The Age of Misadventure. Judy Leigh
is my sister, Georgie. We’re having lunch. Would you like to come up and share some smoked salmon? There’s plenty left.’
The probing blue eyes stare into her face a moment too long, then he says, ‘I’d like to stay but, unfortunately, I have to go home.’ He nods. ‘My wife’s expecting me for dinner.’
Adie’s hunched behind him, frowning, awkward. Bonnie doesn’t notice. Duncan Beddowes delves into his pocket and produces a mobile phone.
‘Would you mind if I took your photo, Bonnie, standing here with me? A selfie? And your sister, too? I know my wife would love a picture of you both. She’d be fascinated by your lovely taste in clothes, not to mention that gorgeous piece of jewellery. She’ll be very jealous. She’s always asking me where I’ve been, who I’ve met during the day, and I’ll be able to show her.’
Adie shakes his head, just a little, but Bonnie’s already posing, beaming, and the man holds his phone in place. He raises his eyebrows and I sidle behind my sister. He sticks a grin on his face and snaps away.
‘Oh, that’s a nice one. I know Jeanette’ll love to see that. Well, Adie, I’ll take my leave. It’s a long drive back. But I’ll be in touch soon. As we agreed.’
They grasp hands for a fleeting moment. Bonnie’s delighted; she fingers the charm bracelet and giggles. I bite my lip. I never heard of a man who’d want to show his wife a picture of himself flanked by two unknown women. I take a step back, my instincts shouting that I shouldn’t be there at all.
Adie’s silent on the journey home. I ask him if he enjoyed the spa hotel and he grunts. I ask about the Scottish man, if he was a regular business partner, one he’d worked with before, and Adie grunts again. For some reason, we drive through Norris Green, although it’s not on the way home, and he stops the Boxster outside a terraced house. The sky is splashed with grey, the street lights like soft haloes. It’s late now and the light has faded to a watercolour wash. The terraced houses have bay windows, closed curtains with dim lights, and the road is silent apart from a passing kid on a bike who veers too close to the car.
‘I’ll only be a minute. I need to see someone. It’s business. Keep an eye on the Porsche. Perhaps no one’ll steal it if I leave you in it.’
He lifts a small leather case from my footwell and steps outside, moving with fast strides. He rings a bell at a plastic door with no lights inside and someone opens – a tall, slim man in his twenties in a thin T-shirt and cargo pants. In the time it takes me to look at the telegraph wire running between the roofs, where someone has abandoned a battered pair of trainers, their laces tied, swinging from the line in the wind, Adie’s back. He shuts the car door with a clunk, pushes his case behind him and starts the engine. We speed away.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask.
His brow’s knotted. ‘No, not really. It was to do with my business partner, the one you met, Duncan. I was expecting a payment from the man who lives in that house. I’ll have to call back later in the week. A nuisance, that’s all.’
I glance out of the window as we turn into another side street. ‘Do you have many business partners round here?’ I offer my best smirk.
He doesn’t glance at me. His eyes are on the road and then, furtively, behind him through the mirror. I try again.
‘It’s good news about Demi extending the honeymoon and going to Australia.’
He doesn’t answer, or even acknowledge that he’s heard me. The sky’s darker now. Car headlights swerve towards us from the road and I blink. We reach Aigburth and he pulls at the handbrake sharply as we stop outside number 5, Albert Drive. I hope he won’t ask to come in, but he’s absorbed in something: he seems to be completely uncommunicative. He barely looks at me, so I slither out of the Boxster, bend towards the window from the pavement and say, ‘Thanks, Adie.’
He nods once. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Georgie,’ and he’s off, leaving me standing with exhaust fumes whirling round my ankles.
I raise my hand, but it isn’t to wave goodbye: I clutch my keys. Indoors, I climb the steps to the kitchen and put the kettle on. On my phone, there’s a text message from Amanda about a bargain cocktail dress. Nothing from Jade and nothing from Bonnie. I make a cup of tea and put my head in my hands. I’m not really sure what happened today in Adie’s office, but my instincts are buzzing like crowding bees and I’m not feeling comfortable. Adie’s clearly out of his depth.
The sink is cluttered with bowls: the one I used to make the Yorkshire pudding mix, the one I used to make gravy, plus the saucepans for potatoes and carrots and peas, which are cooked and steaming in a colander. The meat is resting and the Yorkshires have risen. I’m trying to wash the dishes before the hot water runs out.
‘There’s a lot of clanking about in my kitchen, Georgina.’
‘Yes, Nan.’
‘And it smells. And there’s steam everywhere.’
‘I know, Nan.’
‘You should’ve just bought me a dinner in a box again.’
‘I thought we could eat Sunday lunch together. I’ve made Yorkshire puddings from scratch.’
‘I’m used to the dinners in a box.’
I sigh. ‘I’m just about to bring it out, Nan. Proper gravy. You’ll love it.’
‘I liked the old food we had best, me and Wilf together. A proper pan of Scouse. I used to make mine with beef, though, not lamb. Lamb hasn’t had a life. Carrots, onions, potatoes, an Oxo cube. Lovely. This modern food doesn’t taste of anything.’
‘I’ll bring your roast.’
‘Get me a Guinness first, there’s a good girl.’
I wash the last of the saucepans in tepid water then lean over to the fridge, pull out a bottle and flip the top. I carry the glass through as I pour and deposit it, full and frothy, in front of Nan, lifting the empty one. She gazes up, her eyes glinting through thick glasses. She has a brown circle, a wide froth of beer, across her top lip.
‘Where’s this dinner you’ve been promising me for an hour?’
‘Just coming, Nan.’
‘I won’t eat it if it’s cold. I can’t stand cold dinner.’
I rattle about in the kitchen, cut meat, pile vegetables and Yorkshires, pour gravy and return with a steaming plate on a tray, settling it on her knee. She sups a noisy mouthful of beer and replaces her glass carefully.
‘I can’t eat all this.’
‘Try your best, Nan.’
‘All these Yorkshires.’
‘Two?’
‘It’s not gone cold, has it?’
‘Don’t burn your mouth, Nan.’
‘I don’t know why I couldn’t just have a dinner in a box.’
I bring my plate and a fork and sit in the other armchair. The television’s blaring. It’s a sports pundit giving his views on all the clubs in the league table. I fork a piece of Yorkshire pudding to my mouth and chew. It’s crispy on the outside and fluffy in the middle.
‘Anything good on TV, Nan?’
‘The game’s on now. London boys against the Southern Saints.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Will it be any good?’
She has a mouthful of potatoes, making a soft sucking sound.
‘I saw it yesterday. The Londoners win three nil. It’s a good game. One of the Saints gets sent off. The one with all the yellow hair. He kicks the goalkeeper.’
‘You’ve seen it already, then?’
She ignores me and snuggles back into