‘A bit of each, please,’ I say. ‘I mean, if that’s OK.’
Frankie roughly divides the two doughnuts. I insist she takes the bigger half of the chocolate-iced custard-filled. She agrees on the basis that I take the bigger half of the original glazed.
Despite our promise, we’re still being overly polite with each other and I get the feeling we’re just at the beginning of a long adjustment process.
We munch in silence for a few moments. As usual Frankie gets chocolate icing all around her mouth. And as usual she tries (and fails) to lick it clean with her tongue.
‘So,’ she says, finally giving in and using a napkin. ‘You gonna call them or what?’ She nods down at my phone.
‘Oh,’ I say, ripping my remaining piece of doughnut in half. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m not saying you need to have a massive conversation or anything like that. You could even just send a text. I’m just thinking it might be a good idea to let them know you’re on your way back. Give them a bit of time to calm down and prepare.’
She’s right. Mum and Stacey must be frantic. And yet the idea of turning on my phone, of facing reality, makes my stomach flip.
‘When were you last in contact with them?’ Frankie asks.
‘Yesterday. Just after I spoke to you on the phone. I texted to let them know Albie and I were OK, and then I turned it off.’
‘Jojo, they’re going to be going crazy with worry.’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’
‘Hey, I’m not having a go,’ Frankie says. ‘I’m just saying maybe it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to put their minds at rest a bit.’
‘At rest? I’m about to rock up and tell them I’m not going to let them have Albie for themselves after all.’
‘Jojo, this isn’t just about Albie. They’re going to be worried about you too. They’re going to want to know you’re both OK.’
I want to believe her but I can’t. I know how much Mum and Stacey love Albie. I know how badly they wanted a baby. No matter how much they care about me, I can’t see those feelings trumping the ones they have for Albie.
‘Look at it this way,’ Frankie says. ‘If you turn it on, at least you know what you’re walking back into.’ She has a point. ‘After three,’ she commands. ‘One, two, three.’
Before I can chicken out, I pick up the phone and turn it on. It seems like for ever before the screen glows into life, my stomach churning as it fills with notification after notification, just as I predicted.
‘Whoa,’ Frankie murmurs as the messages pile up.
A massive part of me wants to shove the phone into her hands and ask her to delete every last text and voicemail before giving it back to me, all trace of the drama and upset I’ve caused over the last twenty-four hours wiped clean away. I know I can’t, though. Once more, Frankie’s right. I need to know what I’m walking back into.
I unlock the home screen.
I have forty-seven missed calls and fifty-eight messages. I show Frankie.
‘I have voicemails too,’ I say.
‘I don’t know if this helps, but at least three of them are from me,’ Frankie offers.
I’m too anxious to acknowledge her quip. ‘They’re going to be so angry,’ I whisper.
‘Maybe,’ Frankie says, scrunching up her napkin in her fist. ‘But maybe they’ve had time to think too. Wherever they’re at, you won’t know unless you listen.’
With newly trembling fingers, I dial voicemail.
‘You have nineteen new messages,’ the robotic voice informs me.
Nineteen. Shit.
‘I feel stupid asking this, but if I put it on speaker, will you listen with me?’ I ask.
Somehow the idea of listening as a pair seems that bit less scary.
Frankie doesn’t answer right away and for a second I’m worried she’s about to tell me to get lost. After everything that’s happened, I suppose I couldn’t really blame her. Instead, she reaches across and takes my hand in hers.
‘Course I will,’ she says.
The first message was left at 9.35 a.m. yesterday. Already, it feels like a lifetime ago.
‘Jojo, it’s Stacey. I’ve just got back from my mum’s. Where are you? Can you call me the moment you get this, please?’ The stress in her voice is clear. Stacey wears her emotions on her sleeve and this is no exception. I glance up at Frankie.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘Just keep going.’
The next message was left twenty minutes later. It’s Mum. In the background, I can hear the buzz of the office – phones ringing and photocopiers whirring: ‘Jojo, it’s Mum,’ she says briskly. ‘Can you give me a ring back as soon as you get this?’
