by Jo Verity
Jordan and Layla were talking. Their murmured conversation, smattered with laughter and half-finished sentences, did not include her. She was invisible to them, as forty-nine-year-old women are to most teenagers. She selected the button ‘3’ on the radio, enjoying the tremor of disapproval as Tchaikovsky joined them in the car.
Layla and Jordan. Kids these days had such ridiculous names. The girl had explained that she was Layla ‘after the song’ but who might Jordan be named after?
As far as her own name went, Elizabeth felt short-changed. She’d been named after the queen. Three queens in fact – ‘Elizabeth Mary Victoria’. Her parents had evidently been obsessed by royalty but she wished they’d been more adventurous. Why not Boadicea or Cleopatra or Guinevere? She’d read an article in the Sunday Times magazine about a Byzantine empress called Theodora. It was improbable that someone called ‘Theodora Guinevere’ would end up as a school secretary, albeit in what Jordan had so accurately described as a ‘posh’ school. When her sister came along, a few years later, her parents had switched from royalty to botany, christening their new daughter ‘Rosemary Violet Iris’. Rosie worked in the bank, lending weight to Elizabeth’s (shaky) theory that ‘safe’ names led to safe lives.
On they sped, past the junction with the M5 where a considerable proportion of the traffic peeled off, heading south for Devon and Cornwall. A blue sign flashed past. NEWPORT 19. CARDIFF 32. SWANSEA 73. She sighed. Another half hour. Her lower back was aching and, straightening her spine and flexing her shoulders, she sat as tall as she could, bracing her arms on the wheel and pushing herself back into the seat.
What was she doing thirty-two miles from Cardiff? Why on earth was she hurtling down the M4 with a boy she scarcely knew and a hitchhiker, for heaven’s sake? When it looked as if she’d have to cancel the trip, seeing Diane had seemed the most desirable thing in the world. But, as she’d confessed to Maggie, visiting Diane could be a challenging business and suddenly she could think of nothing nicer than being at home with a pot of coffee and a good book. And Jordan manacled to the railings for safekeeping.
Barely six weeks after meeting at art school, Diane had married fellow student, Paul Raines. Paul was handsome. Black haired, blue eyed, he might have been Tom Cruise’s older brother, had Tom Cruise ‘existed’ in nineteen eighty-one. The wedding had been a wild, arty affair. Everyone dressed in white and the wedding breakfast consisted of strawberries, bars of milk chocolate and mugs of cider. They’d danced themselves to a standstill. If Elizabeth had harboured doubts, seeing Diane and Paul together on that day and feeling the magnetism that bound them, dispelled those doubts. They’d seemed destined to be together forever and ever.
They were twenty when they married and twenty-one when Paul died of a brain haemorrhage on his way to the chip shop.
After that, Diane had gone to pieces. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Nothing that she hadn’t dabbled with before, but now on a destructive scale, as if she had to punish herself for being alive when Paul Raines wasn’t. Elizabeth – a student, living in another city, caught up in her own affairs – had done what she could to be supportive. But it wasn’t enough. One day the hospital had contacted her to say that Diane had overdosed on sleeping pills. It was touch and go for a while and that’s when, sitting at Diane’s bedside, she’d made a promise to Diane (and herself) that if ever Di needed her, she would come – no questions asked.
Diane had wanted her to come to Cardiff this week. That’s why she was hurtling down the motorway.
The road crested a hill and seemed to break free of its confines, the landscape broadening out into a gigantic patchwork of greens and yellows sweeping down to the Severn. The day was clear and two bridges were visible, one ahead and one off to the right, both spanning the estuary. Beyond lay a ridge of hills, topped with a skein of clouds. Three lanes of traffic careered down the incline and she felt her seat being pulled backwards as Jordan hauled himself towards her.
‘You’re way over the speed limit,’ his voice came from behind the headrest.
She glanced at the luminous figures displayed on the dashboard. Ninety-two mph.
‘Don’t you like going fast?’ she asked, at the same time braking to seventy.
‘The faster you go, the more carbon you emit,’ he said.
They reached the bridge that climbed up and over the Severn, the river’s swirling, muddy waters visible through gaps in the rails that formed the sides of the massive structure.
