Chapter 1
Today will be uneventful. I am determined of it. Because, until I kiss her goodbye, my eighteen-year-old daughter’s big adventure hasn’t yet started, the situation is under control and nothing will go wrong. Not on my watch.
‘Why are we so early?’ Frankie asks.
‘We’re not,’ I reply. ‘We’reon time. There is a difference.’
Punctuality has never been one of her defining features. But I refused to risk any drama this morning, so bustled her out of the house exactly when we were supposed to leave. If she’s forgotten anything now, she will have to buy it when she gets to France.
I click on the indicator and turn towards the station, as something occurs to me.
‘Did you move that rape alarm to the front pocket of your rucksack? I read somewhere that they’re not allowed in hand luggage.’ I say this in a casual tone, to hide how much I’ve been dreading this day, when she leaves home to travel around Europe, despite my certainty that it’s only minutes since she was crawling around in nappies.
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘So is your Air Tag on the small bag?’
‘Yep.’
‘And you’ve checked that the location is switched on in your mobile settings?’
She exhales and turns to me. ‘Mum, seriously. Is this really necessary? You’ve spent years telling me you went Interrailinground Europe before anyone even invented the iPhone. Why do I need more tracking devices than James Bond?’
‘You might thank me one day,’ I reply, standing my ground.
‘I’m sure I will,’ she concedes. ‘Althoughnotfor that stupid whistle you want me to wear round my neck . . .’
‘What’s wrong with the whistle? It could be very handy.’
‘Yes – for all those times when I want to run an impromptu PE lesson.’
I let out a little laugh, which is followed by an urgent need to cry. The defiant look in my daughter’s eyes softens into something else, which I fear might be pity.
‘It’s only six months,’ she says.
‘I know!’ I smile, breezily. ‘And for the record, I’mreallyhappy you’re doing this.’
This is true. At least partly. After finishing her A levels, Frankie had been working in a care home to save money. She said she enjoyed it for the most part – and when I picked her up after her shifts, she’d regale me with stories about her beloved residents. But they were constantly understaffed, the hours were unsociable and there are obvious issues with becoming as friendly as she was with her ninety-something-year-old charges – she was heartbroken whenever the worst happened.
The point is, she’s earned this adventure. I want it for her. Or at least, Iwantto want it for her. And I know my role here is to stand at the sidelines, cheering her on as she has the time of her life, even if I’m left at home quietly having a nervous breakdown.
Because her leaving isn’t temporary, not really.
Although Frankie will return to the UK at the end of August, she’ll head to Birmingham almost immediately afterwards to start a degree in Performing Arts. All of this leaves me grappling with the unassailable reality that I am now classed as an ‘empty nester’. And how can I possibly be old enough for that?
I googled that term the other day – you know, just to torture myself. The images it threw up were of women who looked old enough for a Stannah stairlift. I might regularly have to remind myself that the new millennium didn’t happen roughly a decade ago and that the cool kids are no longer listening to Radiohead, but things haven’t quite come to that.
‘You have nothing to worry about, Mum,’ Frankie continues, clearly not buying my reassurances. ‘I’m a grown woman. I know what I’m doing.’
I don’t contradict her, but there’s mistake number one right there. She thinks she knows what she’s doing because she’s eighteen years old. It’s only when you get to my age – forty-seven – that you realise you know absolutely nothing and never have. Still, having brought my daughter up to be a good little feminist, I am in no position to complain when she considers herself independent and capable. But there is one last thing I do need to get off my chest.
‘Will you promise me that you won’t ever, under any circumstances, try hitchhiking?’
Much as I love my daughter, she has form for acting before she thinks. My worst nightmare is that she’ll run out of money one day and be tempted to recreate the opening scene of every horror B movie by jumping in with some random lorry driver.
‘We have already had this conversation,’ she points out. ‘Not everyone in the world is out to get us, Mum.’
‘Well, that’s true. But some are – and you don’t know which is which.Promise me.’
