First Day of My Life

by Lisa Williamson

  I pull Ram to his feet and drag him towards the lifts.

  ‘I’m not sure I should be here,’ Ram says.

  These are the first words he’s spoken since Reece confirmed Jojo and Olivia’s presence at the hotel.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask. We’re in the lift. It’s moving excruciatingly slowly.

  ‘Yeah, I think I should wait downstairs,’ Ram says.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Jojo isn’t expecting either of us. We don’t know how she’s going to react to seeing you, and you’re her best mate. Do we really want to add me into the mix?’

  Maybe Ram’s got a point. He and Jojo always got on, but it’s not like they kept in touch after the break-up. The last thing I want is to freak her out or have her totally clam up on us. Yes, we’re relying on Ram to drive us home, but I can introduce that detail later, once I’ve got the situation under control.

  ‘Yeah, perhaps,’ I say.

  ‘I just think it’s for the best, you know.’

  The doors open onto the fourth floor. I step out into the corridor.

  ‘I’ll be just downstairs if you need me,’ Ram says.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good luck,’ he adds.

  The lift doors judder shut. And I’m on my own.

  I set off down the corridor. It’s way past midnight, and apart from the buzz of the vending machine outside the lifts, it’s silent.

  Under my breath, I count the room numbers.

  401, 402, 403, 404, 405 …

  Room 426 is right at the end of the corridor.

  I stop outside. There’s a ‘do not disturb’ sign hanging from the handle. My heart hammering in my chest, I listen at the door.

  Silence.

  I take a deep breath and knock.

  No answer.

  I knock again, harder this time, using the side of my fist instead of my knuckles.

  Still no answer.

  ‘Jojo,’ I call. ‘It’s me, Frankie. Are you in there?’

  Nothing.

  Maybe she’s popped out? But where? And why? It’s gone midnight. She could be asleep, I suppose, but unlike me, Jojo has always been a light sleeper, forever marvelling at my ability to sleep through thunderstorms and Luca’s obnoxious heavy metal and Mum’s early morning vacuuming sessions. There’s no way my banging wouldn’t wake her, I’m almost certain.

  I knock again.

  Still nothing.

  Doubt ripples through my body.

  Maybe Reece got it wrong. Maybe he confused Jojo (or Amelia) with someone else. But that makes no sense either. She’s here, I’m certain. So why is she ignoring me?

  ‘Jojo, can you hear me?’ I call. ‘Seriously, open up!’

  But all I’m greeted with is heavy silence.

  I back away from the door.

  Now what? I can’t just keep knocking. I’ll wake up the entire corridor. In which case, do I just wait? After all, she’s got to come out sometime. But that might not be until morning, hours and hours from now. I can hardly sit in the corridor all night.

  The ripple of doubt morphs into a wave of panic. What if something’s happened to her in there? Something bad. And that’s the reason she’s not answering the door?

  My hand trembling, I get my phone out of my pocket to call Ram for a second opinion.

  That’s when I hear it.

  I terminate the call and press my ear against the door.

  And there it is.

  The unmistakeable cry of a real-life baby.

  And not just any old baby.

  Olivia Sinclair.

  And then the gentle creak of the mattress as someone – no, not someone, Jojo – gets out of bed.

  I keep knocking.

  And this time, I’m not going to stop until I get a response.

  PART TWO

  JOJO

  Chapter 13

  When I was seven, we went on a family holiday to St Ives in Cornwall. It was a long drive so to break up the journey home we stopped off for lunch in Swindon, a town in Wiltshire. After the picture-postcard snowy white beaches and dinky little lanes of St Ives, Swindon, with its boxy concrete buildings and pedestrianized high street, felt like the most boring place on the planet. So boring, in fact, I’d flat out forgotten all about its existence until this morning – when I found myself with a baby in my arms and the pressing need to go somewhere no one would ever think of looking for me.

  I bring up the A–Z station finder on the ticket machine screen and type in ‘Swindon’.

