Jenny Sparrow Knows the Future

by Melissa Pimentel

  ‘Okay.’ I pulled my suitcase out of the back seat of the car and made one final check that I had my passport. ‘Thanks, friend.’

  ‘Anytime,’ she said, and then with a blown kiss and a rev of the engine, she peeled out of the parking lot, leaving the faint smell of burned rubber in her wake.

  I braced myself as I headed into the airport. The fluorescent lights, the smell of industrial floor polish, the endless lines snaking away from the check-in desks: none of them did my hangover any favors. I walked up to a woman in a Delta uniform who was standing at the end of the rope maze. ‘I’m on the 16:55 to London,’ I said. ‘Am I screwed?’

  She looked up at the clock and back at me. ‘Almost, but not quite. Do you definitely need to check that?’

  I looked down at my little wheeled suitcase. ‘I have liquids in here.’

  ‘How badly do you need those liquids?’ She saw me hesitate – my Kérastase! – and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Let me rephrase that. Do you need those liquids so bad you’re willing to miss your flight and pay for another one?’

  I tossed the liquids. I gave the woman in the Delta uniform the Kérastase and she told me to ask for Duane when I got to security. ‘Tell him Tina sent you,’ she said. ‘He’ll speed you right through.’

  As I pushed my way through the crowds, I was quietly grateful I was in America – where such pushing was frowned upon but not forbidden – rather than England, where queuing is an ancient and sacred art. Sure, a couple of people called me an asshole, or yelled at me as I squeezed by, but no one shook their heads and tutted. It was the tutting I dreaded the most.

  There was a sprint finish down the people-mover, and I twice clipped my Achilles with my wheeled suitcase, but I made it just before the gate closed. People whistled as I hurried, shamefaced, down the crowded aisle and took my seat. Middle of the row, back of the plane, right next to the bathroom. I rooted through my bag, found a Xanax, and closed my eyes.

  When I woke up, we were circling London, the gray mist clearing just enough for me to spot the Thames snaking its dark way through the city below.

  I was home. At least it was home for now.

  8

  I studied my face in the bathroom mirror. Bloated. Patches of dry skin flaking from my cheeks. And was that …? Yes. That was a trail of drool caked on my chin. I looked like the last crumb-covered scraping in a tub of discount margarine.

  I splashed water on my face and rummaged through my bag for my moisturizer, until I remembered that I’d jettisoned all of my liquids back in Vegas. I uncapped a tin of Vaseline and rubbed a dab into my lips, which only highlighted the cracks.

  ‘Jesus,’ I muttered to myself. There was no way I could face Christopher looking like this. This was not the face of a woman you wanted to marry. This was the face of a woman you paid ten dollars after she gives you a hand-job in the back of a station wagon. I splashed my face with cold water before I realized that there were no paper towels available, only hand dryers. I stooped down and let the hot breeze blast me.

  There was a Boots in arrivals. I could buy a few emergency supplies and try to do some damage control on my way home on the Piccadilly Line. I grabbed my suitcase and wheeled myself out of there, careful not to look in the mirror again.

  I made my way through the customs door and the sad little duty free display, and out into the harsh light of the arrivals lounge. I was always filled with free-floating anxiety when emerging from the bowels of the airport. The barriers lined with the patiently waiting, their faces upturned in expectance, their eyes scanning for loved ones. Even the cab drivers holding signs with passengers’ names misspelled on them made me strangely sad. I wasn’t who they were looking for, so my very presence was a disappointment. I was a walking let-down.

  This time, I forced myself to keep my head tilted towards the ground. Don’t stop. Don’t even think about looking around. There wasn’t anyone waiting for me here.

  And then I heard it.

  ‘Jenny!’

  There are lots of Jennys in the world. Keep going. Don’t embarrass yourself by looking up hopefully. It will just make everyone feel uncomfortable.

  But it was my name being called again, louder this time, and then the sound of footsteps rushing towards me. I stopped and looked up just in time to see Christopher, arms laden with the biggest bouquet of red roses I’d ever seen, about to descend on me.

  ‘Jenny!’ he said, and then he wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tightly. The bouquet’s cellophane wrapping crinkled noisily between us, and I felt a stray thorn graze my cheek, but I didn’t care. I dropped the handle of my suitcase and heard it fall with a thud behind me as I hugged him back.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I mumbled into his shoulder.

