The Age of Misadventure

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Judy Leigh 2019

Cover design © Emma Rogers 2019

Cover [photograph/illustration] © Shutterstock

Judy Leigh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008269227

Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008269234

Version: 2019-01-29

Dedication

To Liam and Cait, always.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Judy Leigh

About the Publisher

Chapter One

I haven’t touched the black coffee I poured half an hour ago, or the scrambled eggs. I really don’t have a hangover after Demi’s wedding, although it was certainly a day to remember. The string quartet playing Vivaldi was hilarious, Adie raising a champagne glass, acting the distinguished father of the bride, while my sister Bonnie sobbed in the corner and drank too many cocktails. She left him two days before Demi’s wedding after finding lipstick smudges on his shirt collar again. I told her it would be a bad idea to go back to him, and she gave me the usual reply: ‘But he needs me, Georgie.’ So I dragged her on the dance floor to bop to Aerosmith and watched helpless while she threw up outside in the lush grounds of the spectacular Cheshire mansion. Of course, Adie, the brother-in-law from hell, sidled over and led her away, promising to look after her forever, and I was left by myself in the bar.

Then I was accosted by a man with a neatly clipped beard who tried to smooch with me to ‘Lay Lady Lay’, breathing down my ear like an asthmatic bloodhound. Not flattering, not even for a fifty-five-year-old woman who’s been single for almost six years and has hardly had a second look from a decent man in all that time. Not that I’m interested. I ditched the snorting bloodhound on the dance floor, strutted past Demi and Kyle, who were swaying together, their eyes locked, oblivious to the mayhem caused by her philandering father, and took a taxi all the way back home to Liverpool. It was a costly evening all round.

This morning, my head aches so badly because I’m worried about my daughter and my sister. It’s ten o’clock and Jade didn’t come home last night. She left the wedding straight after the church service, wrinkling her nose and telling me she was going to a proper party where there’d be young people, not ageing has-beens making fools of themselves. Jade’s often out until two in the morning but seldom all night, and she’s not answering my texts, which is unusual. Bonnie’s keeping quiet, too – no reply to my six messages over the last hour. I assume my sister has a hangover and is still asleep. I expect she’s gone home with Adie. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was stifled in their airless bedroom, lying pale in the four-poster with the curtains drawn while Adie hovers overhead, fangs at the ready, rubbing his hands together with glee.

Jade’s twenty-four: she knows she can do as she pleases but I’m becoming concerned. She often comes in late on a Saturday night after hours of non-stop clubbing, but not much gets in the way of her Sunday morning muesli and a 10-k run. Apart from the half-marathon she’s preparing for, she works as a personal trainer, so she knows the value of sleep and a good breakfast. I pour more coffee and breathe in roasted beans.

I’m in a soft dressing gown to my ankles and furry boot slippers. I look a mess. My hair’s sticking out, dried with hairspray and sweat from last night’s dancing. My skin feels slack, like it doesn’t fit the bones in my face. I do a reasonable impression of Marge Simpson, but it’s nothing I can’t fix with an hour in the gym, a shower and a bit of TLC. I check my phone again, and then push the half-eaten breakfast away from me. I wonder why I thought I wanted scrambled eggs. I smile to myself. It’s the same thing with men: appetising and desirable at first glance, then too hot, then too tepid and finally unpalatable. I pour more coffee and check my phone again. The screen is blank and I feel the same way.

I go down to the basement where the gym is: Jade’s Gym, where she brings clients for one-to-one fitness coaching. I close my eyes and remind myself that although I’ve lost Terry forever, the divorce gave me a four-storey semi-detached house with a huge mortgage, so that I can run my own business and Jade’s, too. My salon’s on the ground floor with a gravel parking space outside. The kitchen and lounge with the raised garden behind ageing French windows are on the first floor and there are three bedrooms at the top. Beauty Within was my choice of name, because it’s a beauty salon within my house: 5 Albert Drive. A lovely part of Liverpool: trendy and a little bohemian at the same time. Perfect for me. Jade and I revel in the fact that we don’t even have to open the front door to go to work, except to let in clients.

It hasn’t always been that way. After all the dives and sweatshops I’ve worked in since I was eighteen, painting nails and waxing legs all hours of the day and late into the evening, pacifying fretting clients and fussy bosses, I’m grateful to have my own business, even if it’s sometimes a struggle to make ends meet.

I spend ten minutes on the exercise bicycle and realise that I did drink too much last night. The wheels are spinning and so are the walls. I heave myself out of the saddle and crawl up three floors to my bedroom, shower, make myself presentable then check the time and the phone for messages. Nothing from Jade or Bonnie. It’s 11.30. I have to go out. I throw some things in a shopping bag, pull on a warm coat in dusky pink and some black boots and I’m off, striding across the park. I should make it for midday.

