Wasted (19 page)

Jess is beginning to believe that the future could hold all that she wants – Jack, music, everything. The strings that tie her down are loosening.

Sylvia, frankly, is falling to pieces. She was never particularly together in the first place, of course, but now she is quickly crumbling. Control is slipping from her like autumn leaves. Her husband is coming, no doubt insinuating his way between her and her daughter; he will unfold himself coolly from some sleek car and his eyes will trail over her body as though he is wondering what he ever saw in her; he will be wearing an expensive shirt and chinos, and shoes in soft brown leather; and she will look into his chocolate eyes and see Jessica and the past.

Added to that, her only daughter is going out with a boy who is stealing her heart and time. Her daughter is leaving school soon, which, as Sylvia knows – but is trying to forget – may change everything. No, let's face it,
will
change everything. Jess has occasionally used the words
gap year
and
travelling
in the past and Sylvia has had a clutching feeling in her throat every time. Even
India
and
backpacking
were mentioned the other day and Sylvia has a horrible intuition that a boyfriend may well make those words more likely to come true. They are such faraway words but yet they feel very close.

And Sylvia needs a drink. This needing a drink is odd – it's not like hunger or thirst, but a nagging in her mind, a pulling and tugging of her body towards wherever the drink is. It's like being a puppet on strings. Anyway, she'd found herself buying a bottle of gin from the supermarket, at the same time as picking up some of Jess's favourite foods – she plans to surprise Jess with a nice meal when she gets back from the boyfriend's house.

Sylvia's hands are shaking as she fumbles for her key. While she is opening the door, she doesn't even notice the haze of sweet peas and roses that tumble around the frame. There was a time, and not long ago either, when she couldn't walk past flowers without wanting to bury her face in the drowning scent of whatever was in bloom. Now, she just wants…

In the hall, Sylvia takes the bottle from her bag.

She looks at it. There is an ugly need in her. It has crept up on her, this need, over many months and maybe years, slowly and invisibly, and she does not exactly know when it turned from desire to need. It has played “grandmother's footsteps” with her mind. She wishes she could pour the contents of it down the sink but her fingers and feet will not allow her to do it. She knows that. It's the knowing that's the ugly bit. The drinking is the beautiful bit. How it floods over her like a warm wave and she can let herself sink into it and she forgets that anything matters.

The answering machine winks at her. She presses the button as she kicks her shoes off. It's Jess. Love snatches at her heart as she hears the voice. “Hi, Mum. Sorry but I won't be back till later. I'm eating at Jack's and then we'll probably practise some more. See you maybe about ten. I'll text you when I'm on my way.”

Sylvia lets out a small noise.
Ohhh!
And suddenly fear and loneliness threaten to engulf her and stop her breathing. For a moment she thinks she could just sit there on the stairs and cry. But she does not. She stumbles towards the kitchen and opens the bottle. A quick swig settles her.

Jess, meanwhile, in Jack's bedroom, has just managed a very impressive spin of the coin. She plucks it from the air as it falls, closes her fingers over it and slaps it down on the back of her hand. Triumphantly.

“Heads or tails?” she asks.

“You haven't asked it a question.”

“Yes, but heads or tails anyway?”

“But there's no point without a question.”

“It's just a game though – a guessing game. It doesn't make any difference to anything.”

“You're not taking it seriously.” He frowns, not looking at her.

“Maybe you're taking it too seriously. You can't let it rule your life. God, Jack, we might as well believe in Farantella the Fantastic Fortune-teller! It's that stupid!”

He looks at her now. Seems about to say something. Takes her hands, slipping the coin from between them. He holds it in one hand, her hand in the other. He holds it up between her face and his, so he can see both: it is as though he does not know whether to look at her or the coin.

