Still, I couldn’t believe I’d told him about my song. And I definitely couldn’t believe I’d got up in front of a room full of strangers and belted it out like that! It suddenly occurred to me that I’d checked something off my list that night. Number 13: Sing with a band. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t clocked it right away. Usually, checking things off my list was my main motivator. But it had just slipped my mind.
What was it about Jackson that made me behave so … unlike myself? All the years carefully building order to protect myself from chaos, and he comes along and suddenly my whole life is careening out of control. I could feel myself slipping. Maybe this was the moment when the great fissure inside me would appear, and I would finally fall through.
The familiar panic had started to return. Get a grip, Jenny, I scolded myself. Deep breaths.
I pulled out my phone and pressed the home button, the screen lighting up in my hand. Oh God. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. And not only that, but I had missed calls – a whole ream of them. And all of them bore the same smiling face in a little circle next to the number.
Christopher.
I tried to ease the door gently into the lock behind me, but it still clanged like a klaxon. Jesus Christ. There was no way I was getting away with this.
‘Jenny? Is that you?’
‘Hello!’ I trilled. My voice sounded thick in my ears. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late!’
Christopher charged into the hallway, eyes bloodshot. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been going mad!’
My mind raced. Think, Jenny, think! ‘I – I was out with Ben!’ The look on Christopher’s face suggested that this was not the correct answer. ‘He’s been having women troubles again.’ Women troubles. Oh God. I’d just insinuated that Ben had his period.
‘I don’t see why Ben needs your help sorting out his “women troubles” until two o’clock in the morning.’
‘Well, he’s been having a rough time … this girl he likes hasn’t texted back …’ I faded out listlessly. ‘I thought you were out tonight.’
‘Jonno’s wife went into labour, so we canceled at the last minute. Anyway, what does that have to do with anything? I’m out with my friends, so you run off with Ben for the evening? Is that it?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘I never liked the look of that Ben bloke. Too – too shiny! He’s like a bloody Christmas bauble!’ He clenched his fist on the word ‘bauble’.
‘Christopher, please.’ I gently rubbed the top of his arm, as though he was a spooked colt and not my fiancé. ‘You’re overreacting. There’s nothing going on between Ben and me.’ Even saying the words made me feel slightly nauseated. ‘Honestly, he just wanted a woman’s opinion about it all, and time got away from us, and …’ I sighed ‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone, and I’m sorry I worried you, okay? But I don’t think I should be raked over the coals for having a night out with my friend.’
Christopher’s face dropped. ‘Oh God. I’m being a pillock, aren’t I? I’m acting like some kind of ’roided up bro who smashes beer cans against his forehead.’ He pulled me towards him and I buried my head in his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re never out in the evenings, and when I couldn’t get through to you, I immediately thought the worst and—’ I felt his ribcage shudder as the breath went out of him.
‘You don’t have to apologize,’ I mumbled. ‘It’s okay.’ I was hit with a wave of guilt so thick I thought I might stumble over. Here he was – lovely, perfect Christopher – apologizing to me when I’d just lied to his face. Again.
‘Come on,’ I said, gently lifting my head from his chest, ‘let’s go to bed.’ I reached out and took his hand as we walked to the bedroom. I looked around the flat – the framed print in the hallway we’d picked out together, the dove-gray throw pillows that his mother had given us plumped on the sofa, the little geranium-scented tea lights I’d bought in a multi-pack from Sainsbury’s – and thought, what the hell am I doing? This is my life – here, in this place. Not in some skeezy Soho bar or sipping espressos on a sidewalk with a relative stranger.
‘I’m just going to brush my teeth,’ I said. I slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I stared at my face in the cabinet mirror. My eye make-up had smudged and my mascara had flaked, and beneath it all, my eyes looked haunted. ‘What am I doing?’ I whispered to my reflection, but for once, I didn’t have an answer.
I rested my forehead on the cool glass and watched my breath make a foggy circle below.
