I realized what he was about to tell me, and the breath caught in my throat.
‘I tried for a year. I really did. I went to work, said hello to people in the shops, saw my kids.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I held my first grandchild – a little girl. Clara.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘Beautiful. But,’ he said, laying his hands flat on the table, ‘it wasn’t enough. Every single second of every single day with her not there … and all I could see was all the days still in front of me.’ He sighed. ‘I went to see my kids on the Saturday. Gave my granddaughter a kiss. And then I came back to the shop.
‘I wasn’t trying to burn the place down – I swear it. I got home that night and it was exactly the same as it always was, only she wasn’t there. The walls were covered with pictures of Vicki and me everywhere … I couldn’t bear to look at them anymore. I started burning them in the bin. I don’t know what came over me – the kids would have killed me if they’d known I was burning things of their mum’s, but I was like a man possessed. I threw in a few of the rags from the workshop to get things going, and the flames got out of control and the place filled up with this thick black smoke and I thought … maybe it would be easier if I just lay down and went to sleep.’ A tear slid down his cheek, and I reached out and took his hand. ‘It was the sirens that woke me up. I looked up and I swear to you, my Vicki was there. She was standing above me, this funny little smile of hers she gave me when I’d done something stupid, and she told me to get up and run. So that’s what I did. I went straight to my son’s house and told him what had happened. I didn’t want people thinking I was mad, you see. I didn’t want their pity. He understood that, my son. He’s a good boy. He went back there with me after the firemen cleared off and he pulled a bit of the wiring out of the wall. He’s an electrician, you see. Said everyone would think it was a fault with the old electrics. He told me I should file an insurance claim to make it look like it was all on the up and up.’
‘And the safe? Was your wife’s insurance money in there?’
He shook his head. ‘What was left of it, which wasn’t much. We’d signed her up for this experimental treatment that wasn’t covered by the NHS. Left us with a mountain of debt, and didn’t do her any good in the end.’ He grasped my hand in his. I could feel the rough callouses on his fingers from years of working with his hands, and the warm blood that flowed beneath his skin. ‘I wasn’t in my right mind when I filed that claim. I was going to cancel it, but I didn’t want to bring any more attention on myself. I hoped it would just sort of … go away. Stupid of me, really.’ He tightened his grip, and when I met his eye, all I could see was desperation. ‘I’m not bent, I swear it. Neither’s my son – he was only trying to help me. Please, you have to believe me.’
‘Mr Bryant …’
‘Ed,’ he said, ‘call me Ed.’
‘Ed,’ I said gently, ‘I’m not going to call the police.’
‘You’re not?’
I shook my head. ‘It was an accident, that’s all. But you should cancel the claim.’
He nodded. ‘Of course. I don’t know how to thank you.’
I remembered something Jackson had said to me. ‘Grief makes us do crazy things.’
He smiled at me sadly. ‘It’s not grief that makes you do crazy things, sweetheart. It’s love.’ His gaze drifted towards the window of the café, where the Friday-night crowds drifted past. ‘All those people out there … I see them sometimes, young kids in love, holding hands, in their own little bubble. Like it’s the two of them against the world. Do you know what I mean?’
I nodded.
‘I see them, and I think, hold on tight, because when they’re gone, there’s no replacing them. You remember that for you and your fellow, too. You tell him to hold onto you tight.’ My eyes filled unexpectedly with tears, and they spilled over onto my cheeks before I could stop them. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said, hurrying to hand me a tissue. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You didn’t,’ I said, waving him away as I blotted my face, but the tears kept coming. We sat in silence for a minute, and he handed me fresh tissues as I fought to control my shuddering breaths. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said finally.
‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,’ he said, mock-sternly. ‘A lovely girl like you is allowed to have a bit of a cry every now and then without apologizing.’
‘Thanks,’ I smiled. ‘What are you going to do next?’
He shrugged. ‘Get on with the act of living, I suppose. Find a little flat somewhere. Spend time with my granddaughter.’ He patted the back of my hand as he climbed out of the booth. ‘What about yourself?’
