First Day of My Life

by Lisa Williamson

  ‘He did. Not for long, though. He was out after eighteen months. Good behaviour, apparently.’ I give her a grim smile.

  ‘God, that’s awful. I’m so, so sorry, Ram.’

  I shrug. ‘It is what it is …’

  ‘When did it happen? The accident, I mean.’

  ‘Two Christmases ago. I was fourteen.’

  ‘It happened at Christmas?’

  ‘The day before Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Oh, Ram.’

  ‘Mum was up late finishing off the Christmas cake. She ran out of icing sugar so Dad nipped out to get some more from the twenty-four-hour Co-op. He was on his way back when he got hit. The driver was returning from a Christmas party. Reckons he didn’t even see my dad, that was how out of it he was.’

  I still remember the doorbell ringing; looking out my window and seeing a police car parked on the kerb, its blue light flashing; Mum’s cry of anguish; the sight of her at the bottom of the stairs, collapsed into the policewoman’s arms.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continue, shoving the images to the back of my mind where I do my best to keep them. ‘I haven’t had a drink since. Not that I was a prolific drinker before that or anything, just a few cans down the park every now and again …’

  ‘Do you ever feel tempted?’ Jojo asks.

  ‘Never,’ I say firmly. ‘I mean, alcohol is the reason my dad’s not here, and even though I know loads of people drink and wouldn’t ever dream of getting behind the wheel, I just can’t get my head around letting myself get in the headspace where I might even contemplate it, you know?’

  Jojo nods. ‘Is that him?’ she asks, pointing to the collection of photos on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can I take a closer look?’

  ‘Course.’

  I join her in front of the fireplace. The shrine has grown over the years and now takes up the entire chimney breast, Dad’s name – Albanaz (although Mum usually just called him Al) – spelled out in lumpy papier-mâché letters made by Laleh. There are photos of him throughout the ages, from a chubby baby on my gran’s lap back in Tehran, to the final photo ever taken of him – blowing out the birthday candles on his fifty-fourth birthday, just three weeks before he died.

  ‘You look like him,’ Jojo says, studying the photos one by one.

  ‘Do you reckon?’ I ask, cocking my head to one side.

  ‘Yeah. Especially in this one.’ She points out a photograph of my dad as a young teenager, back in Iran. He’s leaning against a wall with his arms folded, a relaxed smile on his face. ‘How old is he here?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. Fifteen at the most,’ I reply. ‘He left Tehran in 1978, just before the revolution.’

  ‘He looks older.’

  ‘I think it’s the leather jacket.’

  ‘Maybe. Whatever it is, he looks like a real cool dude.’

  I smile. ‘Yeah, he really was.’

  I know it must be easy to romanticize a dead parent, but when it comes to remembering my dad there’s nothing rose-tinted about it. He was the best. End of. Kind and funny and clever and interesting, but most of all interested – in his family, in politics, in art and film and literature and science, in the people around him. He was always reading books and magazines and newspapers and Googling facts and asking our opinions on current affairs or posing philosophical questions at the dinner table. As a younger kid, I found it tiring and kind of annoying to be quizzed on a nightly basis, but as I got older, I found myself looking forward to our debates, planning out what I was going to say on certain topics, eager to impress.

  ‘Christmas must be a really difficult time for you all,’ Jojo says.

  ‘You could say that.’

  That first year we all just sat around in shock, traditions like stockings and crackers falling by the wayside. Last year, we had a go at celebrating, but it felt like we were going through the motions. This year, Mum’s approach had been to throw as much food and tinsel and Michael Bublé tunes at the situation as possible. Christmas is barely over and I’m already exhausted by just the thought of next year.

  ‘Mum invited the entire family and half the street round,’ I add. ‘And, I don’t know, no matter how busy the house is, and how much music and laughter and Christmas pudding there is, there’s still this gaping hole …’

  Jojo nods, her eyes soft.

  I swallow, self-conscious suddenly. I’m not used to talking about Dad so openly, at least not with people outside the immediate family unit. ‘How about you?’ I ask, clearing my throat. ‘How was your Christmas?’

