The Road to Zoe Page 4

  I glance at Jess’s phone and note that we’re a mere minute away from our destination. ‘Are you sure this is the right address?’ I ask. ‘It’s pretty grim out there.’

  ‘Yep, definitely!’ Jess says, brightly, and I wonder if we’re even seeing the same thing.

  ‘I thought Bristol was supposed to be all hipstery and cool,’ I comment, as Mister Google directs me to turn on to Filwood Broadway.

  ‘I’m guessing that not all of Bristol is,’ Jessica says.

  ‘And you chose this particular area because . . . ?’

  ‘Because Zoe chose this particular area,’ Jess says. ‘Plus, the Airbnb is supposed to be really cool.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, doubtfully.

  ‘There!’ Jess shrieks, pointing. ‘That’s it.’

  I pull over to the side of the road and open Jess’s side window so that we can peer out through the rain. Beyond a high grey spiked fence – the kind they put along railway lines – sits a hefty and quite funky-looking pine-clad Portakabin. It’s bang in the middle of a tatty car park, which itself is behind a run-down-looking community centre. The cabin looks as if it has been beamed down by eco-aliens or something. And it looks like they got their GPS coordinates mixed up and delivered it to completely the wrong place.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ I mutter, frowning at Jess.

  ‘Of course we can,’ she says, and just to prove it, she pushes the door of the car open and steps out into the rain.

  After a few minutes fiddling with various combination locks, we have managed to get through the steel gates and into the eco-lodge. It’s basically an ultra-modern, super-insulated one-bed unit, built from wood and straw bales, and triple glazed.

  The interior is warm and modern, very Scandinavian-looking, and it’s well furnished and fully equipped with expensive modern appliances. It’s smart and well heated; it feels cosy and chic. The only real mystery is how it ended up in the Filwood Community Hall car park in the first place.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Jess says, running one hand across the countertops and then swinging on the door jamb as she makes her way through to the bedroom. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ she calls from the next room. ‘I’d love to live in one of these.’

  ‘Yeah, just not here,’ I say. I’m peering out through the venetian blinds at a woman with a pushchair who is passing. She looks about eighteen, is soaked to the skin and is vaping aggressively, if such a thing is possible. She seems to detect my presence as she passes and turns to stare straight at me, causing me to duck back behind the blinds, but not before I see her raise her middle finger at me.

  I follow Jess through to the bedroom, where she’s bouncing on the edge of the bed contentedly. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’ she says again. ‘A bargain!’

  ‘It is,’ I agree. ‘Weird place to have it, though.’

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘But that’s half the fun, right?’

  We drag our suitcases in from the car and head out in search of food. As we lock the gates behind us, the rain has almost stopped. I worry that someone is going to key the side of the car. All the other cars in the street are old bangers and our brand-new, bright green Peugeot looks dangerously conspicuous.

  We head on foot towards some shops Jess spotted as we drove in, but when we get there we realise that everything is closed. There’s a boarded-up graffitied cinema, a butcher’s, a pharmacy and a Salvation Army shop, all shuttered, apparently permanently.

  ‘Jesus, what happened here?’ I ask. ‘A nuclear war?’

  ‘Bad governance,’ Jess says. ‘Unbridled capitalism. The Tories. Take your pick.’

  ‘Could you have chosen a nicer spot?’ I ask.

  ‘Hey, half of Britain looks like this these days,’ Jess says.

  ‘Just not the half I hang out in.’

  ‘Well, no,’ Jess says. ‘Quite.’

  ‘Do you think it was ever better?’ I ask. ‘I mean, when Blair was in power, did it actually make any difference?’

  ‘A bit. But not much, I don’t think,’ Jess says. ‘Perhaps there was a bit more hope back then. People at least had the hope that things might change. But change takes a long time. A long time and a lot of money.’

  At the end of the row, we come to the sole surviving shop: a combined newsagent, tobacconist and corner shop. ‘Yay!’ Jess says. ‘I knew there’d be something.’