I shot him a startled glance. ‘Me?’
‘Do you know what you’re going to do next?’
I was silent.
‘Take your time, love,’ he said, picking his cap up off the table and settling it on his head. ‘It’s a long life, full of twists and turns. Just promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
He smiled as he headed towards the door. ‘Be happy.’
17
One week turned to two, and then three. Jeremy had been thrilled when I’d told him that Mr Bryant had dropped the insurance claim, though I clammed up when he asked for specifics.
‘Just so long as the sly dog doesn’t try any more of his tricks,’ he warned as he adjusted the cuffs on his floral shirt. One of these days, I was sure he was going to appear in a pair of polished wingtips and a black fedora.
‘Don’t worry,’ I assured him, ‘we won’t hear from him again.’
He winked and told me I’d done ‘a bang-up job’.
The wedding plans continued apace. A stack of invitations arrived and sat accusatorily on the kitchen counter, waiting to be stuffed and sent. Christopher and I made a shortlist of possible bands, exchanged long, torturous emails about the guest list, and made tentative enquiries into applying for a marriage license. I sent Isla links to bridesmaids’ dresses, and she even admitted that one of them didn’t make her want to pull out her eye teeth and swallow them. Progress, all of it.
When a large Manila envelope turned up on my desk at work with a Texas postmark in the upper-right corner, I didn’t open it. I didn’t need to – I knew what was inside. I promised myself every morning that I’d deal with it, and every night I left for home with it still unopened in my desk drawer.
Other than that, I didn’t hear from Jackson. He was a man of his word – he’d sent the papers and left me alone. I tried to convince myself that I was grateful, but couldn’t quite manage it.
Christopher and I settled back into our routine. He brought me tea in the mornings before heading off to work, and I made sure the house was stocked with pies in the evening. Friday nights we ate Kung Pao chicken on the sofa, and on Sunday afternoons we ate roast dinners in the Queen’s Head. He went running. I read. Everything went back to normal.
Only I couldn’t get Mr Bryant out of my head. To be that grief-stricken that you wanted to take your own life … I thought of my mother. I thought about what Mr Bryant had said, about it not being grief that made people crazy, but love. It began to gnaw at the edges of me.
Another week passed, and then it was Saturday night, and Ben and Lucy were due to arrive for dinner any minute. I had a chicken and leek pie in the oven, and a steak and kidney cooling on the side and I was now sprinting around the flat desperately cramming bits of clutter and detritus into cupboards and underneath beds.
‘Where are my pants?’ Christopher cried as he dashed down the hall, still naked from the shower.
‘I put them in the wash!’ I called after his retreating back.
He stopped in his tracks and turned around. ‘Bollocks.’ I wondered if he was being literal, until he added, ‘They were my last pair.’
‘Well,’ I said, stuffing a pile of junk mail into the cutlery drawer, ‘you’ll have to go commando!’
He grimaced. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
‘It’s good for them.’
‘Good for who?’
‘Them!’ I cried, waving towards his nether region. ‘Your … wrinkly twins.’
‘Oh Christ,’ he muttered, before sloping off to the bedroom.
‘Hurry!’ I found a couple of loose screws languishing on the coffee table – where had they come from? Where? – and tossed them in the crack between the sofa cushions.
They were, of course, late. What had I expected? They were in their mid-twenties and in love. They were probably late to everything. It turned out to be a blessing, anyway, as it gave me a chance to sort through the cutlery to find four clean forks and light the fancy smelly candle I’d bought.
When they finally did turn up, a cool forty-five minutes late, Christopher and I had already sunk two glasses of wine each and were both a little unsteady on our feet when we answered the door.
‘Hello!’ I said, slightly too loudly. Ben immediately thrust a bouquet of tulips wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine into my arms (hipster flowers, of course). I stepped aside to let the two of them in.
Ben was wearing what I can only describe as his version of Sunday Best: a pair of black drainpipes, a white shirt buttoned all the way up, and polished brogues so pointy, my shins winced instinctively. I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and pushed him out of the way so I could get to Lucy.