‘Crow-esso yuh jim-ruh or however you say it.’ Jordan attempted to read the words on the white sign at the side of the road. ‘Welcome to Wales.’
Layla laughed. ‘It’s pronounced,’ she cleared her throat and declaimed, ‘Croeso I Gymru.’
‘You Welsh?’ Jordan asked.
‘Sort of,’ Layla said.
‘Cool.’
Hypocrite.
It was only as they joined the queues at the toll booths on the far side that she remembered Carl’s parting words that morning. ‘You’ll need cash for the Severn Bridge. Five pounds fifty.’
Elizabeth had cash – plenty of cash – but it was in her handbag which, on leaving the service station, she’d locked safely in the boot of the car.
She turned to Layla. ‘You wouldn’t have any money by any chance?’
The girl rooted in her bag and held out a jumble of small coins, sweet wrappers and fluff. ‘I’ve only got … one pound seventeen pence. Sorry.’
The cars crawled forwards towards the pay booths. She would have to get out and retrieve her bag from the boot but would it be best to do it now, whilst she was several vehicles away from the kiosk, or when it was her turn at the window? Either way it was a very public proof of stupidity.
A hand tapped her shoulder and Jordan passed her a tightly folded ten-pound note.
‘Thanks,’ was all she could find to say.
‘That’ll make it twenty-five quid you owe me.’
Layla laughed. ‘Wow. That’s a pretty steep interest rate.’
Elizabeth handed the note to the attendant and dropped the handful of change into the tray between the front seats. The barrier arm lifted and she drove through.
Elizabeth consulted the sat-nav. ‘We turn off at the next junction. Where shall we drop you, Layla?’
Up until this point, Elizabeth had avoided showing any interest in her unwanted passenger. Knowing nothing about the girl minimised her existence and compensated, in a small way, for her own spinelessness in allowing Jordan to dupe her into this.
‘Oh, anywhere’ll do.’
‘Where are you heading?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I’ll stay in Cardiff. I’ve got friends at the uni. They’ve all got part-time jobs here so they’re sure to be around.’
As instructed they took the second exit off the huge roundabout and were deposited immediately into a leafy suburban street. Elizabeth pulled into a lay-by next to a bus stop. ‘Will this do?’
‘Great.’
They all got out of the car. Elizabeth opened the boot and Layla hauled out her rucksack. Jordan took a phone from the pocket of his baggy jeans, flicked it open and held it out towards Layla.
She laughed, raising her hand as if to stop him but he had already taken the picture. ‘You horrible boy. Why d’you want a photo of me?’
‘I’m keeping a record of the week. Show my mum.’ He fished out a pen, pulling the cap off with his teeth, offering the pen and his other hand to the girl. ‘Gimme your number. I’ll text you.’
She took the pen and scrawled a string of numbers across the back of his hand. ‘I wish you were a few years older, Jay.’
Jordan blushed and dipped his head.
‘Well … safe journey,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Thanks again for the lift.’
They got back in the car, Jordan in the seat next to her this time. Glancing in the rear-view mirror she saw the girl waving and crossing to the opposite side of the road.
6
SUNDAY: 4.05PM
; ‘The traffic, it was okay?’
Carl hoisted their bags out of the boot and carried them to the front door. His English was perfect yet there was something charmingly Germanic – he was German, after all – in his delivery.
‘Busy, but no hold-ups thank goodness,’ she said.
Diane grabbed Elizabeth in a hug. ‘I’m so relieved you came,’ she whispered.
Relieved? – A dramatic word to choose. But her friend enjoyed a touch of drama.
Diane was petite, vivacious and incorrigible. Carl referred to her as his ‘little imp of mischief’. Her rough-cut hair, currently reddish-orange, stuck out in gravity-defying spikes. Her ears glistened with tiny silver piercings. She wore skin-tight jeans and a skimpy orange T-shirt. It was obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra but, with a thirty-four A chest – ‘I can’t justify calling it a bust’ – there was nothing needing support. Like Elizabeth, she was approaching fifty, an age at which women were expected to buy their clothes from M&S, to know what not to wear and to start fading to grey. No one had mentioned any of this to Diane.