It’s glorious outside: a beautiful March morning, early spring, and the park is a flurry of flowers, purple crocuses and a blanket of bluebells. The sky is pale blue and little clouds float across like toy yachts. There are the usual Sunday dog walkers: a black-clad Goth woman with a white wolf on a lead; a couple with a brown mongrel, clearly too in love to notice the dog running in circles and lifting its leg against a tree. I push my hands deep into my pockets, feel the breeze whisk my hair and tickle my cheek, enjoying the satisfying crunch of gravel beneath my boots. I may be fifty-five and unloved, but I try to cut a stylish figure. It’s important to me as a beauty therapist to look as good as I can, even if no one’s interested. I keep my hair smart, a rich honey blonde, and my teeth are in good working order. I had a smile that could light up a room, once upon a time.

I turn into a row of terraces just five minutes’ walk from the park. These houses have a history. Once grand, later dishevelled, they now provide cheap accommodation and a good income for private landlords. I take out my key, ring the bell three times, which is my signal, and open the door.

Nan’s in her usual place, by the gas fire, wearing the same old baggy brown cardigan. Uncle Wilf’s. She has a dark green woolly hat on and tufts of white hair stick out around her face. She’s sparrow-like behind black-framed glasses, with huge watery eyes, baggy tights and fluffy slippers. There’s a mug of beer on the table next to her, and a half-empty bottle of Guinness. She struggles to get up, pushing her hands on the chair arms to stand as tall as she can, and despite my protests, she heaves herself upright – five-feet tall now – to give me a hug. I pull her to me and her bones are as light as a chicken’s. She smells of Pears soap, beer and something musty like riverbeds.

‘How are you, Nanny?’ I say.

‘Did you remember to order next week’s groceries on the line? Did you bring the extra Guinness? I’m getting a bit low.’

I start to empty the bag: beer, biscuits, cake, fruit, chocolate. She grabs my hand. Hers is thin-skinned – purple veins and brown blotches.

‘Oh, you’re my good girl, Georgina.’

‘Cup of tea, Nan?’

‘A Guinness’d be better, love.’

‘You drink too much, Nan.’

‘So the doctor says. But it keeps me company. Besides, Guinness is good for you. They say so on the telly.’

I bustle about and notice the photos on her mantelpiece either side of the loud clock need dusting. Taking a tissue from the box beside her chair, I pick each one up carefully and wipe the glass. There’s a black-and-white photo, all smiles: Nanny and her husband, Wilf Basham, who was my mum’s elder brother. She’s my aunt but everyone calls her nan, never Aunty Anne or even Aunty Nan any more. A few years older than my mum would’ve been, she’s eighty-eight, but made of stronger stuff than either her husband, who died five years ago, or my poor mother, who never made it close to sixty. There are two photos of her wedding in a time when fashions were puffy dresses with petticoats under ballooning skirts. Uncle Wilf has the slicked-back hair of a Teddy boy and a long jacket, his face as serious as an undertaker’s.

I pick up another photo of Nan with my mum, Josie, my dad, Kenny and Wilf. Mum’s dark-haired, like Bonnie, although Mum’s is cut short and backcombed, 1960s style; Dad is fair like me, same straight nose and a too-wide grin. They’re laughing, enjoying the caravan holiday Nan is always reminiscing about in North Wales, smiles stuck to their faces as if it were their happiest moment.

I turn back to Nanny Basham. She has froth on her upper lip and is grinning at her Guinness, her eyes shining like a naughty child’s behind thick-lensed glasses.

‘Your shopping will be here tomorrow first thing, Nan. The supermarket man will bring it in for you but you’ll have to put the frozen stuff in the big freezer immediately. And sort out the fridge stuff. I’ll put everything else away on Tuesday. And I brought you a Sunday dinner, the ones in the box with the Yorkshires. You like those, don’t you? Shall I put it in the oven now?’

She nods and slurps again. ‘Put the telly on, Georgina, will you, love? There’s a football game on in a bit. My Wilf always loved to watch the Reds on a Sunday afternoon. I like to see all those lads running about in their little shorts with their skinny legs.’

She settles in her chair and I set to making her lunch. The screen rattles in the background and Nan giggles, poised like a queen, waving the remote like a sceptre.

An hour passes quickly, plates clanging and Nan sucking gravy and demanding another Guinness. I glance at the phone screen as I clear away her lunch and wipe up the dishes. There’s still nothing from my sister or my daughter. Nanny’s performing one of her monologues in the next room, reminiscing, leaving me a split second to answer after each rant. She’s still in the armchair, in front of the television, a steaming cup of tea in her hands, warming her fingers.

