‘Hi, Mum, Dad.’ Jessica smiled, opening the door to let them in. It was seven o’clock, but the gathering cloud made it seem much darker than usual.
After the rigmarole of hanging up their coats, thanking them for the wine, accepting profiteroles; giving Dad a hug,breathing in his familiar smell of paper and ink and forbidden ciggies, and kissing the air near to her mother’s cheek, Jessica waited for the inevitable question.
‘Where’s Dave?’ her mother asked, as she settled herself onto the leather sofa. ‘Is he cooking?’
‘No. Actually, he’s still a bit under the weather,’ Jessica replied. ‘He thought he was fine, until about half an hour ago. But he’s had to go to bed, I’m afraid.’
‘To bed?’
‘Yes. He’s taken a turn for the worse.’
‘Poor chap,’ said her father, probably secretly relieved that he wouldn’t be expected to talk about muscle mass all evening. ‘You should have told us not to come.’
‘Well, it was very, uh, last minute,’ Jessica replied, with a wry grin that she hoped communicated to her father that she would have cancelled had she been able to get past her mum.
‘Didn’t I see a picture of him from the gym earlier?’ piped Jessica’s mum, frowning. ‘Something about a new target being met or something? He was wearing some sort of spandex, I think. Rather fetching, actually. Reminded me of your father in his heyday.’
‘Um, yes … I think …’ Jessica said quickly. ‘Actually, I think that might have been what did it,’ she added, realising she might be on to a winning argument. ‘You were right, Mum. All that gym isn’t good for him, especially when he’s been poorly.’
This seemed to settle her mother. ‘Well,’ she said, shifting slightly in her chair. ‘Well, I do always say, less is more when it comes to exercise.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Jessica, pouring a generous serving of her mother’s favourite sweet wine. ‘You’re so right.’
‘And you know, I read recently that too much of that,’ her mum lowered her voice, ‘testosterone stuff these fitness fanatics have, the worse their little swimmers are.’
‘I think that must have been an article about steroids, Mum. Dave doesn’t take anything like that.’
‘No, no. It’s testosterone, I’m sure of it. And, whether you like it or not, that man is full of it. You know, you haven’t got long if you want to give that poor child a sister or brother.’
Across the room, her father gave her a barely perceptible wink.
‘Would you rather we headed off?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure Dave could do with the peace and quiet. You know … to replenish his testosterone levels …’ His eyes met hers and they both looked away abruptly before giggles set in.
‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ Jessica smiled. It was better to get on with it, especially as she’d have to come up with another excuse if they wanted to rearrange. ‘I’ve done all the cooking now anyway.’
It was sort of true. Jessica seemed, in fact, to have lost her cooking mojo. She’d been to the local deli and bought some pumpkin soup for a starter, fallen back on a simple salmon with pesto crust for main, and given in to the fact that, whatever she made, they’d end up having profiteroles for dessert.
What was it about feeling a bit down? It seemed to suck all the energy out of her; she’d lost impetus – with the campaign, with her cooking; she’d kept up her social-media presence, but her heart wasn’t in it.
Too heartbroken? Or was it like missing the gym – once you ducked out of that world it was hard to get motivated again. Hard to find the will within yourself to even take a picture of your dinner, let alone post it for your followers. And you could forget hashtags.
‘Are you sure Dave doesn’t want to come down for a bit of soup?’ pressed her mother as they sat down at the glass-topped dining table. ‘I’d have thought it would do him some good.’
‘Oh no.’
‘Are you sure? It’s actually quite tasty!’ continued her mother, clearly astounded by the fact that anything Jessica had (purportedly) cooked could taste good. ‘Better than that cabbage stuff last time. And, I must say, better than the recipe you put on your blog earlier. Not that I … I mean, not it didn’t sound simply delicious,’ she corrected quickly. ‘Just, well, this is rather special. Let me take him a bit up, poor boy.’
