by Josie Silver
“What else do you want to talk about?”
He shrugs his unbroken shoulder, then winces. “You’re the agony aunt. Tell me what the youth of today are worrying about.”
I unsnap a hairband from around my wrist and pull my hair back into a ponytail. “Okay. Well, it’s mostly girls who write in, so I get a lot of period-related questions.”
He rolls his eyes. “What else?”
“Pimples. They have a lot of pimple issues. Someone asked me last week if dog saliva was good for acne.”
He brightens at the absurdity. “What did you tell them?”
“Cat saliva is better.”
“You didn’t.”
“Of course I bloody didn’t.”
“Should’ve.”
I pour him a glass of iced water from the jug an orderly has just deposited on his side table and stick a fresh straw in.
“Here, have a drink.” It’s difficult for him to lift the cup with one shoulder broken and his other hand tethered by the cannula, so I hold it in place while he sucks from the straw.
“Thank you,” he says, laying his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes with a huff of self-annoyance at the effort and the fact he has to ask for help with something as basic as a drink of water. “Tell me some more.”
I cast around for something that might catch his imagination. “Oh, I know. A boy wrote in a couple of weeks ago because the girl he’s mad about is moving to Ireland. He’s fifteen and she’s from a strict Catholic family who don’t approve. He wanted advice on how old he had to be before he could legally move there alone.”
“Love’s young dream,” Jack says, his eyes still closed. “What did you tell him?”
I look at his too-pale face, the pronounced hollows of his cheeks. He’s never carried any spare weight, and the toll of nearly a week of barely any solid food is apparent.
“I said that I know how painful it can be letting someone you think you love go, but that I don’t believe there’s only one person in the world for each of us. It’s too fanciful, too limiting. I said he should give it some time and see how he feels, and he’ll probably find that he stops thinking about her so much, because that’s just how it goes, especially when you’re fifteen. I told him that there comes a point where you have to make the choice to be happy, because being sad for too long is exhausting. And that one day, you’ll look back, and you’ll not be able to remember exactly what it was you loved about that person.”
Jack nods, his eyes closed.
“But I also said that sometimes, rarely, people can come back into your life. And if that happens, you should keep those people close to you forever.”
I lapse into silence. He’s sleeping. I hope his dreams are good ones.
SEPTEMBER 15
Jack
Fuckers. I chuck my cell phone on top of the mess of dirty mugs and food detritus on the coffee table and sink back into the lumpy sofa. The weather can piss me off too, the bloody sun’s right in my eyes. I’d get up and close the curtains if I could be bothered. I can’t, though, so I just shut my eyes. I may as well go back to sleep, seeing as I’m now officially unemployed. That’s what happens when you get too cocksure and hand in your notice at your old job before starting your new one, then get blindsided by a guy who has a stroke at the wheel of his Volvo. At least I’m alive, everyone keeps telling me, look on the bright side, or some other equally trite shit. Where is the bright side of not being able to take up the job you’ve been working toward for your entire career? I went through endless meetings and interviews, had the handshake, all but signed on the dotted line, appointment to be announced in the press within days. My dream contract was in the post for me to sign, and then bang, I’m busted up in a hospital bed and Jonny Fucking Nobody can’t wait to jump into my shoes instead. I’ve fallen between the gaps, and now I’m the nobody, and the way it’s going I won’t even be able to pay my rent in a couple of months’ time. The doctors can’t even tell me if I’ll get my hearing back in my right ear. I don’t think they’ll be lining up around the block to employ a DJ who can’t fucking hear. What happens then? I move in with Sarah and that cow-bag of a woman she works with? That’s not even an option. Cow-bag would be right on to the landlord about illegal subletting; she already begrudges the fact she has to share with one person, and she seems to especially detest me. I’m sure there’s nothing she’d like better than to see me in a cardboard box by the Thames. I don’t think she’d even toss me the money for a cup of tea.
Oh, deep joy, I can hear keys rattling in the front door. I wish to God I’d had the forethought to stay in bed and put the bolt on. Billy’s away at a family wedding somewhere up north, and Phil, a sound technician from my now ex-workplace, is in Goa, which means there’s only one person it can be. Sarah. Sarah, with her ever-present smile and undiluted zeal for life, when all I want to do is plow my way through an out-of-date ready meal and watch the Saturday afternoon football. And I don’t even like football.
“Jack? I’m back. Where are you?”
“In here,” I say, as grouchily as possible. She appears in the doorway, all legs in a pink summer dress, and somewhere in the back of my head I feel ashamed at being slouched on the sofa in three-day-old joggers with curry stains. She’s been down in Exeter or somewhere on an assignment for a couple of days; if I’m honest, I didn’t think she was home until tomorrow. Bloody painkillers have fried my brain. I’d have changed my trousers, at least.
“You look as if you’ve been on an all-night drugs binge,” she says, trying for funny. “That or you’re reliving your student days. Which is it?”
Great, remind me of what I’m missing, Sarah. “Neither. It’s just me, the remote control, and a chicken vindaloo,” I say, not looking at her.
“Sounds like the title of an arty film.” She laughs lightly, gathering up the dirty coffee mugs.
