turn out to be a very long weekend indeed.
The three of them went out to dinner in a bar down the road, a grungy place, with a high ceiling and old LP covers stuck all over the walls, big rustic oak benches and about twenty different craft ales, by the look of things. Rick knew the manager – he seemed to know everyone, Jo was discovering – so they were seated at one of the best tables, in the window, with a perfect view out onto the city’s Friday-night goings-on. Thankfully, Maisie had turned on the charm for her father’s benefit, dimpling and giggling at all his stories, even if she also did her best to keep steering the conversation round to old family jokes and memories that Jo was resolutely not a part of. Rise above, rise above, Jo told herself, smiling with gritted teeth, as Maisie came to the end of a very long reminiscence about a holiday they’d been on, which involv
ed a bikini-clad Polly getting swept out to sea before being rescued by Rick, the hero.
‘So how did your meeting go today?’ Jo asked, changing the subject as their starters arrived at the table and Maisie fell mercifully silent, for a change. ‘Was it that coffee guy you were seeing again?’ She always enjoyed hearing what Rick had to say about his work; it was so varied, for one thing, the clients he dealt with ranging from prestigious types like the Opera House or the Whitworth, to tiny new start-ups – cafés, retailers, specialist service providers, anyone who needed a PR refresh.
‘Yeah, Mr Gourmet Blend,’ Rick replied, tucking into the sharing plate of nachos. ‘We were talking over names for the company; he’s keen on “Beans”.’ He licked a blob of guacamole from his thumb then looked at them both expectantly. ‘Beans, with a picture of coffee beans underneath?’ He fiddled with his phone and brought up an image. ‘We’ve been through several rounds of designs, back and forth from the drawing board, and this is what we’ve come up with. What do you think?’
‘Um . . .’ Jo hesitated. To her eyes, the brown, oval-shaped coffee beans brought to mind something completely different at first glance, but Rick was looking so boyishly excited and pleased that she wasn’t sure how to break it to him.
‘We discussed having the name above the picture,’ Rick went on, swiping the screen to show her the image, ‘or in the middle . . .’ Another image.
Maisie was shrugging, uninterested. ‘Dad, aren’t there, like, a million coffee shops already in Manchester?’
‘Well, yeah, but they’re all doing good business,’ her dad replied. ‘Jo, what do you think?’
She pursed her lips. ‘Meet you at Beans. See you at Beans – I’m not loving it,’ she said, apologetically. ‘It just makes me think of Mr Bean, for one thing. Or baked beans.’
‘Hmm, good point,’ Rick said, scooping up more nachos.
‘Plus, if I’m honest, those coffee beans in your image look more like . . . turds,’ she added. ‘Sorry.’