  ‘Oh, it was fine,’ Jojo says with a flick of her hand. ‘It was my year to be with my dad this Christmas Day.’

  ‘And how was that?’

  ‘It was … OK,’ she says. ‘Just very quiet. It was just me and him for most of it.’

  ‘He hasn’t remarried or anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you like him to?’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘If he met the right person, definitely. I hate the idea of him being all by himself. Not that it’s not possible to be perfectly happy on your own; it is, of course it is. But that’s the problem – I don’t think he’s even close to being happy. I just don’t think he knows how to move on.’

  ‘Do you think he still misses your mum?’

  ‘Big time. Not that he’d ever admit it.’

  ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘I know. I’ve tried suggesting he go on a dating app or something, but he won’t even entertain the idea.’

  ‘Maybe he just needs a bit more time.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Jojo says, trailing her finger along the edge of the mantelpiece. ‘What about your mum?’ she asks, studying a photo of my mum and dad on their wedding day, laughing under a shower of confetti. ‘Can you imagine her meeting someone else?’

  ‘I might be wrong,’ I say. ‘But I can’t imagine it happening any time soon. She was in her late twenties when she met my dad, and although she’d had boyfriends before that and had even been engaged once, she always says she didn’t know what love was until he walked into her life. Lightning doesn’t strike in the same spot twice and all that …’

  ‘Wow,’ Jojo says softly. ‘It sounds like they were seriously in love.’

  ‘They really were.’

  When I was younger, their public displays of affection used to make me squirm with embarrassment. Now I’d do anything to see them kissing and cuddling just one more time.

  Jojo and I drift into silence, the only real sound the ticking of the sunburst clock that hangs on the opposite wall. We’re standing very close together, our shoulders touching, fingers almost grazing and I get this sudden weird urge to reach for her hand. It’s the same energy force I felt in the utility room earlier. It scares me a little.

  ‘Shall I put some music on?’ I suggest.

  I don’t wait for Jojo’s answer, striding over to Dad’s old record player.

  ‘Er, yeah, sure,’ Jojo says, following me.

  I kneel down and lift up the cream leather lid.

  ‘Is this vintage?’ Jojo asks, crouching down next to me.

  ‘Uh-huh. It’s from the sixties. Dad bought it at a car boot sale.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she says, stroking the maroon trim.

  ‘Yeah, he was pretty proud of it.’

  Dad used to play his records every Friday night, dimming the lights before settling into his favourite chair for the duration of the evening. As a little kid I loved falling asleep to the sound of music floating up the stairs.

  ‘Do you want to pick something?’ I ask, nodding towards the shelves that house Dad’s epic collection.

  ‘Are they in order?’ Jojo asks.

  ‘Not really.’

  She pulls out sleeves at random, inspecting the covers before slotting them back. It’s an eclectic selection – Motown and soul mingling with folk and country.

  ‘It’s quite a mix,’ Jojo says.

  I laugh. ‘Yeah, I know. Wh
at can I say? My dad just really loved music. All kinds.’

  ‘There are so many. Where did he get them all?’

  ‘Second-hand record shops, eBay, car boot sales. He loved a car boot sale.’

  She passes me ‘Meet the Beatles’. ‘Basic, I know,’ she says.

  ‘Nothing basic about the Beatles,’ I reply. ‘What track do you want?’

  ‘Er, number one?’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  Carefully, I slide the record from its sleeve and drop it onto the turntable, before gently lowering the needle. There’s a crackle before the jangling guitars kick in and the Beatles start singing ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’. Jojo shrugs out of her coat, draping it over the arm of Dad’s chair before plopping on the floor in front of the record player. I like the way she moves in time to the music, her shoulders popping, her head swaying, a serene smile on her face. I like that she’s not self-conscious with me. She catches my eye on the second chorus and grins. I grin back. It’s that kind of song: smiling is practically compulsory.

  ‘OK, your turn,’ she says, as the song ends.

  I pull out an album at random. Luckily it’s a good one – ‘Easter’ by the Patti Smith Group. I put on track three – ‘Because the Night’.

  Jojo sings along.

  ‘You’ve got a good voice,’ I comment as the song fades out.