  At over £100, the ticket is way more expensive than I was expecting. For the first time since I left the house, I hesitate. I didn’t anticipate spending so much all in one go.

  On the way to the station, I stopped at the cashpoint and withdrew as much money as I could from my savings account. Along with my wages from the odd bit of babysitting and several chunks of unspent Christmas and birthday money, I’ve built up quite the nest egg. Still, am I really prepared to spend that much on a single train ticket?

  As my right index finger hovers over the ‘buy’ button, my phone buzzes against my hip bone. My heart racing, I reach into the pocket of my baggy shorts and take it out.

  Stacey.

  She must have just got home. I picture her walking through the empty house, calling my name, confusion at my absence quickly melting into panic. I need to get a move on. I’ve got a head start but not a huge one. If she suspects I’ve headed for the train station, it would only take twenty minutes for her to get here, fifteen if there’s not much traffic.

  My phone stops buzzing. Before Stacey has the chance to call again, I turn it off and press ‘buy’, my hand visibly trembling as I feed notes into the slot.

  As the tickets are printing, I kiss my baby on his head.

  ‘It looks like we’re going to Swindon, Albie,’ I whisper.

  The first leg of my journey requires me to travel to London. The train is already at the platform when I arrive. I walk its length, peering through the windows to work out which is the quietest carriage. I settle on coach C because it has the fewest reservation cards.

  As I inch my way down the aisle, I catch sight of my reflection in the window. It takes me a second or two to make the connection and acknowledge that the girl with shadows under her eyes and a sleeping baby strapped to her chest is actually me. I avert my gaze and keep moving, coming to a stop when I reach an unoccupied table with no reservations. I slide into the forward-facing window seat, placing my backpack beside me.

  If I crane my neck, the departure board is just about visible. We’re leaving in four minutes. Even though I’m pretty sure Stacey couldn’t possibly get here in time now, my stomach still churns as the seconds crawl by, my heart lurching every time I glimpse someone with blond hair making their way down the platform.

  In the final couple of minutes before departure, the carriage begins to fill up. I dig into the backpack and spread baby paraphernalia across the table – bottles and nappies and wipes, hoping the debris will put off my fellow passengers. It works. Although plenty of people pass by, no one sits opposite me.

  Finally, the doors beep and close and the guard blows his whistle. A few seconds later, we’re moving. It’s only then I realize I’ve been holding my breath. God knows for how long. When I let it out, my exhalation is shaky.

  As the train chugs through the outskirts of Nottingham, I count trampolines, satellite dishes, roof skylights, solar panels – anything to distract me from the enormity of what I have done. What I am doing.

  I place my hand on Albie’s head, searching for that soft spot where the skull is yet to fuse. I always thought it was a myth, but there it is, ever so slightly squidgy under the gentle pressure of my thumb pad. Instantly, I feel a lot calmer.

  My breathing back to normal, I reach for the book I grabbed from Stacey’s bedside table – Keep Calm: The New Mum’s Manual – and turn to the first page.

  ‘Anyone sitting here?’

  I look up. A middle-aged woman dres
sed in a tropical print kaftan is standing in the aisle. She’s panting slightly and her hair, the colour of a ripe tangerine, is sticking to her forehead in sweaty kiss curls.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I say.

  ‘I was just wondering if anyone was sitting here?’ she says, gesturing at the two empty seats opposite me.

  I glance around. The carriage is busy, spare seats at a premium. The woman continues to look at me, her expression patient but expectant.

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t think anyone is,’ I say, setting aside my book and scooping up the bottles and wipes and things and returning them to my bag.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that,’ she says, plonking herself down. ‘I’ve got plenty of space.’ She places a huge rattan bag on the table. ‘I thought I’d missed it,’ she continues. ‘They’ve closed Larwood Avenue for some reason so my bus got diverted.’ She buries her nose inside her bag, producing a packet of tissues and a compact mirror in the shape of a seashell. She opens the compact, placing it in the palm of one hand while she blots her forehead. ‘I don’t suppose you could spare me one of your wipes?’ she says, snapping the compact shut. ‘Don’t worry if you can’t.’