‘Yes, last-minute change of plan on the recipe front … no, um, well the avocados were …’ she stammered. ‘But I really think Dave is …’
‘It’s actually great, Jessica,’ interrupted her father. ‘Nice to know you’re eating properly now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, all that diet stuff. There didn’t seem to be much, well, substance to it,’ he said, stirring his pumpkin soup thoughtfully. ‘You’re skinny enough as it is.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Jessica replied looking pointedly at her midriff and grimacing.
Her dad gave her a grin. ‘Call that a belly …?’ he said, reaching towards his shirt. ‘THIS is a b—’
‘Clive! Not at the table!’ snapped her mother. Her father’s shirt dropped down like a heavy curtain. ‘Anyway, dear, I do think I should go up. It’s important he keeps up his strength.’
‘No. I mean, ah, I’ll save some for him for later,’ Jessica said hurriedly. ‘He’s, well, he’s not keeping much down at the moment.’
She saw her father’s eyes travel down to the orange, slightly chunky liquid on his spoon at the thought of Dave vomiting upstairs.
‘Sorry, Dad.’
‘No problem,’ he said, tearing off a bit of bread and chewing at it doggedly.
‘I think I might have to pop up and see if he’s all right?’ persisted her mother. ‘It sounds like he might have something nasty.’ She shovelled pumpkin soup into her mouth, parting her lips widely to avoid smudging her magenta lipstick, and clearly unaffected by the thought of Dave’s emissions.
‘That’s so nice of you, Mum. But I wouldn’t want you to pick up the same bug.’
‘Nonsense. I told you about these immune-system boosting thingies. Over fifties, they’re called. We’re right as rain, aren’t we Clive?’
Her father emitted a defeated cough.
‘Well,’ Jessica felt her mind begin to race. Once her mother got the bit between her teeth, it was almost impossible to stop her. Which would be endearing if Dave really was upstairs heaving. But completely alarming in the current situation. ‘Perhaps a little later.’
‘No, don’t be silly. He’ll probably be sleeping later. I just think someone else ought to check his pallor – you know, I used to be a school nurse?’
‘Of course I know, Mum, Just—’
‘Well, that’s settled then,’ her mother placed her spoon into her empty bowl – she had an amazing capacity to be able to dominate the conversation and demolish her food simultaneously.
‘Wait!’ cried Jessica as her mother scraped her chair back from the table. ‘I mean, let me just go up to check that he’s … he’s decent.’
This, at last, stopped her mother in her tracks. ‘OK,’ she relented. ‘Tell him I’ll pop up in a mo.’
Sweaty and breathless, Jessica arrived at the top of the stairs and burst into her bedroom. It was a mess of cast-off clothes and discarded teacups. Seeing it for the first time through her mother’s eyes made her prickle like a defensive teenager.
But the mess wasn’t her first concern. There wasn’t time. Instead of tackling that issue, she got two pillows and arranged them under the covers in a man-shaped hump. She put a couple of the cups on the floor by the bed, and kicked some of the other debris out of sight. Then she closed the curtains and switched the low light in the en suite on to give the room a dull glow.
Hearing her mother’s footsteps on the stairs, she realised it would have to do. Stepping out of the door, she raised her finger to her lips. ‘He’s asleep,’ she wh
ispered. ‘I think we ought to leave him.’
She pushed the door open a fraction to reveal the humped figure in the bed, hoping to God that her mother would at last be put off.
‘Oh dear, poor chap,’ she said, peering into the darkness. ‘Do you think I ought to go and see if he has a temperature?’
‘Oh, no. I checked his forehead. He seems to be over the worst,’ said Jessica, hastily. ‘And I’d hate to wake him up.’
‘And,’ Jessica’s mum lowered her voice, in case the sleeping Dave heard. ‘He has flushed, I suppose?’
‘Yes. Yes. All clean and tidy in the bathroom.’
Her mother nodded. ‘Good. It doesn’t do to let these bugs hang around. The last thing you need is to catch something like this, what with your business doing so well.’
Jessica started slightly at that. It was the first time her mother had actually acknowledged that her little enterprise was a business. Let alone that it was doing well.
