By the Time You Read This

by Lola Jaye

  “I want him back.”

  I distinctly remembered offering to set fire to it after Mom had successfully prized it away.

  “How about a story, instead?”

  Abbi swiped at her nose, nodding her head furiously.

  “Let me get you a tissue!” I said quickly.

  “No, okay, please read me a story then, Lois.” She said this so sweetly, the little minx. So much so that I was willing to temporarily forget the current threat of a snot invasion.

  “I’ll have to make one up.”

  “Okay!” She snuggled in closer as I recited the tale of an ex pop princess marrying a footballer and riding off together on their great big bling-covered motorbike. The End.

  “More!”

  “No way!” I said, tickling her just under her chin, which led to a bubbling outburst of giggles. Then, for no reason at all, I brought Abbi into my chest, placing my nose into her soft curls, feeling this strange but overpowering swell of protection toward her.

  I finally got her down in the early hours of the morning and, with my feet resting on the coffee table, continued with The Manual.

  …grown-up. I suppose it’s that realization that you’re on the wrong side of twenty-five—I don’t know, but it means different things for different people. Or it may not mean much at all to you, just another number.

  What’s clear is the fact you’re not my little girl any more. No, forget that last bit—YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY LITTLE GIRL. Remember, the last time I saw you, you were only five…And every day I wonder what you look like now. Long hair? Short hair? A bright pink Mohican? All I can visualize is you dressed in a yellow dress with a white lace hem, tiny bunches of hair and looking up at me with those huge innocent eyes and a smile that could melt three ice fountains in a split second…

  I thought about Abbi upstairs—Lots more havoc to wreak and a barrage of hearts to break. Her life just beginning, as mine was when Dad left. I continued.

  …your mom telling you off and you running to me for the sympathy vote—and almost always getting it. The games we used to play. The songs we’d sing. Oh and the boogying. Your old man could dance, but you could really move! I remember you used to love this song that came on the TV. To me the worst song in the world, but as soon as you heard it, you were off. Tiny little legs, getting all excited and manic. You’d actually shed a tear as it finished! So, of course I had to buy it for you (just one of the things you my child, made me do against my will). The song’s called “With Stars On.” And at one point it was all you ever wanted to hear. You’d beg me to play it, then wrinkle your nose in delight as you heard the chorus. That was “our song,” Lowey.

  I found it again, a few days after the diagnosis, and the words, well, they just hit me as it summed up everything I wanted to say to you (well, almost everything if we put The Manual into the equation). I waited till now to remind you about it, because I figured you’d be mature enough to listen to it without wrinkling your nose and sniggering at the two guys in flares and thinking, “Could things get any cheesier? What is my dad liiiike?”

  As I said, by now you’ll be mature (and strong enough) to know what I’m trying to say to you. Again, the song’s called “With Stars On” by Jimmy K. Jones and Sister. I don’t need to say any more. Just listen to the words.

  I was intrigued. Dad had set me a challenge. Little did he know that with the Internet I could just about find anything, and locating an old record from the Seventies couldn’t be that hard?

  Okay, it was. The obvious place to start was in Mom’s store cupboard, but of course all of dad’s things were gone.

  A week later, I realized it would be easier to find a crappy gold bullion triangle than Jimmy K. Jones and Sister’s hit record. During my rare lunch breaks I phoned practically every record shop listed in the phone book and scoured the Internet, but to no avail.

  But I had my dad’s camera, his manual, and I was determined to find the record.

  Post break-up with Rob, Carla needed a place to live.

  “I just can’t bloody cope with Mom and Calvin acting all lovey-dovey around me,” she cried. Her eyes were red, mascara-smeared, but her hair remained pristinely silky and soft as it tumbled down her back.

  “I still can’t believe he did that to you.”

  “After all his promises as well. Let’s not forget about those. Being together forever, and all that stuff!” She shook her head mournfully and began to sob again. I hated seeing her like this, but perhaps I was the last person who should offer advice, because I had never loved a boyfriend the way she’d loved Rob. I had always shied away from that type of thing, and watching my best friend crumple right in front of me reinforced one of the reasons why.

