The One Plus One

by Moyes, Jojo

  Jess hovered at the desk and finished signing the paperwork, acutely conscious of Nicky and Ed chatting on the grass verge through the open door. She watched them with surreptitious sideways looks. Nicky was showing Mr Nicholls something on Mr Nicholls’s old phone. Occasionally Mr Nicholls would shake his head. She wondered if it was his blog.

  ‘She’ll be cool, Mum,’ said Nicky, cheerfully, as Jess emerged. ‘Don’t stress.’ He was holding Norman’s lead. He had promised Tanzie they would not go more than five hundred feet from the building, so that she could feel their special bond even through the walls of the examination hall.

  ‘Yeah. She’ll be great,’ said Ed, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  Nicky’s gaze flicked between the two of them, then down at the dog. ‘Well. We’re going to take a comfort break. The dog’s. Not mine,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a while.’ Jess watched him wander slowly along the quadrant and fought the urge to say that she would go with him.

  And then it was just the two of them.

  ‘So,’ she said. She picked at a bit of paint on her jeans. She wished she had had the chance to change into something smarter.

  ‘So.’

  ‘Yet again you save us.’

  ‘You seem to have done a pretty good job of saving yourselves.’

  They stood in silence. Across the car park a car skidded in, a mother and a young boy hurling themselves from the back seat and running towards the door.

  ‘How’s the foot?’

  ‘Getting there.’

  ‘No flip-flops.’

  She gazed down at her white tennis shoes. ‘No.’

  He ran his hand over his head and stared at the sky. ‘I got your envelopes.’

  She couldn’t speak.

  ‘I got them this morning. I wasn’t ignoring you. If I’d known … everything … I wouldn’t have left you to deal with all that alone.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said briskly. ‘You’d done enough.’ A large piece of flint was embedded in the ground in front of her. She kicked at some dirt with her good foot, trying to dislodge it. ‘And it was very kind of you to bring us to the Olympiad. Whatever happens I’ll always be –’

  ‘Will you stop?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop kicking stuff. And stop talking like …’ He turned to her. ‘Come on. Let’s go and sit in the car.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And talk.’

  ‘No … thank you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just … Can’t we talk out here?’

  ‘Why can’t we sit in the car?’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why can’t we sit in the car?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’ Tears sprang to her eyes. She wiped at them furiously with the palm of her hand.

  ‘I don’t know, Jess.’

  ‘Then I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Oh, this is ridiculous. Just come and sit in the car.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why? I’m not going to stand out here unless you give me a good reason.’

  ‘Because …’ her voice broke ‘… because that’s where we were happy. That’s where I was happy. Happier than I’ve been for years. And I can’t do it. I can’t sit in there, just you and me, now that …’

  Her voice failed. She turned away from him, not wanting him to see what she felt. Not wanting him to see her tears. She heard him come and stand close behind her. The closer he got the more she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to tell him to go but she couldn’t bear it if he did.

  His voice was low in her ear. ‘I’m trying to tell you something.’

  She stared at the ground.

  ‘I want to be with you. I know we’ve made an unholy mess of it but I still feel more right with you doing wrong than I feel when everything’s supposedly right and you’re not there. Fuck. I’m no good at this stuff. I don’t know what I’m saying.’

  Jess turned slowly. He was gazing at his feet, his hands in his pockets. He looked up suddenly.

  ‘They told me what Tanzie’s wrong question was.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was about the theory of emergence. Strong emergence says that the sum of a number can be more than its constituent parts. You know what I’m saying?’

  ‘No. I’m crap at maths.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back over it all. What you did. It’s not like I’m perfect. But I just … I want to try. It might prove to be a huge fuck-up. But I’ll take that chance.’

  He reached out then and gently took hold of the belt loop of her jeans. He pulled her slowly towards him. She couldn’t tear her eyes from his hands. And then, when she finally did lift her face to his, he was gazing straight at her and Jess found she was crying and smiling, perhaps the first time she had smiled properly in about a million years.

  ‘I want to see what we can add up to, Jessica Rae Thomas. All of us. What do you say?’

  41.

  Tanzie

  So the uniform for St Anne’s is royal blue with a yellow stripe. You can’t hide in a St Anne’s blazer. Some girls in my class take them off when they’re going home, but it doesn’t bother me. When you work hard to get somewhere, it’s quite nice to show people where you belong. The funny thing is that when you see another St Anne’s student outside school it’s the custom to wave to each other, like people who drive Fiat 500s. Sometimes it’s a big wave, like Sriti, my best friend, who always looks like she’s on a desert island trying to attract a passing plane, and sometimes it’s just a tiny lifting of your fingers down by your school bag, like Dylan Carter, who gets embarrassed about talking to anyone, even his own brother. But everyone does it. You might not know the person waving, but you wave at the person in the uniform. It’s what the school’s always done. It shows that we’re all a family, apparently.

  I always wave, especially if I’m on the bus.

  Ed picks me up in the car on Tuesdays and Thursdays because that’s when I have maths club and Mum works late at her handywoman thing. She has three people working for her now. She says they work ‘with’ her, but she’s always showing them how to do stuff and telling them which jobs to go to and Ed says she’s still a bit uncomfortable with the idea of being a boss. He says she’s getting used to it. He pulls a face when he says it, like Mum’s the boss of him, but you can tell he likes it.