Stacey left her next message less than half an hour later: ‘Jojo, it’s Stacey again. Listen, I’m sorry if what I said last night upset you, but running off with Albie is not the answer to things, OK? Come home and we can talk about it. I’m not mad, I promise. I just … just call me, please and I’ll come get you.’
Then it’s Mum’s turn again. From what I can work out, she’s walking, the click of her high heels clearly audible on the line: ‘Jojo, it’s me again. I mean it, you need to ring me the second you get this message, OK? Stacey’s in such a state I’ve had to leave work to be with her. I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve here but running off like this is not helping anyone. Just call us, Jojo, please.’
The next voice I hear is Frankie’s: ‘Jojo, it’s me. Where the flip are you? I’ve got to be at the salon by midday, remember? If you’re not here by eleven, I’m going without you, OK?’
‘Sorry,’ I say.
Frankie raises an eyebrow.
‘I never asked how you did,’ I add.
‘I did OK,’ she says. ‘You know, as expected.’
I want to ask for more details but the next message is kicking in. It’s Mum again: ‘Jojo, I don’t know what you think you’re playing at but this isn’t funny any more. Albie is three weeks old. He needs to be at home, where he belongs.’
‘She sounds mad,’ I say, biting my thumbnail.
‘She sounds worried,’ Frankie says. ‘Just keep listening.’
The next few messages are of a similar ilk – Mum and Stacey taking it in turns to beg me to come home. In one of the messages, Stacey is crying.
I’m relieved when I hear Frankie’s voice again: ‘Jojo, it’s me. Listen, I hadn’t finished talking to you. Can you call me back, please?’ And then: ‘Jojo, it’s me again. I know you’re not at your dad’s. You really need to ring me.’ She sounds especially pissed off in that one.
‘Sorry,’ I say again.
She waves away my apology.
The next message is from Dad: ‘Hey, Jojo, it’s your old man. Listen, I don’t suppose you could give me a call when you get the chance? It’d be good to chat. It’s been a while. Love you.’
The sound of his voice makes my heart ache. In the aftermath of the birth, I fobbed him off over and over again, desperate to avoid having to lie to him.
Frankie gives my hand a squeeze. ‘You can call him back later,’ she says.
I nod.
Mum continues to leave messages. Sometimes it’s just her, sometimes Stacey is in the background, tearfully chipping in.
‘We’re begging you now, Jojo,’ Mum says. ‘Just come home. Whatever it is that made you run off like this, we can sort it out. We just want you both home. Please, sweetheart. Just call us back. We love you.’
And then: ‘Darling, please, we’re going out of our minds here. We just want to know that you’re both safe. That’s all we care about, OK? That you’re both all right.’
She’s just saying that, though.
Right?
I look up at Frankie. She nods encouragingly.
There’s then a gap of a few hours where Mum and Stacey must have attempted to grab some sleep before leaving a voicemail, their fourteenth, at 6.35 a.m.
‘Jojo, it’s me,’ Mum says. She sounds exhausted. ‘Stac
ey and I have been talking and we … we wonder if we might have put a bit too much pressure on you. I don’t know, when we suggested the two of us taking Albie on, genuinely we were doing what was best, darling. And yes, I admit it wasn’t an entirely selfless act. You know how badly we’ve longed for a baby. But please believe me when I say we always had your best interests at heart, yours and Albie’s.’ She pauses and sighs. I can imagine her raking both hands through her hair the way she does when she’s tired or stressed. ‘But, well, you running off like this, it’s forced us to acknowledge that perhaps we’ve got a bit carried away. The past few weeks, they’ve been such a blur but if I’m really honest with myself, I knew you were unhappy with the arrangement from the very beginning. I just managed to convince myself that all you needed was a bit of time; that once term started up again and things were official, everything would get easier and you’d get on board …’ She sighs again. ‘Like I said, I knew you were unsure about things but I never for one second thought you’d do something like this. Why didn’t you just talk to us, darling?’
‘I tried to,’ I whisper, a tear rolling determinedly down my cheek. ‘So many times.’
