On a plane descending into Stansted Airport, Jazz closed her Kindle and reached for her bag. Flights to London were always sought-after by the airline’s employees so she had been lucky to grab one to coincide with her couple of days off.
It still felt weird to walk the streets from the train station to the London house and know that her mum wouldn’t be there waiting for her. Jazz suspected that Mum would love to know if the house had changed, but it was clear that the subject was off-limits, so they never talked about it. Perhaps even the most amicable of divorces left pits of possessiveness that could open up at unexpected moments.
In the past, coming home had always meant homemade buns or the smell of dinner in the oven. Now the fridge held expensive microwave meals and packets of smoked salmon, the kitchen looked unused and the table in the conservatory where Mum had always kept a stack of library books was a charging station for Dad’s iPhone. When Jazz was small she had insisted on keeping her own library books on that table, next to Mum’s. They had walked to the public library together every Friday after school and chosen their reading for the weekends down in Norfolk. Then, on their way home with their arms full of books, they had stopped to feed birds in the park.
Looking back, Jazz reckoned that Mum had taken as much pleasure as she had herself from the children’s books that they’d read when she was small. Apparently Mum hadn’t read much in her own childhood; and knowing Mary Casey’s habit of sniffing whenever reading was mentioned, Jazz could well believe it. How strange, though, to have grown up without books like The Wouldbegoods and The Secret Garden. But perhaps those nineteenth-century English stories wouldn’t have meant much to kids in twentieth-century Ireland. Actually, Jazz told herself, they hadn’t reflected her own childhood experience either, any more than she had identified with the experiences of the American children in Little Women or What Katy Did. But reading the same books that your friends read gave you a sense of belonging. The loss of that sense of shared experience was one of the things that had bothered her when she and Mum moved to Ireland. Though, in the end it all worked out okay, and, as well as keeping her old friends, she’d made new ones.
There was a note from Dad in the kitchen saying he’d booked a table at one of her favorite restaurants and to meet him there for dinner. Having showered and blow-dried her hair, Jazz went to choose a dress. It was airline policy for off-duty staff on company flights to travel in uniform, and for a moment she entertained the idea of turning up in her slightly battered uniform hat, which had suffered from too many flights spent in overhead lockers. But it didn’t seem fair to tease Dad. So she found a gray fitted dress with a dark green belt and wore it with green stilettos and a cashmere shawl. There was no doubt that the elegant person she was in London looked very different from the efficient Jazz in her brass-buttoned uniform and the girl who spent much of her time in Finfarran in muddy boots and jeans. For a while that had confused her. But now that she was older, she told herself, the apparent contradictions had resolved themselves, and, whatever she might be wearing, she felt comfortable in her skin.
Dad was already in the restaurant, looking as sleek and well-tailored as all the other male diners in their city suits. He stood up, enveloped Jazz in a bear hug, and pulled out a chair. There was champagne on ice in a stand by the table, which was poured the moment she sat down. It was relaxing to be waited on after a heavy week at work. Dad ordered for them both. The foie gras, he said, and a couple of micro-leaf salads. Followed by Jazz’s favorite lamb dish. And he’d have the catch of the day, which came with the chef’s signature sauce. Then, smiling at Jazz over the menu, he suggested fat chips.
“Honestly, Dad!”
“Well, you always used to like them.”
“When I was about twelve!”
“Oh, come on, no one ever grows out of fat chips.”
He looked at the menu and registered mild surprise. The waiter responded immediately.
“I’m sure chef would be happy to make some, sir. A bowl to share?”
“Perfect. Good man.”
This was a world away from the cramped conditions in which Jazz herself was accustomed to serve food, and she knew the chef wouldn’t pause in his creation of Michelin-starred meals to produce a bowl of fat chips; that would be down to some underling. It was just a game. Dad paid over the odds for his fashionable dining experience and the restaurant reciprocated by indulging his every whim. And as a result, in his terms at least, everybody was happy.
He had certainly set himself out to please Jazz. After the main course they shared a pudding compounded of meringue, honey, dark chocolate, and lime, all of which she adored. Then at the end of the meal, over coffee, he mentioned his mum. She was due in London next week to do some shopping and go to the Hampton Court Flower Show. It would be wonderful if Jazz could stay on and spend time with her.
Feeling slightly irritated, Jazz selected a chocolate from the dish that had come with the coffee. She’d be sorry to miss her Granny Lou, who was good company, but did Dad really think she could take time off work just like that? He leaned toward her, looking reproachful. Granny Lou wasn’t getting any younger and she missed her granddaughter. Wouldn’t it be nice to take a relaxing week or so, share some retail therapy, and keep her from rattling round the house all alone?
