Not Funny Not Clever E-Book

Jo Verity

• Herausgeber: Honno Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Two middle-aged women, one handsome tv star, and three hormonal teenagers- all stuck in the middle of a heatwave and with nothing planned. Elizabeth was hoping for a week of idle chatter and cold white wine. But a week can be a flash in the pan or a lifetime, depending on how you look at it...

Leseprobe

Praise for Jo Verity’s novels

“A ripping yarn… pitch perfect evocation of childhood and sibling relationships.” Marcel Theroux, Daily Telegraph

“An exceptionally well-written book… a cracking good read.” dovegreyreader.co.uk

“A richly detailed and absorbing narrative journey in the company of two completely believable – and believably complicated – characters.” Andrew Cowan

“A wonderfully wise portrayal of intriguingly troubled lives.” Suzannah Dunn

“A vivid portrayal of a family scarred by loss.” Louise Wener

“Verity’s fiction is intelligent, well-observed, and immensely readable.” Catherine Merriman

“Sweets from Morocco is a highly readable and sophisticated example of storytelling.” Louise Walsh

NOT FUNNY – NOT CLEVER

by Jo Verity

HONNO MODERN FICTION

For Lucy and Hannah

Contents

PraiseTitle PageDedicationAcknowledgements1: SATURDAY: 9.55AM2: SATURDAY: 5.50PM3: SATURDAY: 7.05PM4: SUNDAY: 2.30AM5: SUNDAY: 1.45PM6: SUNDAY: 4.05PM7: SUNDAY: 5PM8: MONDAY: 9.30AM9: MONDAY: 1.35PM10: MONDAY: 6.55PM11: TUESDAY: 1.40AM12: TUESDAY: 3.05AM13: TUESDAY: 1.10PM14: TUESDAY: 7.50PM15: WEDNESDAY: 9.40AM16: WEDNESDAY: 1.15PM17: WEDNESDAY: 5.50PM18: THURSDAY: 12.27AM19: THURSDAY: 4.00AM20: THURSDAY: 10.35AM21: THURSDAY: 2.20PM22: THURSDAY: 4.25PM23: THURSDAY: 9.50PM24: FRIDAY: 6.45AM25: FRIDAY: 11.30AM26: FRIDAY: 2.40PM27: FRIDAY: 7.05PM28: FRIDAY: 8.35PM29: SATURDAY: 7.05AM30: SATURDAY: 10.15AM31: SATURDAY: 3.20PM32: SUNDAY: 9.30AMAdvertisementAbout the AuthorAlso by Jo Verity and available from HonnoCopyright

Acknowledgements

My thanks go to the Welsh Books Council and to Honno for their continuing support. Special thanks to my awesome editor, Caroline Oakley, for her sensitive yet determined efforts to make this a better book. Most importantly, thanks to Jim, my wise, patient sounding-board.

Apology

In writing Not Funny – Not Clever I may have tinkered with the topography of Llangennith and the Gower peninsula. I hope those of you who know and love the area will forgive me.

1

SATURDAY: 9.55AM

Elizabeth began piling things on the bed.

Trousers. Short-sleeved shirts. A thin sweater. Toiletries. A couple of novels. (She and Diane had plenty of catching up to do but Di could sometimes be demanding and she might be glad to tune out for an hour or two.)

Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wardrobe door, she paused to take stock. Whenever she looked in a mirror she was vaguely disappointed by what she saw. When she was six, she’d studied her reflection every morning, hoping that today was the day when Pippi Longstocking would be grinning back at her. But it was always the same gap-toothed girl with straight brown hair; the sort of girl who stood on the periphery of a group, tending to be overlooked when teams were chosen or hands went up to answer a question. As that girl grew up she’d continued peering into mirrors, on the off-chance that Scarlett O’Hara or Elizabeth Bennett or Annie Lennox might greet her. With her fiftieth birthday looming, she’d almost abandoned hope. She was taller than average, big-boned but not

overweight. Her mid-brown hair, cut in a geometric bob – she’d worn it like that since her college days – showed barely a trace of grey. Her face had a generic quality. She knew this to be the case because at least once a week she was mistaken for someone else. Whenever she was on the Tube, she scrutinised the faces of her fellow travellers, wondering whether this might be the day when she encountered herself in the seat opposite. In repose, she looked solemn. (Laurence – probably to boost her morale – said that her face reminded him of an El Greco saint.) When she wasn’t thinking about anything at all, people often asked what was troubling her. She wished she had a fiver for every time she’d heard, ‘Cheer up. It might never happen’. Once, when she was seeking advice on a shade of lipstick, the girl on the Estée Lauder counter had announced cheerfully, ‘I’ve worked out what’s wrong with your face. Your eyes droop down at the corners. Your mouth does too. And actually – don’t take this the wrong way – your nose is a bit … masculine.’ Making sure the girl was watching, she’d bought a preposterously expensive lipstick from the Christian Dior stand nearby.

During the course of the morning, the piles multiplied, spreading across the bedspread like molehills on a perfect lawn. In case Carl had organised tickets for a concert, she dug out a silk shirt, strappy sandals and the pretty beaded bag that Laurence bought her in Italy last year. In case she and Di spent a girlie evening at home, she added a large bar of dark chocolate and a couple of DVDs that she hadn’t got around to watching. What about a swimming costume? She’d only increased one dress size in the twenty-eight years since she was a bride, nevertheless there were bits of her that she wasn’t keen on exposing, even to her closest friends. She left her swimming costume in the drawer.

The phone rang. It was Diane.

‘You are coming, aren’t you?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I’m packing now. What do I need to bring? I’m sure to forget something vital.’