“But it does rule our lives, don't you see? And isn't it so much simpler that way? People say life's a lottery. But you don't know what you can change unless you try.” He waves his hand towards the wall with all those newspaper stories. He carries on. “Life is serious and if you don't take it seriously it can creep up on you and…”

He pauses, looks away. Something plays across the muscles of his face. He swallows. Grabs her hands again, both of them. “You have to stay with me, Jess.”

She is startled. “What's the matter? You look really weird.”

“Thanks.” And he smiles. At last, he smiles. “I love you, and I don't want you to go.”

“I'm not going,” she says, and she's not. Certainly, at that moment, she has no intention of going anywhere. Few people can resist being wrapped in love when it's offered. All dangers become invisible.

There's a shout from downstairs: Jack's dad. “Come and lay the table in five minutes. OK?”

Jack calls back that they'll be down. And then turns to Jess. “I have to tell you about my mother, how she died. Actually, twice, but I mean the second time.” And he does. It is shocking and it brings tears to Jess's eyes. She hears it in silence, wanting to hold his hands, but they are clenched and white and she does not. He says it all while looking at a space above her head and then he looks at her.

“And that's why. Because it so shouldn't have happened and so nearly didn't. And if I'd kicked the ball differently or not asked her to play or whatever, then… And all of life's like that, Jess. All of it. Everything could be different. If only we did something different. Small things change everything.”

She doesn't know what to say. She shakes her head, because it seems so wrong somehow. But she cannot see why.

He is still talking. “I so nearly didn't meet you. And now … now…”

“What?”

“Something really bad could be about to happen.”

“Or something really good could be about to happen.”

“But what if it doesn't?”

“Can't we just focus on the things we can control?” Jess asks.

“Exactly! That's why I toss the coin. I can choose to do it. I can't control the way it lands but I can control whether I'm in the game. But now I think … it's controlling me. I'm doing it all the time. More than you think.” He bites his lip.

“So stop playing it, Jack! Just stop doing it! If it's screwing you up.”

“But…” And he looks at the newspaper cuttings again. “What if I stop and something terrible happens?”

“This is stupid. We don't know what's round the corner and, if we did, what would we do about it? Like Oedipus in that story. Trying to escape the prophecy he ends up doing exactly what the prophecy said. He can't escape.”

“Yeah, I know – had to do an essay on it in philosophy. It tangles me up – like, if he'd never been
told
he was going to kill his father and marry his mother, he'd never have done it, and yet it was only trying to avoid it that made it all come true. If he'd ignored it he'd have been fine. I hate that story. It's … I don't know … cruel. It gives us no power or choice at all. Just makes everything pointless. But that's not what I'm talking about – I'm not talking about knowing what's round the corner. I'm talking about the fact we have to decide which corner to walk round. That's what the coin does.”

“Yes,
we
have to decide, not some coin. You're handing your life over to a
coin
– Christ, Jack! You have to stop this.” And as she says it, she knows it is true.

Jack takes a deep breath, shifts his thoughts into gear.

Remember, Jack has equilibrium. Push him however far and he'll spring back. He's not the sort of person to go to pieces, though anyone can crack a little now and then. Besides, you can paper over cracks and sometimes that's enough. There is a moment, a seesaw point, where he may tip over, and then, “Better watch out for things beginning with ‘w', hadn't we?” He grins. “Come on – we need to lay the table. But first, how about you take the coin? Then I can't use it any more. Keep it with you. Don't let me have it back.”

“I think that sounds like a very good idea.”

He spins it one last time, catches it behind his back, one-handed, without looking.

“Show-off!”

Jack hands her the coin. It is warm from his hand. She looks at it, puts it in her pocket. He flicks hair from his eyes. “OK? Let's go. After you.”

She leaves the room before him and does not see him take one long look at the newspaper stories before he follows her.

A few minutes later, they are chatting over lasagne with Jack's father. Laughter and stories, stainless steel and granite that sparkles, warm lighting, steaming bread and shining faces. At some point, they get on to the subject of what they're going to do next. The backpacking to India thing comes up and Sam takes a deep breath before smiling. “God, I'm jealous of you two: your whole lives ahead of you. And you'd leave an old man like me to hobble towards my pension?”