“A week! I’d be out of a job if I even suggested it!”
He stirred his coffee. “And would that be so bad? I know this air-hostess thing was a bit of an adventure but, let’s face it, it’s not really a job. Isn’t it time you thought about the future?”
He had a friend who owned a travel company. There was an internship available in the head office and it was hers if she wanted to snap it up.
“But I don’t want to snap it up. I’m perfectly happy with the job I’ve got.”
“I know you love travel and this is a wonderful entry opportunity. Of course, I’d hoped you’d go to university . . .”
Jazz sat bolt upright and her coffee cup rattled in its saucer.
“I know you did. You never fail to mention it. But I’m sick to death of telling you, Dad, it’s not what I want.”
He looked pained; but before he could speak she kept going.
“And I don’t want an internship either. I’m working. It’s work I’ve chosen. I love it, I’m good at it, and, as it happens, I’m about to get a promotion. Not that you’d be interested. As far as you’re concerned it’s all beneath me. Actually, no, it’s beneath you. I bet you can’t even bear to mention it when you talk to your smarmy friends!”
She had known from the start that he disliked her job with the airline. But somehow she’d thought that by sticking to her guns and achieving success she’d eventually gain his approval.
“I have a flat, Dad, a lovely place of my own in France where I live with good friends. I have independence and, for all you know or care, I may even have a career plan. One that doesn’t involve calling in favors from my dad’s rich contacts.”
It crossed her mind that they must look very alike as they glowered across the table at each other. Mum always said that when she was angry she had the same set to her jaw as Dad had if he was crossed. But Dad very seldom lost control and now, to her dismay, Jazz found herself close to tears.
“Don’t give me all that stuff about Granny Lou missing my company. You’re just killing two birds with one stone. You want me out of my nasty little, low-class budget airline all right, but you also want a social secretary. Well, it’s not going to be me. Oh, I know, why not ask Tessa? Oh, hang on, I forgot. Tessa has a career to get on with. She may even have a social life that doesn’t center on you!”
A new look crossed Dad’s face, one that Jazz hadn’t seen before. But the realization that had just gripped her couldn’t be contained.
“I’m not Mum, and I don’t exist to make life easy for you. I’ll see Granny Lou when she and I want to, not when it’s convenient for you!”
There was a long pause in which Jazz felt cold. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders. Then, realizing that she was avoiding Dad’s eyes, she looked up at him. His face was pale, his jaw was clenched, and when he spoke his voice sounded different. It was slow and stifled and his eyes were like glass.
“I don’t think we need to bring Tessa into this conversation. This is about your future, which, for some reason, you’re determined to chuck down the drain. Because that’s what you’re doing, Jazz. And if you’re too immature to grasp that, then nothing I can offer will help.”
For a moment they glared at each other. Then Dad glanced away and when he looked back his whole demeanor had changed. Jazz could feel the force of his personality focused on her as his voice became persuasive. They were both behaving very badly, he said, and the fault was probably his. Maybe it was the wine and champagne speaking. Or the fat chips! Anyway, it was all just silliness. The internship thing was only an idea. If it didn’t interest her, so be it. He smiled at her, raising a rueful eyebrow, and without really intending to, she found herself smiling back. Dad crooked his finger and the waiter appeared with fresh coffee and a bottle of brandy.
Jazz grinned. “I thought you said that our trouble was too much drink?”
“I’m not always right about everything, you know. It might have been too little.” Raising his glass, he looked across it and winked. “Friends?”
As she raised her own glass in return he kissed her hand.
Back home, he kissed her cheek and told her she was asleep on her feet. Unsure whether she was tipsy or sleepy, Jazz climbed the stairs with her shoes in her hand and her shawl trailing behind her. The combination of her long day and the row with Dad had exhausted her. And, given that Dad had been trying to be helpful, the row had been all her fault. Her last thought as her head hit the pillow was that she’d gone and messed up a pleasant evening by making a foolish fuss.
Sometime around daybreak, she woke with a raging thirst and went into the bathroom. Then, as she stood on the cold tiles with a glass of water, a scene from her childhood drifted into her mind. It was after some case that Dad had won that had gained him a big promotion. She could remember him now, sweeping into the house in triumph and waltzing Mum around the kitchen. And she could remember what he’d said. The one sure way to be a winner was to make your opponent feel a fool.