Jordan was lurking halfway up the path, clutching his rucksack to his chest, like a novice Kleeneze salesman screwing up the courage to knock his first door.
Elizabeth signalled for him to join them. ‘Diane, Carl, this is Jordan.’
Diane smiled her welcome. ‘Hi, Jordan.’
‘Delighted to meet you,’ Carl boomed.
Jordan shook Carl’s extended hand, ‘Oh. Yeah. Thanks.’ He stared sheepishly at the floor, clearly petrified that he might be expected to engage in conversation.
Diane treated Elizabeth to her ‘bless him’ face – frowning, smiling and pouting her lips in quick succession – an expression generally reserved for kittens and small children. ‘Dump your things upstairs and then we’ll eat. Carl will show you who’s to go where.’
Elizabeth followed Carl up the stairs, marvelling at how nimble he was for such a giant of a man.
A couple of years ago, Diane had phoned her. ‘I’ve met this man. He’s a big, ugly German and he’s crazy about me.’ The first time Elizabeth met Carl she had been charmed by his kindness and enthusiasm. He obviously adored Diane. ‘What d’you think?’ Diane had asked and Elizabeth had felt compelled to say ‘He’s lovely but …’ Diane was quick to latch on to her unspoken reservation. ‘You’re right. He’s definitely not sex on legs. But I’ve been there, done that – far too often. Maybe it’s time I grew up.’
‘Liz, you will be in here. Here is the bathroom and,’ Carl pointed to a third door, ‘Jordan, you are there.’
‘Cheers.’ Jordan disappeared into his allocated room.
‘I am so glad that you have come,’ Carl said quietly. His serious gaze conveyed more than his words but, whatever was bothering him, he knew that this wasn’t the moment to discuss it.
‘You may change your mind by the end of the week,’ she said, nodding towards Jordan’s door.
Manoeuvring her bags into her room, she closed the door and turned to inspect her temporary home. Oh, God. She jumped, perspiration erupting in the small of her back, blood rushing to her cheeks. Oh, God. Someone was standing in the corner of the room, half-hidden by the curtain, their face concealed in some kind of hood.
The ‘intruder’ was a shop-window mannequin, her naked torso plastered with lipstick kisses and greasy fingerprints, her head shrouded in a pair of Y-fronts. A band of striped Police Crime Scene tape girdled her pubic region. Sinking onto the double bed, puffing out her cheeks, Elizabeth released the breath she had been holding. She laughed. Diane wasn’t one for Laura Ashley wallpaper and pot-pourri but, as décor went, this was excessive.
While she waited for her heartbeat to slow to normal, she studied the rest of the room. A huge painting, a matrix of irregular triangles in oranges, blues and pinks – one of Di’s, she assumed – extended across one wall. Industrial-style shelving crammed with books and knick-knacks – animal skulls, stones, driftwood, large shells, and peacock feathers in an orange vase – lined the wall facing the bed. The bed was covered with a fuchsia pink throw and dotted with red cushions. On the bedside table stood a silver anglepoise lamp, a bottle of mineral water, a bag of liquorice allsorts, a portable radio and a tattered copy of Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. This mish-mash of unrelated objects sparked recollections of the Pitt-Rivers museum in Oxford, always a popular destination for a school visit. But it was brighter, brasher and, as far as she could see, contained no shrunken heads or voodoo dolls.
She flopped back on the bed, a headache suddenly starting up behind her eyes. It would be wonderful to sleep for a couple of hours. Up until now, the day’s schedule had been predetermined. Get up. Persuade Jordan to come to Wales. Lock up the house. Get in the car and drive. There had been a couple of tricky moments – the issue of Jordan’s remuneration and the unwanted hitchhiker – and the driving had been more wearing than she’d anticipated. But where would her week go from here on? Were Jordan five, she could sit him down with a box of crayons and a colouring book, or cart him off to a swing park. But how was she going to amuse a morose fifteen year old and, more to the point, keep him out of trouble when he was a hundred and fifty miles away from his home turf?
When her sons were his age they’d demanded not much more than feeding and regular handouts of cash. In the school holidays, feeling guilty that she wasn’t giving them enough of her time, she’d dragged them off to the Science and Natural History Museums. After they’d pressed a few buttons and ogled a few girls, they couldn’t wait to find the café and consume alarming amounts of sugary snacks before moaning: ‘Can we go home now, Mum?’