“Leave that stuff, I’ll do it.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“All the same.”
She looks at me, that sunshine smile fading fast. “Let me take care of you every now and then? Please?”
Resigned, I close my eyes and lay my head back against the sofa as she clears up my mess, feeling like a resentful teenager whose mum just rocked up in his bedroom when he’d been about to knock one out. I can smell Sarah’s perfume, distinct and exotic, and it reminds me of nights out on the town, and even later nights in bed together. We haven’t had sex since the accident. In truth, we weren’t having all that much of it before it happened, either. I open my eyes as I hear her clatter the plates and cups into the kitchen sink. Her perfume lingers, layering over the smell of last night’s curry and my stale sweat. It’s not a good combination.
“I thought we could head out in a while,” she calls through, flicking the kitchen radio on. “It’s gorgeous out there today.”
I sigh, though not loud enough for her to hear. I feel rancid, and too worn out to bother doing anything about it. I don’t think I have any clean boxers left. My shoulder still hurts and my ribs still ache, probably because I’ve been neglecting the exercises given to me at the weekly physio appointments I sometimes attend. God knows why. My bones broke. They’ll mend. There isn’t any physio for my ear; the only thing I really care about them mending is the one thing that’s damaged for good. Oh, there’s talk of hearing aids and such stuff, but to be honest what’s the bloody point? The real problem is that my career broke, and there’s nothing the doctors can do to mend it.
“What do you think?” Sarah appears in the doorway again wearing the mint-green Marigolds she bought a few weeks back.
“That you look like a fifties housewife?”
She rolls her eyes. “About going out, Jack. Just for a walk to the park or something, get some lunch at that new cafe on the Broadway, maybe. Someone said it’s very Californian.�
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What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Wheat juice and kale? “Maybe.”
“Shall I put the shower on for you?”
Irritation streaks through me. “What are you, my fucking mother?”
She doesn’t answer me, but I see the hurt settle in her eyes and feel like a cock again. I’m just sick of everyone fussing over me. If it’s not Sarah, it’s my mum turning up twice a week with food I don’t feel like eating.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Off day.”
She nods slowly. If I could see inside her head, I expect she’d be having a good old rant, calling me all kinds of well-deserved names. I can clearly hear her shouting “selfish bastard” even though she hasn’t said a thing.
“Just go and take a shower,” she says eventually, turning back toward the kitchen. I get up to do as she’s asked, and as I pass by the kitchen I consider wrapping my arms around her where she stands at the sink, kissing her neck, saying sorry properly. Then I hear the perky radio jingle, someone I used to consider a rival, and the acrid burn of jealousy wipes out any passing desire to be civil. Fuckers.
OCTOBER 24
Laurie
“I don’t know what to do, Laurie.” Sarah swills her wine around in her glass, looking thoroughly miserable. She texted earlier to see if there was any chance of meeting up for a drink after work; although I still had a bunch of emails to get through, I could tell from the tone of the message that she needed to get something off her chest, so I dropped them and went to meet her. I wasn’t wrong. I knew that life with Jack hadn’t been a bed of roses since his accident, but from what she’s told me over the last hour or so it sounds as if lately he’s making things almost intolerable.
“And now he’s decided that he’s not going to take any more painkillers,” she says. “Flushed them all down the toilet last night. He said they were making him numb, but I think he’d rather be in pain so he can moan about it.”
She sounds uncharitable, but I don’t judge her harshly. She’s been trying her best to put a cheerful face on ever since the accident, and I know for a fact there’s been precious little coming back from Jack in the way of gratitude. It’s been almost three months now, and every time I’ve seen Jack since he got out of the hospital he’s been borderline rude, particularly to Oscar. It’s got to the point where I’m almost avoiding him.
“I take it he’s not had any joy on the job front?” I know the answer to the question before I ask it. Although he’s well enough now physically, emotionally he’s far from out of the woods. Of all of the injuries he could have sustained, partial hearing loss seems particularly cruel given his career.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know if he’s even been looking and I’m damn sure he hasn’t been in contact with any stations.” She eats a cashew from the bag open on the table between us. “I’m worried, Lu. He just seems so bloody angry all the time. And he doesn’t want to do anything; it’s a massive palaver to get him to even leave the house.” She sighs. “I’m worried he’s becoming a recluse or something.”
I try to choose my words carefully. “He’s been through a big trauma. I guess it’s his coping mechanism?”
“But that’s just it. He isn’t coping. He’s sitting and staring at the wall and growing a fucking beard that doesn’t suit him.”
I top our glasses off from the half-empty bottle of white in the cooler beside our table. “You could try talking to his doctor?”
“Jack says I’m smothering him.” She frowns into her glass. “He’ll be lucky if I don’t, the way he’s going. He never calls or texts me anymore. I’ve had more texts from Luke than Jack since the accident. That’s how bad it’s gotten.”
Sarah has stayed in loose contact with Luke, the good-natured Aussie who found Jack’s phone on the night of the accident.
“Is it bad that I can’t wait to go away next week?”
I shake my head. “Not bad at all. You must be desperate for a break.” Her sister’s hen party in the Canaries couldn’t have been more timely. “It might do Jack good to stew on things without you there to jolly him up. He’ll have to fend for himself a bit more.”