  ‘No, of course,’ I say. I pluck a wipe from the packet and pass it to her.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ she says, swiping it under each armpit in turn. She leans across the aisle and tosses it in the bin along with three soggy tissues. ‘This weather, eh?’ she adds, pulling at the loose material of her kaftan and wafting it about. ‘I know we shouldn’t moan, but my God, it’s getting to be a pain. I never thought I’d say this, but I’d kill for a bit of rain.’ She reaches back into her bag, taking out a plastic carton of grapes and placing them in the centre of the table. ‘Would you like some?’ she asks, snapping off a small bunch for herself.

  ‘Oh. No, thank you.’

  I’m not hungry. I haven’t felt hungry in weeks now. In fact, it’s been so long since I had an appetite, I can’t quite remember what the sensation feels like, the days of polishing off extra-large Domino’s pizzas with Frankie some weird, distant memory.

  ‘Well, they’re here if you change your mind,’ the woman says, leaving the grapes in the centre of the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘How’s your little one coping?’ the woman asks.

  Your little one. She accepts he’s mine, no questions asked. I want to kiss her.

  ‘In the heat, I mean?’ she adds when I don’t respond right away.

  ‘Oh, OK, I think,’ I say.

  ‘That’s good,’ she says, popping a couple of grapes in her mouth and chewing loudly. ‘Especially with all that hair. Takes after his dad, does he?’

  My body tenses.

  ‘He’s got quite the headful,’ she adds.

  The implication being that he couldn’t have possibly got it from me. My hair has always been thin and as straight as a poker, hanging in uninspiring wisps around my face. I had it cut into a bob last autumn in an effort to make it appear thicker, but I’m not sure it made much difference, if any.

  ‘Did he come out like that?’ she asks.

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Bet that was a shock,’ she says, chuckling.

  ‘Yes,’ I murmur. ‘You could say that.’

  Chapter 14

  Three weeks ago

  The first day of August is chilly and grey.

  ‘Where’s this heatwave the forecasters keep banging on about?’ Stacey demands at breakfast. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘Patience, babe,’ Mum says, setting identical plates of scrambled eggs on toast down on the table in front of Stacey and me.

  ‘But it’s August and I’m wearing leg warmers!’ Stacey extends one of her long slender legs. As promised, she’s wearing a pair of bright purple leg warmers over the top of her skinny jeans.

  Mum just shakes her head and sits down with her own plate of food.

  ‘It’s not right,’ Stacey continues, shovelling scrambled eggs onto her fork. ‘The summer holidays are supposed to be all about lazing in the garden getting a tan! How am I supposed to get a tan in this?’ She motions at the window. Even the pair of sparrows perched on washing line look a bit chilly. ‘It’s not right,’ she repeats, shaking her head.

  Mum and I exchange grins. Stacey has been complaining about the weather ever since she finished work for the summer holidays (she’s a university lecturer).

  ‘Are you not hungry, sweetheart?’ Mum asks, nodding at my plate. She’s taken the week off work, hence our leisurely breakfast.

  I glance down. I haven’t even picked up my fork. ‘Sorry, no, not really. I woke up with a stomach ache.’

  ‘Time of the month?’ Stacey asks with a sympathetic tilt of the head.

  ‘Oh. I don’t know. Maybe.’ I’ve been getting periods for almost two years now but, annoyingly, they’re yet to settle into a regular pattern and I often go for months at a time without having one at all.

  ‘I think there are painkillers in the junk drawer,’ Mum says.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I cross over to the junk drawer and prise it open. Amongst the batteries and Sellotape and tape measures and ballpoint pens, I find a packet of paracetamol. I pop two into my hand.

  ‘Best to take them with food,’ Mum says as I return to the table. ‘Maybe try a bit of toast.’

  I nod and carefully scrape the eggs off the toast, nibbling the corner of one slice before swallowing the pills down with a swig of orange juice.