‘Hello!’ I cried. ‘You must be Lucy!’ It occurred to me that I was acting like someone’s deranged great aunt.
Lucy looked like a modern-day wood nymph, tiny and slight, her blonde curls tumbling almost to her waist. She was wearing an outfit that would have had me committed, but looked achingly cool on her, all long layers and jangly jewellery and mismatched prints. She looked as if she should be living in a hollowed-out tree in a copse somewhere rather than a studio in Homerton.
‘Hello,’ she said, extending a minuscule hand. Her voice was much louder and deeper than expected, and both Christopher and I jumped.
‘Should we take off our shoes?’ Ben asked, finger already looped around the back of his brogue. His eyes darted around the flat, and I saw him take in the framed print over the fireplace, the patterned rug spread under the mid-century modern coffee table, and my fancy candle flickering away.
The realization struck me like a thunderbolt. He thinks we’re grown-ups.
I glanced at his face, which was pale with nerves.
It was worse than that. He thought I was his mother. He was basically introducing his girlfriend to his work-mom.
‘No!’ I was shouting now, I could hear it. ‘It’s totally fine, we’re not anal about that kind of thing.’ Christopher shot me a sceptical glance. I was, in fact, anal about that kind of thing, hence us both being in socked feet. I ploughed on regardless. ‘Come on in!’
I sat them down on the couch and dispatched Christopher to get them drinks.
‘You have a lovely home, Jenny,’ Lucy said in her peculiar, gravelly voice. It was nice, actually – sexy, even – but there was something unsettling about it coming from Tinkerbell’s mouth.
‘Yeah,’ Ben added. ‘It’s, like, immaculate.’ He was theoretically seated on the couch, but in reality he was hovering just slightly above the cushion, as though any contact between himself and the upholstery would be disastrous.
‘It definitely isn’t,’ I said, eyes trailing treasonously to the pile of magazines I’d shoved under the sofa. ‘It’s basically a garbage pail.’
‘You’re crazy,’ Ben said. ‘If you think this place is a tip, you would genuinely have a heart attack if you saw my place.’
Lucy’s eyes lit up. ‘Did you know that his flatmate doesn’t believe in sell-by dates?’
‘Wait, what?’
She nodded. ‘The first night I stayed at his place, I tried to make coffee in the morning, and the milk was basically cheese. When I went to chuck it away, Ben freaked out and was like, no! That’s my flatmate’s! He freaks out if I throw any of his stuff away! And I was like, Ben, the milk is off! But apparently it doesn’t matter.’
‘Ben,’ I chided. ‘That’s gross!’
‘It’s not me!’ he cried.
‘And,’ Lucy added, triumphantly, ‘the walls of their bathroom are absolutely covered in mould.’
Ben threw his arm around her and pulled her close. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad.’
She nestled into the crook of his shoulder. ‘It so is.’
‘Well, at least my bedroom isn’t covered in clothes. Jenny, you should see Lucy’s place. It’s basically a wardrobe with a bed tucked in the corner.’
‘Hey!’ She gave him a playful swipe.
‘It’s true!’ He grinned at her. ‘Just try to deny it.’
She shrugged. ‘You can’t criticize a girl for having too many clothes. Right?’ She looked at me for reassurance.
I smiled at her. ‘Absolutely.’
The two of them were so adorable, so completely and utterly crazy about each other, that just being in the same room as them made me feel like some kind of weird interloper. All this cutesy banter and snuggling into each other, and the way they kept appealing to me for approval … by the end of it, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to applaud or leave the room so they could be alone. When Christopher finally reappeared with the drinks, I fell on him like a starved hyena on a stray scrap of wildebeest meat.
‘Let me help you!’ I cried, vaulting over the coffee table and nearly knocking the tray of drinks from his hands.
‘It’s fine,’ he said, shooting me a funny look. ‘I’ve got it.’