‘Cross-country skis? A thing for getting stones out of horses hooves? A turkey baster?’

Elizabeth smiled, gazing at the bed. ‘Yep. Got ’em all. And a fondue set.’

‘I can’t wait to see you. Carl has some teaching to do. And a few rehearsals. So we’ll have plenty of time to have a proper chat. It’s never the same on the phone.’

‘Everything’s okay, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Of course. But… you know. And, in honour of your visit, I’ve bought a piece of beef. I shall cook a pukka Sunday dinner. Gravy. Yorkshires. The works. You wouldn’t be getting that if Laurence were coming with you.’

Elizabeth laughed. ‘Why on earth not?’

‘To begin with it would have to be ‘Sunday lunch’ – which isn’t the same thing at all. Now he’s come over all cordon bleu, I’d be scared to present him with anything as prosaic as meat and two veg.’

‘I suspect that you’re not alone. We rarely get invited to dinner parties these days. And when people come here for a meal, Laurence spends the whole evening in the kitchen reducing his jus or fiddling with his flambé.’

Diane adopted an American drawl. ‘Whatever floats your boat.’

They said their farewells and Elizabeth embarked on the next phase of her packing.

She was a ‘roller’ not a ‘folder’ and, rolling the items of clothing into tight sausages, she placed them side by side on the bed. This reduced the volume dramatically. She’d remarked on this phenomenon to Laurence and he’d smiled indulgently before going on to explain, with great patience, that the laws of physics made this impossible. ‘Well it looks less to me,’ she’d countered, leaving the room before he could go in to incomprehensible detail.

When the boys were small, packing had been a real palaver. After days of washing and ironing, she would gather together enough T-shirts, sweaters and shorts to see them through the holiday, only to turn around two minutes later and catch her sons bouncing on the bed, screeching with excitement – two chubby yo-yos, clad in layer upon layer of clean clothes. At the time it had exasperated her but now she saw that it had been as much a part of the holiday as the first glimpse of the sea. And it certainly hadn’t done any harm to the clothes which were soon to be squashed into a trunk and carted off to Cornwall, or West Wales, to be drenched with sea spray and dribbled with ice cream.

Through the party wall the low moan of a vacuum cleaner was punctuated by sporadic clunks. She pictured Maggie singing as she blithely rammed the Dyson into the skirting board, and she sent up a grateful ‘thank you’ to the patron saint of cleaning ladies for Anja who came in twice a week and who had infinite respect for woodwork.

She took the spare set of keys from the dresser drawer and left the house. Sitting on the low red-brick wall that separated the front gardens she swung her legs over, a manoeuvre that she’d performed so many times. It took several sharp raps on the Kaufmans’ doorknocker before the cleaner stopped and Maggie, face glowing, dark hair dragged back in a pony-tail, opened the door. ‘Hi. Come on in.’

‘You’re busy,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Don’t let me hold you up. I’ve brought the keys.’

‘I was just about to take a break. Time for a quick coffee?’

Maggie led the way down the narrow hall into the kitchen beyond. ‘When are you off?’

‘First thing in the morning. If I leave at seven, I’ll be halfway down the M4 before London wakes up.

‘You’ve decided to drive?’

‘Yes. All that stuff about cheap train tickets is a con. Apparently if I’d booked months ago it would have cost me eleven pounds to travel from Paddington to Cardiff, and nine pounds to come back again. That’s as long as I was on my “nominated train”.’

‘It sounds more like an Oscar ceremony than a public transport system,’ Maggie observed. ‘And the nominations for the cheapest train from Paddington to Cardiff are…’

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. ‘It’s academic anyway because, as I didn’t make the final decision to go until yesterday, it would cost me nearer seventy pounds.’

‘Spontaneity always comes at a price,’ Maggie said.

‘It’s not the money. Or not just the money. When I phoned to double-check the ticket price, Mr Helpful was delighted to tell me that the Severn Tunnel is going to be closed for “essential maintenance” this weekend. Trains to South Wales are being re-routed via Gloucester. What with that and the faff of hauling my bag to the station I thought stuff it, I’ll drive. My carbon footprint will be enormous but I’ll be free of the whims of First Great Western.’

‘Being green’s never straightforward,’ Maggie said. ‘Anything you want me to do, apart from watering and feeding the cat?’

‘You might check that the postman doesn’t leave anything sticking out of the letterbox. I can’t think of anything else. I’ve taken the hanging baskets down. They’re with the pots, next to the water butt. There are a couple of watering cans – the plastic one with the rose is best for the…’ Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Sorry. I’ve spent too long micro-managing teachers and teenagers.’

Maggie wasn’t much younger than Elizabeth yet her three children were still at primary school, the youngest only five years old. On the whole, Elizabeth was glad that she’d been a young mother. (Too young, her own mother had insisted when, at twenty-three she’d given birth to Ben.) She’d stayed at home to look after him, (and Alex when he came along two years later) because it was what women did in the early eighties, unless they were very rich or very poor. On difficult days, feeling isolated, exhausted and bored, she’d dreamed of a future when, motherly duties discharged, she would embark on the thrilling career that must lie ahead. Seeing Maggie now, surrounded by Lego and Barbies and half-eaten rounds of toast and Marmite, Elizabeth wondered how her neighbour, who had by all accounts been a big cheese in the publishing world, remained so sanguine about what she had sacrificed.

‘Heard from Laurence?’ Maggie asked, placing two mugs of instant coffee and a packet of HobNobs on the grungy kitchen table.

‘Yes. Twice actually. On Wednesday to let me know he’d arrived safely, and yesterday to tell me he’d cooked something unpronounceable involving offal.’

