Girl 99

by Andy Jones

  It’s another of those bright moments that precedes a lull.

  Verity breaks the silence. ‘That night,’ she says. ‘When you drove me back to my flat.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You seemed . . . I dunno, hesitant. Unsure.’

  ‘I was. Sure. I just . . .’ I indicate the general vicinity of my brain. ‘Too much thinking, I think.’

  The dashboard on the Triumph Herald is a single piece of varnished wood, set with levers, knobs and various dials for displaying speed, temperature, volts, revolutions per minute. The second hand on the clock ticks its circular path.

  ‘I know we don’t really know each other,’ Verity says, ‘but I’ve kissed a lot of frogs, and’ – smiling – ‘I don’t think you’re a frog.’

  ‘Some people might disagree.’

  ‘It’s a compliment, Tom. Accept it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, turning to face her. ‘And I don’t think you’re a frog, either.’

  ‘I don’t want to come off all . . .’ Verity widens her eyes, grits her teeth, mimes stabbing me in the chest. ‘You know, intense. I’m not. I’m honestly not. But . . .’ She glances at our laced-together fingers. ‘But I don’t need a . . . a fling, you know?’

  I nod that I understand.

  ‘I want more than that,’ Verity says. ‘And if you’ve got your doubts, if you’re on the rebound, if there’s someone e—’

  ‘There’s no one else.’

  Verity squeezes my hand. It seems to say, Good. Or perhaps: There’d better not be.

  ‘There’s no one else,’ I say. ‘I just convinced myself that I didn’t deserve you. That you deserved someone better than me.’

  Verity smiles. ‘So what made you change your mind?’

  ‘I didn’t. It’s just something I’m going to have to work on.’

  Verity scooches up so that she’s tight against me, and we lean into each other, staring out of the window at the dancing rain.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  It’s two hundred and six days since I accepted El’s bet. Seventeen days since I conceded it.

  I lie with my head on Verity’s chest, listening to her breathing as it slows . . . steadies. Beneath it I can hear her heart. Tonight we’re cooking boeuf bourguignon for Eileen and Douglas – a double date. It’s C-Day, but it’s my secret and there’ll be no champagne. El and Phil flew to Disneyland last Friday, but it’s too soon for a postcard. My wish for Phil is that, after El has gone, he won’t be like my dad. That he’ll be like Doug, who is planning a summer holiday somewhere hot with Eileen.

  Some people can love and love again, and I want Phil to be one of them.

  My head rises and falls with Verity’s chest, and one day her heart will stop beating. It’s surely a long way off but it’s as inevitable as tomorrow and it scares me sick – but that’s a good thing; it makes me smile. The next time I see Dad, I’ll tell him that I understand. The certainty that he couldn’t love anyone more than he loved my mother – ‘I know what you mean,’ I’ll tell him.

  It’s been twenty-one days since I first kissed Verity, ten days since we first made love.

  But, hey, who’s counting.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  A note on the chronology of Girl 99 and The Two of Us:

  If you’ve read my novel The Two of Us, you will have met the character El before. Regarding the order of the books, Girl 99 came first and, accordingly, El’s disease is less advanced in this story.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As ever and forever, enormous gratitude and big love to Sarah, my wise, patient and supportive wife – you made this book better. And more of the same to my mother (and very own senior editor) for diligent, intelligent and creative notes, despite all the sex and naughty words.

  Chris Mudge, Stephen Pipe and James Miller provided insight to matters of film production; Sarah Tabrizi gave generously of her valuable time and deep knowledge on Huntington’s disease; Keith Juden was on hand with succinct and shrewd notes on later drafts.

  To my agent and friend, Mark ‘Stan’ Stanton, for his pragmatism, positivity and unerring good humour – thank you, squire.

  And finally, to my editors at Amazon, Sammia Hammer, Gemma Wain and Sophie Wilson – thank you for seeing the potential in this book, for recognising its strengths and highlighting its shortcomings. Thank you for razor-sharp notes, interesting juice recipes and for being thoroughly charming and totally lovely. It’s been a joy.

  Thank you all.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2014 Daniel Allan

  Andy Jones lives in London with his wife and two little girls. During the day he works in an advertising agency; at weekends and horribly early in the mornings, he writes fiction.

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  @andyjonesauthor

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