‘On what?’
‘The Netflix thing. It was fab. Great acting. At least we thought so.’
‘OK.’
There’s a pause.
‘Stacey told me what happened before,’ she says.
I don’t say anything.
She strokes my cheek. ‘I know it seems harsh but she’s right, darling. You need to leave the parenting to us.’
‘I was just holding him, Mum.’
‘I know. But maybe it’s best if you don’t for a bit.’
‘What are you saying? That I can’t ever hold him?’
She sighs. ‘I’m saying, you need to take a step back, Jojo. Being a mother is all Stacey has ever wanted. You need to give her the time and space to do it.’ She looks around. ‘It’s not like you haven’t got other things to keep you occupied,’ she adds, reaching over to my desk and picking up the Arts Academy equipment list I’ve been ignoring.
At the beginning of June I was sent a list of items I’d need for my first term – black sweatshirt and jogging bottoms, black T-shirts, black character shoes, black practice skirt, notebooks, a yoga mat, etc … I remember the excitement rippling through my body as I read the list, setting aside a specific day to go out and buy them all. But that was before. Back when getting into the Arts Academy was the biggest thing that had ever happened to me.
‘Hey,’ Mum says. ‘I’ve got an idea. How about we go shopping for this lot on Saturday? We could make a day of it. Go for lunch, maybe watch a film. What do you reckon? It’s been ages since we had any proper mother/daughter time.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘I really think we should, darling. You’ve barely left the house these past few weeks. It’ll be good for you. I’ll have a look at the film listings, see if there’s anything interesting on.’
I don’t reply, just fiddle with the edge of the duvet.
Mum pushes herself to her feet. ‘Don’t stay up too late now,’ she says. ‘You need to start getting back into a routine. Especially with all those early starts you’re going to have to get to the academy on time. Perhaps we should do a couple of dummy runs next week, get you used to the commute so it’s not too much of a shock to the system.’
‘Perhaps,’ I echo.
She pauses in the doorway. ‘It’s going to get easier, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘I promise.’
I nod.
I don’t believe her, though. Not for one second.
*
I’m still in bed when Stacey bangs on my door the following morning. I slept badly, waking up every half an hour or so. I drag myself out of bed and open the door.
She looks stressed. Her hair is free from product and her trademark statement lipstick is missing.
My first thought is Albie.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, panic rising in my belly. ‘Is everything OK? Where’s Albie?’
‘Everything’s fine. It’s my mum,’ she says. ‘She’s locked herself out and needs me to go over with the spare key. You’re not going anywhere in the next little while, are you?’
‘I’m supposed to be at Frankie’s at ten so we can pick up our results,’ I say.
‘OK, that’s fine. I should be back by then, no problems. Can you stay with Albie? I’d take him with me but the car seat is in your mum’s car. We forgot to swap it over.’
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘He’s asleep in our room. He’s just had a feed so he shouldn’t wake up until after I’m back, so if you’d just leave him to sleep, I’d appreciate it.’ She puts extra emphasis on this part, her gaze intensifying.
‘Fine,’ I say, looking away.
‘Thank you, Jojo. I’ll be as fast as I can.’
I sit down on my bed and listen as Stacey gallops down the stairs, pausing to grab her keys from the hook before slamming the door shut behind her. A few seconds later, I hear the familiar roar of the faithful engine of her ancient Fiesta as she pulls out of the cul-de-sac.
I count to ten before standing up and making my way straight to Mum and Stacey’s bedroom.
Albie is in his Moses basket. I look down at him and I’m flooded with a love so strong it almost knocks me over. You can’t just take a step back from something like this. Mum and Stacey keep making out that it’s a decision, that I’m simply not trying hard enough, that if I put my mind to it, I’ll simply forget that’s he’s my son and happily get on with my life and never think about it ever again. But the reality is, I can’t step away. Just the idea of turning my back on him, of standing aside and letting someone else be his mother while I sit by and watch from the sidelines, makes me want to let out a never-ending silent scream.