More laughter.

They cannot know what is round the corner, or which corner they may soon walk round. Because at the moment there is nothing round the corner; there is not, yet, even any corner. Just possibilities.

THE
night of the prom is approaching fast.

Jess brushes everything else into a corner of her mind – her mum, her friends, what to eat for breakfast. Even the idea that she is about to leave school does not seem real – it is as though she left ages ago and she is somewhere else already. She is another person, and her cells breathe differently. The future holds fewer fears now that she is not standing on the edge alone.

The band, the prom and Jack. When she sings with them there is nothing else to think about.

Jack does not mention the coin now, seems to have forgotten the game. He has not forgotten: he is just hiding it. But he is hiding it well. Perhaps, if he can avoid playing it for long enough, the patterns of his thoughts may change and the desire fade.

But he cannot help worrying. Ever since he can remember, he has beckoned good luck by sacrificing himself to fortune, thinking he can change invisible particles. Maybe he was right. What if by stopping now he will attract bad fortune? He tries – tries so hard – to block this worry out and to be reasonable.

The trouble is that Jack is finding it hard to shake off the fear that something bad may be about to happen. Jess has seemed able to dismiss the Farantella thing. And every sensible part of Jack has done the same. But… No, it is ridiculous. If he believed that stuff, he should be avoiding red, and boats (or planes or things with wings), and big things in the water, and things beginning with ‘w'. Which would be plain silly. And with this thought he tries to drown the fear.
Ridiculous, ridiculous
, he repeats to himself when it tries to squeeze its way back in.

In Jack's garage, they bury themselves in songs. Each song has been sung many times, and mostly it has been about technique, dynamics, getting the words right, making sure each instrument blends perfectly with the others, or takes its turn in dominating. They have done a full run-through several times and each time it has been better. It has become somewhat routine-y for Jess. This is no bad thing, because then the emotion and nerves of the night will carry it to a new level. You wouldn't want to reach your peak in rehearsal.

But sometimes, even in practice, the music carries her away. She slides into the colours and lets the fingers of the notes touch her. And when this happens she looks up afterwards and sees Jack watching her and smiling and then nothing is bad in the world at all.

The night before the prom arrives.

They have an early evening practice and decide that they are as ready as they will ever be. “See you tomorrow,” say Chris, Ella and Tommy as they leave Jack's house.

“Want to eat here?” Jack asks Jess.

“Are you sure that's OK with your dad? I seem to have been here a lot.”

“No problem. He likes you – he's got good taste.”

Her phone rings. It's her mum. “It's me – hope you're going to be back soon? I've cooked.”

Jess makes a face at Jack as she answers. “You've cooked? Sounds like a good reason to steer clear.” She doesn't feel like joking. Jack is signalling that it's OK, that she should go. And she knows he's right.

Her mum again: “Please, Jess. We'll have a nice evening. Your last as a schoolgirl.” Jess rolls her eyes. A couple of weeks ago and she wouldn't have been so irritated by this emotional stuff. She shifts from foot to foot, trying to decide. Jack nods at her.

“OK, Mum. I'll be about half an hour.”

“I thought you were at Jack's?”

“I am.”

“You told me it took less than fifteen minutes to walk there.”

“Well, I'm in the middle of something.”

“Fine. Oh, can you get some single cream from the corner shop – just a small one? Oh, and a lemon. I forgot them.”

Rolls her eyes again. “Is that all?”

“Maybe some chocolate. Something you like.”

Jess finishes the conversation quickly and a little over half an hour later, she is home. Jack has not come with her this time – he's got things to do for tomorrow.

Spike rolls on the path in front of her, catching the last bit of sun before it disappears beneath the trees. Jess stops to tickle his tummy and she loves how he stretches. Lucky Spike – so little to worry about.