‘Your mother wouldn’t have liked it, Georgina. I mean, Josie’s not here to see it but, God bless her, she’d have spoken her mind, that’s for sure.’

‘I know, Nan—’

‘In our day, we thought marriage was for life.’

‘Like a sentence for murder?’ I shout from the little kitchen. She doesn’t hear.

‘All this chopping and changing partners. Like a bloody barn dance. At least Bonnie’s stuck with her man.’

I mutter, ‘He’s sticking his arms round other women. She’s stuck it for over twenty-five years. It’s time they became unstuck, Nan.’ Again, she doesn’t hear.

‘Mind you, I don’t like that Adie Carrick. I liked Terry Wood, though. He was a nice lad. Your Jade’s just like him, you know.’

I’d been fond of him, too. I breathe out and glance at my phone again. ‘Unreliable, you mean?’ No texts, no messages.

I dry my hands and go back to the lounge. She’s calling to me, her eyes on the television.

‘Good-looking, both of them, father and daughter. Fit, well made. She’s the image of him. Same violet eyes. You should have hung on to him, Georgina.’

I sit down and shrug. ‘He took off with another woman, Nan. Remember? Alison with the little rabbity face. Seriously, she even dresses like Jessica Rabbit. Tight outfits, silly posh voice. She thinks she’s sex on legs. He thinks so, too.’

‘Where did he move to?’

‘Ealing. Where the comedies come from.’

I’m looking at the back of her head. She’s still staring at the television.

‘He has a little lad now?’ she asks.

‘You know he does. He must be four years old or thereabouts.’

She turns to me and frowns.

‘He’s called Arran. Like the sweater.’

She nods and drains her tea, puts the cup back on the table and inspects the empty Guinness glass.

‘You’ll come over on Tuesday then, Georgina?’

‘Like always, Nan. I’ll bring you a few extra things.’

‘I’d like some of those double-chocolate biscuits with the white bits in them.’

‘All right, Nan.’

‘And …’ She raises the empty bottle.

‘All right, Nan.’

‘It’s the second half now. We’re playing the blue ones and they’re losing by a goal. The ones in blue are from London. There’s a nice little one though, very cute. Dark hair in a knot on top of his head. He’s about to hit the bar. Watch a minute.’

I lean on her chair and stare at the screen. After some nifty footwork, an earnest-looking little man in a blue jersey with his hair pulled back from his face cracks a shot against the post. The ball slams hard and the wood snaps like it might split. The little footballer puts his hands to his head and gazes up at the sky.

‘How did you know that was about to happen?’

She grins, her lips wet with the last of the Guinness. ‘It’s yesterday’s game. It’s a repeat. They’re showing it again. Cheap telly. You off now?’

‘Yes, Nan.’

‘I’ll see you on Tuesday, will I, Georgina? Let yourself out.’

‘Righto, Nan.’ I turn to go and she fumbles with the empty glass.

‘One more of these?’

‘You’ve had two.’

‘Another one makes three. I can still count. I’m not drunk yet, am I? Or demented.’

I shrug and go to the kitchen, wave an opener at the serrated lid and bring in a fresh bottle. I kiss the top of her woollen hat.

‘You warm enough, Nan?’

‘Just about. The heating’s expensive so I keep it on low.’ She glances up and her eyes narrow, crafty as a fox’s ‘You don’t want to worry about me, Georgina. I’m all right.’ She stares right into my eyes. ‘I’m not the only one who’s lonely, misses a bit of company.’

I shrug on the pink woollen coat, pull my boots on. ‘I’m not lonely.’

‘Get away with you,’ she chuckles. ‘I can smell it on you. You think you’re independent. But you’re getting older and you have nobody to care about you. Jade’ll be off soon enough, you mark my words. And you’ll be all by yourself, watching telly by yourself every night, cold and thinking about the past and all the opportunities you missed, with no one to talk to. You know, Georgina, what you really need is a bloody good—’

‘I’m off now. See you on Tuesday, Nan. Enjoy the football.’

‘It’s getting interesting now. The little dark-haired one is mustard. He’s got the ball again. He’s running with it. He’s a little whirlwind. He’s going to shoot. He gets a goal in a minute. We draw with them, two-all in the end.’

‘Bye, Nanny.’

I close the door behind me with a snap, put the key in my pocket and smile to myself. It’s the same every Sunday – Nan grumbling about the food and her aches and pains – and Tuesdays and Fridays aren’t much better. But she’s part of my routine and I’m used to it. I suppose I even like it. Nan’s one of those strong women, full of determination and sharp of tongue, although she’s becoming frail now. I head towards the park and check my phone but no one’s called or messaged. It’s ten past three. Nanny didn’t say thanks for lunch. But then, she never does.

