‘So you’re up for it then?’ I momentarily drew a blank. Jeremy stared at me expectantly.
‘Jenny, the case …’ Ben prompted.
‘Yes! Sorry! Of course!’ I practically shouted.
‘Love your enthusiasm, Sparrow. I’ll send the details over tomorrow. I can’t wait for you to nab this bum!’
He swooped out of the office, leaving a cloud of Aramis behind. Ben and I exchanged a look. ‘Christ, I haven’t seen old Jezza worked up that much in ages,’ Ben said. He cleared his throat and put on a cheesy American accent. ‘Looks like you’re about to hit the big time, kid.’
‘Promise me you will never, ever talk like that again,’ I said, dissolving into giggles.
‘Hey, what’s the idea? Can’t a guy talk straight to his dame?’
‘God, stop!’ I cried. ‘It’s genuinely painful for me to hear!’
He shrugged and shot me a grin. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, spinning back around to his desk. ‘Some people can’t appreciate talent even when it’s being wafted under their nose.’
I rolled my eyes and turned towards my computer. Okay, now to find out who this Jackson guy really was. I opened a new browser, typed his name into Google, and hit return.
I scrolled through the results and my heart sank.
Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not a single match.
Sure, there were a few Jackson Gaines out there. One was a teenager from Southern Florida who seemed to have an unhealthy interest in Call of Duty. Another was a man in his sixties whose Facebook feed was peppered with photos of small, intricate wooden animals he’d whittled. Another still was a bearded orthopedist from Seattle. Absolutely none of them was the man who was now my husband. He was completely off the grid.
A text flashed up on my phone. It was Jackson.
Have you got gym gear with you?
I stared at the duffel bag under my desk.
Why?
I thought we’d do something a little different tonight. If you don’t have anything with you, I can run by the shop and grab you something. What size are you?
My fingers flew across the keypad.
No! I have my gym stuff!
Great! Meet me in your finest Richard Simmons gear at the Rose and Crown in Stoke Newington at 6:30.
A loud gurgle emerged from my gut.
‘You all right over there?’ Ben asked, snickering.
‘I think I’m going to make myself a cup of tea,’ I said. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Yes please. Not too much milk!’
The tiny alcove that served as the company kitchen was, as ever, covered in the detritus of fifty people’s lunches, teas, snacks and coffees. Half a loaf of a sad-looking fruit cake languished on the side table, and I picked at the crumbs as I waited for the kettle to boil.
There was a health and safety poster tacked up to the wall, and I read it for the hundredth time. At the bottom corner was a drawing of a man demonstrating the correct technique for using a fire blanket. Something about him – the smoothness of his brown hair, the straightness of his nose – reminded me of Christopher.
Christopher. The thought of him made my heart ache, and my stomach gave out another plaintive gurgle.
The switch on the kettle flicked up. I stuffed teabags into a pair of mugs and poured hot water over them, watching as it turned a murky brown. I sloshed in some milk and carried the mugs back to our cube.
Ben assessed his tea with a critical eye. ‘How long have you lived in this country?’
‘Three years,’ I said, knowing what was coming next.
‘Three years, and you still don’t know how to make a decent cup of tea. Honestly, they should make tea-making lessons compulsory for all Americans who move here.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘That, and queueing etiquette, I know, I know. I genuinely don’t know why I still offer to make you tea.’
He batted his eyelashes at me and smiled. ‘Because you love me?’
I sighed. ‘Because I’m a glutton for punishment.’
It turns out, Stoke Newington is one of those pretty, leafy parts of London that is virtually impossible to get to. I lost count of the number of transfers I had to make, but by the time the 73 chuntered up to Church Street and deposited me unceremoniously on the doorstep of the Rose and Crown, I was twenty minutes late and in a decidedly terrible mood.