  “And can you believe he dumped ME and blamed ME? What, did I force him to have text sex with lots of women, including his PA?”

  Of course, after just a few days I began to remember what it really meant to be “roomies” with Carla. An experience long consigned to the “trauma, keep out” part of my head. Carla had managed to remain almost as lazy as she had been when we first lived together and was probably worse than Oliver. Only, instead of socks on the floor, there were bras and lace panties draped all over the place.

  “You really should think about getting out and about again,” I said gently, returning late from another day at the office, shattered and totally ready for bed.

  “I will. It’s not as if I have a job, though, is it? Rob paid for everything. And, talking of which, do I owe you any rent?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said sincerely, although surely, I thought to myself, it wouldn’t have broken a nail if she’d cooked the odd meal. I pulled a coaster under her steaming mug of tea. “You’ll need to face the world at some point, you know.”

  “I know. I just thought…I just thought he was ‘The One.’ You know?” Her voice broke and I noticed the tears begin to well.

  But, no, I didn’t know. I’d never, ever thought of anyone as “The One,” and frankly found the whole notion quite silly. Wasn’t meeting someone just about timing anyway? Corey had proved that if the timing was right, we’d have gotten further than we had done.

  I placed my hand on her arm. “I’m here, all right?”

  “Yeah, I know. And thanks for letting me stay in your posh pad. Wasn’t like this when I was here.”

  “You mean it wasn’t this clean, madam!”

  A smile. “Point taken.”

  We both laughed.

  “Lois, can you do me another favor?”

  “Yes…” I replied wearily.

  “Open that bottle of tequila me and Rob bought you from holiday.”

  That night Carla was able to temporarily forget her heartache by falling asleep with a half empty bottle of tequila by her side. If only it was that easy to find Dad’s record. Much to my colleagues utter shock, I took an unplanned day off to spend time scanning an array of speciality record shops in the West End yet to succumb to the lure of CDs. I finally located a dusty copy of “With Stars On,” and got it home before realizing that a three compact disc player with treble base system wasn’t actually suitable for a twelve-inch record.

  I rushed over to Mom’s, as I’d promised to go for Sunday lunch, but made my excuses to leave straight after dessert, heading next door to see if Corey’s record player might still be about somewhere. No one was home except Calvin and I reluctantly explained my dilemma.

  He adopted an exaggerated thinking pose. “As far as I know, Corey took all his stuff with him to France, including the record player. It’s almost a vintage piece now.”

  I let out a puff of exasperated air.

  “But I used to be a DJ and I still have my Technic decks!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really! Follow me!” he smiled warmly, leading me to Corey’s room, which was now used as part spare room, part storage space. Calvin’s decks were set up in one corner of the room. I slipped the record out of the sleeve and attempted to switch the record player on.
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  “Let me,” he offered.

  “S…sorry…” I stuttered, feeling a little nervous because I was about to absorb something new from my dad.

  The needle swung into action, and suddenly this ultra-dodgy piece of music began to fill the air. Calvin tried to keep a straight face as if hoping it would get better.

  I will never forget

  The very first time that we met

  You looked at me with those big doey eyes

  You’re my girl

  You’re my girl, all the while

  And I knew from afar

  That you would be my star

  With stars on

  With stars on

  A very special love

  With stars on

  With stars on

  A special, special love

  Suddenly Dad was in the room. Holding me. Listening to me. Breathing the same air as me. Letting me know he still loved me. His daughter. His love. Something in me wanted to crack open a rush of emotion, but I couldn’t. I had to keep it together.

  With stars on

  With stars on

  A very special love

  With stars on

  With stars on

  The only one that comes with stars!

  The record stopped too quickly, so I played it again. And again. And again.

  I hadn’t even noticed Calvin leave the room until he returned with a bowl of chips and a drink, to find me kneeling on the floor with warm tears racing down my face.