‘Good point,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be Star PR without its star, now would it?’ Her mother rubbed her arm in a rare moment of physical affection.
Was it possible that her mother was actually proud of her? Jessica felt herself begin to blush.
‘And of course, with the two of you trying now.’
‘We’re not, we haven’t …’
Her mum winked elaborately. ‘Oh, I know,’ she said. ‘It’s all very private, I’m sure.’
‘Shall we …? Perhaps we should …?’ Jessica gestured to the stairs.
‘Right. Well, perhaps I’ll pop up after dessert, just to make sure he’s not taken a turn for the worse,’ her mother continued – not realising the shockwaves her casual comment about her daughter’s business had caused.
‘Yes, that’s a great idea,’ Jessica replied, hoping a couple more generous servings of wine would help her mother to forget about the sleeping pillows in her daughter’s room.
As they walked down the stairs, they could hear the low tones of Jessica’s father, mumbling away on his own in the kitchen. Jessica stopped to listen.
‘Is Dad all right?’ Jessica asked. She’d heard Dad singing on occasion when he thought no one could hear, or shouting at the TV, but never talking to himself.
‘Silly man,’ came the response. ‘I caught him talking to the kettle the other day. Telling it to hurry up and boil, or something. He’s probably talking to the oven.’
But it wasn’t funny, was it? Jessica thought about the new wrinkles she’d noticed recently; the fact he seemed to be more forgetful than he used to be. Yes, he was getting older, but even so, talking to himself was a new, worrying development.
Strangely, though, as they approached the kitchen, it was clear that not only was her father talking to someone, but that someone was answering.
It was only when they pushed open the door that Jessica realised the ‘real’ situation she’d unleashed on herself. Because, standing in a crisp white shirt, hair styled, carrying a bottle of wine, stood a fragrant and definitely not vomiting Dave.
#OhShit
Chapter Twenty-Two
To:[email protected]
From:[email protected]
Re:Studio
Hi Jess,
I’ve made a few changes to the studio – to do with the new focus – and thought it might be a good idea if you have time to pop in and see the new work after the weekend? Think I’m ready to show you the competition entry too.
H
To:[email protected]
From:[email protected]
Re:re: studio
Sure, I’d love to. Will give you a call to arrange.
To:[email protected]
From:[email protected]
Re:Interview
Dear Jessica,
I came across your blog when a friend of mine tweeted your ‘tips’ for a good relationship. I loved reading it! I see you’ve also been featured in New Woman mag recently.
I’m putting together a piece for the website featuring couples who have a shared interest, and I’d love to feature you and Dave in the piece.
You’d need to attend a photo shoot together and answer a few questions on your relationship to take part. And I’d be able to pay you each £150 as a thank you.
Drop me a line and let me know what you think.
Best wishes,
Claudia Hibbert
Daily News
Sitting in her home office, catching up on her backlog, Jessica was tempted to hit her head against the desk. Was her life getting more complicated, or was she just getting more incompetent when it came to managing it? This was the kind of opportunity she’d have jumped at a few weeks ago when her life had bordered on normal.
Last night, she’d spent an hour and a half lying to her parents about why her boyfriend, who was meant to be curled up either in bed or over the toilet bowl upstairs, was magically standing in her kitchen brandishing a bottle of wine and smelling strongly of Blue Sheen.
Her mother had gone pale when they’d entered the kitchen and Dave had turned to greet her with a smile. ‘Hello, Jean!’ he’d cried, leaning towards her for a peck on the cheek.
She’d recoiled as if she’d seen a ghost. ‘Dave!’ she’d screeched. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live here,’ he’d lied.
‘Erm, Mum,’ Jessica had said, her brain whirring like a fruit machine trying to find a plausible excuse and gently pushing her mother back into her chair. ‘I can explain.’
She’d shot Dave a look which was designed to say: For God’s sake don’t say anything! This is a VERY COMPLICATED SITUATION – quite a feat for her eyebrows.
‘Are you all right?’ he’d asked, looking at her with concern. ‘Your eyes have gone all strange.’