We sat around the coffee table, Ben and Lucy taking up one half of the love seat and leaving the other cushion cold and alone, while Christopher and I perched in the two semi-uncomfortable chairs we’d bought because they looked nice but that we never actually sat in. I plucked a crisp out of the glass bowl we only used for this specific purpose – eating crisps with company – while Christopher tried to follow a story Lucy and Ben were telling that was meant to be about the two of them going to Brighton for the day but was actually about how adorable the other one was. I’d already heard Ben’s version in the office – basically, they went to Brighton, ate fish and chips, came home – so I allowed my mind to wander.
Would the pies be any good? Did I have enough glasses for both water and wine? Had I remembered to take the bottle of Chablis out of the freezer? Would the mousse be set? And, finally, looking over at the occupied half of the sofa, where Ben was gazing at Lucy with a look of such abject wonder it wouldn’t have surprised me if she was shooting fireworks out of her ears, had Christopher and I ever been like them?
And then it was time for dinner. The pies were good. (The chicken and leek was a little dry). The wine was chilled, and we had enough glasses. The mousse had set.
Ben and Lucy were the perfect guests – extremely appreciative and with fairly low standards. They oohed and ahhed over every dish I brought to the table, thanked Christopher profusely every time he topped up their glasses, and marveled over the fact we had matching plates and a full set of cutlery. At one point, Ben spilled a bit of wine onto the table and offered to pay for the napkin he used to wipe it up, ‘because it’s cloth’.
I hadn’t noticed it at work, but I was suddenly aware of how young Ben was. He was still in a world where cloth napkins seem fancy. He and Lucy went to parties where the host didn’t serve food. They went to bars where the music was too loud for them to talk, and didn’t complain about the fact that there wasn’t anywhere to sit. They would stay out until 1 a.m. on a weeknight, and, not only would they be fully functional at work the next day, but they would describe themselves as not having had a late one. They were hangover-proof. They smoked cigarettes without worrying about how it would affect their mile time.
They were young, they were in love, and they were happy. So, so happy. They turned towards each other as though they were each other’s North Star, seeking each other’s light for guidance and assurance.
‘Lucy and I are thinking about moving in together,’ Ben blurted out o
ver dessert, and I had to steady myself on the edge of the table.
‘That’s fast!’ Christopher gave me a sharp look. ‘I mean, that’s great!’ I stumbled. ‘Congratulations.’
‘It’s not a definite yet,’ Ben said, digging a spoon into his mousse.
‘Yeah,’ Lucy chimed. ‘We don’t mean, like, tomorrow or anything, but Ben’s place really is rank, and my place is tiny, so we thought maybe it might be better …’ She gave Ben a shy look.
I saw him reach under the table for her hand. ‘Since we’re together all the time anyway,’ he said.
‘We could get a really nice one-bed in Stoke Newington for what we’re both paying at the moment.’
‘Or around here, even,’ Ben added.
I tried to keep the shock off my face, and failed. ‘But you always say Tufnell Park is for corduroy-wearing, middle-aged Guardian readers,’ I spluttered.
He shrugged. ‘It’s got a few nice pubs, plus the Heath is right on your doorstep …’
‘We’re thinking about getting a puppy!’ Lucy beamed.
I was like a puppy myself, clinging stubbornly to a bone. ‘But … you call it Tossers’ Park, because only tossers live here!’
‘Ben!’ Lucy scolded. ‘That’s so rude!’
Ben held up his hands in mock outrage ‘What?!’ He laughed.
I shook my head in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe you’re thinking about moving to Tufnell Park,’ I murmured.
‘Jenny, let it go,’ Christopher cautioned quietly.
‘Okay! Okay! I’ll let it go! Move to Tossers’ Park if that’s what you want. Get a dog and then get married and then have kids and then grow old together and die in each other’s arms! Okay?’
A shocked silence descended on the table. Lucy and Ben nudged their chairs closer together, as if proximity could protect them from the madness on the other side of the table. Christopher looked at me as if I were some lunatic who’d wandered off the street wearing a tinfoil hat rather than his fiancée. And I was starting to wonder if he might be right. (Minus the tinfoil hat.) (For now.)
Jenny Sparrow Knows the Future Page 27