  ‘Nah,’ she says. ‘Not really. I mean, I can hit the notes, but only just. Frankie’s the one with the pipes.’

  The mention of Frankie jars. I’m not sure why. I push it away and retrieve our tray of snacks, setting it down between us on the carpet. ‘Your turn,’ I say.

  We keep going like this, lurching from disco to euro-pop, R&B to heavy metal. We play A-ha, Bowie, Grace Jones, The Strokes, Shirley Bassey, Le Chic, Nirvana, Van Morrison, Stevie Wonder, Elvis, Dolly Parton, Dr Dre, Lady Gaga, Guns ’n’ Roses, Kate Bush, Aretha Franklin. As the music plays, we eat biscuits and exchange anecdotes – the first music we ever spent money on, the best gig we’ve ever been to, the song we wished we’d written.

  And it’s fun.

  It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages.

  ‘Yes!’ I say. It’s my turn to pick and I’ve just found one of my childhood favourites.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Jojo asks, kneeling up.

  I hold up the record.

  ‘Superman, Black Lace,’ she reads aloud, her forehead scrunched.

  ‘It reminds me so much of being a kid,’ I say. ‘We always used to play this at family parties, without fail.’ I remember my dad leaping about the living room, teaching all the kids the actions.

  I place the record on the turntable and wait for the familiar introduction to kick in. And just like that, I’m catapulted back in time.

  ‘Do you know it?’ I ask, scrambling to my feet.

  Jojo shakes her head.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No. I’ve literally never heard of it.’

  ‘What? You’ll be telling me you don’t know Agadoo next.’

  ‘Aga-what?’

  ‘Oh my God, Bright, you’ve got some urgent catching up to do. C’mon, the actions are really easy to pick up.’

  ‘Actions?’ she says, her face flooding with alarm.

  I hold out my hands and pull her to her feet.

  ‘What are we doing?’ she asks.

  ‘Just copy me.’

  Even though I haven’t danced to this song in years, the moves are second nature.

  ‘Spray!’ I yell, miming applying deodorant to my underarms.

  ‘Ski!’ I bellow, crouching down and pretending to ski down a mountain.

  ‘Macho Man!’ I shout, parading back and forth, flexing my biceps.

  The entire time, Jojo is too busy giggling to properly join in.

  At the end of the song, she collapses onto the sofa, breathless from laughing so much.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she says, wiping her eyes. ‘That was … something else.’

  ‘Want to go again?’ I ask. ‘I swear you’ll get it the second time around.’

  ‘I don’t think I can handle it,’ she says.

  ‘Was it that sexy?’ I ask, flopping on the sofa beside her, the word ‘sexy’ and all its complications hanging invisibly between us.

  ‘You flatter yourself, Ramin Jandu,’ she says, prodding me on my forearm.

  I like the way she says my name. I like the way she says stuff full stop.

  Shit.

  ‘My turn,’ she says, jumping up and pulling out an album at random. She peers at the cover.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  She turns it towards me so I can see the sleeve.

  ‘I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning,’ I read. ‘Bright Eyes.’

  ‘Do you know it?’ Jojo asks.

  ‘Nope. You?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Pick a number from one to ten,’ she instructs.

  ‘Er, six.’

  She consults the track listing on the back of the sleeve. ‘First Day of My Life,’ she reads.

  She puts it on and we settle back on the floor. Jojo curls up in a ball, her chin resting on her bent knees while I lean with my back against the armchair, my legs loosely crossed at the ankle.

  The introduction is instrumental – just an acoustic guitar – a complete contrast to the in-your-face silliness of ‘Superman’. I let my head drop back and listen to the lyrics, really listen to them. They’re stupidly romantic. Not in a cheesy or overblown way. They’re sweet and gentle and heartfelt and intimate and quietly revelatory.

  I swallow hard and sneak a glance at Jojo. She’s peering at me over the top of her knees, her beautiful eyes wide and unblinking. They lock with mine for a touch longer than feels natural. I want to look away. I know I should look away. And yet I don’t. I can’t.

  I hold her gaze until the end of the song.

  And she holds mine.

  ‘Good choice,’ I say, my voice cracking slightly.

