Beholden Page 2

Although to be fair, there were many, many advantages to the idea of an escort, and trust me when I say I’d given them a lot of consideration over the past three hours. Firstly, no awkward morning afters, actually, no awkward evening befores. Secondly, it was a business transaction that ended at midnight. No Cinderella moment, no glass slipper. And finally there would be no delving, no processing…

  All I had to do was find the nerve to make the call.

  Chapter 3

  Joanne

  “Hey, Ash, wait up.” I shouted to my best pal, Ashleigh McLaughlin, as she strode hurriedly across the car park; with three hundred or so people leaving at five pm when the buzzer in the factory sounded, it was a human re-enactment of the start of the Grand National. Everyone was jockeying for position, trying desperately to be first out of the stalls and into their cars, or in pole position in their quest for a seat on the bus so they wouldn’t be left standing the whole way home.

  We worked for Stewart’s Clothing producing knitwear, primarily golfing gear, and Ashleigh and I had sat on opposite sides of the same conveyor belt for the past seven years; the highlight of our week entailed stitching the seams of a thousand rolled collars that were heading for Japan!

  It wasn’t exactly Dolce and Gabbana, but it paid the bills.

  “Hey, Jo, I’m sorry, I don’t want to miss the bus. I have to pick the up kids from their grannie’s before college.”

  “About that, I’ve a favour to ask,” I said. “I don't have enough in the bank to cover my car insurance this month. Is there any chance you could drive to college this week? I’ll sort it out as soon as we get paid on Friday, and I’ll do next week.”

  The factory was just a means to an end. My heart was set on being a nurse, not a very lofty ambition, but one which was close to my heart. I attended the local night school trying to get the grades to go to university and realise my dream, whilst Ashleigh was taking a photography and Photoshop course. We shared the driving duties and this week should have been my turn.

  “Nae problem,” she said. We saw the bus pulling up and ran the last one hundred metres, joining the end of the long lingering string of weary workers. “That actually works out perfectly,” Ashleigh panted. “Malcom has a job down in Eyemouth starting next Tuesday."

  “That’s great, Ash, hopefully things are starting to pick up,” I said, as we edged along the narrow aisle towards the back of the bus. We didn’t get a seat, but at least we weren’t left waiting for the next one to come along which could be in two minutes, or more likely twenty.

  The rumble of the engine and the ensuing chatter always made me regress to childhood and I began humming ‘The Wheels on the Bus.’ Mind it was seriously outdated now. Maybe a verse about the beep beep beep or swipe swipe swipe of the phone would be more relevant.

  “How’s your mam?” Ashleigh asked as we stopped outside the Corn Exchange in central Dalkeith. Fortunately a few people got off next to where we stood, and I shuffled along the seat until I was next to the dusty window; I stared out of it, admiring the old buildings of the market square.

  “She’s doing okay this week?” she repeated the same question only with a slight variation.

  I rarely talked about my mother for a myriad of reasons, the main one being it was exhausting. You see she was an alcoholic, and I’d learned from a young age telling people she was doing well then a week later having to admit she’d fallen off the wagon, or explaining happily how she’d really turned a corner only to get a phone call to say she was catatonic on a bench outside Boots, was a bitter pill to swallow. Still hope’s a funny thing and no matter how many times she’d let me down in the past, I couldn’t help but think that this time it was different; for twenty nine tormented days not a drop of liquor had passed her lips.

  “She’s doing really well, I even bought her one of those novelty cakes last night to celebrate her one month sobriety. It was decorated with a cheesy picture of me and her at my eighteenth birthday party.”

  “That’s good, hen.” Ashleigh was as pleased as I was.

  Choked with emotion I didn’t want to jinx my mother’s efforts by going overboard with the kudos, so decided to leave it there.

  “Did you see Love Island last night?” Ashleigh recognised my reticence for what it was and changed the subject.