She sighs, shrugging. “You’re so lucky with Oscar. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a bad mood.”
I have to think really hard to remember the last time we clashed. “Yeah. He’s a pretty steady guy.”
“I don’t suppose you’d call in on Jack while I’m away, would you?” She looks at me as if I’m her last hope. “He might open up to you. God knows he won’t talk to me.”
What am I supposed to say? No isn’t an option. “Do you think he’d talk to Oscar? Maybe he’d be better with a man?” Even before I say it I know it’s a ridiculous idea.
She shakes her head, downcast. “Please don’t be offended, Lu, and don’t repeat this to Oscar, but I don’t know if he and Jack are on the same wavelength. I mean, he likes him, but I think he struggles to know what to say around him sometimes.”
I don’t really know how to respond to that, so I just nod and knock back a mouthful of wine. Because I’m left with no other choice, I reach down into my Kate Spade bag and pull my diary out.
“Okay.” I flip it open and run my finger down next week’s page until I get to Saturday. “Looks like Oscar’s going shooting in the morning.”
I laugh when Sarah raises her eyebrows. “Don’t ask. One of those gift experience things someone gave his brother, I think. I could call around to see Jack while he’s off doing that?”
Sarah’s shoulders sag with relief. “I don’t know how to get through to him; I’m at the point now where everything I say pisses him off. He might not think he can get away with being so rude to you.”
My cell phone goes off on the table between us, and I feel almost guilty as a loved-up image of me and Oscar in Thailand flashes up.
“It’s just Oscar checking about dinner,” I say, scanning his text quickly. I’m terrified of ignoring messages in case there’s anything wrong; not surprising really given what happened to Jack.
“Very domesticated,” Sarah says. I can’t deny it. I’ve made no headway at all with looking for somewhere else to live, partly because of what happened to Jack, but if I’m honest mostly because I’m enjoying playing house without the onerous responsibility of a mortgage or bills. It’s a ridiculous way to live, I know, but for Oscar it’s just how life has always been, and I have to admit it’s amazing to feel so safe. Every now and then I wonder if it’s too safe, too steady, but sitting here listening to Sarah, I know I should thank my lucky stars.
“Right, then.” Sarah nods toward my phone, where a picture of the Bolognese Oscar’s just made is flashing up. “Looks like you need to make tracks.”
I pause to hug her tightly as I get up to leave. “He’ll come good again, Sar, I know he will. He’s been through a lot. Just give him time.”
“It’s all I seem to do,” she says, shrugging into her jacket. The weather has been getting colder for the last few days. Winter coats suddenly fill the streets of London.
“Enjoy a bit of sunshine.” I’m hit by an intense longing to go with her, to dance, to laugh, to be carefree and silly the way we used to in Delancey Street.
“I’ll have a cocktail for you.” She grins.
NOVEMBER 3
Jack
“Visitor for you in the living room, Jack m’lad,” Billy shouts through from the hallway. I’m in the bathroom, half-heartedly brushing my teeth. I know it can’t be Sarah, because she’s off sunning herself in Tenerife. And I know it’s no one from work, because, oh yeah, I don’t have a job. And I hope to God it’s not my bloody mother again, because if it is and Billy has let her in on his way out to the football match with Phil then I’m going to fucking kill him. I should have accepted their invitation to go with them. Oh, wait. They didn’t ask me. I don’t blame t
hem, to be honest. They’ve pretty much stopped asking me to do anything anymore, because they already know the answer will be no. Maybe it’s Mila Kunis. She’s in luck, I’ve had a shower.
“Laurie,” I say, surprised enough to come to a halt in the doorway of the living room. She’s perched on the arm of the chair, still buttoned into her red woolen coat, her pom-pom hat in her hand.
“Jack.” Her smile is hesitant and doesn’t quite make it as far as her eyes.
I look over my shoulder toward the kitchen suddenly, struck by the possibility that she hasn’t come alone. “Where’s posh boy?”
“His name is Oscar,” she says, testy.
I shrug. I don’t really want to pass the time of day talking about that tosser, so I change the subject. “Coffee?”
She shakes her head.
“Wine? A beer?”
Another refusal as she takes off her coat and I go to the kitchen and grab myself a beer.
“It’s good to see you,” she says as I head back through and drop down on the sofa. “How’s things?”
“Peachy.” I raise my bottle. “Down the hatch.”
She sits quietly as I swallow half the beer.
“You sure you don’t want one?”
“It’s half past ten in the morning, Jack.”
I’m hoping the beer will be hair of the dog for my hangover. I’m starting to regret ditching all the painkillers in one go and using vodka instead to medicate. I know this can’t go on; I’m still half-cut from last night.
“Did you come around here just to tell me what time it is? Because I have a watch to do that for me.” I look at my bare wrist and belatedly realize it’s been a while since I last saw my watch. Probably somewhere among the piles of stuff in my room; Billy and Phil insist on being neat freaks out here, so my room is the dumping ground for all things Jack. Laurie looks thrown by my question. God knows why. She started it with her pious observations about my drinking.