I couldn’t take another risk like tonight – I just couldn’t. I’d call Jackson tomorrow and tell him that I couldn’t see him for dinner. Now that I knew him a little better, I could see he was a decent guy – he wouldn’t punish me for trying to keep my relationship together. Maybe he’d forget the whole week-of-entertaining-him thing entirely. I remembered him checking his phone. He didn’t need me to entertain him, anyway.
I splashed my face with cold water and dried it with one of the plush little red towels I’d bought from TK Maxx. You see? I’m the sort of person who buys plush little face towels from TK Maxx. I was not the sort of person who went gallivanting around town with another man behind her fiancé’s back, even if that man was her husband.
No, tomorrow it would be over. It had to be. I could always sue him for a divorce if he kicked up a fuss. We hadn’t slept together anyway, so we could probably get one of those fake divorces that Catholic people get sometimes. An annulment. Maybe I could do that without Jackson’s approval. I’d look into it tomorrow.
I turned out the light and climbed into bed next to Christopher. He turned to face me in the half-light. ‘Goodnight,’ he said, pecking me on the mouth. ‘Sorry again for being a knob.’
‘You weren’t a knob.’
‘I was.’ There was a pause. ‘I thought you were going to brush your teeth.’
In the middle of my existential crisis, I’d neglected my oral hygiene. ‘I forgot. It’s late.’
‘I know. Goodnight,’ he said again, and this time he kissed me on the cheek.
I lay back on my pillow and stared up at the swirls on the ceiling. ‘Goodnight,’ I said softly. ‘Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’
12
The next morning, Christopher and I were tentative around each other, speaking in soft, gentle voices, touching each other as though worried we might hit a bruise. Normally I stayed in bed while he got ready, but I got up instead and made him a cup of tea while he was in the shower. I wanted, more than anything, to be kind. I placed a chocolate digestive next to the mug of tea and left both on the nightstand for him. He walked in, toweling off his wet hair, saw the biscuit and smiled. ‘You’re too good to me,’ he said, picking it up and dunking it in his tea.
‘That’s not true,’ I demurred, thinking, buddy, you don’t know the half of it. ‘Why don’t we do something tonight?’ I said. ‘Just the two of us.’
‘Like what?’ He had a smudge of dried toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. I tried not to focus on it.
I flopped back on the bed. ‘I don’t know. Go out to dinner? Go to the theatre? I could sneak out of work early and try to get ten-pound tickets for that show at the Old Vic?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘What’s on?’
‘Something about middle-aged despair,’ I said, gesturing vaguely. ‘It’s meant to be great.’
‘Yeah, it sounds it.’ He leaned over the bed and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Why don’t we just stay in? Maybe get a pizza or something.’
My heart sank slightly. ‘Sure.’ I gestured towards the side of his mouth. ‘You’ve got a little—’
He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Better?’
‘Still there.’ I licked the tip of my thumb and reached up to scrub it off. We both realized what I was about to do and froze.
‘Thanks, Mum, but I can clean my own face!’
Apparently not, I thought meanly. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘That was a little gross of me.’
He
pulled a face. ‘Just a bit.’ He pulled back and started frantically rubbing at the corner of his mouth. ‘Gone now?’
I could still see a faint trace of it – toothpaste really was a stubborn adhesive, someone should talk to NASA about it – but I smiled and nodded. ‘All gone!’ I knew that scrubbing toothpaste off someone’s face with saliva was a little disgusting, but I didn’t think it required the level of horror he’d expressed. I was his fiancée, after all. I had watched him pick his toenails in bed and said nothing.
‘Right, I’m off. I’ll see you back here tonight – unless you decide we should go out clubbing or something.’ He pronounced the word ‘clubbing’ as though it were ‘Mars’ or ‘dogging’.
‘I don’t think that’s likely.’ I tilted my chin to accept his kiss. ‘Have a good day.’
‘You too. Say hi to Ben for me. I hope his lady troubles ease up.’
I was touched by the olive branch. I reached for him and pulled him towards me again, kissing him properly this time. He tasted of mint and chocolate and tea. ‘I love you.’
‘You too,’ he said, pulling away and straightening his tie. ‘See you tonight.’