  I’d never planned it this way. And it definitely would have been to a different person. But opening up to Calvin—the only person within a two-second radius—felt surprisingly good, and I felt purged afterward, plus he was a good listener. This only made me appreciate Corey more, seeing as he was the only one I’d ever really opened up to about Dad before.

  “Thanks, Calvin.”

  “Any time. He sounds like a great guy, your dad. But the song…”

  “A bit cheesy, I know.”

  “I was going to say, he obviously loved you very, very much.”

  I heard the front door open.

  “Hi, you two!” sang Carla’s mom, immediately grabbing her husband and planting an array of kisses onto his lips.

  “I’d better go,” I said, placing the record in its sleeve.

  “No, stay. I have the best news!” she said, clutching Calvin’s hand. “Corey’s only gone and done it!”

  “Done what? Won that art prize he was going for?” I asked.

  “Oh, darlin”…I’m not sure if I should say…” she said, biting her lip.

  “You can tell me!” I said with a smile.

  “All right then, only because I know you’ll be okay about it all. Well…he’s only gone and proposed! He’s engaged! My little boy’s engaged!”

  Miscellaneous: Getting dumped as a teenager and getting dumped as an adult

  I’ve lumped these together because getting dumped is hard at ANY age. The only clear difference being, as an adult you’ll have lots to keep you occupied, but as a kid…we’re talking drag, drag, drag.

  Yes, getting dumped feels really hard and can seem like someone has just cracked and broken a giant raw egg onto your world. I mean, who’s ready to sit and listen to a row of sentences that basically form the same message, however cleverly put together? It all means the same thing: rejection. I won’t mince my words: IT HURTS. A LOT.

  You might hear the old analogy “there’s plenty more fish in the sea” quite a bit and want to thump one of the many mouths it comes out of, so I won’t say that, or any of the mass of other clichés so freely used. I will say, just because this particular idiotic, silly, deluded, unwise guy wouldn’t know a good thing if it hit him in the face, does in no way mean a smarter, better (and great at soccer) guy isn’t out there waiting just for you.

  Good, eh?

  I so wish I could make you feel better right now. Hold you in my arms until the tears stop…Oh, I admit it, I’m welling up myself here and I haven’t even been dumped (not since Ella Jones, anyway). But here’s the good news: the hurt does leave the building, decreasing little by little each day. You go from thinking about this guy every waking moment, to thinking about him one hundred and fifty times a day, then one hundred and forty-nine, then one hundred and forty-eight. A little less each day until it whittles down to nothing. I promise you, it will get better. You’ll learn to get on with things. You’d better too! It’s the only life you’ve got, so please don’t spend it thinking and hurting about someone who isn’t actually worth the hassle.

  Since the announcement of Corey’s engagement, I’d been locked in a world of nothingness. I tried not to think about it all as I got on with my day-to-day life of working, sleeping and eating. But not even work could excite me, or the letter that arrived informing me of a pay raise. I suppose Corey’s news allowed me to feel as if I’d lost a friend. No, it wasn’t that. Corey had lived in France for years. I’d lost a lot more than a friend. Perhaps I’d lost hope. But hope for what? I knew we’d never have pursued a full-time, all-consuming relationship, so I wasn’t sure why I was feeling so…so empty.

  Instead of thinking too much about the Corey situation, it became easier to plow myself into my job, and for the next six months I regularly worked twelve-hour days and some weekends until I could almost see the promotion in the near distance. Carla did a good job of cheering me up a little when she said that Corey just wasn’t the “marrying type” and had probably been coerced into it by The Blonde Bombshell Mark Two. Of course, I knew Carla was still smarting over Rob’s betrayal and remained committed to the ridicule of anyone in a remotely happy relationship, but still, it hadn’t hurt to hear it.

  When I received an email from the Big Boss summoning me to her office, as always I felt fearless and ready to take on whatever she had in store for me.

  “Lois. I know you are a very busy lady, so I’ll keep it brief,” she said.