Jackson was leaning against the bar chatting with the scruffy bartender when I pushed through the door. He gave me a wave, ordered me a beer, and then stood back to take in my outfit. ‘Now that is some high performance gear,’ he said, taking in the oversized T-shirt I’d got free with a magazine six years ago and the pair of H&M leggings I’d washed so many times they were practically translucent. ‘Are you sponsored by Nike or something?’
‘Shut up,’ I said, swatting him on the arm. ‘You don’t exactly look like Usain Bolt.’ Jackson was wearing a pair of paint-flecked cargo shorts and a marl-gray T-shirt with a ripped neck. ‘What is up with you and cargo pants, anyway? Who needs that many pockets?’
‘Always be prepared,’ he said, giving me the three-fingered Boy Scout salute. The scruffy bartender clocked it as he set my pint down on the drip mat and shot him a quizzical look.
‘So what are we doing here, anyway? Why are we having a drink in our gym stuff in the middle of nowhere?’
‘Dutch courage,’ he said, eyes twinkling irritatingly.
I paused, my pint halfway to my lips. ‘Why do we need Dutch courage?’
‘You’ll see!’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger and I fought the urge to slug him.
We finished our drinks and headed out to whatever fresh hell Jackson had waiting for us. We threaded our way through a park still full of post-work picnickers sipping warm Prosecco and tucking into Whole Foods bags. Joggers huffed past people walking their dogs, and little kids pedalling their first bicycles. ‘Where are we going?’ I kept asking, but Jackson would just ignore me and point out another cute dog. Distraction tactics.
Finally, we spilled out of the park and onto a main road. ‘There,’ Jackson said, pointing ahead. ‘That’s where we’re going.’
I followed his finger and found myself staring at what looked very much like a castle. It was a squat, hulking, medieval-looking thing, built in red brick and topped with what was indisputably a turret. All that was missing was a moat and a drawbridge. My geography wasn’t great, but even I knew that it was a little odd to find a castle in the middle of North London. ‘What the hell is that?’ I asked, eyes wide.
‘Crazy, right? I think it used to be a pumping station.’
‘But … why is it built like a castle?’ Another, more pressing question occurred to me. ‘And why are we here?’
‘It’s a climbing center!’ he announced gleefully.
I stopped dead in my tracks. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Come on!’ He laughed and tugged on my arm.
I leaned back on my heels. ‘There is no way I’m climbing anything. Period.’
He turned and looked at me. He must have seen the fear on my face because he stopped laughing. ‘Hey. What’s the matter?’
‘I’m scared of heights,’ I admitted. That was an understatement. I held my breath when I crossed a bridge. I refused to climb past the first rung of a ladder. Even step stools made me a little nervous.
‘Hell, most people are scared of heights,’ he said.
‘Not like me.’
‘I promise you this is totally safe. You’re strapped in the whole time, and it’s not even that high up.’
‘I’m not doing it.’
‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘I can’t force you. But now that we’ve come all the way here, do you mind if I have a quick climb? There are sofas inside, so you can just sit there and read your book or whatever. I’ll even buy you a flapjack.’
‘Fine,’ I grumbled. Really, though, I was just relieved that I was off the hook.
I followed him in and watched him pay admission for the two of us. ‘Just in case you
change your mind,’ he said as he handed me my ticket.
The inside of the castle smelled like chalk dust and sweaty feet and testosterone, but not in an entirely negative way. Jackson sat me down on one of the beat-up sofas upstairs that faced the tall climbing wall, got me the promised flapjack, squeezed his feet into a pair of what looked like skin-tight galoshes, clipped into a harness that put a little more emphasis on his groin than I was strictly comfortably with, and promptly skittered up the wall like a squirrel.
He’d clearly done this before.
He belayed back down and landed elegantly. ‘You sure you’re not tempted?’ he asked, nodding up towards the top.
I shook my head and held up my half-eaten flapjack. ‘I’m good, thanks.’
He shrugged as he clapped a little more chalk dust onto his hands. ‘Suit yourself.’