  “Nah, not really my cup of tea.” We came to our stop at the entrance to the council estate we called home and quickly got off. We lived in Dalkeith, a town on the outskirts of Edinburgh. It wasn’t a bad spot and had a country park on the peripheral where I enjoyed many a Sunday morning walk, breathing in the fresh air as I powered along dark brown trails to escape the latest vision of my mother in a drunken stupor on the sofa.

  “So I’ll pick you up at a quarter to seven?” Ashleigh said when we reached the corner where we would go our separate ways.

  “Aye, see you then.” The rain that was promised started when I was only a few steps from my front door, so at least I wouldn’t end up looking like an extra from the Lion King. My curly hair took on a life of its own whenever the weather was wet or humid; pow, I could open a bottle of wine with it, no bother.

  Running up the concrete path, keys in hand, I barely had time for a shower and twenty minutes power revision before I had to leave again. However, the priority was feeding the rumbling beast in my stomach. I was starving. Thankfully, I’d put mince and tatties in the slow cooker that morning.

  “I’m home,” I called from the door. No answer. My heart sank. Giving the living room a cursory glance as I passed, I doubled back and sighed jadedly. For a few moments I simply stood and stared; I should know better than to tempt fate. My mam was lying unconscious on the sofa with four empty and crushed cans lying next to her like a metal comfort blanket.

  “Oh, Mam,” I cried. I was a bit surprised she was so out of it because normally four tins barely touched the sides. I pulled the tartan blanket over her and despairingly regarded her lined face. God she looked eighty four never mind forty four. A whisper of whimsy passed over me, wishing things were different, wishing she was stronger. But it was no use dreaming of a past that never was and never would be. Tucking the blanket around her shoulders, a bottle rolled onto the floor.

  A half bottle of vodka. Empty.

  She was mortal drunk and from her snoring, happy to be so. I shook my head and took a shuddering breath. I couldn’t think about her, not now. I’d let her sleep it off and tomorrow we’d do the whole ‘I’m sorry, I’m gonna get help, doll,’ contrition act again.

  Brick wall meet my words.

  I faltered at the door into the kitchen and tears immediately prickled my eyes; I wiped them away furiously. Crying never helped anyone, least of all me. Pasta and rice littered the floor and my feet crunched as I slowly turned to take in the devastation. The room wasn’t just upside down, it was inside out and back to front. Jars and bottles flung out of cupboards, storage canisters emptied of their contents… even the contents of the freezer were currently holding court in the sink. For fuck’s sake.

  Money.

  My mother had been looking for money to replenish her vodka spring after it ran dry. Cursing, I put my keys down on the worktop and began furiously tidying up. I didn’t have time for this, not tonight. Brushing up the worst of the detritus from the floor, I filled two black bin liners with the broken crockery and food that was spoiled.

  It was going to be a lean month.

  Never physically violent with me, or anyone else for that matter, get between my mother and the money for another naggin? This bomb site of anger and frustration was the result. Grabbing a bowl out of the cupboard I lifted the lid off of the slow cooker. Faced with the mayhem, I hadn’t noticed the lack of aroma that normally diffused around the house.

  I did then.

  The mince was still pink and the potatoes rock hard. I checked the plug - which was hanging loosely over the edge of the counter. This has gone beyond a joke. “Did she think I’d stashed a fiver in my dinner?” I muttered angrily and stormed into th
e front room.

  “Mam, wake up.” I shook her shoulder. “Mam!”

  “Wha… wha’s the matter,” she slurred.

  “What’s the matter? Where do I start,” I growled. “The kitchen? The vodka?”

  “Aw, henny, leave me be. You don’t understand, I needed a drink,” she whined.

  “You… fuck you really are selfish! You know I have an important exam tonight, and if I fail then where does that leave me? Stuck in this rut for another year. Didn’t you think about me when you were making that mess? No, of course not, you never did before, why change the habit of a lifetime.”

  “Don’ speak to me like that, am ye mother!”

  “You’re not a mother, you’re a drunk! I’m fed up, Mam, seek of living this way!”

  “I’m ill and you can’t wait to be oot the door!” she wailed pathetically.

