Chapter 35
A couple of Saturdays later, Lola and I had spent the day shopping in Leeds, both of us being fitted for and buying new underwear.
Jayden had sent a slightly belated (but extremely healthy and most welcome) cheque for my birthday back in March, and, having finally got round to it, I was on a mission to treat the pair of us.
‘Go on, Mum,’ Lola insisted, holding up several hangers of frothy lace and silk. ‘Treat yourself as well!’
‘My big bottom will never fit into those.’ I laughed.
‘Mum, will you stop this about your bum,’ Lola ordered as though she were the mother and me her child. ‘Now, the matching bras – go on. You’ve been fitted for new ones; you need to buy them.’
And they did fit. Beautifully. ‘You’ve a fabulous figure,’ the lingerie department fitter had said. ‘So good to see a woman who actually has a bosom and a backside these days…’
‘Come on,’ I said, three hours later, our hands and arms full of carrier bags containing the new outfits I’d continued to treat us to. ‘Let’s indulge ourselves some more. Lunch?’
‘McDonalds?’ Lola asked.
‘The Ivy,’ I said, steering her towards the Victoria Quarter. ‘They’ve a lunchtime menu.’
Once seated and our food ordered, Lola fiddled with her napkin. ‘Mum…?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Are you OK?’
‘OK?’
‘Well, about Dad and Farrah I mean. You’re not feeling left out?’
‘No, honestly, I’m not. You mustn’t think that.’
‘Is it because of George?’
‘George?’ I felt my face flame and, in turn, I fiddled with my own napkin.
‘I heard you talking to Aunty Robyn.’
‘Oh?’
‘You were in the garden, trying to tie back the daffs, but you just got cross with it all and instead started telling her about George.’
‘You were listening?’
‘Mum, I couldn’t help it.’
‘You could have closed the window.’
‘You could have stopped going on and on about him.’
‘Do you mind?’ I asked.
‘Mind that you’ve got a bit of a thing for your step-uncle?
’ Lola peered over the new sunglasses she’d spent her pocket money on in Accessorize and was now refusing to take off, even though we were indoors.
‘Well, if having a thing about George makes you always in such a good mood, then I don’t mind at all.
I like him. He’s giving me another tennis lesson next week. Says I’ve got potential.’
‘I know.’ I hesitated. ‘He’s invited me for dinner next Friday at his apartment. You OK with that?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be? I’m off over to Granny’s to stay in Sorrel’s room. I’m going to have a bubble bath in her ensuite and keep walking in and out of her walk-in wardrobe.’
‘And you’re OK with Joel staying a bit longer?’
‘Yes, he’s fine.’ She grinned. ‘At least he doesn’t leave the loo seat up like Dad does. And he helped me with my English SATS revision yesterday. I’m much better at maths and science, but he was really good explaining the questions that went with some daft poem about cargoes. Or something.’
‘He’s a good kid.’
‘And has Dad forgiven him for leaving his bike down at Ruby’s?’
I nodded. ‘We got it back. George, Fabian and Ralph – the superintendent – managed it between them. Accepted it was nothing to do with that lot down at Queen’s Gardens and let us have it back.’
‘Is Dad letting Joel ride it again?’
‘I’m letting him,’ I said firmly. ‘And there’s an end to it.’
* * *
‘You look lovely, Mum!’
The following Friday evening, I presented myself for inspection to Lola, Joel and Arthur.
While the dog was more interested in trying to find the tennis ball Joel had rubbed with aniseed and hidden under the sofa (he was, Joel informed me, training him to be a sniffer dog), both Lola and Joel actually whistled their appreciation.
Which was good, because I’d spent a good two hours doing the usual showering, hair washing, conditioning, de-fuzzing, yada yada that women put themselves through before a hot date.
And it was a date. George and I, in the weeks since falling asleep on each other in a limoncello-induced afternoon nap (we both woke, bleary eyed and dry mouthed, slightly embarrassed), had met up a couple of times.
Once for a walk over the moors with Arthur, calling in again at the farmhouse and barn for which George had actually put in an offer.
Twice in The Dog and Duck after hockey practice, and once up at Mum and Kamran’s when we’d both ended up there, probably, I realised afterwards, when we knew the other was going to be there as well.
Carole Traynor hadn’t turned up for hockey practice the first week after Rob had been arrested, and Serena had taken over as coach and been, to my surprise, exceptionally good at it.
