Jenny shook her head. It wasn’t a possibility, of course. A total non-runner. She tried to banish the thought. She belonged here. With Bee. With Ed. With Real Life. Not with Guillaume, in that Technicolor world that seemed to exist when they were together.
Jenny caught sight of Ed emerging through the doors of the nursery, pulling his black coat around him and standing back with a smile to allow another parent to enter. Jenny watched as they chatted briefly, politely, for a moment. Watched how Ed smiled at the child – slightly older than Bee, she thought, from what she could see. And then she watched his familiar step back across the car park, looking from left to right, his artist’s eyes taking it all in. Finding some beauty, she knew, in the grimness of the day. And there was beauty in it. She knew that. But she just suddenly didn’t want to see it any more. She wanted to scream in fact. Scream at the situation. Scream at Ed. Scream at the choice that she felt she had to make. That she felt she should be able to make without hesitation.
She should be able to do the right thing, she knew. There was no other option for her, for heaven’s sake. She belonged here. With her family. Taking care of people. Doing the right thing. Like she had done all of her life. Choosing to do the right thing.
Except that was it. She wasn’t sure that she could. And that thought terrified her to the core.
Chapter 23
2020
Jenny
That day. December the 8th, 1997. That perfect Christmas day. In my memory, it all blends together like a cheesy montage from a TV show. Ed and Jen’s Christmas Special, it should have been called.
We went to a market first. Near Notting Hill – near Guillaume’s flat, in fact, which Ed had been to often, yet which we had never been to together. To which I knew the way like the back of my hand. I remember that I bit my lip hard in case I said something that revealed this fact, somehow. And I remember that I was glad when we turned this way and that and I grew lost again and didn’t have to pretend any more. And when we got there, to the Christmas market, I had nothing to hide because Other Jenny disappeared back inside and Real Jenny, wife to Ed, mother to Bee, took over.
They’d play Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ over that part of the montage. Ed and myself browsing through rows and rows of thick firs and spruces and pines, bickering affectionately – Ed in favour of something misshapen and miserable-looking and I, as always, desperate for our Christmas Tree to be perfect.
And then as we finally made our choice and paid and they wrapped our tree in mesh to deliver it later, I saw another tree. A smaller one this time. And fell in love with the idea of seeing it greet me just inside the front door of our home. Fell in love with the idea of it being there to welcome Bee home from nursery. Envisioned this one decorated in gold, green and red. Candy canes. A golden star on top. So we bought that one too.
And then we took ourselves to a stall selling carved wooden figurines and hand-painted baubles and we chose some to take home, both of us conscious that these would become part of our family history. That for every year for the rest of our lives, they’d be part of it all, part of the fabric of our Christmases, right through Bee’s life and beyond – to grandchildren, perhaps. It was right there, as we watched the stallholder box up these things that we both had a vision of what the future should be for us. Of traditions that we were creating now. For Real Jenny it all became crystal clear.
The next part of the montage would show us in a café nearby, warming ourselves with a mid-morning drink, Ed insisting on getting marshmallows in his hot chocolate. He was like a child that day, I remember. His nose red, a bobble hat that he had discovered in his coat pocket pulled down over his ears against the biting cold. I can see him now as he was then, across the holly-patterned paper tablecloth from me, the very scent of coldness coming from his skin as he waited for the drinks to be brought down to us.
The song would still be festive, of course. ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’, perhaps.
For a time, we were perfect. We were just Ed and Jenny again.
We held hands across the table. Around us sat builders – everywhere builders, because it was boom time – eating fry-ups, devouring doughnuts and steaming cups of tea and coffee. And amidst them we sat, a vision of young love in woollens, giggling together. At shared jokes that we hadn’t thought about in years. At the prospect of Christmas – we talked about what we’d cook for Christmas day, about what to get Bee for under the tree, about what we’d leave out for Santa the night before – Ed wanted to create fake reindeer footprints across the kitchen floor with some brown paint and a stencil to make Bee believe that Santa had really been here. I reminded him that, at two, she might well not appreciate the effort, but he swore he would do it anyway. “I want it perfect, Jen,” he said. Over and over again.
And in the cocoon of that greasy spoon with its fogged-up windows and the hiss of the coffee machine, I did too. I wanted perfection. And as Ed tentatively mentioned that maybe we should think about creating something else, Real Time Jenny was in full agreement. I absolutely was. As I sat there, holding my husband’s hand, warm and safe and happy, I too desperately wanted another baby. I suddenly wanted the bubble of deceit that I had allowed to form around me to just go away. I wanted Real Life. I wanted a new year and a fresh start. I wanted all of those things that I had always wanted, but had somehow forgotten in the frenzy of the past few months. I wanted a place to be. A slot to fit in. A family.
We drove home to ‘Driving Home for Christmas’, cheesily enough. But it was perfect.
It was only on the final leg of the journey that the joyful Christmas music stops in my imaginary montage.
When we drove past the accident.
It was late afternoon and the temperatures had remained low all day. Someone had skidded at a junction into a parked car. There were flashing lights everywhere. Policemen in high-viz vests waved the traffic along, tried their best to keep it moving but to no avail. Everyone wanted a look.