  “Don’t give me that tripe. You’re not ill, you’re weak. I should have left you where you were eight years ago instead of calling the ambulance - we’d both have been better off!” I shouldn’t have said what I did, but every vertebrae in the camel’s back was broken. My breathing ragged and rasping, I stomped out of the room before I said anything else.

  The second I heard Ashleigh’s familiar tooting I was out the door. I hadn’t even glanced at my revision, too wound up to do anything but squeeze the fuck out of my stress ball.

  “You okay?” she asked, concern highlighting her words. It didn’t take a genius to work out something was wrong; normally I’d be as quiet as a mouse in case I woke my mother, but today the foundations shook when I slammed the front door. I was so angry, I didn’t want her to have the peace of an alcohol induced coma, I wanted her to face what she’d done, like I had to.

  “She got hold of a naggin of vodka,” I shrugged. “The kitchen was a bit of a state.” I stared at my reflection in the wing mirror and eyes full of unfettered tension stared right back at me. Apparently a stress ball didn’t effectively deal with the problems raised by an alcoholic mother. Either that, or a larger one was required… the way I felt, not even one the size of a space hopper would do the trick.

  “Need any help?” Ashleigh squeezed my thigh.

  “No it’s okay. I’ll manage.” I always did. I was eight years old the first time my mother destroyed the house looking for money. Then it required a week to straighten the place out, well as straight as an eight year old could get it.

  “Still no word on rehab?”

  “She’s on the waiting list, but they won't admit her until they’re confident she's at least making some semblance of an effort to get sober on her own.” I stared forlornly out of the window. It was a vicious circle. “And she really was. I even spoke to Father McNally, the vicar at St Mary’s last week. He helps run that one up on the hill.”

  “Jesus, you’d send your mam to bible prison?” Ashleigh raised her eyebrows in surprise.

  “If it meant she’d stop drinking I’d be born again.”

  “You wouldn’t pass the threshold without bursting into flame,” she teased.

  “Begone child of Satan,” I intoned whilst flapping my hands in the air. “We’ll get through it,” I said softly. I wouldn’t give up on her, she was my mam. I was all she had and she was all I had. Call it masochism, call it a glutton for punishment, call it what you will.

  I wouldn't abandon her.

  Chapter 4

  Adele

  I climbed into my low slung BMW Z4 sports car; the engine started with a purr and I cautiously eased out of my parking spot. I paid premium to park in a secure car park (I treated my car better than some people treated their kids) but my baby was worth it. It was my second biggest purchase after my house. The firm sanctioned one of my designs for a large bank’s headquarters on the peripheral of Falkirk, and I was awarded a substantial bonus in return. I rushed out and got this beauty.

  Beauty.

  Even cars were judged aesthetically.

  In fairness, I didn’t so much rush as trolled the internet until I found my perfect drool worthy speed machine. It was a couple of years old but still cost me a pretty packet, and I spent many a glorious hour making sure she ran smoothly. I loved tinkering with anything mechanical, but especially cars, the older the better. Lately my evenings were spent under the bonnet of a 1965 MGB roadster.

  Now that was love at first sight.

  It wasn’t unusually late, eight pm, when I left the office, and being a workaholic wasn't the only reason I stayed behind most evenings - it also meant I missed rush hour traffic. What was the point of having a road hugging monster if you only drove it at five miles an hour? Instead of choosing the quickest route home, I took a left onto the city bypass. After the day I’d ‘enjoyed’, a few miles on the open road would be the perfect de-stresser. The road was practically empty and I eased through the gears until all I could hear was the hum of the engine. I sank back into the soft leather seat and opened her up, enjoying the freedom.

  Yeah the freedom to contemplate how much of a moron I am.

  The escort site was a revelation. The women were stunning, appearing both demure and respectable, the exact mix I was seeking. However, looks could be deceiving (I knew that better than most) and more importantly, were any of these women equipped to pull off doting girlfriend? The cost wasn’t prohibitively high, anywhere between a couple of hundred for an hour to five hundred for an entire evening, still something held me back from making that call. Attending the ball solo, sure I would feel like a bit of a loser, but the question I asked myself was this - would I prefer to feel like loser for being alone or feel like a sleaze for hiring an escort.