Maggie grimaced. ‘Nice.’

‘Then, when I told him I’d decided to drive down to visit Di and Carl, he spent five minutes giving me instructions. Set the security alarm, check the tyre pressures on the car, lock the shed—’

‘Well, you are only a woman.’ Maggie held out the packet of biscuits. ‘I can’t remember when I last spent a few days with my best friend. I envy you. Steph and I phone and email and all that stuff but it’s not the same as spending time with her. Revisiting old triumphs and disasters. Slagging off everyone we used to know.’

‘Checking for wrinkles.’

‘And Botox.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Your friend’s a painter, isn’t she? She sounds interesting. You’re in for a fun time.’

‘Maybe. Diane’s certainly not one to let convention stand in her way. She can be a bit … frenetic at times. Still, if it gets too gruelling I can beat a retreat. I’ve done that before now.’

Then, registering how quiet the house was, she asked ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Simon’s taken them swimming. I’m supposed to be having a sort out here.’ Maggie waved her arms about as if Elizabeth might have failed to notice the chaos surrounding them.

They’d been neighbours for ten years and the women got on well. They discussed the new people who had moved in over the road and chatted about the Kaufmans’ forthcoming camping trip to France.

Elizabeth finished her coffee and rinsed her mug. ‘I’ll let you get on. Ring me if there’s a problem. At least these days there aren’t goldfish to go belly up or hamsters to make their great escape.’

‘No worries. Have a great time and see you … when?’

‘Laurence won’t be home until next Sunday, so I’m a free agent for the whole week.

‘Don’t come dashing back. The longer you’re away the less guilty I’ll feel when I ask you to do the same for us.’

By mid afternoon Elizabeth had crossed almost everything off her ‘to do’ list. She’d been to the hole in the wall, sent her brother-in-law a birthday card and taken Laurence’s books back to the library. Anja wasn’t coming in this week – she’d gone home to visit her family in Krakow – so she’d cleared the ironing pile, emptied the bins and checked that nothing was festering in the fridge. Oh, and she mustn’t forget to charge her phone. Now she stood in the sitting room, reluctant to sit down and un-plump the plumped cushions. In the end she picked up one of the paperbacks that she was planning to take to Cardiff, poured herself a glass of white wine, and went into the garden.

When the family had outgrown the flat and were looking for a house, this garden had been what had clinched it. It was small by conventional standards but this was London and they were lucky to find an affordable property with anything more than a dank back yard. Laurence was just establishing himself with the firm and she wasn’t working. (They’d done the sums and her modest earnings would have been more than gobbled up in childcare fees.) But due to the timely (if sad) death of her grandfather, they had, thanks to his generous bequest to her, been able to scrape together a reasonable deposit and buy the house.

When the boys reached their mid-teens and their electric guitars, gormless friends and man-sized feet had crowded the place out, they’d looked for somewhere more spacious. After an unsettling summer of house-hunting, they agreed that none of the properties they’d viewed felt like home and calculating that, before too long, she and Laurence would have the house to themselves, they’d added a loft extension and stayed put. The area had gone up in the world at about the same rate as their aspirations and there was no reason to move.

Elizabeth dragged her chair into the shade of the garden shed and picked up her book. The story began with some sort of family gathering. Everyone’s name started with ‘M’ – Martha, Mark, Murdo, Melanie – and by the time she reached the bottom of the second page she’d lost track of the whole lot.

She put the book down on the grass and closed her eyes.

The afternoon heat built, trapped within the garden’s crumbly red-brick walls. Children’s voices merged with humming lawnmowers and grumbling aeroplanes. Her thoughts drifted idly to her own family and she pictured the earth, spinning its way through space, red-tipped map pins marking their scattered whereabouts.

Laurence, in a manoir somewhere between Aix and Arles. He’d have spent the morning shopping at the local market, squeezing and sniffing the produce, charming everyone with his schoolboy French. Now, whilst the rest of the group took a nap, he would be swatting, poring over cook books, planning embellishments and extras to make his dishes that bit different. Laurence liked to be top of the class.

The earth turned.

Houston. Ben on his way to work. No, it was Saturday, wasn’t it? He’d still be asleep, sprawled diagonally across the vast bed that she’d seen in the video clip he’d sent. Ben had never managed to explain to her exactly what it was he did ‘in IT’, or why he had to go to all the way to Houston to do it. The main thing was that he sounded happy (and a little smug) which probably meant that her mental picture should include a woman at his naked side.

An ice-cream van jangled Greensleeves over towards the park and the chemical smell of whatever it was people used to start their barbecues, tainted the air.

Where did Alex say they would be playing this week? A folk festival in Northumbria? Then on to Scotland for some kind of a tour? Transit vans and tents; tie-dyed T-shirts and dream catchers. Alex sitting on the grass, tuning his fiddle, Vashti Fry at his side, plaiting beads into his hair and singing. They’d had minor successes at a few off-off-off-Glastonbury events and Alex had been keen to tell her that some sort of ‘talent scout’ had recently contacted him. He seemed convinced that they were going to make it – whatever that amounted to in the world of folk music.

Alex was twenty-five now and it was high time he got over all this ‘finding himself’ nonsense. His ‘gap year’ had extended to eighteen months and the university had only held his place because silver-tongued Laurence had charmed them. After all that, he’d dropped out after his second year – ‘deferring’ he’d called it, but that implied resumption and there was no sign of that happening especially now he’d become obsessed with this weird woman. (Why would a woman in her mid-thirties bother with someone ten years her junior who was neither rich nor particularly good-looking? ‘Perhaps he’s good in bed,’ Laurence had suggested – rather coarsely, she thought.) Her hope was that Vashti would tire of him and that, after a suitable period of misery, he would pull himself together and move on to someone more … conventional. It seemed harsh for a mother to wish such a thing for her son but, in the long run, it would be best for everyone.