‘Or maybe you tried to,’ Mum continues. ‘And we just blocked it out because it wasn’t what we wanted to hear … What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry. Stacey and I shouldn’t have pushed you the way we did. We were naive to think we could raise Albie as our own without there being serious implications for you. We realize that now. We just want you home, sweetheart. Both of you. Then we can talk. And this time, I promise we will listen. I promise, darling. Just come home. That’s all we care about now. I love you, Jojo. So much.’
I raise my eyes to meet Frankie’s. She’s been holding my hand this entire time. Right now, she’s studying me carefully, her head cocked to one side. I wipe away the tear tracks on my cheeks and look back down at my phone.
There’s one voicemail left.
There’s a pause before I hear Stacey’s voice, hoarse and trembling on the line: ‘Jojo, I – I just want you do know that I was by your mum’s side when she left that message right now and I echo everything she said. We just want you home. Please, Jojo. Just come home.’
‘You have no new messages,’ a robotic voice informs me.
I remove my hand from Frankie’s and hang up.
‘You OK?’ Frankie asks.
I manage a nod.
‘They just want you home, Jojo.’
‘But what if they’re just saying that?’ I ask.
‘I really don’t think they are. In any case, you won’t know unless you speak to them.’
I nod again and pick up my phone, turning it over in my hands.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For doing that. You being there just then, it meant a lot.’
For a moment I imagine a universe in which I’d told Frankie the truth from the very beginning. I’d been so afraid of hurting her, of damaging our friendship, that I hadn’t even considered the possibility.
‘What are friends for, eh?’ she says, shrugging.
‘I love you, Frankie,’ I say.
She blinks, clearly surprised by the suddenness of my declaration.
‘You don’t have to say it back,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, I get it, after everything that’s gone down …’
She shakes her head and smiles a sad sort of smile. ‘I love you too, Jojo. Now, are you going to text your mum back or what?’
With shaking hands, I pick up my phone and compose a message to Mum and Stacey.
‘We good to go?’
Frankie and I look up in unison. Ram is heading across the grass towards us, Albie in his arms.
‘What do you reckon, Jojo?’ Frankie asks. ‘Ready to go home?’
I take a deep breath and press ‘send’.
‘Ready,’ I reply, sliding my phone back in my pocket.
By the time we get back to Newfield, it’s early afternoon.
Ram kills the engine and for a moment no one moves. I catch sight of my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I look terrified, my cheeks drained of colour.
Frankie twists around in her seat. ‘It’s OK,’ she says, reaching for her hand. ‘We’ve got you. Right, Ram?’
‘Right,’ Ram says.
I nod, count to five in my head, then unclip my seat belt before leaning over to attend to Albie.
We assemble at the bottom of the driveway, Frankie on my right-hand side, Ram on my left, holding Albie, still sleeping in his car seat.
Stacey’s face appears at the living-room window. ‘Helen!’ she calls, her voice just about audible through the glass. ‘Helen!’ She moves away from the window.
Frankie’s left hand finds my right one. ‘I’ve got you, remember,’ she says, as the door opens and Mum and Stacey come down the driveway towards us, barefoot, their arms outstretched. ‘I’ve got you.’
‘I know,’ I reply, squeezing her hand hard. ‘You always did.’
She squeezes back.
‘Always will.’
EPILOGUE
Jojo
‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Albie, happy birthday to you!’
Frankie’s mum places the sparkler-festooned cake in front of a slightly bewildered-looking Albie, currently installed on Ram’s lap, as everyone applauds and snaps photos.
Ram leans in and blows out the oversized number one candle on Albie’s behalf. Cue more applause, more photos and Albie’s chubby fist reaching for one of the still-burning sparklers.
‘Oh no you don’t, little man,’ Ram says, laughing and hoisting him up and away from the cake.
Albie lets out a yowl of protest.
Frankie leans in to whisper in my ear. ‘Poor kid,’ she says with a sigh, ‘He’s gotta be so confused right now.’
‘He’ll be fine once he’s got his hands on some cake,’ I reply.