  We say hello to the friendly Asian owner and then scour the shop for vegan food options. There are no fresh vegetables or fruit on sale, just chocolate, white bread and ready meals, so we finally leave with beef-flavoured Pot Noodles, which amazingly Jess says are vegan, plus packets of crisps.

  ‘So Zoe lived near here?’ I ask, as we walk back towards the community centre. ‘You looked up the address?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s just up there,’ Jess says, pointing towards the derelict cinema. ‘Or maybe there,’ she says, pointing behind us. ‘I’m a bit confused now.’

  ‘Classy, my sister,’ I say.

  ‘I expect she had her reasons,’ Jessica says. ‘Do you know anything about how she ended up in Bristol?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘I didn’t even know she was in Bristol until you gave me that printout.’

  ‘So shall we get these inside us and go Zoe-hunting?’

  ‘I suppose,’ I say. ‘Are we just going to go and knock on the door?’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’ Jess says.

  ‘Aren’t you scared?’ I ask. I nod at the junk-filled garden we’re passing. It contains the remains of a broken burnt-out scooter, two mattresses and no fewer than three rusting supermarket caddies. ‘Aren’t you nervous about knocking on doors around here?’

  Jess laughs. ‘I’m a social worker,’ she says. ‘Knocking on doors like these is what I do all day, every day.’

  ‘I suppose,’ I say, suddenly grateful that she’s there with me to do this.

  ‘And you, are you scared?’ Jess asks.

  ‘A bit,’ I admit.

  ‘Scared you’ll find her, or scared that you won’t?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Oh, I thought you meant . . . Um, scared of both of those equally, I think.’

  ‘Right,’ Jess says.

  But what I’m most scared of is that she’ll be dead, if I’m honest.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Jess says, and I wonder for a minute if I’ve said that out loud.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Just, you know . . . Yeah. A bit nervous.’

  Three

  Mandy

  About a year after Ian’s mother died and about two after I’d spotted that shoe on the floor, I, too, met someone new.

  Nothing could have been further from my mind than a relationship. Oh, the idea that one day, just perhaps, there would be someone else had crossed my mind a few times, but when I tried to actually visualise such a thing, it was impossible. I struggled to imagine how I could find someone new attractive. When you’ve spent thirteen years with the same person you can come to think that it’s the familiarity you’re in love with, rather than something specific about them. And if I struggled to imagine being attracted to someone who was essentially a stranger, I struggled even harder to imagine them fancying me.

  I’d put on a few kilos since Ian had left and hadn’t, I don’t think, bought a single item of clothing. The phrase ‘letting myself go’ describes it quite well.

  Anyway, I was walking back from town with a bag of shopping when a voice from above shouted, ‘Look out below!’ I glanced up just in time to see a branch on the end of a rope swing my way. It missed my left ear by about a foot.

  I jumped sideways to avoid the return of the pendulum and peered up into the tree, shielding my eyes against the sunlight with my free hand. ‘Oi!’ I shouted, my shock turning to anger. ‘You nearly killed me!’

  ‘I know, I know, I’m so sorry!’ came a reply, and a man came into view, hopping with agility from branch to branch and then quickly climbing down the ladder to street level.

  ‘Jesus!’ I said as he fiddled to unclip his harness fro
m a rope. ‘You really could have killed me there.’

  The man turned to face me. He was young, tall and fit with a fuzzy beard and big, brown, touchingly concerned-looking eyes.

  ‘You are OK, aren’t you?’ he asked, stepping towards me and reaching out to touch my shoulder. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  I licked my lips and nodded. ‘My life flashed before my eyes, but I seem to be fine,’ I said. ‘Whatever happened to health and safety?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again, grabbing and steadying the still-swinging branch. ‘My mate’ll be along in a minute to put barriers up. I was just getting everything ready, but it snapped. I didn’t cut it or anything. The branch just snapped. It’s a good job I had it tied off.’

  ‘It’s a good job I wasn’t a foot to the left,’ I said.

