Inevitable (2 page)

“
Why did you bring us here, Mum?”

“
I told you. We needed a change of scenery.”

This was always her excu
se for our midnight flits. We’d moved
around for as long as I can remember. My mum had never been able to
last longer than three months in one place without getting into
some kind of trouble. During my life I have lived in just about
every town and city the UK has to offer. In fact I’ve never stayed
in one place long enough to remember its postcode. But this is the
first time she’d ever dragged me to another country. Something told
me whatever she was running away from this time must have been
pretty damn serious.

“
But you have to admit this is the most drastic change of
scenery we’ve ever had. I sort of understood at first, what with
Tre
a-sorry,
Trudy living here. But now we’re here it’s like you don’t even want
to see her.”

The impossible followed
– my Mum fell silent.

“
Mum?” I pressed a little more impatient than I’d
intended.

“
Trudy’s going to help us. No one’s ever helped us before,
Maddie.
She’s
offered to pay for your schooling – for private schooling! She’s
going to give you the life you deserve. The life I
couldn’t.”

I took
three calming breaths and literally shook the frustration from my
brain before my mouth opened and a 100mph rant came speeding from
it. She’s paying for my school? Why? I couldn’t even begin to
imagine how much that was going to cost. I suppose I just assumed
my mum was going to pay for it until the money she stole ran out
and then we’d no doubt move on somewhere else.

I
didn’t even want to go to school. I mean, back in England I
could’ve been almost finished with college by now, and yet now I
was back in bloody high school! And if that wasn’t bad enough I’d
already been advised during an ‘informal welcome phone call’ with
the school’s careers advisor that given my lack of experience with
the American education system, and the fact that I was starting
half way through the semester, I would most likely have to repeat
my senior year. How is that fair?

According to my mum it wa
s all part of the better life she had
planned for me. She was determined we were going to stay put this
time. I was going to get a decent all-American education and go on
to do amazing things with my life. She was apparently giving up the
game too. She was going to get a job – a real,
legal
job – to support us and use her
savings (AKA the money she stole) for emergencies, shortfalls and
luxuries. It was all bullshit of course but I’d play along until
she had another manic episode or stole from some other rich pervert
and we had to run away again.

But w
hy did Treacle suddenly give a crap? She wasn’t all that
arsed about my future when I was five. Not that she should have
been of course. I was her friend’s mistake. I wasn’t her
responsibility – just like I wasn’t now.

“
I haven’t had a bad childhood, Mum.” At least, not as bad
as some kids. Granted I’d seen, heard and done things no child
should ever have to experience but I always knew my Mum loved me.
She did everything she could to stop Social Services taking me away
– mainly running away. She fought for me, and somehow that made up
for it all.

“
We both know that’s not true. I didn’t have a clue how to be a
mother, Maddie. Guess I still don’t. But you know I love you,
right?”

“
Of course I do. I love you too.” Right, time for Operation
Stop Mum From Crying… “
You know, this place is a shit hole,” I teased
with a wink I knew she’d laugh at. Thankfully she did and it gave
me hope we’d make it in and out of the posh people’s house without
her flipping out on me. “But it’s our shit hole, right?”

“
Right.”

I knock
ed on four of the neighbouring tin cans before someone
finally opened the door. A greasy old man with a string vest and a
comb-over eventually answered and allowed me use of his phone to
call a taxi – although I’m sure it was only so the dirty old perv
could gawp at my bum as I bent over the old, splintered desk to
reach the landline.

“
Thanks,” I mutter
ed dutifully, trying not to throw up at the stench
of sweat and cigars being emitted from his hairy, round body. Then
I literally ran for my life.

I saw the taxi pulling up as I rounded the corner to our
house.
Christ, that was quick.
My mum waved me over and I sprinted
towards her, trying to sidestep pots of dead flowers and the odd
car tyre.

“
Where to, girls?” the chirpy driver asked.

“
Atherton, please,” my mum said
and I noticed the driver’s eyes widen
in the rear-view mirror.

“
Atherton? You sure?” he asked
in disbelief. I imagined Atherton must be
some fancy pants rich persons town and we quite clearly didn’t fit
the bill.

Judgemental
prick.

“
Quite. This is whe
re we need to be.” My mum handed him a little
square of white paper with something scribbled on it in black ink –
Treacle’s address I assumed. He nodded and then cocked his head to
one side as if my mum were crazy. Which she was of course, but he
didn’t know that.

“
Atherton it is then,” he said, shaking his head. I
was
suddenly
nervous. Were we going to be met by a mob of snooty protesters
armed with wooden signs and banners ordering the immediate exile of
the poor people?

T
he
taxi veered off onto a long winding road lined with evergreen trees
and raised beds containing shrubs with red leaves. It was like we
had just crossed an invisible line separating the rich from the
‘normal’. Huge iron gates, perfectly pruned greenery and
ostentatious cars surrounded us. I stared down at my yellow dress –
my
best
dress – and I felt like a tramp.

“
This must be it,” my mum said
, her voice saturated with awe. I looked
up from my hobo worthy dress to see we had stopped in front of some
impressive arched, black iron gates. The driver leaned out of his
window and pushed a little white button on a freestanding intercom
unit. An inaudible muffle sounded from it.

“
I’ve got an Annie Welford and a Maddie Davis here, ma’am,”
he spoke into the white box after asking Mum for our names -
apparently I’m named after one of my potential fathers.