She took a few deep breaths and, easing off her sandals, turned on to her front. Why had she thought that coming to Cardiff was a good idea? Jordan and she had muddled through last night and had been starting to get the measure of each other. Now they must begin all over again, formulating new rules of engagement and dragging a couple of innocent bystanders into the preposterous situation. Jordan would have been easier to ‘mind’ in London. He could have skulked around in Alex’s room for the whole week if he’d wanted to. If Alex didn’t like the idea of someone invading what he still seemed to think of as his territory – well, that was tough. He should have moved his stuff out years ago. She and Laurence hadn’t appreciated what a stroke of luck it was when Ben went through his Buddhist period and distributed his worldly goods – and, it must be said, some of theirs – to the poor and needy of West London. And she’d really have to watch this ‘Alex’s room’ business. She’d heard too many of her friends referring to ‘Luke’s room’ or ‘Sarah’s room’ years after Luke and Sarah had set up homes of their own. It wasn’t good for twenty-somethings to keep a foot in two camps – it made it too easy for them to run away from commitment.
She heard the bolt go across on the bathroom door and pictured Jordan peeing bravely into the ‘foreign’ lavatory. This wasn’t his fault. She’d dragged the poor kid halfway across the country and shoved him into a stranger’s box room. But maybe he didn’t mind. Maybe he was used to it. His whole life might have been spent like this – passed from one person to the next like an unwanted Christmas gift. He didn’t help himself though, did he? If he’d show some vulnerability it might be easier to take to him but he was so damned cocksure, a bit too … savvy. (She had to admit that his demand for wages had been quite imaginative.) She hadn’t yet tackled him about Layla. As it transpired, the girl had been harmless but she would have to make it clear to him that there would be no more lift-giving.
It had been her intention to keep their trip to Wales to herself for a while. She liked to imagine Alex panicking when he rang home and repeatedly got the answering machine. Serve them right for ruining her week. But, as she sat on the bed feeling more than a little smug, Laurence’s reasonable voice came whispering across the miles. Musn’t be petty, darling. They do have a right to know where the boy is. He was always so bloody even-handed, always so fair.
She took out her phon
e. ‘Alex. It’s your mother. Again. I’ve brought Jordan down to Cardiff. I’m not particularly happy with the situation. Actually I’m pissed off but … anyway, we’re with Di and Carl. Probably until next weekend. I’m surprised you haven’t called. Even if your mobile won’t work, there must be payphones up there.’
‘Dinner’s ready,’ Diane’s voice floated up the stairs.
She popped two paracetamol tablets from the foil strip in her toilet bag and dropped them on her tongue, washing them down with a swig of water from the bedside bottle. In the bathroom, she cleaned her teeth, splashed cool water on her face and combed her hair.
Tapping on Jordan’s door, she called ‘See you downstairs’.
Diane had gone through with her promise of a ‘proper Sunday dinner’. This surprised Elizabeth because her friend usually aspired to nothing more ambitious than pasta accompanied by sauce from a jar. Diane blamed her lack of interest in food and lack of skill in cooking on her mother who had kept the Shapcott family alive on a diet of chips, sausage rolls, jam sandwiches and milky tea. But today Diane (or was it Carl?) had made a real effort. The kitchen table was covered with a dark green cloth and there were four matching place settings. A bottle of red wine, a jug of orange juice and another of iced water stood in the centre of the table. The whole thing went hearteningly awry when it came to the salt and pepper containers – a pair of ceramic dogs in the act of copulation.
Elizabeth pointed at them and grimaced. ‘Tasteful.’
‘I thought it as well to show Jordan that we’re not a couple of narrow-minded old biddies. Set the tone for the week. Start as we mean to go on.’
‘Dog breeding or copulating?’
‘Let’s not rule anything out.’
Amongst the steamy flurry of vegetable straining and meat carving, Jordan edged into the kitchen, lingering near the door like a customer waiting to be seated in a restaurant. There was no sign of the earphones or the hat and Elizabeth felt a surge of optimism.