  ‘I know, I know! Come and, um, have some coffee. I’ve got some in the van. You look a bit pale.’ He would later admit that this was a lie – that I hadn’t looked pale at all.

  ‘I do feel a bit funny,’ I said, a fib of my own. ‘So I might just take you up on that.’

  I found Scott instantly attractive. He was, as I say, tall and rugged-looking. His work gear, the green overalls, the safety hat, his climbing harness . . . well, it all somehow added to that. But it was his eyes that really got to me. It was his big brown eyes and, if I’m being brutally honest, that muscular arse of his, too.

  We sat on the back step of his van and drank surprisingly good coffee from a flask.

  ‘You live around here?’ he asked.

  ‘Just up there,’ I said, pointing.

  ‘It’s funny we’ve never met, then,’ he said. ‘We’ve been doing the trees around here for weeks.’

  ‘Well, I spend most of my time at street level,’ I said, with a wink. ‘Perhaps I need to look skywards more often.’ Was I already flirting? Perhaps, unconsciously, I was.

  I was definitely enjoying the company of this fit, smiley young man. I was perhaps even milking the situation a little in order to prolong the moment. But I honestly hadn’t imagined for one second that the feeling might be mutual.

  Scott was astoundingly straightforward. That was the first non-physical thing I noticed about him. With Ian, there had always been a subtext. You always had to read between the lines to work out what he was really trying to say. But with Scott, things were much more direct. Even the way he asked me out that first day was typically literal, which was just as well, as I’m pretty sure that if he’d been subtle in any way I would have assumed that he was just being polite.

  ‘Um, you know what? I really like you,’ he said, as I handed back the plastic cup and stood regretfully to get on with my day. ‘I don’t suppose I could take you out to dinner one night or something, could I?’

  I frowned and turned back to look at him.

  ‘Oh, I bet you’re already taken, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Are you married or something?’

  I laughed at this and, I think, blushed.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I’m not taken at all.’

  ‘Wow,’ Scott said. ‘Well, there’s a stroke of luck!’

  It was a week before I saw him again. I needed a week to get my legs waxed, my hair cut and my nails done. I bought some new underwear, too.

  We met in the Cheshire Cheese, which was a mistake. It was quiz night and we could hardly hear ourselves think, so Scott downed the remains of his pint and we moved down the road to a tapas place. Wearing cargo trousers, trainers and a sweatshirt, he looked even younger than I remembered.

  ‘So, how old are you, Scott?’ I asked as soon as the waitress had brought us our drinks. I wanted to get the age thing out of the way.

  ‘Twenty-six,’ he said. ‘And you?’

  ‘Thirty-five,’ I told him, pulling a face.

  ‘Right,’ Scott said. ‘Is that going to be a problem, then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Is it?’

  Scott laughed at this. ‘Not for me, it isn’t. That’s for sure. Thirty-five is nothing.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, wondering if it was going to be a problem for me while blushing at the flattery. Despite how much life I seemed to have lived through and how old all that experience seemed to make me feel, perhaps I wasn’t too old for romance after all. ‘Nine years is quite a gap,’ I said, protesting weakly.

  ‘Not for me,’ he said again, sipping his beer. ‘I’ve always dated, you know, older girls. People my age don’t really interest me. I’m a bit weird that way, I suppose.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I said. ‘OK.’

  ‘OK?’ Scott repeated. ‘That was quick. I thought I was going to at least have to get you drunk.’

  ‘That wasn’t OK,’ I said. ‘It was just . . . OK!’

  ‘So what you’re telling me is that I do have to get you drunk?’ Scott asked, grinning.

  ‘Let’s say that getting me drunk is probably a good place to start,’ I said.

  We dated for three months before I introduced him to the kids. I suppose even three months will sound a bit short, but I’d fallen in love with Scott almost immediately.

  I had tried quite hard not to do that. Falling in love at my age, falling in love with someone his age – falling in love when I was still waiting for my divorce to come through – well, it all seemed ridiculous. Actually, it felt worse than ridiculous. It felt somehow sinful.