  Plus if anyone found out, it would be mortifying.

  Aileen would have a field day and I'm not sure that was quite the family image Kevin Jordan was aiming for. This conundrum wouldn’t be easily solved; tomorrow I’d look again, one more time. However, for the moment I was looking forward to hiding away from the world with my two furry babies, Bow and Arrow-

  My head snapped forward, before ricocheting back against the head rest.

  What the fuck just happened?

  The air bags deployed and even though they deflated instantly, it felt like an eternity, as if the world outside my car no longer existed. Inside, however, it was a different matter because everything sharpened… the drifts of powder, the loose change rattling in the cup holder, the pounding beat of my heart.

  Closing my eyes I tried to gain some perspective, and was sure I heard a door close, followed by urgent footsteps. I blinked rapidly and looked through the shattered passenger’s window, but all I could make out, with some difficulty, was the other driver slumped over the steering wheel. Thank god they hadn’t done a runner because, despite being a keen jogger, I don’t think I could have given chase. Gingerly I rotated my head, first side to side and then up and down. I may have had a mild case of whiplash, but Ambulance Chasing Lawyers For You would have to wait, I was more concerned about the damage to my car.

  Thankfully the rain was petering out, and once I was standing on the black pitted road I took a deep breath. I don’t think there’s anything better than the smell of summer rain, but when I caught a glimpse of what used to be the side and rear end of my car, not even this olfactory phenomenon produced an ounce of joy.

  Jesus, they must have been going at some lick.

  I shook my head in disbelief, regretted it momentarily, then hurried over to the other car. The driver hadn’t moved a muscle since the collision and anger quickly surrendered to panic. What if she was seriously hurt?

  “Miss?” I knocked on the window. No response was forthcoming so I rattled the door handle; it was either locked or stuck. “Miss?” I tried again, and again there was little acknowledgement apart from a groan. Damn. She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt! I knocked harder on the glass and that seemed to do the trick and she began to rouse from her…

  Stupor.

  My gaze scoured the inside of the car, noting the clean and well kept aspect of such an old vehicle, when
my eyes did a quick double take, so quick I think I might have given them whiplash.

  Vodka.

  A half empty bottle under the pedals.

  Oh. Hell. No.

  This time I banged vigorously on the window with the side of my fist. If she wasn’t injured she soon would be when I got my hands around her scrawny neck. “Open this damn door, right now!” I bellowed. I wasn’t seeing red, my vision was shades of crimson, scarlet and vermillion.

  Finally she looked at me through rheumy eyes “Wha?... Wha’ happened?” She slowly wound down the window, and the smell of summer rain was replaced by the cloying odour of alcohol, so pungent it was enough to make me swear off drink for life.

  “What happened?” I scowled, all sympathy disappeared now it was clear she was simply drunk rather than seriously injured. “Why don’t we wait for the police to explain exactly what happened!” It was time to call on reinforcements in the form of the boys and girls in blue. I scanned the vicinity for witnesses. Typical, there were none, or at least none that had hung around. I marched back to retrieve my mobile and frowned when I saw there were a couple of missed calls from Adam.

  Great. Probably him calling to tell me what a god awful human being I am! Where did he get off. He was my boss, not my fucking conscience. “Maybe I should change his ringtone to ‘Give a Little Whistle!’” I scoffed as another car pulled up.

  Chapter 5

  Joanne

  The light was fading when Ashleigh and I left college. We were running late, or rather I was, because Geoff Standish, my English tutor, accosted me after the exam. Allegedly he wanted to advise me on my potential university application, although he spent more time trying to convince me to go for a drink or dinner so we could have a proper chat about my future.

  I groaned. Not going to happen for so many reasons, not the least being it was, in my mind, unethical. Plus he really wasn’t my type. Aging lothario? Married? Male? Three strikes and he was so far out, the minor leagues wouldn’t even have taken him on.