Until, of course, they stopped all of the traffic. A grim-faced WPC made sure that nothing moved and then turned her attention to the ambulance, the doors of which were being closed. Slowly.
It drove away, taking its place in the traffic that the policewoman had cleared for it, but it was clear that it was in no rush. There was no siren. No flashing blue light. There was nowhere to hurry to, nothing to hurry for.
Because it was too late.
Ed and I were completely silent as we drove past. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the scene. Kept my head down, trying to ignore the ambulance ahead. Nothing to see here, after all. My head was filled with not only the horrors of the actual scene, but the horrors that I hadn’t witnessed.
And that was the end of Ed and Jenny’s Christmas Special. We drove on in silence, the rawness of what we had witnessed waning somewhat as we reached home. Ed silently helped me to carry in the spoils of our day before leaving to collect Bee from nursery and pick up a pizza.
And I did mundane things. Put the heating on, put a match to the fire, closed all the curtains, turned on all of the lights. By the time my husband and daughter arrived home, I had all but blocked the image of the car crash from my mind.
But I shouldn’t have, should I? Because I should have seen it for what it was.
Signs and portents, I should have been thinking.
Signs and portents.
Chapter 24
December 13TH, 1997
Jenny and Guillaume
It was Other Jenny who hosted the party. She wore a long, straight, black strapless dress, slit to the thigh, offset with an antique costume necklace and drop earrings, sultry red against the black. She gelled her hair back, swept red lipstick across her lips and smoky kohl on her eyes. She could tell that her husband didn’t like it much but, possessed by some wickedness, she hadn’t dressed to impress her husband.
After she and Ed had spent the day shopping together, after they had decorated their home for Christmas, after they had decided to host this party
for all of their friends – the last one for a while, they decided, while they moved on with their family life – somehow, the boredom had returned inside her. More long days spent around the house, staring at the sparkling decorations that should have filled her with excitement but instead seemed lustreless. Despite the plans they had made, left alone while her husband went out to work and her daughter filled her days with paper craft and finger-painting in nursery, for Other Jenny the prospect of Christmas just wasn’t enough.
It hadn’t taken long for the thoughts of Guillaume to start stirring again. But she’d had to wait as he was away again, this time in the north of England somewhere, doing lord knew what. Not much longer, however.
As the guests for the party began to arrive in twos and threes and she greeted them at the door, welcoming them indoors and taking coats and umbrellas, showing them down the steps to the kitchen, Jenny was impatient. Because there was only one guest that she wanted to see. She couldn’t give a toss about the rest, moaning about how cold they were, oohing and aahing at how beautifully the house was decorated. She was driven by a thirst, she knew: a thirst to see only one person. To have a long, deep drink and satisfy herself. It had been two weeks. Only a fortnight, but she felt as if tonight she would see him for the first time.
She missed his actual arrival – she wasn’t sure how she hadn’t heard the bell ring – but the first she was aware of him was when she caught sight of him standing at the top of the kitchen steps, scanning the room. She was standing by the tree in the sunroom, topping up someone’s drink, when she registered that he had arrived. She was calm and cool, seamlessly pouring the wine, playing the perfect hostess, although it had taken every last shred of willpower in her to tear her eyes away from how gorgeous he looked bathed in the flicker of candlelight.
No sooner was the drink poured, however, the bottle righted, than she turned to stare. And found the room around her swimming, all of the voices around her fading into a hum, mixed with the sound of the festive background music. And it took only a moment for him to find her and stare back. It was a delicious moment. Fizzing with that electricity that they shared. It was lust and longing and physical desire. It was wrong, and it was right. It was at once dreamlike and still real. And then it was broken, everything shooting back into sharp focus by the appearance at his side of Vicky, dressed in red. Jenny came to, just in time to hear Noddy Holder scream that “It’s Christmas!”. And at that moment, she detected the worry that flickered through Guillaume’s eyes which still held hers. And she knew that everything was not right.
It was easily an hour of crackers with pâté, vol au vents and Brie and cranberry parcels. An hour of topping up glasses, of chatting about Christmas plans. An hour of aching separation before she made her way toward the kitchen where Guillaume stood. He was silent, Vicky beside him, deep in conversation with a woman that Jenny recognised as the new receptionist at Ed’s work. Vicky hung there, hanging from the crook of his arm, making him list awkwardly while he paid her no attention at all. Instead, his eyes were glued to Jenny as she walked toward him.
Jenny fixed him with a meaningful look as she reached him. A look of longing, but also of confusion. ‘What’s the matter?’ she tried to ask with her eyes. He shook his head faintly.
Jenny’s stomach flip-flopped, both at the very sight of him and with concern at the lack of breezy banter laced with double meanings that he normally managed in these public situations. She’d usually respond by more or less ignoring him, answering only where necessary with brief sentences, the hint of a smile on her lips the only giveaway as to the true nature of their relationship. Tonight, she cleared her throat and impulsively touched Vicky’s hand to draw her attention.
Vicky turned and her face fell when she saw who it was.