  I shuffled about in the chair and watched a rare smile appear on her face.

  “How would you like to become Senior Market Data Analyst for the firm?”

  The way she looked at me suggested she’d just asked if I’d be interested in fancy chocolate and not a job that would see me with a salary increase of almost eighty percent!!!!

  “Yes, that would be fine…Thank you.”

  the best

  Kevin Trivia: What have I learned? You can do anything you put your mind to? You need to believe in yourself, though.

  Lois, you live in a world occupied by zillions of people. Different countries, cultures, all walks of life and with many different experiences. Within that, there’s bound to be someone better at sports, richer, quicker with numbers, more popular at staff do’s, prettier (no, we’ll scrap that one, obviously), funnier; in short, a tad better at something than you are.

  That’s life.

  It matters not, my dear daughter, how good you are because some sly bastard will always be lurking around the corner to show you up, let the rest of the world know just how much better they are than you.

  A lot of us (me included) aren’t that supersonic at anything much. Don’t get me wrong, I’m GOOD at soccer, but hey, I was never going to be the next Kevin Keegan. I eventually (and after multiple head-pattings by my dad) accepted this and begin to appreciate little bits of success I had achieved. The positives as opposed to the negatives. For example, I’d never played for England, but I had won three trophies for my fancy footwork AND been responsible for one of the best headers this side of Southeast London. I’d also always wanted a huge brood of kids, but instead ended up with THE most fantastic little girl I’d ever had the good fortune to experience time with. You.

  Not bad.

  Don’t get me wrong, Lowey, competition in life is great and there is a healthy place for it—but I guarantee you it will feel a lot better when you’re competing solely with—wait for it…drum roll—Miss Lois Bates.

  I think my dad would be proud of me if he knew that I could actually afford
to move to a bigger place if I so wanted. But my apartment had come to represent so much to me. The first place to ever feel like a home. And I was staying. Besides, it was almost unrecognizable with a newly decked-out kitchen, a huge Smeg fridge and a washing machine delivered sparkling new from John Lewis. The lounge was cozy but modern and minimal, and best of all was my company car—a Jaguar XJ-S. I knew it was mega-flash and at first felt a bit of a twit, driving to work the first morning, but it handled like a dream and I knew that Dad would have been thrilled, what with the earlier model being his favorite car of all time!

  So, working a seventy-hour week was fine.

  Being woken up in the middle of the night to take an overseas call for work was also tolerable.

  As were the accompanying headaches, due to lack of sleep. And the bags lurking under my eyes.

  I was hardly seeing Mom and Abbi. Although I tried to make it up to Abbi with a trip to Hamleys for her fifth birthday, spending close to a hundred dollars on her, when admittedly she would have been content with a trip to McDonald’s. That’s guilt for you.

  But work had to come first, right? Being successful was what fueled me; nourished me like food and was everything I needed to function. Craving the next task, the next mountain to scale. Yearning for work like Carla yearned for a man. And if anything, work had proved more reliable than men. So what if I was alone, with only a handful of friends? I was okay. I’d be all right. I still had Dad.

  It seemed to take Carla about five minutes and fifteen dates with ten different men for her to finally land “the real love of her life.” Markus, a freelance thingamajig (which basically meant he spent oodles of time at home), who came complete with Raymond, the live-in brother. It wasn’t long until she’d shipped out of mine and into their typical bachelor pad—because, in her own words, it needed a shot of femininity.

  My invitation to dinner soon followed.

  “Hi,” said Markus as he opened the front door to me. Curving large lips—an attribute Carla boasted had made her fall in love with him, oh and how he used them—smiled warmly toward me. I greeted him, shrugging off my coat just as the brother breezed into the room dressed in a trendy pair of jeans and controversial white FCUK T-shirt over a nicely gym-toned chest. As well as natural good looks, Raymond seemed to hold good conversation as Carla and Markus caressed each other with doe-eyed gazes over my best friend’s speciality paella.