When she opened her eyes, the sun had moved around and her chair was no longer in the shade. Her tongue seemed too big inside her mouth and, if she wrinkled her nose, it felt stiff, a sure sign that it had caught the sun. She glanced at her watch. Gone five. She must have slept for the best part of an hour. A cup of tea, that’s what she needed, then she would finish packing.

Whilst the kettle boiled, she went in search of more promising reading matter and was debating whether it was time to re-read Pride and Prejudice when the door bell rang. As she walked down the hall, she could make out the wavering forms of two people through the dimpled pane at the top of the door. Placing her right foot squarely behind the door (a tip picked up from the Neighbourhood Watch Newsletter), she opened it a few inches and peered out. A youngish man and a teenage boy stood in the porch. Neither looked particularly threatening.

‘Yes?’ she said.

The man smiled. ‘Hi. You must be Elizabeth. I’m Toby.’

‘Toby?’

‘Toby Broadbent?’ He hesitated. ‘Alex did phone, didn’t he?’

She glanced behind her to the hall table where an illuminated ‘1’ was blinking on the telephone cradle. Patting her pocket, she remembered that her mobile was on the worktop, out of battery and waiting to be charged.

‘If he did, I missed it. He’s alright, is he?’

‘He was fine when I spoke to him at lunchtime. He was somewhere near Newcastle, heading north.’ He grimaced. ‘Actually this is a bit awkward. Maybe you should …’ He nodded towards the winking light.

She opened the door and beckoned them into the hall, noticing for the first time the bulging rucksack at the boy’s feet.

‘I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush.’ Toby nodded towards the phone again, his restlessness making her apprehensive.

‘Of course,’ she said as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a stranger to arrive on her doorstep and tell her to listen to her messages.

She pressed ‘play’ and her son’s voice, pinched and echoey, came from the miniature speaker.

‘Hi, Mum. It’s a lovely day so I guess you must be in the garden. Ummm. There’s been a bit of a hitch. Jordan’s supposed to be staying with his mate, Charlie, this week. But they’ve got to go to Spain. Family crisis. Damn. My battery’s nearly out. I’ll leave it to him to fill in the details. Anyway, I know that Dad’s away and you’re on your own so I told Toby, Charlie’s dad, it would be okay to drop him off with you. He won’t be any trouble. That’s it really. Keep a tally of anything we owe you. Thanks Ma, you’re a star.’

Elizabeth turned around and looked closely at the boy.

He stared back at her, his face expressionless. Thin wires snaked up from the neck of his black T-shirt towards his ears which were concealed by a multicoloured, woolly hat with earflaps and dangling ties. Dirty-blond hair protruded from the lower edges of the hat and, from somewhere beneath the whole lot, came a faint but urgent beat.

‘Jordan? I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you. It must be the hat,’ she said, feeling the need to explain why she had failed to recognise Vashti Fry’s son.

Toby fingered his watch. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to spring this on you. Alex was sure that you’d be okay to have Jordan until they get back. We’d take him with us but … it wouldn’t be much fun for him.’ He frowned. ‘I assumed Alex had cleared it with you.’

‘Never assume anything where Alex is concerned,’ she said, trying not to look flustered.

A mobile phone chirped from one of Toby’s pockets. ‘Excuse me a sec,’ he said.

Not wanting to eavesdrop, Elizabeth turned her attention to Jordan, asking him if he’d like a cold drink.

He tugged the earpiece out of his right ear, dangling the sponge blob from its slender wire, leaving the other one in place. ‘What?’

She pointed to the kitchen door. ‘Go on through and I’ll get you a drink.’

He heaved his rucksack onto one shoulder and, leaning forward to counterbalance the weight, plodded down the hall, his grubby trainers squeaking on the polished tiles. She followed him, trying not to notice how the clips on his bag scraped the white wall.

She gestured to a chair. ‘Juice? Water?’

He shrugged.

She poured a tumbler of orange juice and set it on the table in front of him, watching as he gulped it straight down, recalling how her sons, at that age, had been incapable of ingesting anything slowly or quietly.

When Alex had told her that he and Vashti were off on tour, she hadn’t given a thought to Vashti’s son. Why should she? She hardly knew the boy. The few times that she and Laurence had ventured to Stoke Newington to visit Alex and his partner, Jordan had been out or she’d glimpsed his back as he loped off to his room. Alex had brought him to the house once, when he’d needed help carrying a chest of drawers that they’d given him, but it hadn’t seemed necessary to get to know the boy. Jordan Fry was nothing to do with her. Just because Alex had taken up with an older woman who happened to have a teenage son didn’t make her some kind of surrogate grandmother. Heaven forbid. She was only forty-nine. One day – in perhaps seven or eight years’ time – she might be thrilled if Alex or Ben made her a grandmother. But grandmother of a brand new baby, not a pre-owned teenager.

Toby popped his head around the door. ‘That was my wife. She’s in a bit if a state. I’d best be getting back if that’s okay with you.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I hope everything … good luck with … safe journey…’ She had no idea what they were talking about but she hoped that covered it.

‘Thanks.’ He raised a hand towards Jordan. ‘Charlie’ll keep in touch. And we’ll see you when we get back, mate. Okay?’

Jordan gave a curt nod. ‘Yeah.’

