On a Beautiful Day Page 23

  ‘Oh, I should think I’d be able to squeeze that into my schedule,’ Jo replied, twinkling at him.

  ‘I’d like to squeeze into your schedule,’ he said in a husky, mock-sexy voice, with an elaborate wink. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Jo said demurely, trying to keep a straight face.

  She perched on a stool at the breakfast bar with a glass of wine, enjoying watching him chopping tomatoes, a tea-towel flipped over one shoulder as he waved away her offers of help. It was all very nice, in other words. All very cosy. Forget everyone else. Yes. And right now, she could. It seemed easy. Until she made the mistake of spinning round a little on her stool and saw that, across the room, a murder had been committed.

  ‘Oh no,’ she cried, leaping off and rushing over to the shelving unit where the broken shards of her precious blue glass bird lay glinting under the spotlights. Hurt and shock stabbed through her as she cradled the glinting fragments in her palm. No, she kept thinking, staring in disbelief. The little glass bird was pretty much the only thing she had left that had been given to her by her dad before he’d walked out on them, never to be seen again. She remembered as a child lying on her bed and holding the bird up in the air, making it fly, and watching the shiny blue reflections dance across the wall. And now look at it, the dainty head snapped clean off from the body and one wing shattered, its flying days over for good.

  Maisie, you little bitch, she thought, tears swimming to her eyes.

  ‘Everything all right?’ asked Rick, chucking onions in the frying pan with a sizzle.

  Jo held out the pieces of glass on her palm, not trusting herself to speak. She actually felt like crying for that eight-year-old girl who’d loved the little bird so much, who’d made a nest for it in her drawer out of tissue paper and glittery beads, who’d stroked its head sometimes and wondered where her dad was now, and if he ever thought about her still.

  Wiping his hands on the tea-towel, Rick came over to see. ‘Oh, shit! How did that happen?’

  ‘At a wild guess, your daughter,’ Jo said, the words bursting out of her. ‘She was here earlier – you know how much she’s got it in for me. And—’

  ‘Maisie wouldn’t do that!’ he said in surprise. He actually took a step back, as if detaching himself from Jo. You insult my daughter, you insult me.

  Jo narrowed her eyes. For real? ‘Well, I didn’t do it,’ she replied. ‘And I’m pretty sure you didn’t.’ Come on, Rick, she thought. You’ve got to take my side on this one. You surely can’t defend your kid when she’s just wantonly destroyed one of my favourite possessions?

  ‘It must have been an accident,’ he said, already turning back towards his dinner preparations. ‘Like with that clay trophy that got broken. I’m sure I can glue it. No big deal.’

  No big deal, Jo repeated to herself. But it was a big deal – it really was, to her. Did Rick genuinely not get that? Equating her mistakenly knocking that stupid trophy off the shelf with Maisie’s deliberate spite was spectacularly unfair. And the bird wouldn’t glue back together anyway, not without leaving ugly scars. All of a sudden, it felt like the last straw.

  ‘Listen,’ she said baldly, the broken pieces still in her hand. ‘I’m not sure this is . . . working out. Me staying here, I mean.’

  But he’d just chucked a couple of steaks into the pan and the sizzling was louder still. ‘What?’ he called, turning and seeing her stricken face. ‘Oh, Jo. Come on. I’ll fix it, don’t be upset.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’ Had he even heard her? ‘I am upset,’ she said quietly. ‘I know it’s just a thing, but it was really special to me.’ She swallowed. ‘Look, this was only a temporary arrangement, wasn’t it, me being here? And maybe it was too much, too soon. I’ll . . . I’ll start looking for some other place to rent. We both need some space.’

  His mouth dropped open. ‘Jo! Because your ornament got broken?’

  ‘No, not just that . . .’ She felt herself cringing at the hurt look on his face. ‘You’ve been so generous. And I’m not ungrateful, but . . .’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, confused. ‘I thought things were going well. Aren’t they?’ He put the spatula down and came over to her. ‘Aren’t they?’

