Vince and Joy

by Lisa Jewell

  ‘Aw,’ said Gran, ‘is this the first time she’s left the little one?’

  ‘For a whole day, yeah,’ said Vince. ‘She’s left her with me for the occasional hour or so before, but she’s been breastfeeding so she hasn’t been able to go out for too long.’

  ‘Bet she’s missing her,’ said Kirsty. ‘Has she been phoning you every five minutes?’

  ‘No,’ said Vince. ‘Well, not yet, anyway’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she will,’ smiled Gran. ‘No mother can resist checking up.’

  Jess didn’t phone once the whole time Vince was at his mum’s.

  ‘Oh, that’s a good sign,’ said Kirsty. ‘Means she’s really relaxing.’

  At four o’clock, just before Lara woke up from her afternoon nap, he sent her a text message.

  Everything OK here. Lara sleeping. Had 250 ml at lunch and a strawberry yoghurt. What time you home?

  He watched the phone for a while, but nothing happened. She still hadn’t replied to his text message by the time he got home that afternoon, and he tried his hardest not to be bothered about it. His mum was right. It was good that Jess was really taking some time out. She’d been a completely devoted mother for the past six months, put her life on hold entirely to give Lara the best possible start in life. She deserved to let her hair down. He resisted the temptation to phone her and got on with getting Lara ready for bed, but when Jess still wasn’t home at seven-thirty that evening, and still hadn’t called, Vince decided he couldn’t be cool for another minute and phoned Jess on her mobile.

  As he waited for her to answer, he heard her ring tone coming from the bedroom and followed it to the pocket of her jeans hanging on the back of a chair. He pulled out her phone and sighed heavily.

  Jess had gone out without her mobile. The first time she’d left Lara for a full day and she hadn’t even thought to ensure that she had some form of emergency contact with him. It was flattering in one way that she had such confidence in Vince’s abilities as a substitute mother – but frightening in another that she was able to sever the umbilical cord so fully and completely. Vince made sure he had his phone fully charged and about his person everywhere he went these days. He hated the idea of being out of contact with his family for even a minute.

  He went to bed at eleven o’clock, fully expecting to hear her key in the lock as he drifted off to sleep, but when Lara woke up briefly an hour later and he realized that she still wasn’t home he finally lost his cool.

  He stormed into the living room and snatched Jess’s phone off the coffee table, scrolled through her phonebook until he got to Jon’s number and dialled.

  His jaw was set tight with the effort of containing the words he wanted to spit out to whoever answered the phone. Jon’s phone rang four times and went through to voice mail. Vince snapped the phone closed and threw it across the room. His insides were bubbling up into a molten, volcanic rage. He didn’t object to Jess taking off for the day and sharing a romantic picnic with her ex-boyfriend on a beautiful sunny bank holiday, and he didn’t object to being left to look after their daughter for a whole day and night. What he objected to, more than anything, was the fact that she hadn’t felt the need or the desire to speak to either of them once all day to find out how they were doing.

  He sighed and rubbed the palms of his hands down his face. It was 12.15 a.m. Lara could well be awake and ready for a bottle in six hours. He should get back to bed, get some sleep.

  He collected Jess’s phone from the other side of the room and rested it on the coffee table. He stared at it for a while, wondering what secrets were contained there, inside that little phone, what clandestine messages and covert phone calls.

  During his long days at work, Vince had enjoyed imagining Jess and Lara at home together, going to the shops, visiting her mother, going to baby massage classes. But now it turned out that they were involved in secret meetings with Jon. What else had they been up to, his girlfriend and his daughter? Where else had they been while he was teaching seventeen-year-olds to reverse around corners all over Enfield?

  He picked up the phone, flipped it open, then stopped in his tracks. Lara May smiled out at him from the LCD screen, a picture Jess had taken of her on the first sunny day of the year, sitting in his mum’s garden, wearing a white cotton sun hat. He remembered the moment vividly – Jess pulling the hat out of the enormous bag they never went anywhere without these days and tying it gently underneath Lara’s chin. He remembered the look of complete adoration on her face as she looked at her daughter sitting on a blanket in her first sun hat, and he suddenly realized that he didn’t want to know what was on Jess’s phone. She was a great mother. He was a great father. Lara was lucky to have such loving, competent parents, and she deserved to have them for ever. Together. If he started poking around, he might find something that he couldn’t live with, something that might tear them apart, and he didn’t want that – for any of them.

  He snapped the phone shut and tiptoed back to bed. On the way he stopped to glance down at Lara.

  She was lying in her Moses basket, flat on her back, with her head turned to the side and her hands bunched into loose fists next to her ears. Her breathing was slow and regular, and every now and then she smacked her lips together and made a tiny sucking sound. She was magnificent, he thought, magnificent in every way. And so was her mother.

  He would allow Jess this infraction. She was with someone he liked and respected. She deserved a proper break. This was part and parcel of the person she was and, if he wanted them to be together for ever, then he would have to learn to accept that.

  He kissed the air above Lara’s cheek, then fell into bed, where he drifted into a deep and immediate slumber.