In that moment I know what I’ve got to do.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I run to my room and start packing a bag.
Chapter 22
Room 426 is at the very end of a long empty corridor that smells of lemon-sharp toilet cleaner and cheap air freshener. I open the door and slip inside, locking it behind me. For a few moments I stay there, my backpack resting against the door, my arms wrapped around Albie.
I did it. We’re here.
It’s quiet, the only sound Albie’s slow, steady breathing and the rattling wheeze of the air conditioning unit.
The room is dim, a thin strip of sunlight peeking through the gap between the heavy curtains. I insert the key card into the slot on the wall to my right. A few seconds later the lights buzz on one by one, gradually bathing the room in a weak yellow glow. It looks pretty much like the promotional photographs displayed in the foyer, only slightly less glossy – the skirting board a little scuffed, the ghost of handprints on the off-white walls, the duvet significantly less cloud-like than the one promised. I don’t care, though. For the next twenty hours, it is mine and that’s all that matters.
I set my backpack down on the floor and remove Albie from the carrier. As I cradle him in my arms, he wakes up and regards me with watchful eyes. I perch on the edge of the bed and just look at him. I take my time, methodically studying every perfect millimetre of him. All the while he stares back up at me, his eyes wide and alert.
‘Hello, Albie,’ I say. ‘I’m your mummy.’
As the words leave my lips, I realize it’s the first time I’ve said anything to that effect out loud.
A single tear trickles down my cheek, landing on Albie’s. Tenderly, I wipe it away.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m not always like this, I promise.’
He continues to stare up at me, his forehead knitted into a tiny frown. I lean down and kiss him, pausing to inhale deeply. He smells glorious in a way I can’t put into words no matter how hard I try.
‘We’ve got a lot of catching up to do,’ I say, kissing him again. ‘A lot.’
After over an hour of eyeballing one another, he begins to grizzle. I feed him, burp him, then lay his sleepy body in the centre of the bed, surrounding him with pillows so he can’t go anywhere, even though, according to the baby book, he’s months away from being able to roll over. Content he’s comfortable, I move over to the window and push the curtain aside. We’re at the back of the hotel, overlooking the car park. Beyond it, I can see an industrial estate, and beyond that, trees and houses.
As I let the curtain fall back into place, it dawns on me that for perhaps the first time in my entire life, no one in the world knows where I am. Apart from the guy on reception perhaps, but he thinks I’m Amelia. As far as he’s concerned, Jojo Bright doesn’t exist.
A knock at the door makes me jump. Albie stirs but doesn’t wake. Cautiously, I slide off the bed and make my way towards the door.
‘Who is it?’ I call, my voice wavering. Even though I know it’s impossible, I can’t help but have visions of a furious Mum and Stacey on the other side.
‘Housekeeping,’ a female voice replies in an Eastern European accent. ‘I have your cot.’
I sigh with relief and open the door.
Once she’s gone, I place the cardboard do-not-disturb si
gn on the handle before locking and chaining the door behind me.
I open my bag, unpacking Albie’s stuff and lining it up on the little wooden desk. I sort through his clothes, carefully refolding his tiny socks and T-shirts and trousers and babygros. I didn’t do such a great job at packing for myself – untangling the mismatched shorts and T-shirts I barely remember grabbing – but I’m pleased with what I managed to get for Albie.
As I rescue my toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste from the bottom of the bag, my fingers graze my phone. I take it out and stare at the blank screen. I know I need to turn it on but I’m afraid of what will greet me when I do – the messages and missed calls and frantic voicemails. Just the thought of my screen filling up with notifications makes my stomach flip-flop and my head swim. I’ll do it later. When I’ve had time to rest and acclimatize and come up with a proper plan.
I place my phone face down on the chest of drawers next to the bed.