  ‘They are! They’re going really well in terms of me and you, but I’m . . .’ She didn’t know how to articulate her feelings. She just wanted to go back to feeling like strong, independent Jo again, the Jo who had her own space, her own life – one that didn’t include a malevolent teenager. It seemed as if she hadn’t seen that version of herself for a while. ‘Ignore me,’ she mumbled, dropping her gaze. ‘I’m not explaining myself very well.’

  He put his arm round her, and she held herself awkwardly so that the broken glass wouldn’t cut into her skin. ‘Hey, don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘Let’s just have dinner and a nice evening. See how you feel in the morning, yeah? We’ve got a whole weekend to ourselves, remember. Just the two of us.’

  ‘Just the two of us,’ she repeated, unsure what else to say. Maybe a break from Maisie would make her feel better, she thought, retreating to put the glass fragments somewhere safe. Maybe this was just a relationship wobble, now that the honeymoon period was wearing off. And Rick was a good bloke, she reminded herself. But was he good enough for her to keep putting up with his daughter’s malice?

  ‘You have reached your destination,’ said the satnav the next morning.

  ‘I certainly have,’ agreed Jo, parking the car with an apprehensive glance at her surroundings. Because here she was in Ash Grove, Didsbury, the epicentre of Manchester’s middle-class residents, with their gorgeous big houses and their Range Rover-filled driveways, and a genteel refined hush as the well-off went about their Saturday-morning business. With her car window down, she could hear the hum of a lawnmower, the faint scrape of cello scales floating on the breeze, and the low rumble of two Bugaboos being pushed by lithe, coiffed women across the street. Five minutes’ walk away there were fancy bakeries, and nice gift shops with polka-dot curtains; there was a tapas bar, and a spa, and a moodily lit wine bar . . . What was more, Rick himself had told her that he’d once lived somewhere on this very street with Polly and Maisie; he’d been a part of this community, perhaps jogging along the tree-lined avenues on sunny weekend mornings, calling out pleasantries to the neighbours. She imagined him manhandling a huge Christmas tree through the front door in Decembers gone by, popping down to the organic butcher’s for the Sunday joint, greeting the landlord by name every time he went into the local pub . . .

  ‘We’re in another world now, Toto,’ Jo murmured to the satnav, which chose not to respond. A world, that was, where Polly and Maisie still lived, by the way. Christ, no wonder Maisie looked down on Jo at every opportunity, if she was used to this way of life. Thank goodness she’d never actually glimpsed just how shabby and dingy Jo’s rented flat had been; she’d really have had something to be snooty about then.

  Not that Jo had come here expressly to stalk Polly and Maisie, or anything. Tempting as it was to go peering through the windows and letterboxes along the street, hungrily seeking out evidence of How the Other Half Lived, she was a better person than that. Absolutely. Okay, so she had driven along the road very, very slowly, nosily drinking in the details, but that was because she was a responsible driver and this was a residential area with small children and cats and . . . oh, whatever. Yes, all right, she had been peering beadily in all directions in the hope of spotting Polly and Maisie in their natural habitat as well. Which was clearly ridiculous, because she was not about to get into some petty rivalry about who was winning at life, she reminded herself sternly, switching off the engine and clambering out of her old rust-bucket. Not least because there was no doubting who would emerge victorious.

  Anyway, moving on! She had come to visit Bill and Miriam, not to get sucked into self-doubt again. It would be some breathing space from Rick’s flat as well, a bit of time to herself to clear her head. They didn’t
have to be joined at the hip for the entire weekend, did they?

  Reaching into the boot, she took out the bunch of flowers and the box of Roses she’d picked up en route, then locked the car and walked towards number forty-seven: the Kerwins’ house. And what a beautiful house it was, too, with its veranda-style open stone porch, big enough to house a rustic iron swing-seat with bright scatter cushions, and a rack for wellingtons. Jo’s heart clenched a little, remembering how Miriam had spoken of her love of horses, and wondered if she’d sat here to take off her boots after a visit to the stable yard, before the accident had robbed her of all that. Life could be so unkind, couldn’t it? So brutal. Your whole future could turn like the spinning of a penny. Heads, you lose.

  Jo had just pressed the old-fashioned doorbell – you could actually hear a real bell jingling inside – when she became aware of raised voices from behind her, disturbing the otherwise tranquil stillness of the street. ‘But you said I could go, Mum. You said!’