2

SATURDAY: 5.50PM

As she watched Toby Broadbent drive away, Elizabeth had a few seconds to consider what had just taken place. It appeared that, whilst she was preparing for her holiday in Wales, her son had volunteered her as ‘carer’ of a teenager whom she scarcely knew. How had Alex put it? I told Toby to drop him off with you. She wanted to shake her son, to yell, ‘What if they’d turned up and I’d already set off for Cardiff? Apart from anything else, it wasn’t fair to Toby Broadbent, was it?’ But she knew exactly what he would reply – ‘But you hadn’t gone, had you, Ma?’ And what was the boy’s mother thinking? For all Vashti knew Jordan was wandering the streets of London, prey to … God only knew what.

Jordan Fry was where she’d left him, earphones in place again beneath the hat, rucksack on the floor next to him. His one hand was clasping the straps of the rucksack as if ready, at any second, to be up and off.

Sitting down opposite him at the table, she smiled brightly and touched her ears, indicating that he should remove both earpieces. ‘Well. This is a … surprise.’

‘They tried everyone else,’ he mumbled, ‘but they’re all busy.’

Everyone else? They must indeed have been desperate to opt for her – unless Alex had been trying to impress Vashti with his Mr Fixit skills.

‘It’s not particularly convenient for me,’ she said. ‘Believe it or not, I have plans for the coming week.’

‘So phone Alex.’

‘And tell him what?’

‘Tell him the truth. You don’t want me here.’

‘I only said that it was a surprise. I didn’t mean—’

‘Then tell him I don’t want to be here.’

She tried again. ‘What we want isn’t always possible. Sometimes things happen, events take over.’ She thought for a second. ‘What has happened, exactly? I know it’s something to do with Charlie’s grandfather but I didn’t like to ask.’

Jordan was looking down at his hands, industriously winding the earphone cable around his thumb. ‘He … died. This morning. They got a phone call from the police. That’s why they’ve got to go to Spain.’

‘Oh, dear. How sad,’ she said, unable to feel the slightest sorrow for Charlie’s grandfather, who, although dead, was still capable of wrecking her plans. ‘Was he very old?’

‘No.’ The boy raised his head and, for the first time, made eye contact. ‘He was shot.’

This announcement was all the more shocking for its matter-of-fact delivery. She felt rotten that, a few seconds earlier, she had been cursing a murdered man. ‘Shot? That’s dreadful,’ she said, trying to remember if she had said anything inappropriate to Toby.

It seemed insensitive to demand the ins and outs of the crime, so after a few respectful seconds she asked, ‘Are you hungry? I was thinking of having supper at about seven. But I could make you a sandwich now if you like.’

He shrugged.

‘Why don’t I make you a cheese sandwich?’ she said.

As she buttered the bread and grated the cheddar cheese, she ran through her options. Charlie’s family had been overtaken by appalling tragedy and it was out of the question to bother them with the trivialities of her life. Spoiled holiday plans couldn’t compete with murder. She must get hold of Alex and tell him that it was impossible for her to have the boy. That’s it. Dump the problem squarely back on him. If they really had ‘tried everyone else’, Vashti would have to come back. Jordan was her son, after all.

The thermometer in the kitchen was up in the high seventies but Jordan seemed determined to keep his hat on.

‘Aren’t you hot?’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take your hat off?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Take it off, Jordan,’ she instructed, sensing that it was vital, right from the start, to establish her authority.

He sighed and pulled off the grubby hat (knitted, probably, by some poor peasant who lived halfway up the Andes and who had no idea that such an item was de rigeur for the skateboarders who kept her awake on summer nights, kerdunk-kerdunk-kerdunking along bumpy pavements).

His hair was clamped against his skull, damp with perspiration, making his head look small and his face narrow and girlish. Rising off him came the musky scent of teenage boy. In that instant she was back in her sons’ stuffy bedrooms, strewn with T-shirts and underpants, the curtains permanently closed. In the end, unable to stomach the thought of her own clothes coming into contact with the fusty socks and dubious jeans, she’d provided the boys with a separate laundry basket. Not that she’d succeeded in getting them to use it.

‘I need to make a couple of phone calls,’ she said.

The slightest of smiles played across his lips. ‘Am I a problem?’

Yes. He was a problem. She didn’t want him there, messing up her arrangements, infusing her house with his fusty smell.

‘Don’t be silly, Jordan. As I said, I was planning to go away for a few days. It was a spur-of-the-moment idea. I only decided to go yesterday. Alex knew nothing about it.’ (Why was she excusing herself – and her son – to this boy?) ‘I just need to speak to the people I was going to visit.’

He pulled a set of keys from one of the many pockets in his baggy jeans and rattled them threateningly. ‘You can go. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got the keys to the flat. I’ll manage fine.’

There was no question that he meant and believed what he said.

It might be better if Jordan didn’t hear what she had to say to Alex and she hurried upstairs to Laurence’s study. But her son’s mobile was off or out of range because voicemail cut in immediately. She tried a second time, with the same result. This time she left a message. ‘Alex, it’s Mum. Phone me as soon as you get this. It’s important. Jordan’s here – not that you two seem at all concerned for the boy’s well-being.’ It sounded pompous and petty but they must be made to understand how she felt.

Next she phoned Diane and explained what had happened in the few hours since they’d spoken. ‘So it looks like I shan’t be coming after all. Unless Alex sorts something out. I could strangle him.’

‘Poor Lizzie. It is rather inconsiderate of him. But it’s not his fault that Granddad took a bullet and, to be fair, he did think you were going to be at home on your own this week.’