Satisfied Albie isn’t going anywhere, I go into the bathroom, taking care to leave the door ajar so I’ll hear him if he wakes up. I pull back the plastic shower curtain and survey the bathtub. It’s spotless apart from a single curling dark hair near the plughole. I turn on the cold tap. The hair appears to cling on for a few seconds before admitting defeat and swirling down the drain.
I haven’t had a bath since the birth. I’ve been avoiding the main bathroom altogether when I can, showering in Mum and Stacey’s tiny little en suite instead.
I turn on the shower, the room quickly filling with steam. I undress. In the foggy mirror I can see my hip bones, the gap between my thighs, the outline of my ribs. It doesn’t suit me. I’ve always been slight but there used to be a certain softness with it. Now I just look bony. I’m relieved when the mirror steams up entirely, swallowing up my reflection with it, and I make a mental note to eat the sandwich I bought.
I adjust the temperature of the water and step into the bathtub. I didn’t have the space for shower gel or shampoo so I have to use the stuff from the dispenser mounted to the wall, pumping it into my hand. It’s bright green, like washing-up liquid. It smells like it too. I close my eyes and wash my body and hair. When I’m finished, I wrap myself in a fluffy white towel, another round my head like a turban and venture back into the main room.
Albie is still fast asleep. He looks so peaceful. I stand over him and am flooded with love. And fear. Because as far as I can tell, when it comes to babies, the two go hand in hand.
I stretch out on the thin available strip of mattress next to Albie and his pillow fort and open my book. It’s full of motivational headings like ‘You are the expert’ and ‘You’re doing it right’ and ‘Trust your maternal instincts’. I read chapters on sleeping, feeding, soothing and development. They’re packed full of anecdotes from mums who sound just as overwhelmed as me, and even though I doubt the words were written with a sixteen-year-old girl in mind, I can’t help but feel reassured.
I finish the chapter on health and glance up. According to the digital clock on the desk, it’s nearly seven o’clock. I’ve been gone for over ten hours now. Swallowing, I set aside the book, knowing I can’t put it off any longer. My heartbeat quickening, I turn on my phone before I have the chance to talk myself out of it. The screen glows into life and for a few seconds there’s nothing. Then it begins to vibrate in my hand, the screen filling up with notification after notification. The same names and phrases jump out at me over and over again.
Mum.
Stacey.
Frankie.
One of Frankie’s most recent messages jumps out at me. I open it up so I can read it in full.
The idea of the three of them in one room makes my stomach churn. What did they say? What did they give away? From Frankie’s message, it looks like they kept their cards fairly close to their chest, but what if they let something slip, something Frankie might figure out on her own later? Whatever words were exchanged, I need to extinguish the situation. More than that though, I just want to hear my best friend’s voice.
I was four when I met Frankie. It was the first day of Reception and I was one of a few children clinging to their parent’s leg, eyes wet with silent tears. The class teacher, Mrs Percival, had been trying to coax me away for several minutes when a gangly girl with long dark hair in two plaits decided to take matters into her own hands. Mum later admitted she’d assumed she was an older child at first, drafted in to look after the new starters – Frankie was tall for her age and already moved around the classroom like she owned the place.
‘Don’t be sad,’ she said, determinedly peeling my fingers from Mum’s leg. ‘School is really, really fun, I promise.’
I was so startled I let her lead me away, and by the time I thought to check, Mum had already been ushered out of the classroom.
Frankie stuck by my side all day. At break time, she took my hand and led me out into the playground.
‘Let’s play a game,’ she said.
‘What kind of game?’ I asked nervously.
‘A “Let’s Pretend” game.’
‘What’s that?’
Frankie’s mouth hung open. ‘You don’t know what “Let’s Pretend” is?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s dead easy. We pick something and then we pretend it’s real. Like, “Let’s Pretend” Weddings and you can be the groom and I’ll be the bride. Or “Let’s Pretend” Pet Shop and I’ll be the shopkeeper and you can be the customer.’