Cake, along with buses, horses, swings, drums and, weirdly, an ancient kids’ TV programme from the 1980s called Button Moon, is firmly amongst Albie’s very favourite things. I should probably add Frankie to that list. I don’t know what it is about her, but without fail Albie’s face lights up the second she enters the room. He was especially delighted to see her today, whooping with delight when she appeared at the front door with a massive number one balloon tied round her wrist and a bundle of wrapped gifts in her arms. She’s been in London for the past few weeks, having won a place on the National Youth Theatre’s summer course. She returned to Newfield late last night, the boy she’s seeing (someone else from the course), a softly spoken Londoner with cheekbones to die for called Malachai, in tow. He’s over by the buffet at the moment, having an impassioned discussion about arts funding with Stacey.
‘Does he need rescuing?’ I ask, nodding in their direction.
‘Nah,’ Frankie says. ‘He’s loving it.’
We watch them for a few seconds. Frankie’s right; he’s clearly enjoying himself, and so is Stacey from the looks of things, gesticulating wildly the way she always does when she’s especially into a subject.
‘I really like him,’ I say. ‘Did I mention that?’
‘You did,’ Frankie says, smiling. ‘Multiple times.’
‘OK, good.’
‘Stacey seems on good form.’
‘Yeah, I know. She and Mum are meeting with a potential surrogate next week.’
‘Really? That’s great.’
‘It may come to nothing. I mean, it’s such a complicated process, but this one sounds really promising. She’s done it twice before so she knows what’s involved, and Mum and Stacey reckon they’re getting good vibes from her.’
‘So you might end up with a little brother or sister after all?’
I smile. ‘If all goes well, yeah.’
The garden is packed with friends and family. My mum is now holding Albie, while Ram helps Frankie’s mum with the cake, transferring slices onto paper plates and distributing them amongst the other guests. My dad is busy chatting to Ram’s mum, Chery
l, and Mum’s sister, my auntie Jen. Maxwell is entertaining Laleh and Roxy with his surprisingly good hula-hooping skills while Bex films the entire thing on her phone. A few metres away, Luca is attempting (unsuccessfully from the looks of things) to chat up Ella. I thought about inviting a few of my Arts Academy friends but eventually decided against it. They all know about Albie and have been overwhelmingly cool about it, but, if I’m honest, I like the fact that at college I’m not defined by my motherhood. It’s a bit like leading a double life sometimes, but I’m OK with that. It’s been a relief to discover Frankie was right. With a bit of help, I can do both.
My eyes drift upwards, settling on the frosted glass of the bathroom window. A year ago today, I was up there giving birth to a baby I didn’t even know existed. And now, as that same baby is happily passed from parent to parent to grand-parent, I can’t imagine my life any other way. Not that it’s been easy. That first conversation with Mum and Stacey was horrendous: painful and emotional and sad and exhausting. They tried not to show it, but their hearts were breaking, and no matter how many times I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t responsible for their happiness, the guilt was overwhelming. And yet, I went to bed that night feeling lighter than I had done since Albie had been born.
In the days that followed, more difficult conversations followed. We had to tell Dad, and Ram’s mum, and come clean to Grandma and Auntie Jen, and Stacey’s family and all the other people we’d told. We had to register the birth and decide on a surname (in the end we kept things simple and went for Albie Bright-Jandu). Plus there were logistics to sort. So many logistics.
Piece by piece, we cobbled together a plan of sorts. Tuesday to Thursday, Cheryl would look after Albie while I was at college, with Ram taking over when he got home from school. He would then drop Albie back at mine around 6 p.m., by which point I’d hopefully be home from college ready to feed and bathe him. If Ram didn’t have a shift at the rink, he’d stay and read Albie a bedtime story. Mum managed to negotiate a four-day working week so she could have Albie on Mondays, while Stacey agreed to work from home on Fridays, marking papers and preparing lectures while Albie dozed in his Moses basket at her side. At the weekend, Ram and I were in charge. We spent our days taking it in turns to nap (we were both permanently knackered), or pushing Albie’s pram around the park.
First Day of My Life Page 27