  ‘Thanks,’ she murmurs.

  The silence is deafening.

  We’re still looking at each other.

  There’s maybe a metre and a half max between us. I want it to be less. I want to kiss her, hold her.

  Wait, what am I doing? This makes no sense.

  Since when do I want to kiss Jojo?

  She’s my ex-girlfriend’s best mate. A friend, nothing more.

  So why can’t I stop thinking about it?

  The next track begins.

  ‘I should probably go,’ Jojo says, getting to her feet.

  ‘Please don’t,’ I blurt.

  She looks down at me, her eyes foggy with confusion.

  I stand up to face her. ‘I mean, you don’t have to,’ I backtrack.

  ‘Not yet anyway.’

  She hesitates. ‘It’s late.’

  I glance at the clock. It’s 4.15 in the morning. We’ve been playing records for over three hours.

  ‘Can I use your bathroom before I go?’ she asks.

  ‘Er, yeah, of course. There’s one downstairs. Go through the kitchen and it’s on your left.’

  She thanks me and leaves the room.

  I remove the record from the turntable, return it to its sleeve and turn off the record player. Slowly, I pick up the records scattered across the carpet and return them to the shelves, inserting them in the gaps at random. I hear the toilet flush in the distance. I leave my task and intercept Jojo in the shadowy hallway.

  ‘Find it OK?’ I ask.

  It’s a stupid question but I’m not ready to say goodbye.

  ‘Yeah, fine thanks,’ she says.

  I want to ask her to stay.

  You already did, a voice inside my head reminds me. She said no.

  We stand facing each other at the foot of the stairs. It’s dim, the only light source the faint rainbow glow produced by the Christmas lights in the living room.

  ‘Do you have the number for a local cab company?’

  ‘Er, yeah, I think we’ve got some cards in the kitchen.’
>
  ‘Cool.’

  ‘I’ll, er, be right back.’ I head into the kitchen and pluck a taxi card from the notice board. I picture the cab arriving outside, Jojo putting on her coat, the door falling shut behind her as she leaves.

  I hate every frame.

  I return to the hallway.

  ‘It might be expensive,’ I say, handing over the card. ‘New Year’s Eve and all that.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  Jojo dials.

  Please be engaged, please be engaged.

  They answer almost straightaway. I listen as Jojo recites my address.

  ‘Five minutes,’ she says, hanging up.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I should get my coat.’

  She disappears into the living room, returning a few seconds later, her coat draped over her arm. I help her put it on. She turns around to face me.

  ‘I’ve had a really good night,’ she says, not quite meeting my eye as she pulls up the zip.

  ‘Me too,’ I reply, my voice soft.

  I move in a little closer. Jojo does the same. My right index finger catches on her left one. Slowly, one by one, the rest of our fingers entwine. For a few seconds we just stand there, our spare arms hanging limply at our sides, our chests rising and falling in time.

  And I swear, I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so much in my entire life.

  Slowly, carefully, I place my left hand on the small of Jojo’s back.

  In response, Jojo puts her spare hand on my neck, sending a bolt of electricity whizzing down my spine.

  There’s a beat where no one says or does anything. It’s almost like someone has pressed ‘pause’, freezing us in this weird pre-kiss limbo.

  And then they hit ‘play’ and Jojo and I are kissing like it’s the last night on earth.

  Chapter 31

  I wake up early, dawn seeping through the gap in my curtains. I don’t know what time we dropped off, but I can’t have got much sleep – an hour or two at the very most. Jojo is curled up next to me, her hair fanned out across the pillow. I study her face as she sleeps, noting the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, the softness of her lips, the tiny scar in the gap between her eyebrows. She’s wearing one of my favourite T-shirts – the grey Rolling Stones one I inherited from my dad, the logo patchy and faded. I like the way she looks in it. I imagine her wearing other items from my wardrobe – my olive-green hoodie, my grey beanie, a pair of my joggers, the drawstring pulled extra tight so they won’t fall down. I want to touch her, hold her, make her sigh and gasp the way I did last night, but at the same time I’m afraid of waking her up and somehow breaking the spell. While she’s still asleep, anything is possible and I’m not quite ready to let go of that.