Then Carole had reappeared and, although pale and strained, had taken the practice as usual, putting us through our paces, but not joining us at the pub afterwards.
It was generally rumoured that she and Rob were having marital problems, and I certainly wasn’t going to start gossiping about what I actually knew, despite Serena reckoning something was going on and did I know anything?
Every time George and I were in each other’s company, we sort of circled each other, eyes meeting deliciously; a hand lightly touching my arm, his face lighting up as I arrived.
But we were, I knew, both wary. We’d both just come out of long, toxic relationships and weren’t quite sure the direction, if any, we should be taking.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Robyn had almost spluttered when I eventually told her what was going on over the tying up of my daffodils, a job I hated. (They would spring back at me instead of lying down and behaving, like they always did for Mum.) ‘Just go for it. I know George feels the same way.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m a woman of the world.’ Robyn had tutted. ‘Trust me, I’m a teacher.’
‘But has he said anything to you?’ I’d probed, sounding not unlike my thirteen-year-old self, asking Serena Atkinson the same question when I’d fancied Alistair Hewitt in Year 8.
‘He does nothing but talk about you,’ Robyn had said, elbowing me in the ribs. ‘Get in there. He’s gorgeous. And a very lovely person to boot. Can be a bit full on at times, I grant you, but honestly, Jess, what have you to lose?’
‘My nerve?’ I’d replied. ‘And what a mess it will be if we sort of start something and then realise it isn’t going anywhere. All a bit weird at family dos at Mum and Kamran’s if that happens.’
‘Just go for it. Enjoy it for what it is.’ Robyn had tutted once more.
‘Stop thinking about the future and live in the moment. Once the restaurant opens, you’re not going to have the time or energy for luuuurve!
’ Robyn had pulled a daft face, laughing and elongating the word. ‘Enjoy a bit of a fling.’
So that’s why I was dressed in my new white all-in-one jumpsuit, but slightly concerned that my – also new – bra and fancy knickers could be seen through the thin cotton.
‘Do you really think this looks OK?’ I asked Lola again, wishing Robyn was here for inspection duty.
‘Fine, honestly,’ Lola said, impatient now, overnight bag to hand and more than ready for the off up to Kamran’s place. ‘Come on, or I’ll have less time in the walk-in wardrobe.’
* * *
Once I’d dropped Lola off with Mum, I left straight away, not wanting them to see I was dressed up to the nines. Although Lola, I knew, would be singing like a canary on my behalf even before I’d exited the long drive. I set off again, heading into town and George’s apartment.
It was a warm, sultry evening and I was early.
Much too early. Twenty minutes before kick-off and I was already hot and damp.
I pulled up on a small garage forecourt to kill some time and adjust my lippy, leaning over to pull down Vera’s nearside window (the only one that was working) to let in some air in an effort to cool down.
Fifteen minutes still to go. And then a lightbulb moment!
I’d treat Vera to the car wash. Bad enough pulling up at George’s fancy apartment in my decrepit old van amongst the boy racer cars I assumed would be parked there.
At least I could have her clean. I jumped out, bought a bottle of water to help cool me and my nerves, as well as the necessary tokens and, admiring my lovely new pink heels, climbed back into Vera.
I pulled into the car wash at the far end of the forecourt and, leaning back in my seat, took the bottled water, pressing the icy plastic against my hot forehead before concentrating on opening it without it spilling, while the car wash machinery bumped and clanged into action.
What was that tagline? No one in space can hear you scream…
I now knew the same applied when you were in a car wash and you’d left the nearside window wide open.
I somehow managed to throw the open bottle of water onto the passenger seat before battling the stream – no, let’s be pedantic here – the absolute torrent of soapy water that was gushing into Vera through the window.
Sudsy, chemical-filled water that was soaking me from the top of my newly washed and blow-dried hair to my new pink, strappy high heels.
With one great valiant effort I managed to lean over through the torrent, battling and spitting suds and bubbles, pressing the nearside window button as if my life depended on it.
Nothing happened. Electrics had obviously shorted.
And then the window suddenly shot up and an eery calm cocooned me inside the van.
This lasted maybe three seconds before the bloody great brushes with their accompanying roar rolled up and on to Vera, battering her sides and windows. I sat there soaked, heart racing.
And then it was all over, the water and brushes retreating to a trickle and a green light indicating I should start the engine and drive through and away. Thank God, the engine started immediately and I was able to drive back onto the forecourt where I sat, in a state of shock.