He did a couple more runs up the wall before hefting himself down on the sofa next to me. I could smell the sweat on his skin mixing with his aftershave. ‘I’m about ready to go,’ he said, wiping his hands down the front of his T-shirt. ‘Unless you want to give it a try?’
I shook my head and folded my arms across my chest. ‘I told you already. No.’
‘What’s got you so scared, anyway?’
My heart pounded just thinking about it. I could still remember it so clearly. My fingers losing their grip. The breeze lifting the hair around my face. The feeling of weightlessness. The sickening thud. ‘Nothing,’ I said quietly.
He sighed and leaned back into the cushions. ‘I know about the tree.’
He said it so quietly that at first I thought I’d misheard him. ‘What did you say?’
‘I know you fell out of that tree when you were little.’
That was impossible. No one knew about that other than my mom and Isla, and I’d sworn Isla to secrecy at the time. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Come on, Jenny. Cut the crap. You told me about it that night in Vegas – about how you were climbing that big tree in your front yard, and your mother—’
‘Stop.’ I didn’t want to hear it. I already knew the rest. We were silent for a moment. ‘I told you that?’ I asked finally.
‘Yeah, you did. That’s why I brought you here. I thought …’ He shook his head. ‘It was stupid.’
‘What did you think?’
‘I thought I could help you get over your fear. Show you there’s nothing to be afraid of.’
‘There’s always something to be afraid of,’ I snapped. Then, more softly, ‘When it comes to heights, I mean. You could fall. Break something.’ My hand went instinctively to my wrist. I could still feel the little spur of bone sticking up from where it had healed badly.
‘That’s the thing,’ he said. ‘You can’t break anything here. You’d be strapped into a harness, and I’d be spotting you the whole time. If you fall, I’ll catch you.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘No offense, but I can’t say you’re the most trustworthy guy I’ve ever met.’
He looked genuinely offended. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I mean …’ I struggled to find the words and failed. What did I mean? How did I know the guy wasn’t trustworthy? I’d told him about the tree. That had to count for something, even if I’d been ninety-five sheets to the wind at the time. And he had made climbing up that wall look kind of fun. Maybe I could do it. Maybe I could at least try. ‘Be brave for me, Jenny.’ That’s what my mom had said to me. Maybe it was time I tried to be brave for myself. I looked him in the eye. ‘You promise I won’t kill myself up there?’
He grinned. ‘Scouts’ honour.’
The process of putting on a harness was mildly humiliating, and the new climbing shoes Jackson had produced from his backpack pinched my pinky toes, but I still felt a flutter of excitement as I placed my hand on the first hold. ‘Like this?’ I asked, looking back at Jackson.
‘That’s right,’ he said, nodding encouragingly. ‘Just go for it. Do whatever feels comfortable. I got you.’
It was hard. Jesus Christ, it was hard. By the time I’d grabbed onto the fifth hold, my fingers were screaming and my left foot was lodged precariously into a crack on the ledge. But there was something beautiful about it, too. It was like trying to solve a logic puzzle with your body. There wasn’t room to think about anything other than where you were going to next place your hands.
I made it three-quarters of the way up when it happened. My hand reached up for the hold, but I couldn’t get a grip on it, and suddenly I was falling. That same sickening feeling of weightlessness from all those years ago. I opened my mouth to scream, but before I could, I felt a tug on my harness. I stopped mid-flight and started soaring instead. ‘I got you,’ Jackson hollered up at me. ‘Don’t worry, I got you.’ I looked down to see him holding the rope. He started lowering me down slowly.
‘You okay?’ he asked, when my feet finally touched the ground.
I was a little shaky, but elation quickly overtook my nerves. ‘I did it!’ I beamed. ‘I can’t believe it, but I did it!’
Jackson winked at me and smiled. ‘I knew you would. Now, what do you say we go back to the Rose and Crown and have a celebratory drink?’ He saw me hesitate. ‘Unless you want to call it a night? I can order you a cab from here …’
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I think we deserve a drink. But do you mind if I do another run up the wall first?’