  But Scott was funny, easy-going and sure of himself, and in many ways more adult than most of my peers. He laughed at all my jokes too, which after Ian’s almost constant incomprehension was a huge and much-needed ego boost. The sex was quite something as well, and being twenty-six, Scott was up for it all the time.

  I was happy, really happy, for the first time in years. I’d forgotten just how all-absorbing it was to be in love. I’d forgotten how obsessive it could feel, how many hours you could spend daydreaming about someone, how magnetic the attraction between two bodies could feel. Because when we were together in a public place, I was only ever thinking about how much I could get away with touching him without people noticing, and when we would next be alone together. It was all absurd and naughty and totally unreasonable. But it felt totally magical, too.

  Because I was scared of how Zoe would react, I introduced Scott to Jude first.

  Zoe had been a little easier to live with over the previous year, so there was some cause for hope that it might go better than expected. If it didn’t, I was terrified that Scott’s appearance would simply upset the apple cart all over again. I hadn’t begun to imagine just how upset an apple cart could get.

  Scott and Jude hit it off almost immediately. They had similar interests: the outdoors, computers, sports . . . They were Apple fans and Manchester United supporters, both of which were like religions to twelve-year-old Jude. But there was more to it than shared spheres of interest. They had similar ways of communicating, too.

  Zoe had always been a bit more like Ian, really. You always had to work out what she meant, whereas Jude was forthright, like Scott.

  I’d engineered the meeting bang in the middle of Jude’s comfort zone, namely Pizza Express, one night when Zoe was staying at a friend’s house.

  Scott, who seemed quite good at the whole bonding business, asked Jude’s advice about the menu and ordered the exact same things as my son.

  ‘So are you Mum’s new boyfriend?’ Jude asked, once our drinks had arrived.

  ‘I think so,’ Scott replied, glancing at me for confirmation. I nodded vaguely. ‘Would you mind if I was?’ he added, turning back to Jude.

  ‘Not really,’ Jude said, matter-of-factly. ‘But thank you for asking. That’s very considerate of you.’

  For the most part, they talked about football. Manchester United were riding high in the Premier League, and there was lots of talk about Rooney and Ronaldo, as I recall. But to be honest, it went over my head. I was too busy watching Scott’s lips move, too busy thinking about kissing them to feign that much interest in football. Watching him getting on so well with my son had sent my feeli
ngs towards him into overdrive.

  As we were leaving the restaurant, Jude asked Scott if he was going to move in. He actually sounded quite upbeat about the possibility, so I expect the idea of another male in the house, and above all, someone to talk about football with, seemed quite appealing.

  ‘I don’t think so, mate,’ Scott replied. ‘I’ve got my own little place out in Bakewell. And I quite like living on my own, to be honest.’

  ‘OK,’ Jude said, thoughtfully. ‘Can we come and see it? Your house, I mean?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Scott said.

  ‘Has it got a big garden?’

  ‘It has,’ Scott told him.

  ‘Big enough to play football in?’

  ‘Well, not really. Because I grow lots of vegetables in it.’

  ‘Oh, OK . . .’ Jude said. ‘But we can definitely come and visit?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Scott confirmed. ‘You can come anytime you want.’

  For thirteen-year-old Zoe, a few days later, I booked a table at Simply Thai. Incredibly, their tofu curry had been an almost constant throughout the many phases of her eating disorder, but that evening she wouldn’t even touch that. Instead, she glowered at some point in the distance beyond the window, occasionally deigning to lift a prawn cracker to her lips.

  Scott did his very best to charm her, but it was never going to happen, really. It was actually quite painful to watch.

  ‘Is there something exciting going on out there?’ I eventually asked, an attempt at making her at least look at us.

  She turned to me and rolled her eyes.

  ‘Oh, come on, Zoe,’ I said. ‘It’s really nice of Scott to bring us to your favourite restaurant, don’t you think? You could at least talk to him a bit.’

  Zoe sighed and swivelled robotically to face Scott. ‘So are you shagging my mother?’ she asked him. ‘I mean, I assume that’s why we’re here.’