  Jess was out cold on the sofa when Vince awoke at seven o’clock the following morning. She was naked from the waist down, but was still wearing her T-shirt and one red sock.

  She opened her left eye slowly as he hovered over her.

  ‘Morning, angel boy,’ she croaked.

  ‘Morning,’ he replied in a mock-stern tone.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’

  He perched himself on the edge of the sofa and took her hand. ‘No,’ he said, stroking her fingertips, ‘not really. I wish you’d taken your phone, though.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ she groaned, ‘I know. I couldn’t believe it when I realized I’d left it behind. So annoyed.’ She glanced behind him at the bedroom door. ‘Is Lara awake?’

  ‘Nope. Not yet.’

  ‘I came in and looked at her when I got home. I couldn’t resist it. Did I wake you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘God, she’s lovely, isn’t she?’

  He smiled and nodded. ‘She’s fantastic.’

  She beamed at him. ‘How come you’re not angry with me?’

  Vince shrugged. ‘I’m not not angry. I’m just… accepting. You’ve been incredible these past few months. You needed to get away, properly. I understand that. Kind of wish you’d at least phoned…’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m totally crap. Did you have a nice day?’

  ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Really, really nice. And you?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘I spent nearly £300 on clothes, then had the most brilliant time with Jon. Went to a club in Hoxton. Had a celebratory pill or two…’

  Vince bit his tongue against the admonishment that was straining at the leash to break free, and smiled stiffly.

  ‘… ended up back at this bloke’s flat in Shoreditch – incredible place, converted cannery or something. Didn’t get home till five…’ She glanced at the clock on the video player. ‘Jesus – two hours ago! Oh, my God. I’ve only had two hours’ sleep!’ She groaned and flopped back on to the sofa.

  Vince smiled at her and stood up. ‘Look. Why don’t I get Lara up and you go back to bed for a while?’

  ‘What – are you serious?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Vince felt inflated with good grace. It was a nice sensation.

  ‘Vincent
Mellon,’ she said, ‘you really are an angel.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I’m a total fucking saint.’

  ‘No, really. You are, and I’m so fucking lucky to have you. You’re just this amazing father and this beautiful, kind, gentle person. I really love you, d’you know that?’

  Vince stopped in his tracks. His stomach flipped over. She’d said it. Finally, after more than two years, Jess had told him that she loved him. He gulped and tried to look nonchalant. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know that.’

  ‘D’you think…?’ she began, then stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was thinking. Maybe when Lara’s a bit older. Maybe when she’s old enough to leave with my mum for a few days, you and I could go to Las Vegas. You and I could… get married?’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘why not? I’ve never really fancied a big wedding and I’ve always wanted to go to Las Vegas. That way Lara gets proper parents, like we didn’t have – you know – married parents. And we get to spend some time by ourselves. And I get the coolest surname ever.’

  ‘Jessica James,’ he said, smiling, ‘are you proposing to me?’

  ‘Urn, yes,’ she smirked, ‘I guess I am.’

  ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘I know. I’ve shocked myself.’

  ‘Jesus.’ He rubbed his chin and grinned at her.

  ‘Well,’ she demanded, ‘are you going to reply or not?’

  ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘yes. Of course. Definitely. Definitely. Let’s get married.’

  She smiled and slid off the sofa. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going to kiss my beautiful daughter very hard on both her fat little cheeks and go back to bed until lunchtime.’

  Vince watched the mother of his child and future wife as she sauntered towards the bedroom. She loved him. She wanted to marry him. Jessica James who could have had anyone she wanted, who could have had Jon Gavin and a life of five-star international luxury, had chosen him. And for now, in spite of all his misgivings and deep-rooted concerns about their future as a couple, that was all that mattered.

  Fifty-Four

  Joy had spent very little time in her parents’ loft. It was accessible only by a stepladder that had to be hauled out of a shed in the garden, and it was full of spiders and mouse droppings.

  But she was moving out next week and she wanted to have a nose around at all the stuff they’d brought back with them from Singapore, see if there was anything up there she might want for her new flat, a tiny one-bedroom conversion in Southgate. It was nothing special, but it was her first step on the property ladder. Her mother had handed over almost her entire divorce settlement for Joy to put down as a deposit on it, and Joy had had to negotiate a substantial pay rise from the photo shop she managed to be able to afford the mortgage, but as of Tuesday, 4 September 2001, Joy would be an official homeowner.

  Before she dared venture into the shadowy cavities of the loft she emptied a whole can of insect killer through the hatch and left it to do its work for two hours. Then she put on a polo neck and gloves, and tucked her trousers into her socks, careful not leave a gap anywhere on her person into which any form of insect or rodent might find its way, flicked on her torch and mounted the steps.

  It was the day of her father’s wedding.

  He was marrying Toni Moran in a chapel on the edge of a cliff in Cornwall. Apparently, because he’d married her mother in a register office and not in the eyes of God, he was still entitled to a religious ceremony, even though he’d fornicated and adulterated his way through every year of his first marriage. The invitation had turned up three months ago. It was incredibly twee, with paper roses in sugar pink and curly writing.

  Alan Trevor Downer and Antonia Patricia Moran joyfully request the pleasure of your company at their wedding on Saturday, 25 August 2001.