  She takes Friday afternoons off and meets me at school and we make biscuits together, just me and her. It’s been nice, but I’m going to have to tell her I’d rather stay late at school, especially now I’m going to do my A level in the spring. Dad hasn’t had a chance to come down yet, but we Skype every week and he says he’s definitely going to. He’s got two job interviews next week, and lots of irons in the fire.

  Nicky is at sixth-form college in Southampton. He wants to go to art school. He has a girlfriend called Lila, which Mum said was a surprise on all sorts of counts. He still wears lots of eyeliner but he’s letting his hair grow out to its natural colour, which is sort of a dark brown. He’s now a whole head taller than Mum and sometimes when they’re in the kitchen he thinks it’s funny to rest his elbow on her shoulder, like she’s a bar or something. He still writes in his blog sometimes, but mostly he says he’s too busy so it would be okay if I take it over for a bit. Next week it will be less personal stuff and more about maths. I’m really hoping lots of you like maths.

  We paid back 77 per cent of the people who sent us money for Norman. Fourteen per cent said they would rather we just gave the money to charity, and we were never able to trace the other nine per cent. Mum says it’s fine, because the important thing was that we tried, and that sometimes it’s okay just to accept people’s generosity as long as you say thank you. She said to say thank you and she’ll never forget the kindness of strangers.

  Ed is here literally ALL the time. He sold his house at Beachfront and he now owns a really small flat in London and Nicky and I have to sleep on a put-you-up bed when we’re the
re but most of the time he stays with us. He works in the kitchen on his laptop and talks to his friend in London on this really cool set of headphones and he goes up and down for meetings in the Mini. He keeps meaning to get a new car, as it’s really hard to fit all of us in when we want to go somewhere, but in a weird way none of us really wants him to. It’s kind of nice in the little car, all squashed together, and in that car I don’t feel so guilty about the drool.

  Norman is happy. He does all the things the vet said he’d be able to do, and Mum says that’s enough for us. The law of probability combined with the law of large numbers states that to beat the odds, sometimes you have to repeat an event an increasing number of times in order to get you to the outcome you desire. The more you do, the closer you get. Or, as I explain it to Mum, basically, sometimes you just have to keep going.

  I’ve taken Norman into the garden and thrown the ball for him eighty-six times this week. He still never brings it back.

  But I think we’ll get there.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you as ever to my amazing Penguin teams on both sides of the Atlantic. At Penguin UK I am in particular indebted to Louise Moore, Clare Bowron, Francesca Russell, Elizabeth Smith, as well as Mari Evans and Viviane Basset. In the US thank you to Pamela Dorman, Kiki Koroshetz, Louise Braverman, Rebecca Lang, Annie Harris and Carolyn Coleburn. Thank you, too, to all the lovely media escorts – Cindy Hamel Sellers, Carolyn Kretzer, Debb Flynn Hanrahan, Esther Levine, Larry Lewis and Mary Gielow, who have spent so much time with me over there this year. In Germany, thank you to Katharina Dornhofer, Marcus Gaertner and Grusche Junker, and all the team at Rowohlt for your wonderful work.

  At Curtis Brown, thank you yet again to my indefatigable agent Sheila Crowley, and to Rebecca Ritchie, Katie McGowan, Sophie Harris, Rachel Clements, Alice Lutyens as well as Jessica Cooper, Kat Buckle, Sven van Damme and of course Jonny Geller.

  Thank you to Robin Oliver and Jane Foran for advice on insider trading law. I have had to skew the legal procedure slightly to fit the plot, so any errors or anomalies are entirely my own.

  More generally thank you to Pia Printz, Damian Barr, Alex Heminsley, Polly Samson, David Gilmour, Cathy Runciman, Jess Ruston and Emma Freud as well as the gang at Writersblock for excellent narrative interruptions. Also for excessive levels of help, advice and general loveliness, Ol Parker and Jonathan Harvey – thank you.

  Thanks nearer home to Jackie Tearne, Chris Luckley, Claire Roweth, Vanessa Hollis and Sue Donovan, without whom I couldn’t fit in the actual writing.

  Thank you to Kieron and Sharon Smith and their daughter Tanzie, after whom the main character in this book was named, thanks to their generous bid in a charity auction in aid of the Stepping Stones Down Syndrome support group.

  And thanks to my parents – Jim Moyes, Lizzie and Brian Sanders – and most importantly Charles, Saskia, Harry and Lockie, for being the point of it all.

  Prologue

  2007

  When he emerges from the bathroom she is awake, propped up against the pillows and flicking through the travel brochures that were beside his bed. She is wearing one of his T-shirts, and her long hair is tousled in a way that prompts reflexive thoughts of the previous night. He stands there, enjoying the brief flashback, rubbing the water from his hair with a towel.

  She looks up from a brochure and pouts. She is probably slightly too old to pout, but they’ve been going out a short enough time for it still to be cute.