‘Yes. I’m fine,’ she’d hissed. ‘Mum, Dad. I’m sorry that told you Dave was SICK IN BED,’ she’d continued, slowly and clearly in the hope that she could help Dave to catch up at the same time as somehow getting herself out of the mess she was suddenly plunged into without looking like a downright liar and fraud or (of course) revealing that she and Dave had split. ‘It was … um … well … we wanted to, er, surprise you!’
‘Well, you’ve certainly done that,’ her dad had said, softly, almost to himself. ‘I think your mother is about to have some sort of breakdown.’
Jessica had glanced at Mum, who had slumped into her chair and was gripping the stem of her wine glass so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
‘Sorry,’ Jessica had continued, with a grimace. ‘Um, we thought, well, it was meant to be a bit of fun!’ she’d tried to smile and felt the muscles around her mouth ache.
‘I’m not quite—’ Dave had begun.
‘Not NOW, Dave,’ she’d hissed. ‘Look, Mum and Dad … Dave … I mean we … wanted to surprise you … because, erm. Because … well …’ she glanced the bottle in Dave’s hand. Prosecco. Perfect.
Suddenly, like the sun breaking through persistent cloud, her brain had come up with what could only be described as a Perfect Plan. Three cherries lined up in the fruit machine of her mind.
‘Well,’ she’d snatched the bottle from Dave’s hand. ‘Well, we’ve just, erm … Truth is, we’re engaged!’ She’d stepped lightly towards Dave and made sure his toe was under her heel. Applying pressure, she’d continued. ‘I’d … um, I’d told you that Dave was sick earlier in the week … and, well, we were cooking the, ah … the pumpkin soup together, when he, well, he asked me to marry him,’ she’d looked at Dave, desperately. Luckily, he’d been speechless.
‘Then, well, we thought we’d buy some bubbly,’ she’d said, waving the bottle precariously close to her mother’s head. ‘And … and, so I made an excuse. I, I didn’t want to tell you – you see – why Dave wasn’t here. So, I said he was in bed …’
‘
But—’ her mother had begun weakly.
‘But when you asked to see him, I … I panicked’ (this, at least, was true). ‘So I rushed up and, you know, put the pillows on the bed …’
‘So, you’re not sick?’ her dad had asked Dave, as if piecing together a very complicated puzzle.
‘No?’ Dave had replied, although the upward inflexion of his voice made it sound as if he was starting to think he might be.
‘No, no!’ Jess had continued, beaming. ‘No! It was just part of the … the surprise!’ she’d waved the bottle again, noticing that it was marked ‘£2 off’ on the back. She’d put it down, heavily on the table, feeling slightly knock-kneed.
‘So, you mean to tell us, Jessica. Are you and Dave engaged?’ her mother had asked, brow furrowed.
‘Yes! Yes we are!’
Dave had stayed silent. But suddenly Jessica had felt his arm wrap around her back and pull her to him. She’d felt almost weak with relief – he wasn’t going to blow her cover.
‘Well, congratulations!’ The pair of them were up then, shaking hands, hugging, clapping on the back.
‘I can’t pretend to quite understand what just happened,’ her mum had said, after giving her a squeeze. ‘But I am so pleased for you!’ She’d lowered her voice to an all-too-audible whisper. ‘And remember what I said about testosterone,’ she’d added. ‘Your father never had a drop of the stuff, and we always conceived very easily.’
‘You know, your mum’s always wondering if you’re going to settle down again,’ her dad had told her, in a low voice when she’d hugged him. ‘Now she can move on to her next victim!’
Dave had stood there, looking bemused, but was thankfully silent as he’d endured a clap on the back from her father that almost sent him crashing into the half-eaten soup bowls, and a kiss from her mother that had left a cartoon-style lipstick print on his cheek.
‘We’ll talk later,’ Jessica had hissed in his ear when her parents had settled back down for the next course, glasses overfilled with Prosecco in the hope that nerves would be calmed and they’d all make it through the next hour or so unscathed.
Everything is Fine: The funny, feel-good and uplifting page-turner you won't be able to put down! Page 13