  It made Joy want to throw up. Ridiculous, she thought, getting married at his age. He’d be dead before their fifth anniversary.

  Barbara claimed not to be upset by it. ‘I’m happy for them, I really am.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ she’d demanded. ‘How can you feel like that?’

  Barbara shrugged and sighed. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘not everything is your father’s fault. Because I want him to be happy.’

  But Joy couldn’t stand it. She’d sent a reply the same day.

  Dear Alan and Antonia,

  Many thanks for inviting me to your wedding. I won’t be able to come as I have a prior hairdressing appointment that day. ‘I’m sure you understand.

  I hope you have a lovely day and a joyful life.

  Love,

  Joy

  She’d been happy with that – harsh without being bitchy, sharp without being unpleasant. She’d made her point.

  Barbara had made herself busy today. She was seeing friends in Saffron Waiden and wouldn’t be back until late, and Joy had felt something pulling her irresistibly towards the loft since the day her father’s wedding invitation had arrived. There was something in there calling to her. Yes, she wanted to find nice things for her new flat, but there was more to it than that. She wanted to find something, anything, to explain the calamity of her parents’ marriage and within that, hopefully, possibly, an insight into her own inexplicable behaviour of the previous seven years.

  She swung the torch around the loft, wondering where to start first. She could make out corners of picture frames and backs of chairs. There were some packing boxes to her left covered in freight stickers and a pile of cardboard boxes to her right. In front of her was something that she already knew would be coming with her when she moved into her new flat – a red silk lantern decorated with black satin tassels hanging from a 1960s-style curved chrome lamp stand. It was ugly and beautiful at the same time, and seemed to Joy to encapsulate the particular hybrid of time and place that her parents had inhabited at that point of their lives.

  She also found a foot stool with black-lacquered splayed out legs and a pale blue satin seat, some garden lights shaped like Chinese lanterns and a full traditional Chinese tea set including a teapot with a bamboo handle.

  She pulled her finds from the loft like trophies and piled them up in her bedroom. Once she’d made some room, she started unpacking the freight containers.

  The picture came to her hand almost immediately and the minute she saw it she knew exactly what it meant.

  It was tucked away at the back of a recipe book called Cooking the Hainanese Way. It was small, about ten centimetres square and printed in bright 1960s Technicolor. It showed a young boy of about eighteen years old, dressed in loose-fitting canvas trousers and a knitted vest over a green shirt. He was posing in a highly manicured garden, standing in front of a palm tree and leaning against a rake. He had dark hair and high cheekbones, and smiled at the photographer with blatant affection, bordering on adoration.

  His eyes were all the evidence she needed, but she turned the picture over anyway, just to be sure.

  The date had been stamped on the back by the photo lab.

  August 1968. Two months before she was born.

  And there, in neat, navy ink, was written underneath;

  To my Barbara, I will never forget you. Charles.

  A strange noise escaped from between her lips then, a rush of air expelled from the very deepest corners of her soul. She held the picture up again and angled it towards the light. There was no doubt about it. This beautiful young man with the slanted eyes, the high cheekbones and the shiny black hair had been her mother’s lover – and her father.

  *

  Joy’s certainty about this matter was hard to explain. Yes, the boy looked like her, but there was more to it than that. Joy had always felt displaced, distanced, from her parents. She’d entertained fantasies over the years that maybe she had been the result of an affair between her father and some exotic Singaporean beauty, but the birth certificate bearing her mother’s name had poured cold water over that line of thought.

  She’d a
lso entertained fantasies about her mother, about the person she might have been if she hadn’t married Alan, about a girlish, flirtatious butterfly, homely but sexy, plain but alluring. But it had never before occurred to her to put the two fantasies together.

  Joy walked down to the off-licence later that day, the photograph of her father tucked firmly in her purse. She bought a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and when she got home she put it in the freezer. Then she had a bath, put on a new dress and nice shoes, and waited for her mother to get home.

  ‘He was the garden boy,’ said Barbara, handling the photograph tenderly. ‘There were four of them; they tended the grounds of our apartment block.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Seventeen’ Barbara shrugged, and let out a small groan of embarrassment.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. Well, seventeen when it… started. Eighteen by the time it finished.’

  ‘And how did it actually, you know… start?’

  Barbara shrugged again, and rested the photo on the coffee table. ‘Oh, there was an awful lot of it going on. I’d heard about other wives seducing these boys. Not just the garden boys, but the bell hops, the delivery boys, all that kind of thing. It was rife. These women – they were in a strange country and their husbands were out all day, all night, working, entertaining. They got lonely. And so did I.’

  ‘So did you… seduce him?’ she said, pointing at the photo.

  ‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t say that. It was more of a flirtation, really. He used to smile at me every time I saw him. And then we started saying good morning to each other. Eventually it turned into a friendship. I’d make him fresh lemonade and bring it down for him when I saw him toiling in the heat. He would pick me tropical flowers and give them to me as a gift. He called me his English rose,’ she smiled wistfully. “‘Good morning, my lovely English rose,” he’d say when he saw me. I thought he was teasing me at first, playing with me.’