I heard the door shut behind him and threw myself off the bed and into the shower. Today, I decided, would be a clean slate. I would tell Jackson that dinner was off, focus on the cobbler case at work, get back here at a reasonable time, and have a night in with Christopher. Maybe I would even cook. My mind whirred at the possibility. Lasagne? No, that would take too long. Maybe a stir-fry? Too healthy. Something Christopher would like. A pie, maybe. Could I make a pie?
I rinsed the suds out of my hair and hopped out to towel off. Yes, today would be a fresh start. I’d wear underwear that matched. I’d light candles in the living room. I’d make an effort.
I boarded the Tube with a spring in my step. I felt lighter than I had in ages. I had a plan now. I would wrest back control over my life. I would look into wedding registries and embossed stationery and jam jars for the centerpieces. I would call my mother.
I would be good.
The train chugged along the Northern Line, its doors opening at each stop to expel a few passengers and cram, Tetris-like, a few more in. I was wedged next to a group of suited-up businessmen comparing the merits of cosy pubs in the Cotswolds.
‘The Plough and Stars in Withington is brill for a dirty weekend,’ the man clutching a rolled-up copy of the Telegraph brayed into my ear. ‘I took Jasmine there last February. Once she got a load of the fireplace, she practically threw her knickers at me.’
‘Not half as good as the Old Bell in Bibury,’ the bald man in the suede driving loafers shouted into the top of my head. ‘The exposed beams alone had Tamara gagging for it as soon as we walked in.’
I shut my eyes and tried to imagine I was somewhere more pleasant, like a wildflower-strewn meadow, or an abattoir.
‘How about the Crowne in Chipping Norton?’ cried the man wearing a scarf I was fairly sure could be classified as a cravat. ‘A magnum of champers, a ploughman’s lunch, and a David Cameron sighting, and I thought Ambrosia would never come up for air!’
The men burst into a fresh round of eardrum-shattering laughter. I felt a morsel of pity for Jasmine and Tamara and poor airless Ambrosia. Surely no plate of cheese and pickle was good enough to endure this trio of chucklenuts.
It was moments like these when I felt most like a stranger in a strange land. I didn’t understand these men shouting at each other about their ability to bed women who had willingly gone away with them for the weekend. I didn’t understand the Cotswolds – what they were, where they were located, why everyone seemed so eager to go there to have sex. I’d overheard a woman discussing her weekend in the Cotswolds at work one day, and had gone home and suggested to Christopher that we go there, too, only to be told that the Cotswolds were full of red-trouser-wearing twats who said words like ‘totes’ and liked horses better than their own mothers.
I didn’t understand that, either.
I thought of the easy shorthand I had with Isla. If I made a Facts of Life reference, she understood it. She appreciated the subtle difference in Slush Puppie flavors. She knew the etiquette around ordering a hotdog at a baseball game. Not that we ever went to baseball games, but the thought of it still made me ache with homesickness. Even with Jackson, there was an ease that comes with a shared nationality, a shared culture. Even if he was from Texas.
No. I was not going to let myself go down that particular slip’n’slide.
By the time I arrived at work, my previously good mood had been restored. The daffodils were out in full bloom in Green Park, despite the persistent mizzle falling from the gray sky, and I’d had to pause when walking over the little bridge in St James’s to make way for a gaggle of geese. The clouds couldn’t hide it: it was spring.
Today was a fresh start, I reminded myself as I threw my bag on the floor underneath my desk and slid into my chair. Today I was going to take back my life.
There was a cup of coffee cooling at my elbow and my favorite pen was uncapped and in hand: I was ready to make a to-do list for the day.
God, I love a list. For me, there is no greater pleasure than crossing something off a list. There were times when I’d added something I’d already done to a list, just so I could cross it off. It’s a sickness, I know. But I don’t care.
I wrote out the list carefully on one of the yellow legal pads I ordered specially from the US.
– Tell Jackson
– Wedding venues!
– Tax forms for Cobbler case
– Expenses to Accounts
– Go to gym
– Make dinner for Christopher – pie??