The intercom beeped
and then the imposing gates whirred as they prized
themselves open. Slowly, more cautiously, we were driven down a
lengthy paved driveway trimmed with shrubs and trees until it
extended into a large court surrounding a magnificent building
comprising of three white edifices with sloping red-tiled roofs,
merged into one enormous house. There were huge stone
statues
everywhere.
Two lions guarded the front door on stone podiums and
faceless naked women in various poses were dotted around the
meticulously manicured lawns.

A woman – late thirties with honey blonde hair and a
red-carpet worthy s
ilver maxi-dress – stepped out of the house to greet us
before we’d even vacated the car.

“
Jesus Christ, I barely recognise her,” my mum muttered
under her breath whilst handing a chunk of crumpled notes to our
driver.

“
Is that Trudy?”

My mum nodded
once and then shook her head in disbelief. I
clambered awkwardly out of the car first, self consciously
smoothing my trampy dress over my thighs with my palms. My mum
followed and clearly feeling as insecure as I did, started to rake
through her short purple hair with her nervous fingers.

“
Maddie!” Treacle
bellowed and then hurled herself towards me,
slamming into my body as she wrapped her arms around me.

What the…

“
Hi,” I mumble
d nervously.

“
It’s been a while, Trudy.” I had never been so grateful for
my mum’s interruption. Treacle released her constrictive hold of
me, but then took hold of my hand, making me feel
uncomfortable.

“
It sure has, Annie,” she replied in a flawless American
accent she must have picked up over the years – the type which
reminded me of the gracious Hollywood actresses in the old black
and white movies. “I’m so glad you’re both here. Come, meet my
family.”

She led
us across the red brick driveway/courtyard/piece of land
big enough to warrant its own postcode, without even touching my
Mum.
Why the
hell am I getting all the special treatment?
Stepping inside the lightwood
and glass double doors we entered a vast round foyer bigger than
the whole of our new house and grounds put together. Gold-veined
marble tiles covered the floor and crystal lanterns adorned the
pristine white walls which surrounded an impressive lightwood
spiral staircase.

So this is what she left us for?
Suddenly, I couldn’t say I blamed
her.

“
Mitch? Kara?” Treacle
called, her graceful voice echoing along the
never-ending hallway. Moments later a tall man with salt and pepper
hair emerged from one of the many lightwood and glass doors
surrounding us. He was wearing black slacks, a crisp baby-blue
shirt, black tie and a firm no-nonsense smile.

“
Mitch this is Maddie and
Annie. Maddie and Annie, this is my
husband Mitch,” she addressed all three of us. Mitch offered his
hand to shake and I was grateful for the excuse to pull my clammy
hand free from Treacle’s too-firm grasp. I nodded and shook his
hand then my mum ran her fingers through her hair before doing the
same.

Next a young girl with the same chestnut hair as me pulled
into a
high
ponytail, a cute smile and wearing a simple jeans and pink vest
ensemble appeared, although I didn’t see which door she came
from.

“
This must be little Kara,” my mum said with a genuine
smile.

“
I’m twelve,” Kara snapped
, clearly offended by my mum’s term of
endearment.

“
Of course. You are even more beautiful than in the photos
your mum sent me.” Kara shrugged, unimpressed. I guessed her
stroppy teenage years had hit a little early.

We all
stood motionless in a half circle. Nobody spoke. It was the rich
and the poor. Them and us. The dense atmosphere of sheer
awkwardness was almost choking.

“
Dinner is almost ready. I’ve had Clarabella make spaghetti
Bolognese, Maddie. You’re favourite.”

Is it?
As far as I knew a McDonalds Big Mac meal was my
favourite.
And who the hell’s Clarabella?
Nevertheless I forced a grateful
smile and took hold of my mum’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly
when I noticed it trembling slightly. She forced a smile and then
hitched her dress down so it almost reached her knees.

The dining room
was situated at the back of the house. Seamless
panes of glass spanned the full length and width of the far wall
overlooking a colossal figure of eight shaped pool surrounded by
white loungers and palm trees. Beyond the pool was a large decked
terrace housing a brick barbecue and next to it stood a hexagonal
wooden structure besieged by steel bar stools and round glass
tables.

Seating us at the rectangular glass dining table
decorated with
contemporary square white plates, baskets of freshly baked French
bread and a plethora of white lilies, Treacle turned to her
husband.

“
Where’s Blaine, darling?”

Blaine! That’s
it! I knew it began with a B.

“
He’s just finishing up in the gym. Shouldn’t be
long.”

In that moment, as if
he heard his name, Blaine appeared at the doorway
we’d just walked through.

Oh, sweet
Jesus…

Blaine
is the kind of guy you read about in teen romance novels.
The one you see on high school set movies. Utterly, jaw droppingly
gorgeous. Nothing like the gangly, acne smothered boys back
home.

He propped himself against the doorframe. He stood tall –
at least six feet, two. He had an undoubted confidence exuding from
him – almost to the point of
arrogance. My eyes seemed unwilling to leave his
body as they wandered over his dark brown hair which was ruffled
and dripping with sweat. Then they shifted focus to his eyes which
were a shade of blue so bright and electrifying they were visible
across the room. He was sporting some rather impressive designer
stubble which I’d never seen on a boy my age before and his tanned
arms were covered in quite a heavy coating of pale brown
hair.

Was he really
my age? Maybe I’d misheard.

I
continued to stare pathetically at him. He was wearing grey joggers
and a white t-shirt with a translucent v-shaped sweat patch dipping
down towards his midriff and it hugged tightly against his bulging
muscles. The muscles in his arm which was adorned with a colourful
tattoo – a black and grey skull on a bed of vivid red roses -
flexed deliciously as he ran a limp towel around the back of his
neck.