‘Fair? What’s fair about it? Are you suggesting he’s doing me a favour? “My poor mother’s all alone. The old dear could do with a bit of company. I know – I’ll send Jordan”.’ The sight of her clothes, rolled and ready to pack, aggravated her frustration. ‘What does he think I’m going to do with a teenager for a week?’

‘Get stoned? Take a few tabs?’

‘It’s not funny,’ Elizabeth moaned.

‘Sorry. Maybe you’re being pessimistic. Maybe what’s-her-name—’

‘Vashti. The name says it all.’

‘Maybe Vashti’s got friends or family – she must have a mother or a sister – who’d have him.’

‘In that case, why dump him on me? D’you know what really gets me? If I’d set out this afternoon, instead of napping in the garden, I’d be in Cardiff by now, sipping a glass of wine. And Charlie’s wretched father would be the one worrying what to do with Jordan bloody Fry.’

‘As well as a worrying about a dead father-in-law? You don’t really mean that. Look, why don’t you ring me later, after you’ve spoken to Alex?’

‘That’s another thing. His phone’s off – surprise, surprise.’

‘Landline?’

‘I’ve no idea where they’re staying. Or where they’re playing.’

‘Maybe Jordan knows.’

‘Jordan doesn’t know whether he wants water or juice. I can’t imagine he’d know something useful like where his mother is.’

When she returned to the kitchen Jordan Fry, his hat and his rucksack had disappeared. All that remained to prove that he’d been there was a dirty glass and a sandwich crust.

The door to the garden was open. Despite the sapping heat, Maggie’s two younger children were bouncing on their trampoline.

‘Have you … seen a … big boy … in my garden?’ Elizabeth synchronised her question with the appearance of their flushed faces above the garden wall.

They shook their dark heads and carried on bouncing.

Hurrying back through the house and out of the front door, she stood on the pavement, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the low sun, scanning up and down the street. There was no sign of him. In fact there was no one to be seen – not a mum pushing a buggy, or an old lady tottering along with a mangy dog in tow, or a bloke washing the family car – not a single soul who might have noticed a boy with a rucksack.

Shit. Where would he go? Where could he go? She closed her eyes taking several deep breaths of tepid air. Think. Keys jingled in her memory. He would go home.

Assuming that he knew where he was – the only time he’d come here he’d been brought by car so it was possible he didn’t – and assuming that he would use public transport, it would take him at least forty-five minutes to get home. She looked at the kitchen clock. Twenty past six. She would leave it until seven then start phoning Alex’s flat.

Feeling less panicky now that she was pretty sure where he was heading, she looked for a way to pass the next forty minutes. Her plan, formulated in the unruffled hours of that Saturday afternoon, had been to have supper (a mushroom omelette and salad to use up the odds and ends in the fridge) then finish packing, take a relaxing bath and be in bed by ten.

She had no appetite but it would be sensible to eat something while she had the chance. First she made a simple vinaigrette dressing, something that was out of the question if Laurence was around, hovering at her shoulder, suggesting that she add a pinch of chilli or a dash of Tabasco. Eggs next, beaten lightly with a dash of milk then seasoned. She was slicing mushrooms, failing to deter grim-faced policemen and wailing sirens from invading her thoughts, when she heard a clatter.

She put down the knife and listened. There it was again, faint but distinct, coming from the sitting room.

Jordan was sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa, well out of sight of anyone passing the open door. He’d sneaked in here knowing full well that she was looking for him, playing out the next skirmish in their War of the Hat. The contents of his rucksack – mainly items of black clothing and chocolate bar wrappers – formed a sea around his outstretched legs. He was riffling through a stack of DVDs, inspecting each one for several seconds before passing on to the next.

He looked up. ‘This isn’t the lot. I’ve got loads more at home.’

‘Films?’ she asked, determined not to give him the satisfaction of having rattled her.

‘Games.’ He looked around hopefully. ‘Have you got a PS3?’

‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t.’

‘Grim.’

He pointed to the alcove and Laurence’s cherished sound system and (alphabeticised) collection of CDs. ‘Cool kit.’

‘It’s my husband’s.’

‘What’s he into?’

‘Mainly classical. Well, wholly classical. Mainly Bartok. And Mahler. What … are you into? Your mum’s stuff?’ she asked.

‘Jesus, no. I can’t stand that crap.’

The disdainful blasphemy was meant to shock. And it did, addressed, as it was, directly to her, unlike the foul language she overheard on every street and which she could choose to ignore.

Struggling to maintain a neutral expression, she asked, ‘So what do you like?’

‘Indie punk, mainly.’ He held up his iPod. ‘CookieWhys. The Weakerthans. Stuff the Goldfish. Going Going.’

‘They all sound … intriguing. Especially StuffingGoldfish.’

‘Stuff the Goldfish,’ he corrected her, patiently. ‘D’you want to hear them? They’ll sound great on that.’ He nodded towards the hi-fi and held up a tangle of wires. ‘Jack or USB? I’ve got both.’

‘Not at the moment, thanks. I was getting myself … us some supper. It’ll be ready in five minutes. The bathroom’s upstairs on the right. And you can put your rucksack in the room next to it. Alex’s old room.’

The desire to deflect his attention from Laurence’s Bang & Olufsen and a surge of relief that he hadn’t been recruited into the sex trade combined to settle the matter. For the time being, Jordan Fry had better stay.

3

SATURDAY: 7.05PM

Elizabeth, accustomed to eating with adults who understood that silence at the supper table was not an option, kept up a witter of small-talk. In due course, exasperated by Jordan’s lack of response, she fired questions at him.

‘How old are you now, Jordan? Fifteen?’

He glanced up. ‘Mmmm. Yeah.’