I tapped the pen against my mouth and considered the list. And then I added one more thing.
– Make coffee
And crossed it out with a thick blue line. Heaven.
Okay, first things first: I had to call Jackson and tell him dinner was off. I dug my phone out of my bag, scrolled through to his number and hit the green call button. A swarm of butterflies decamped to my stomach as I waited for it to ring.
‘You’re through to the voicemail of …’
I breathed out a sigh of relief. I wouldn’t have to bite the bullet. Just nibble it a little. ‘Hi Jackson,’ I said in my brightest voice, ‘I’m really sorry, but I won’t be able to make dinner tonight. And, actually, maybe not tomorrow night either. Or the next. I’m sorry, but it’s just proving a little complicated with Christopher and … I hope you understand. Let me know if you need money for the divorce papers. I don’t know how these things work.’ To my horror, I added a laugh – a stupid, insane-sounding little titter – to the end of the sentence. ‘Anyway. Sorry. Bye.’
I pressed end call and sat back in my chair. My heart was pounding in my chest and I thought I might be sick, but I’d done it. I reached out and crossed Jackson off the list. Thankfully, I was distracted from the heavy feeling in the hollow of my stomach by Ben, who chose that moment to lope through the door like a wounded sloth.
I took one look at him – he was wearing a pair of chinos today, baggy ones, and a thick sweater featuring, unseasonably, a jaunty reindeer – and knew. ‘Still haven’t heard from Lucy?’
He shook his head and collapsed into his chair with a huff. He was wearing thick white athletic socks with his All Stars – things were even worse than I’d thought. ‘Honestly, what’s the point?’ he howled. ‘This is exactly why I don’t let women know where I live. If you get too close to them, they’ll only break your heart. Women,’ he said, shaking his head ruefully. ‘How do you live with yourselves?’
‘I don’t think there’s any need to dismiss a whole gender because someone didn’t answer your text right away.’
‘Two days!’ he cried. ‘Two whole days, and not a single word out of her! Oh God, this is a disaster. A humiliation!’
‘Calm down! Look, why don’t you tell me what you said to her, and we’ll work out what to do next.’
�
��Other than join a monastery?’
I eyeballed him across the room. ‘You’d last about thirty seconds in a monastery before you’d start begging alcohol off the monks and chatting up the statue of the Virgin Mary.’
‘Honestly, Jenny, I don’t know how you’ve come to have such a warped view of me.’
‘Three years of close observation. Are you going to read me this text of yours or what?’
He made a big show of taking out his phone and scrolling through his messages until he found it. He cleared his throat. ‘Hey.’
I waited for a minute. ‘Hey what?’
‘That’s it. Just, “Hey”.’
‘Did you think about expanding on that a little? Maybe saying you had a nice time the other night, would she like to meet up again … something like that?’
‘A wise man once said “Brevity is the soul of wit”. I can’t remember who – maybe Keith Richards? All I know is that he was wise, and that’s why I said what I said.’ He caught the look of disbelief on my face. ‘What?’
‘It’s just … it’s not a lot to go off, you know?’
His face crumpled. ‘Oh God, it’s a disaster, isn’t it? Christ, I’m an idiot. A stupid, stupid idiot.’
‘You are not an idiot. It’s a perfectly fine text message to send.’
‘Then why hasn’t she responded?’
I thought for a minute. ‘Maybe she hasn’t read it yet?’
‘Of course she’s read it! It says it right here!’ He jabbed a finger at the small print under the blue bubble. READ. Whoever invented the technology that allowed someone to see when a text message had been read was a cruel and insensitive soul. Poor Ben was in full freefall now. ‘Shit shit shit! What do I do now?’ He ran his hands through his un-pomaded hair. ‘I’ve blown it, haven’t I? Oh, Christ, I’m an idiot.’
‘You’re not an idiot,’ I repeated. ‘Look, we can fix this. Why don’t you send her a text that involves a question?’
‘What sort of question?’
Jenny Sparrow Knows the Future Page 16