  ‘So, what’s on the agenda for today, Jojo?’ Mum asks as I wipe my mouth on a piece of kitchen roll.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe nothing. Frankie’s at her gran’s all day so I doubt I’ll see her. How about you guys?’

  ‘The paint hunt continues,’ Stacey says.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Mum says, sighing.

  Mum and Stacey have been searching for the perfect shade of paint for their bedroom for what feels like weeks now. Dozens of paint swatches with daft names like ‘Phantom Mist’ and ‘Whispering Swallow’ are stuck to their wall with Blu Tack.

  ‘Want to come?’ Stacey asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ I love hanging out with Mum and Stacey, but when it comes to DIY, they’re complete nightmares, fretting over every single tiny detail, and I have no desire to be dragged into the ongoing paint debate.

  ‘We might go for a cheeky Wagamamas afterwards,’ Stacey adds in a singsong voice.

  Ordinarily, the promise of a vegetarian katsu curry might just about win me over, but the dull ache in my stomach has killed off all my usual cravings.

  ‘I think I’m just going to stay here,’ I say. ‘Take it easy until my stomach feels a bit better.’

  Mum and Stacey leave about an hour later, by which time I’ve migrated to the living room, clutching the hot water bottle Stacey insisted on preparing for me.

  ‘We won’t be long,’ Mum says, popping her head behind the door to say goodbye.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘You’ll be gone for hours and you know it.’

  She laughs. ‘Ring if you need anything, yeah?’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Bye, Jojo!’ Stacey calls from the hallway. ‘Hope you feel better soon!’

  ‘Thanks!’ I call back. ‘And good luck!’

  ‘Cheeky!’ she replies.

  I wait for the front door to slam shut before returning to the episode of The Good Place I’d paused.

  The credits are rolling and I’m waiting for the next episode to kick in when I get a message from Frankie.

  Frankie’s gran (her mum’s mum) is notoriously demanding and Frankie is stuck with her all day. I smile as I tap out a sympathetic reply. After a tricky few months, following the whole Arts Academy thing in the spring, I finally feel like my friendship with Frankie might be back on track. Although the guilt hasn’t gone away exactly, it’s definitely not as intense as it was and, with only weeks to go unt
il the term begins, I’m stupidly relieved that things seem more or less back to normal.

  My phone buzzes with another message.

  F: What you up to?

  J: On the sofa. Worst period pains ever!!

  As if on cue, pain shoots through my abdomen. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for it to pass.

  J: How long does paracetamol take to kick in?

  F: I dunno. Half an hour maybe?

  J: Jesus, I hope so.

  F: Is it really only 11 a.m.? I swear time slows the second I enter my gran’s house.

  F: Ugh. I’ve got to go. She wants to go to Lidl.

  #Funtimes

  J: Enjoy!

  F: Ha! Hope the pills kick in soon xxx

  J: Thanks. Me too xxx

  I continue to watch the TV but the shooting pains keep coming in waves, making it harder and harder to concentrate.

  I press pause and roll off the sofa. Taking my hot water bottle with me, I hobble upstairs to the bathroom where I manage to force out a poo. Instead of bringing relief though, the pain only intensifies. I go over what I’ve eaten the past few days, but nothing stands out as potentially dodgy. No, it must be my period: it’s the only explanation. I wipe myself and reach to pull up my knickers. They’re halfway up my legs when I notice the crotch is stained with a weird gluey discharge.

  Gross.

  Grimacing, I scoop up the jelly-like substance with a wad of toilet paper and flush it down the loo, before removing my knickers altogether, tossing them in the laundry basket.

  I shudder. I will never get used to having periods. Ever.

  I go to my room and put on a fresh pair of knickers, pressing a sanitary towel into the crotch, then grab my duvet and drag it downstairs. Back in the living room, I pull it on top of me and continue to watch TV. I manage another one and half episodes of The Good Place before the pain in my stomach gets so bad I’m forced to return to the bathroom.

  There’s more weird discharge in my pants. Some of it has soaked into the sanitary towel but some of it is too thick and remains sitting there on the pad. I wonder if Frankie has had it before. I reach for my phone.