His laugh echoed around the room, and a few of the more solemn-looking climbers shot us disapproving looks. ‘Lady,’ he said, clipping me back into the harness, ‘you can climb that wall as many times as you like.’
I crept into the darkened flat, wincing as the floorboards creaked beneath my weight. My head felt fuzzy from all the post-climbing celebratory beer, and I wanted, very badly, to crawl into bed, close my eyes, and lose myself to sleep.
‘Jenny? Is that you?’ I heard the sound of a light being switched on in the other room and then Christopher’s footsteps as he padded out to the hall. He appeared in the doorway, squinty and rumpled from sleep. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and an old Arsenal top he’d had since he was a kid. I knew that because he’d told me the story of his grandfather buying it for him before a match one day, the same day that his grandfather allowed Christopher to try a pint. More importantly, I knew that because it was the sort of thing you knew about someone you’d shared six years of your life with and lived with for the past three. The guilt made my stomach clench, and I wondered whether Jackson wouldn’t lose yesterday’s bet after all.
‘Hi!’ I said brightly. I could feel the strain in my voice.
‘You’re home late,’ he said, leaning in to kiss me. His chin was sandpapery with stubble and he tasted of toothpaste.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’
He made a face. ‘You stink.’
I pulled away from him. ‘I told you I was sorry.’
‘No, I mean you actually, literally stink.’ He leaned in and took a sniff. ‘Is this from spinning?’
‘Spinning?’ Shit. I’d told him I was going to a spin class. ‘Oh, spinning! Yeah, probably. We really worked up a sweat.’ I wiped a hand across my metaphorical brow.
He frowned. ‘You smell like something else, too. Like old cheese or something.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
He leaned in for another sniff. The man was a lawyer. He would not be deterred when he sniffed something funny. Even, apparently, in the most literal sense. ‘Why do you smell like a blackboard?’
‘Let’s go to bed!’ I shouted. We both started at the sound. ‘Sorry,’ I said, more quietly this time. ‘I’m just totally wiped out.’
‘From all the spinning,’ he said, arching an eyebrow.
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, can you at least take a shower before you get into bed? Seriously, I don’t think I can stomach a night of that smell.’
The bathroom floor was icy, and I shivered as I waited for the water to heat up. The air still carried t
he faint smell of Christopher’s aftershave, and I breathed it in. I stared at the contents of the open cabinet. Deodorant. The three-step Korean skincare routine I spent a fortune on and never use. The face wipes I actually use. The toothpaste. The tweezers. The floss.
The anti-fungal cream.
I checked the water temperature: finally warm. I stepped into the shower. We’d replaced the shower head a few months ago, but the water still came out at a pathetic trickle, and once I’d lathered up it took for ever to rinse the suds away.
As I waited, my mind returned to the anti-fungal cream in the cabinet. Poor Christopher and his chronic athlete’s foot. Living with someone wasn’t always glamorous. There were blenders coated with the remains of a wheatgrass smoothie, crusted socks balled up in the laundry, sly gas in bed that stank up the sheets … But there was security, too, and comfort, and that’s what I wanted more than anything. I had to remember that.
I thought about Jackson and his freewheeling lifestyle. Rootless, sure, but exciting. But I’d already had my wild years – I had to remember that, too. I’d had it marked out on my list. And from the age of nineteen to twenty-one, I’d been the party girl in short skirts and thigh-high boots doing shots with frat boys. Twenty-two through twenty-four were about frivolous dating in New York, which turned out to be slightly less fun than my thirteen-year-old self had envisioned. (Have you heard the thing about there being two single women for every single man in NYC? Have you also heard that all of those other women are basically supermodels? Because from my experience, they are.) But those years were mine to waste. That’s what my aunt and I had worked out. She could give me those years, but she couldn’t give me for ever. I had until I was twenty-five to be young, and after that I’d get serious and settle down. She needed help with my mom, and I had to give it to her.
Jenny Sparrow Knows the Future Page 12