  The second voice was less shrill, but the sound carried on the air nonetheless. ‘I said no such thing, and we both know it. And that’s the end of it.’

  ‘But everyone else will be going! I’ll literally be the only person in my class who isn’t there. That is so unfair!’

  Ears on stalks, Jo’s adrenalin pumped hard as she realized she knew that voice, had heard its whining, argumentative tone oh-so-many times before. It was Maisie, she was sure of it, which meant, presumably, that the other voice, older and crosser-sounding, was Polly’s. Oh my God. Talk about timing. They must be walking up the road right there behind her. Dare she turn round and risk being seen? She desperately wanted to get a look at her rival, that bloody nemesis of hers who’d lurked at the shadowy edges of her relationship this whole time. But what if she was spotted?

  ‘For heaven’s sake, I’ve said no. I don’t care if you’re the only person not going. It’s too much, Maisie. The answer is no.’

  The voices sounded nearer still and Jo froze, wondering if it was in her to drop noiselessly to the ground and carry out a stunt roll so that she was behind the stone ledge, avoiding detection. Styling it out like James Bond. Let’s face it: no. Knowing her luck, she’d put her back out, or crush the massive bunch of flowers she was clutching. Ah, flowers, she thought in the next second. Maybe that was the solution. Lifting up the bouquet so as to disguise her face, she turned very slowly and peeped furtively out at the street through the blooms.

  ‘Oh Mum! I can’t believe you’re doing this to me! I’m going to ask Dad. He’ll let me go.’

  Whoa. It really was them, in the flesh, and on the other side of the road just level with her now. Ducking into a crouch, Jo shielded her face with the flowers – please don’t look this way, please don’t see me – then scuttled to the side of the veranda, where she was able to peer over, with the subjects in her sights. Maisie was in a white vest top and black denim skirt with a big star-shaped necklace and sparkly flip-flops, her hair loose and wild about her shoulders, her hands flying up expressively as she railed at her mother. Meanwhile Polly was . . . Jo bit her lip. To be honest, Polly was quite a lot less chic in real life than she’d been expecting, in white chinos and a striped Breton top, her blonde hair up in a ponytail and big sunglasses on her nose. Actually quite . . . ordinary-looking. Frazzled, even. Trying to put an arm around her daughter, only for Maisie to fling it off, shout, ‘I hate you!’ and run headlong down the street. Gosh. This was a far cry from the smugly perfect relationship Jo had been envisaging, it had to be said.

  ‘Hello? Can I help you?’

  Shit! In all the drama, she’d completely forgotten that she’d ever rung the doorbell of the Kerwins’ house – and there was Bill Kerwin now, standing in his doorway, wearing a mustard cardigan and corduroy trousers and catching Jo right out, crouched as she was on his veranda, spying blatantly on passers-by. This was not a good look, by anyone’s measure.

  Straightening up awkwardly, Jo brushed down her denim skirt, feeling like the most horrible, nosy person in the world. Real Didsburians probably never behaved this way; she bet they were all far too well mannered and respectable. ‘Hello,’ she said, blushing wildly. ‘Bill? I’m Jo. We’ve spoken on the phone.’ She held out the flowers and chocolates. ‘I was just passing and thought I’d bring these for you and Miriam.’

  His chin wobbled momentarily and his eyes went misty. ‘That’s very kind,’ he said. ‘Can you stay for a brew? Miriam’s in the garden, she’d be very pleased to see you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jo. ‘That would be lovely.’

  Jo hadn’t expected to feel particularly emotional about coming here, but as she followed Bill through the (beautiful, elegant) house and out into the (gorgeous, flower-filled) garden, she could feel a lump swelling in her throat as she saw the wheelchair parked up beneath a cherry tree, with Miriam sitting there, a pale-blue blanket draped across her legs. All of a sudden she found herself flashing back to the scene of the crash, kneeling amidst the broken glass on the pavement and holding Miriam’s hand; trying to comfort her amidst the chaos and distress, the wail of sirens. Remembering how brave the older woman had been at the time, how incredibly stoic in the face of disaster. Remembering too just how upset, how shaken she’d felt herself in the aftermath. How she’d leaned against Rick, and still hadn’t quite pulled herself upright again.