She scooped more salad from the wooden bowl and watched as he extracted every particle of mushroom from his omelette, lining the slices up around the rim of his plate.

‘How’s school going?’

‘It’s the holidays.’

‘You and Charlie are at school together?’

‘Yeah.’

The fridge cut out, the absence of its murmur accentuating the hush between their staccato exchanges.

‘Which team d’you support? Spurs? Arsenal? Chelsea?’

There had been a period when the boys talked of nothing but football, reciting lists of names and facts as if they were passages from the Bible. It was no wonder that some of it had stuck.

‘QPR? West Ham? Millwall? Crystal Palace? Fulham?’ She paused, looking for evidence of admiration.

‘Football’s for losers.’

Okay. Fry, J. was a prisoner of war, determined to reveal nothing but name, rank and number.

When they’d finished eating, she cleared the table and went outside. It had been another blistering day with a desiccating breeze. In places the lawn had turned brown and crispy, and several cracks had opened up in the parched soil. A cluster of glazed pots (she daren’t tot up what she’d spent on them and the plants they contained) stood next to the water butt, forming a miniature oasis. She filled the watering cans to the brim and, tipping each can slowly to allow the compost to absorb the water, she gave the pots a thorough dousing.

Bees were still busy on the purple-headed Echinops and the rose that scrambled across the back wall. Closing her eyes she listened to their lazy drone, inhaling the fragrance of honeysuckle and Nicotiana. This very evening she could have been sitting on a French hillside, surrounded by fields of lavender and sunflowers. Laurence had pressed her to go with him but the dates of the cookery course hadn’t quite fitted with the school holidays.

There had been other reasons for not going. She’d accompanied him the first time he’d signed up for this sort of thing, three – or maybe four – years ago. They’d gone to Mentana, a village in the hills to the north of Rome. The house where they’d stayed was picturesque, the surrounding landscape quite stunning. She had been the only non-cook in a group of twelve zealots and she was plainly, in their eyes, a possessive wife who refused to let her husband off the leash. Without a car (they talked about hiring one but, when it came to it, she was too nervous to tangle with Italian drivers) and an incomprehensible local transport system, she’d been trapped there for five miserable days. It was a long way to go to read three novels, put on half a stone and pay a thousand pounds for the pleasure of being marginalised, and she’d made up her mind not to repeat her mistake.

Maggie came out and began gathering washing off the rotary clothesline.

‘All set?’ she asked.

‘There’s been … a hiccup.’

Elizabeth told her what had happened.

Maggie fanned herself with one of the children’s T-shirts. ‘Flippin’ kids.’

Maggie must be wondering why she was making such a hoo-haa. In comparison to three boisterous youngsters, how onerous was it to keep an eye on one near-adult who was capable of taking himself to the lavatory, reading his own bedtime story and cutting up his own food? And, with the whole of August off, she had plenty of opportunity to visit Diane.

‘Well, if he’s stuck for something to do, he can babysit for us one evening. We’ll pay the going rate. Oh, shall I give you your keys back? You’ll need a set for him, I expect.’

Jordan Fry, coming and going, treating the house like home? Not a happy thought. Fetid trainers and discarded pizza boxes, rap music, missed curfews and crumpled girlie magazines tugged her memory. She adored her sons but those teenage years hadn’t been easy.

‘It’s okay,’ Elizabeth said, ‘you hang on to them. I’ve got another set somewhere.’

A crash followed by a howl spilled out of the Kaufmans’ open bathroom window.

‘Mum. Ouch.’

‘Muuum. Stop him.’

Maggie raised her eyebrows and sighed. ‘What hope for the human race? I’d better go and sort that out. Catch you later.’

Jordan had disappeared again but Elizabeth could hear footsteps overhead and guessed he was snooping around Alex’s room.

She was filling the kettle with a view to making herself a cup of camomile tea when the phone rang. She snatched it up. ‘Alex?’

‘No, it’s me. Di. Any developments? Has Alex been in touch?’

‘No. He’s being very crafty and keeping his phone off.’

‘How frustrating. But never mind all that. I’ve got the solution. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it straight away.’

‘I did but murder’s a hanging offence.’

‘And that’s why you’re going to get in the car tomorrow and … bring him down here.’ Diane’s tone was triumphant.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Elizabeth said.

‘I’m not. We’ve got plenty of space. He can stay in his room all day if he likes. Watch telly. Read smutty magazines, or whatever boys of that age do. There’s bound to be something on in town, or at the pictures. We’ll hardly know he’s here. And, if he’s after female company, our neighbour has two daughters.’

‘Now you’re going too far. He’s the most antisocial boy I’ve ever met. No girl would put up with him. He can’t – or can’t be bothered to – string two words together. He’s wears a disgusting woolly hat and he smells of … boy. He’s certainly no—’ she fished around for a current teen idol.

‘David Cassidy?’ Diane suggested.

‘David Cassidy! I haven’t thought of him for years.’

‘What? Forgotten the man we were ready to offer our bodies to? Remember we wrote to him? “Dear David, if you’re ever in the Salisbury area—”’

‘“Drop by and ravish us some time.” Or words to that effect.’

‘We actually imagined he’d fancy us. God, I’m cringing with embarrassment.’

‘D’you think he’s still alive? I wonder what he looks like.’

‘I bet he wears a woolly hat and can’t string two words together,’ Diane said.

‘Probably.’

‘Look. About tomorrow. Don’t decide now. Have a think. See what Jordan says. He might fancy a trip to Wales. Ring me in the morning.’

‘Stuff the Goldfish aren’t Welsh by any chance, are they?’ Elizabeth asked.