Chapter Two

As I walk through the park, the sound of a police car siren drifts from the road. I shiver and automatically check my phone. Still no messages – I’m worried. My heart’s started to squeeze itself tight like a soft rubber ball in my chest. I give in: I press buttons with my thumb to dial. After a few seconds, Jade’s voice is loud in my ear. ‘What is it, Mum?’ I wonder why I didn’t phone her before. Of course, I know why. I don’t want another Jade tirade, accusing me of being the embarrassing smothering mother. I hear a sharp intake of breath at the other end.

She says, ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I was just wondering where you are—’

She puffs out air. Her way of telling me I’m exasperating; my maternal concern has annoyed her. ‘I’m with friends. But last night I—’

‘Last night you what?’

‘Never mind, Mum. I’ll be home later.’ There’s a pause; I’m waiting for her to tell me more. ‘Is there anything the matter?’

‘No, Jade. I just wanted to make sure you …’ I’ve already said too much.

‘Fine, I’ll see you later, okay?’

The phone clicks before I have time to reply. I’m pleased she’s all right but there’s the sinking feeling that I’ve interfered where I shouldn’t. I play back the call in my head. She’s told me nothing, except that she’s not happy that I’ve phoned and that something may have happened last night. At least I know she’s all right. I try to infer something from her words: where she was, who she might have been with, and there are no answers. Just my imagination overloading me with worrying images: Jade drinking too much; in clubs with the wrong sort of people; the wrong sort of men; the wrong man. I remind myself she’s streetwise; she’s at a friend’s, staying over, celebrating or sleeping it off. But something wriggles, niggles: mother’s instinct, perhaps, or just plain worry. I put my phone back in my pocket and try to put my fears away with it. They stay in my mind, buzzing like flies on a hot day.

I pick up my pace. I’m not far from home and, in my mind, I already have the kettle on. Maybe I’ll cook something nice for Jade, for when she comes in. I’ve decided some nourishing soup will do her good after being out on the town all night. In our house, food has always been part of the family culture: something to share, to nourish, to make with love for those we care about. My grandmother’s recipe for Scouse was passed down to my mum and to Nan. There wasn’t much money in our house, but my parents would offer a good meal to anyone who came to the door. We’d all sit round the table, chattering and laughing, and I try to keep the tradition: the family who eats together stays together. Of course, that’s no longer true in my case with Terry gone, but I try to make sure everyone who sits at my table shares food and drink and feels welcome.

As I approach my house, I walk under a hazel tree. Little golden catkins are beginning to form. I turn into the drive, my boots crunching on gravel. My car’s parked outside and it’s comforting to see the sturdy profile, the 2010 black BMW X5. It was an extravagant buy but it always felt safer to be driving alone inside something solid and strong. Like driving inside Iron Man’s suit, protected and smart at the same time. A car with status for a woman with status, I told the handsome young assistant at the garage when I bought it second-hand five years ago. Having an ex who works in computers has had its uses although, in truth, once I’d paid the deposit on the house, there was nothing left of the divorce settlement. I struggle to make ends meet each month, but there’s always just enough to pay my assistant Amanda and Jade, to meet the mortgage and to put food on the table. I manage: I’m in control of my destiny, that’s what’s most important. On my own, living off my wits. Which is good, of course – I’m independent and I’m never short of wit.

There’s something on the front doorstep, a package. As I approach, I notice it’s a bouquet of flowers: roses – red, white and pink – perfect blooms, expensively arranged. I pick them up in both arms like an old-fashioned prima ballerina and bring them to my nose. They have a light, sweet fragrance and I smile. I consider doing a low curtsey but decide against it in the heeled boots.

There’s a card, thick and embossed in gold. I pull it out and stare at the words: Thank you for looking after my Bonnie last night. Adie. I push the flowers away as if they’ve started to stink. In a way, they have. I hold them by the stalks, petals hanging down, heavy as a dead rabbit, open the door and march inside. I throw them in the sink and take out my phone. It rings for a while; Bonnie doesn’t answer. I wonder if he’s tied her up, gagged her. I make myself a cup of tea.

The steaming liquid comforts me. I think back and the images come quickly, remembering when Bonnie first brought Adie home and he was so well mannered and courteous. She’d been gullible with men before Adie, gravitated towards the overconfident type, had her heart broken a few times but moved on quickly enough with encouragement from me.

Adie was different, cunning: he saw Bonnie as a trusting, good-natured clip-on status symbol. I disliked him the first time I saw him and my views never changed. She was shy with him, but I could tell she was smitten, her heart lost in a moment. And Adie was cardboard-stiff in his best suit, like he’d just stepped down from the witness box, straight-faced and slimy, taking a slice of cake and murmuring, ‘You make the best gateau in Liverpool, Mrs Turner.’ Bonnie had giggled into her hand and turned shining eyes on him, as if he were a saint.