  ‘Look who was knocking at our door, lovey!’ said Bill in an artificially bright voice, but then he stopped dead almost immediately and put a finger to his lips. ‘Ah. She’s dozed off. Do you mind if we . . . ?’ He wheeled about, indicating the door they’d just come through. ‘Let’s leave her be,’ he said, heading inside again. ‘She’s still on all these painkillers and she had a bad night last night.’ His lips twisted together apologetically. ‘It’s hard for her.’

  ‘Of course, absolutely,’ Jo replied, feeling wretched for both the Kerwins. Her eye was caught by the sight of the blanket as she turned away and she felt a pang, knowing that it covered what was left of Miriam’s legs after the operations she’d endured. Poor Miriam. And poor Bill.

  The kitchen was wide and airy, streaming with light from two huge skylights in the sloping ceiling, and there was a black cat snoozing in a sunny spot on the windowsill, its ears pricking up as they came in. Bill poured two glasses of elderflower cordial then set about putting the flowers in a vase of water, rather clumsily, as if this was women’s work in his opinion, to which he was not accustomed. Jo’s heart went out to him. ‘How are you bearing up then?’ she asked gently, just as he said, ‘So you know them, do you, the Silvers?’

  It took her a second to process his question and then her blush returned, deeper and hotter, as she realized he was asking about that cringe-worthy moment on his veranda, where he’d caught her spying on Polly and Maisie. ‘Um . . . Well, sort of,’ she said, hedging around the truth.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said, his tone non-committal. ‘Friends of yours, are they?’

  ‘Well . . . No,’ she confessed, not sure how to explain without sounding like some paranoid stalker-ish weirdo. ‘Er . . .’

  But to her surprise, he looked her in the eye and nodded. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I guess it’s the same for nurses as doctors, isn’t it, that patient-confidentiality thing. You’re not allowed to tell me, officially. But it’s okay, we know about the drinking.’

  Jo blinked. Wait – he thought Polly was one of her patients? And did he just say . . . ? ‘The drinking,’ she echoed, her mind racing.

  ‘It’s not exactly a secret, is it? Not down this road, anyway. I think everyone here has seen and heard— Anyway.’ He stopped himself. ‘I don’t like to gossip, you know. Only I do worry about that kid. It can’t be easy for her.’

  Things were starting to piece together in Jo’s head, a picture appearing on a jigsaw – a very different sort of picture from the one she’d imagined all this time. ‘No,’ she replied slowly, remembering how Maisie had turned up that first time at the restaurant because she’d been locked out of the
house. Where had Polly been then – and how had it happened? she wondered now. It hadn’t occurred to her at the time to think in depth about the situation, because she’d been so unnerved by the girl’s unfriendliness. And then there was the fact that Rick was so protective of his daughter, so patient; the way he’d drop everything if Maisie asked him to. Jo had pegged her as some spoiled brat, but perhaps there was more to the situation than that. ‘It can’t be easy,’ she added.

  ‘No.’ He had finished stuffing the flowers haphazardly into a vase – he was never going to be a contender for the nearest village show – and eyed them with a dubious air. ‘No,’ he repeated, wiping his hands on his trousers. ‘After the police came out that time, I thought: eh up, social services will be next; but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I guess they don’t have the same resources these days, do they? You’ll know all about that.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jo replied. The police, she was thinking, trying to hide her alarm. What had been going on? And how much of this did Rick know about? He had always been so reticent about his ex-wife, so reluctant to divulge anything. ‘Let’s hope things pick up for her soon,’ she added lamely, not sure what else to say. ‘But how about you, anyway, Bill? How are you managing? I know it must be hard.’

  His hands trembled on the vase. ‘It is,’ he agreed, not meeting her eye. ‘It’s really hard.’ He sat down at the table across from her and stared into his drink. ‘I thought, you know, when she came home from hospital, it would be better, but . . .’ He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s not the same as it was. It’s never going to be the same as it was. And that . . .’ He broke off momentarily, battling with his emotions. ‘That’s pretty tough to get your head round. For her, too.’