‘Or “Let’s Pretend” circuses,’ I said slowly, getting the hang of things now. ‘And you can be the ringmaster man and I’ll be the trapeze lady.’
‘Yes!’ Frankie said, her eyes shining. ‘Exactly like that!’
Over the coming years, as our ‘Let’s Pretend’ universe expanded, my friendship with Frankie deepened. It didn’t matter that we were different. We just worked, right from the very beginning.
I scroll to Frankie’s name and press ‘call’.
She answers within three rings. ‘Finally!’ she cries. ‘Where the hell have you been all day? I must have messaged you like twenty times!’
My heart floods with love and guilt. Frankie is my best friend. She’s been my everything for most of my life. And I’m about to lie to her – again.
I take a deep breath before speaking. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I only just managed to charge my phone.’
As Frankie quizzes me about the whereabouts of my portable charger and why I haven’t been in touch, I sit back down on the bed, my head spinning.
‘I had to go to school all by myself, Jojo,’ Frankie is saying. ‘I looked like a right Billy No-Mates.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Um, something came up.’
‘Something more important than going to collect our GCSE results together?’
I don’t know what to say. How can I tell her that the most important thing in my life is something, or rather someone, she doesn’t even know exists.
‘Listen,’ Frankie says. ‘My mum’s offered to drive us to Ella’s. I’m running a bit late but I reckon I could be at yours for about twenty past if my hair decides to dry any time soon. That work for you?’
I pause, rehearsing the lines in my head before speaking them out loud. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think I’m going to make it tonight.’
‘What do you mean?’ she cries, wounded. ‘This has been in the diary for ever.’
Without invitation, memories of the last party of Theo’s I attended nine months ago invade my mind, memories I used to voluntarily replay over and over, supplying material for hours and hours’ worth of daydreams. I close my eyes and force them away.
‘Are you poorly again or something?’ Frankie asks. ‘Is that it?’
‘No, no, I’m, fine,’ I say, my eyes still closed.
‘What’s going on then?’
Beside me, Albie stirs. I put Frankie on speaker and pick him up, holding him close to my chest.
‘I’m at my dad’s,’ I say.
I feel bad ab
out using my dad’s bouts of depression as an excuse but it’s the most believable explanation I can come up with right now.
‘Is he OK?’ Frankie demands. ‘He’s not done anything, you know, stupid, has he?’
My eyes blink open at what she’s insinuating. ‘Oh no. No,’ I say.
‘Nothing like that.’
‘He’s going to be OK, then?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Then you can come to the party!’
‘I can’t just leave him, Frankie!’
‘But you literally just said you think he’s going to be OK.’
She’s getting fed up with me now, I can tell. I know I’m being unfair but I can’t help but feel annoyed with her for not accepting my story point blank.
‘Exactly. Going to be,’ I snap.
‘But it’s results day.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry but I …’ I close my eyes again. Somehow lying seems easier in the dark. ‘I just don’t feel right leaving him.’
Without warning, Albie lets out an ear-splitting wail. I set him down on the bed and grab my phone, taking it off speaker, and charge towards the bathroom.
‘What’s that noise? Is that a baby?’ Frankie asks.
She sounds almost disgusted at the thought. Frankie has never been into babies. Then again, until three weeks ago, neither was I, particularly.
I’m in the bathroom now, the door closed, Albie’s crying just about audible. It makes my heart break, the thought of him marooned on the bed, screaming his little lungs out. But what other choice do I have? I can’t risk Frankie hearing him.
‘It’s the TV,’ I say. ‘Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow or something.’
I hang up.
With trembling fingers, I send Mum and Stacey a joint text.
Then I turn my phone off and go back into the bedroom where I shove it to the very bottom of my bag.
I pick Albie up, holding him close against my chest as he cries.
OK.
Now what?
First Day of My Life Page 14