“All right, Vicky?” piped Jenny. She had to get in there first, to stay positive, to rise above whatever jibe Vicky would come up with.
“Jenny,” came the brusque response.
“Mind if I borrow Guillaume for a mo?” Jenny enquired breezily, without consulting him. “Only I’ve got a new CD that I think he might like. Here – why don’t I top up your glass, and – tell you what – leave you this bottle.”
Jenny flinched as Vicky suddenly whipped her arm out of where it was hooked into Guillaume’s and covered her glass with her hand.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she bit, and then coloured. “But . . .” she turned to the woman beside her, “Maria here might like some more, wouldn’t you, Maria?”
Jenny shrugged. She was too absorbed in the task of getting Guillaume out of the room, too excited at the prospect of whatever the next illicit moments would bring to take any notice of Vicky’s odd behaviour.
“Suit yourself,” she smiled, handing Maria the bottle. “Gui?”
Without another word, Jenny lightly took Guillaume’s arm, smiling directly up into his face – a smile that was rewarded by a frown and a cautious look. She guided him toward the steps up to the hallway, standing back to allow their next-door neighbour to pass down the hall between them, smiling politely. Once he was gone, in the cool of the space, she turned the handle to enter the room on her right and strode into the darkness of the little study, holding the door open for Guillaume to enter and then closing it quickly behind him, leaning against it to prevent anyone coming in.
“Turn the light on,” she heard Guillaume hiss.
“No,” she bit back. “Come here.”
Her breathing was ragged as she anticipated his lips. Where would they fall? Her lips, her neck?
She was disappointed.
“Jen, I’m serious,” he replied. “Turn on the light for a moment. I really need to talk to you. It’s important.”
She complied, leaning still against the door and reaching out to feel for the switch. The harsh light of the bulb made her wince. And it made her see clearly that the worried expression was still on Guillaume’s face. A flash of disappointment, of annoyance flared in her. What did he want to talk about? What was so important to him that he would dare to use this wonderful, secret, illicit time for something more than kissing or touching or breathing each other in?
She watched as he lowered his bulk onto the swivel-chair that sat in front of the desk opposite. He rubbed his face with his hands, pulling them together as if in prayer and looked directly at Jenny.
“I need to say this to you, Jen,” he began, his voice grave. “It’s so important. I just want you to know that everything – everything – that I’ve said to you over all this time is true. I am in love with you, yeah? I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, and I don’t want to hurt Ed, but I cannot get you out of my head. I want to be with you all the time. I want to spend eternity with you. You understand that, don’t you?”
Jenny nodded, unable to think of anything to say. Of course he didn’t love her. He couldn’t. This was an affair, Not Real Life. Wasn’t it?
“I meant it when I said I wanted you to come away with me and this is the last chance I’ll have to say it to you before I go, okay? Now listen to me. I swear to you that I mean every word of this. Tomorrow, I’m going back to Manchester, okay? I’ve just promised an old friend up there that I’ll help him launch his new company but then that’s it. I’m going. And I want you with me.
“I’ve booked two seats on a British Airways flight to Cape Town on the 23rd – my parents have moved house and I’ve promised to spend Christmas with them – but I need you to come with me.”
He paused for a moment.
Jenny remained frozen, her back to the door, wide-eyed as she listened. This was Real. But it couldn’t be, could it?
Guillaume took a deep breath, ran his fingers across his hair and continued, his expression pleading.
“The flights are from Heathrow – I get back from Manchester that morning. If you meet me at the flat that afternoon we can go together. Don’t bring too much because we’re going to make a whole new start there. Do you get me?”
Jenny didn’t. Couldn’t take
it in. And as if it wasn’t difficult enough, she was suddenly disturbed by a loud banging on the door behind her. She felt the wood vibrate against her bare back as she stood there, staring at Guillaume in complete shock, unable to take it in.
“Gee-yummm!” came the voice from the hallway.
The handle of the door rattled as Vicky turned it back and forth violently. Obviously he had been out of her sight too long.
“Gee,” she whined. “It’s time, I reckon – are you in there?”
Jenny reached out to the handle and made to remove her weight from the door when Gui shot over to her side. He covered her hand with his for a moment and leaned in so close that Jenny was sure the kiss that she had longed for up until a moment ago was about to come. She found herself oddly grateful that it didn’t.
“Whatever she says tonight,” he whispered, nodding toward the closed door, “I need you to know that I mean everything that I just said. Do you understand me? Whatever she says . . .”
With that, the handle was turned so forcibly behind Jenny that she was forced to pull her hand and her body weight away from the door. She moved quickly as Vicky pushed it open and peered around, her face livid.
“What’s going on?” she snapped.
Jenny blushed, and turned her head away to examine the bookshelves on her left-hand side. To her relief, a CD sat on top of a pile of papers at eye level. “There it is!” she chirped loudly, ignoring Vicky’s demand. “I told you it was in here, Gui.” She grabbed it and turned to him, aware that her face still burned but there was nothing she could do about that now. Brave it out, she thought to herself. “It’s absolutely brilliant. I’d never heard of them before but the guy in the record shop said that it was amazing – I do hope you like it.”
Sing me to Sleep Page 13