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But ugh, smiling also makes me look so old. In this light the wrinkles around my mouth and eyes…
Never you mind, Frances. Forty-six going on thirty.
I hurry back into the extension, heading for Jenna’s room. I suppose it’s possible she could’ve slipped in without my noticing.
As I cross the landing, the floorboards knock under the thin carpet. I remember how excited Jenna was about moving up here when she turned fourteen, even though it has always given me the creeps.
Something clicks and I freeze, my neck prickling. But it’s just an old house. Rotting and full of ghosts.
I shake my head. It’s a Grade II listed building kept in, for the most part (Tristan’s part), pristine original condition. And ghosts don’t exist.
The latch opens like a shot and the door creaks open and my heart pounds again.
A creature, enormously large and black with shiny eyes and too many legs leers at me from the ceiling. If I walk in, it’s sure to drop down and devour me.
I stare at it, hating it, wanting to tear it down, wishing it didn’t always have this effect on me. It’s a wire-framed spider covered in shaggy black velvet that Jenna made in art class.
I take a deep breath and step in.
Like the rest of the house, Jenna’s walls are white, the rickety floorboards covered with an old red Persian carpet, and the curtains are moss-green silk. But the light is gloomy and swamp-like because of all the posters. I offered to frame them at the gallery, but Jenna looked at me in horror. They’re even over her windows.
Sombre girls with dyed hair stare from every surface. In some places Jenna has arranged them so only eyes peek out between the edges of more posters. Propped against the walls are guitars and keyboards, African drums, a cello. The desk is a mountain of books and make-up and art materials.
It all looks very odd. She’s not really an odd girl. Quiet, polite, kind, but looking at her room you’d think she were very angsty. But she’s just a teenager having fun – experimenting a bit.
In a flash I see her at just two years old, toddling towards me in the long grass at the edge of the farm grounds. She smiles her perfect smile and laughs and I hold my arms out and wait for her to fall onto me, our noses smushing.
That’s who Jenna is underneath it all – my pure, golden-hearted baby.
But why am I lingering? She isn’t here. Not lying on the bed, or sitting at her dumpsite desk scribbling in her red journal, which I also can’t see anywhere.
Maybe I should call Dan.
The spider stares at me with its eight oily eyes. She made them by painting ping-pong balls with iridescent black nail varnish.
My finger hovers over Dan’s name on my screen, but I text him instead. He’s in meetings, and I don’t particularly want to speak to him anyway. I type:
Did Jenna mention she had any plans for tonight? xx
Those kisses come at a not inconsiderable personal cost.
I straighten my dress in the mirror then duck my head into the bathroom and can’t help but tut. Scattered all over the floor are locks of dark hair. The scissors have been left lying open on the counter.
She’s old enough to clean up her own mess, isn’t she?
My stomach flips and I stare myself down in the mirror. Jenna’s just trying a new look. It doesn’t mean anything. And seeing Georgia Smith this morning has nothing to do with it.
7
NOW
‘You’re sure Jenna didn’t say who she was getting a lift from?’ I call, stepping onto the terrace.
Ash smashes a shuttlecock but his sister flicks it back over the net. ‘Nope,’ he says, which is about as much as you get from Ash unless you’re one of his many admirers. But they’re good kids. Find me another pair of teenagers playing badminton on a Friday afternoon.
I check my watch. She’s not even twenty minutes late. She’s probably with Rose, her best friend, Lydia’s daughter. They’re always here or at Rose’s.
I know, helicopter parent alert, but I find Rose in my contacts. It goes to voicemail. Jenna would probably die if I left a message. My finger hesitates over Lydia’s name – but that would be a bit much, and I’m not exactly eager to talk to her.