During the evening, Elizabeth tried several more times to contact Alex, the prospect of being stuck with Jordan becoming more real with each failed attempt. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her son saying to Toby Broadbent, ‘Drop Jordan off with my Mum. It’ll be fine. She’s at a loose end all week.’ Alex knew she wouldn’t turn the boy away, especially as she’d (rather stupidly) left a message confirming that he was safe with her. He also knew that, if he remained incommunicado, there was nothing she could do.

Jordan wasn’t a monster (Charlie’s parents had been prepared to take him on so he couldn’t be wholly insufferable), but he certainly was an inconvenience. She wondered how Laurence would react to this uninvited guest. Her husband left at seven every morning and didn’t get back until late which meant that he would only be in Jordan’s company for a couple of hours (and those would, in all probability, be spent in front of the television). On the other hand, the boy would be under her feet all day, requiring feeding and entertaining. But her husband’s imaginary opinion was irrelevant because, although Laurence was a generous, unflappable man, Alex wouldn’t have pulled the same trick had his father been at home.

Her thoughts shifted to Diane’s crazy suggestion. Crazy, but increasingly seductive. Were she to take Jordan to Wales, the week might turn out to be, if not fun-filled, then at least considerably less stressful. Three adults to one adolescent would be a great improvement on the present ratio.

Also by ‘kidnapping’ Jordan she might cause Alex and Vashti a little concern, a little disquiet – payback for the dirty trick they’d pulled on her. It was an immature but satisfying notion.

The door to Alex’s room was shut. ‘Jordan?’ she called, knocking gently. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Okay.’

He was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, surrounded once again by the contents of his rucksack. It occurred to her that he might be feeling if not homesick then certainly disorientated, and that having his possessions tumbled around him provided the solace a two year old gets from hugging a threadbare teddy.

‘I’m off to bed soon,’ she said. ‘Anything you need?’

He shook his head.

‘I haven’t managed to get through to Alex yet. I expect they’re in the middle of their set, or whatever they call it. I left a message, though, so they know you’re here.’

He nodded.

Was this the moment to divulge her plan? No. Who in their right mind gave a kidnap victim advanced warning of the plot? Tell him now and he would have the whole night to make his escape.

‘I’ll find you a towel. Have a shower if you feel like it.’

He nodded again.

‘So, see you in the morning. Sleep well.’

Distracted by the possibility of taking Jordan to Cardiff, she found it hard to concentrate on ordinary matters. Securing the house for the night, a familiar routine which had caused her no trouble yesterday, suddenly seemed extraordinarily involved. Having locked the back door she became convinced that it had already been locked and that she had unlocked it. (She hadn’t.) She finally got upstairs only to remember that after she’d watered the plants she’d gone into the shed for secateurs to dead-head the roses. Had she put them away again? If so, had she locked the shed? (She had, of course, but checking this involved a lot more fiddling with the back door.)

She ran a bath, noting that the towel she’d put out for Jordan lay undisturbed on the bathroom stool. (Personal hygiene – his – threatened to be another battle to be fought in the days ahead.) Generally, she looked forward to her bedtime bath but tonight she was fidgety, unable to relax, and no sooner was she immersed in the scented water than she was itching to get out again. She dried herself and, mindful that she was no longer alone in the house, she chose a demure nightdress and pulled a cotton housecoat close around herself, securing it with a firmly tweaked bow.

Switching off the landing light, she stood listening to the night noises. The cistern hissed and then fell silent. The pendulum clock ticked methodically in the hall below. A car door clunked shut in the street outside. There was no sound from Alex’s bedroom but a sliver of light shone from beneath the closed door. Jordan must be reading. Or perhaps he was afraid of the dark.

Her bed was still covered with things waiting to be stowed in bags. Transferring everything carefully to the floor, she took off her housecoat and climbed into bed. It was getting on for eleven o’clock but she’d abandoned plans for an early start.

Why was she even entertaining Di’s suggestion? It was a non-starter. She should stop behaving like a child – It’s not fair. I want to go. – and postpone her visit. There were dozens of things needing doing at home – sorting through the stuff in the loft, taking the winter duvets to the dry cleaners, painting the bathroom, transferring addresses to her new address book. But none of these were at all appealing, nor would they interest a teenager. Jordan Fry was too big to plonk in a playpen so, whilst she was crouching in the loft, filling bin bags with her sons’ discarded junk, he would be gallivanting all over London, in that stupid hat. And when – if – he turned up again she’d have to feed him and persuade him to wash.

She checked her mobile. Nothing from Alex. Nothing from Laurence. Nothing from anyone.

She switched off the light. Darkness seemed to add weight to the stifling air and she flipped the duvet across to Laurence’s side of the bed, hoping for a breeze from the open windows.

Bloody Alex.

Ben had been such an easy child. Eager to please, bright and uncomplicated, he’d done everything that was asked of him. He’d been a biddable toddler, a relatively straightforward teenager and was now a well-balanced, independent young man.

Alex had been none of these. As bright – perhaps brighter – than his older brother, he’d focussed his efforts on non-compliance and non-conformity, incessantly getting into mischief, constantly needing rescuing from one scrape or another. If there were boundaries to push, he’d pushed them, counting on his charm – and he was undeniably charming – or, when that failed, his mother to rescue him when things went awry. It was as if he had inherited her quota of unorthodoxy and this, somehow, made her feel partly responsible for his conduct.

Ben loved her, and she him, but he’d never needed her in the way that Alex did. And need forged a complex bond which was why, somewhere between supper and bedtime, she’d accepted the role of Jordan-sitter.