  ‘Do we really have to do something that involves trekking up mountains, or hanging over ravines? It’s our first proper holiday together, and there is literally not one single trip in these that doesn’t involve either throwing yourself off something or –’ she pretends to shudder ‘– wearing fleece.’

  She throws them down on the bed, stretches her caramel-coloured arms above her head. Her voice is husky, testament to their missed hours of sleep. ‘How about a luxury spa in Bali? We could lie around on the sand … spend hours being pampered … long relaxing nights …’

  ‘I can’t do those sorts of holidays. I need to be doing something.’

  ‘Like throwing yourself out of aeroplanes.’

  ‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’

  She pulls a face. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stick with knocking it.’

  His shirt is faintly damp against his skin. He runs a comb through his hair and switches on his mobile phone, wincing at the list of messages that immediately pushes its way through on to the little screen.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Got to go. Help yourself to breakfast.’ He leans over the bed to kiss her. She smells warm and perfumed and deeply sexy. He inhales the scent from the back of her hair, and briefly loses his train of thought as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down towards the bed.

  ‘Are we still going away this weekend?’

  He extricates himself reluctantly. ‘Depends what happens on this deal. It’s all a bit up in the air at the moment. There’s still a possibility I might have to be in New York. Nice dinner somewhere Thursday, either way? Your choice of restaurant.’ His motorbike leathers are on the back of the door, and he reaches for them.

  She narrows her eyes. ‘Dinner. With or without Mr BlackBerry?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr BlackBerry makes me feel like Miss Gooseberry.’ The pout again. ‘I feel like there’s always a third person vying for your attention.’

  ‘I’ll turn it on to silent.’

  ‘Will Traynor!’ she scolds. ‘You must have some time when you can switch off.’

  ‘I turned it off last night, didn’t I?’

  ‘Only under extreme duress.’

  He grins. ‘Is that what we’re calling it now?’ He pulls on his leathers. And Lissa’s hold on his imagination is finally broken. He throws his motorbike jacket over his arm, and blows her a kiss as he leaves.

  There are twenty-two messages on his BlackBerry, the first of which came in from New York at 3.42am. Some legal problem. He takes the lift down to the underground car park, trying to update himself with the night’s events.

  ‘Morning, Mr Traynor.’

  The security guard steps out of his cubicle. It’s weatherproof, even though down here there is no weather to be protected from. Will sometimes wonders what he does down here in the small hours, staring at the closed-circuit television and the glossy bumpers of £60,000 cars that never get dirty.

  He shoulders his way into his leather jacket. ‘What’s it like out there, Mick?’

  ‘Terrible. Raining cats and dogs.’

  Will stops. ‘Really? Not weather for the bike?’

  Mick shakes his head. ‘No, sir. Not unless you’ve got an inflatable attachment. Or a death wish.’

  Will stares at his bike, then peels himself out of his leathers. No matter what Lissa thinks, he is not a man who believes in taking unnecessary risks. He unlocks the top box of his bike and places the leathers inside, locking it and throwing the keys at Mick, who catches them neatly with one hand. ‘Stick those through my door, will you?’

  ‘No problem. You want me to call a taxi for you?’

  ‘No. No point both of us getting wet.’

  Mick presses the button to open the automatic grille and Will steps out, lifting a hand in thanks. The early morning is dark and thunderous around him, the Central London traffic already dense and slow despite the fact that it is barely half past seven. He pulls his collar up around his neck and strides down the street towards the junction, from where he is most likely to hail a taxi. The roads are slick with water, the grey light shining on the mirrored pavement.

  He curses inwardly as he spies the other suited people standing on the edge of the kerb. Since when did the whole of London begin getting up so early? Everyone has had the same idea.

  He is wondering where best to position himself when his phone rings. It is Rupert.

  ‘I’m on my way in. Just trying to get a cab.’ He catches sight of a taxi with an ora
nge light approaching on the other side of the road, and begins to stride towards it, hoping nobody else has seen. A bus roars past, followed by a lorry whose brakes squeal, deafening him to Rupert’s words. ‘Can’t hear you, Rupe,’ he yells against the noise of the traffic. ‘You’ll have to say that again.’ Briefly marooned on the island, the traffic flowing past him like a current, he can see the orange light glowing, holds up his free hand, hoping that the driver can see him through the heavy rain.

  ‘You need to call Jeff in New York. He’s still up, waiting for you. We were trying to get you last night.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Legal hitch. Two clauses they’re stalling on under section … signature … papers …’ His voice is drowned out by a passing car, its tyres hissing in the wet.

  ‘I didn’t catch that.’

  The taxi has seen him. It is slowing, sending a fine spray of water as it slows on the opposite side of the road. He spies the man further along whose brief sprint slows in disappointment as he sees Will must get there before him. He feels a sneaking sense of triumph. ‘Look, get Cally to have the paperwork on my desk,’ he yells. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  He glances both ways then ducks his head as he runs the last few steps across the road towards the cab, the word ‘Blackfriars’ already on his lips. The rain is seeping down the gap between his collar and his shirt. He will be soaked by the time he reaches the office, even walking this short distance. He may have to send his secretary out for another shirt.