  He pulled back and studied my face. ‘God, I’ve missed you. I’ve been such a massive cock – can you ever forgive me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Thoughts of tiny blonde Tiffany danced in my head. Then I remembered the man’s voice singing in the shower. I wasn’t be in a particularly strong position to judge.

  ‘I can’t believe I said that thing about going on a break. I’ve been going out of my mind this weekend.’

  ‘You have?’ I asked incredulously. ‘But you haven’t called or texted … I haven’t heard from you at all.’

  ‘I wanted to give you space,’ he said, running a thumb across my cheek. I wondered if he could feel the scaly patch. ‘I thought you deserved a weekend with Isla without having to think about me. So when you didn’t get in touch …’ He shook his head. ‘Look, I know I’ve been selfish. After seeing my parents be so unhappy for so long, I wasn’t sure if marriage was for me.’ He sighed. ‘But I know how important it is to you, and I want to make you happy, so …’

  He dropped to one knee and I heard someone gasp. I’m pretty sure it was me.

  As if in slow motion, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a tiny black velvet box. ‘I love you, Jenny Sparrow. Will you marry me?’ He lifted the lid and an enormous red candy ring shone out enticingly. ‘This is just a temporary ring, of course,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I didn’t want to choose the real one without you.’

  It was really happening. Here, underneath the unforgiving lights, teeth gently furred, breath stale, eyes grimed with sleep. I was being asked for my hand in marriage by the man I was destined to be with. ‘Yes!’ I cried. ‘Of course I’ll marry you!’

  He slid the candy ring on my finger. My nostrils filled with the scent of artificial cherry, and, just like that, it had happened. The fogged memories of the past weekend cleared and I beamed like the sun. It was really happening.

  Christopher sprang to his feet and kissed me, one of those big dramatic swooping kisses you see in old movies. I even kicked up a foot. A burst of applause rippled around us, and I looked up to see the patient-waiters cheering us on. Even the bored taxi drivers were smiling. Christopher and I exchanged a shy glance and took a bow. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking hold of my suitcase and wheeling it towards the parking lot. ‘Let’s go celebrate.’

  And just like that, I had my future back.

  Reactions to the happy news were mixed. My mother cried. ‘Happy tears!’ she insisted, but years of experience had taught me when she was on the edge. My aunt took the phone away from her and told me how happy she was for me, but I could hear the strain in her voice. Marriage meant I wasn’t coming home any time soon. Before we hung up, I promised to send money soon. I didn’t promise to visit.

  My dad cleared his throat and said Christopher was a lucky man. ‘I hope he’s a better husband than me,’ he’d added, which I’d smoothly transitioned away from by asking after the tricky carburetor on his pickup truck.

  Ben gave me an awkward hug and left a little bouquet of tulips on my desk the next morning. ‘It’s an occasion, isn’t it?’ he’d explained, waving away my thanks.

  Isla paused for a pulse too long before squealing with excitement, but then called me a week later and asked if I was sure
. ‘What about your options?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want options,’ I told her, ‘I want Christopher.’

  And Christopher … well, Christopher was great. After I got back, he cooked me dinner every night for a week. He brought me coffee in bed every morning. He let me choose the movie on Saturday night, and didn’t flinch when I put the disc of The Philadelphia Story into the DVD player. He was perfect. He was amazing. He was my Christopher, and he was going to be my husband.

  And yet. And yet. I couldn’t quite seem to give myself over to the wedding. Appointments at bridal boutiques were made and cancelled. Pinterest boards were left blank. I couldn’t even bring myself to choose a venue. I would see places I liked – an adorable farmhouse in Wiltshire, a beautiful beach in Devon, an old music hall in Hackney – and I’d find fault with every one of them. I told myself it was because I wanted it to be perfect – but after I rejected a lighthouse in Sussex – a lighthouse! – I started to wonder if I’d ever commit.

  The truth was, a vague sense of unease had been building since the car ride home from the airport. I couldn’t understand it. I was engaged to the man I loved. We would be married before the end of the year. My happiness should have been pure and crystal-clear, but there was something muddying it. A sense of discomfort I couldn’t seem to shake.

  As soon as he dropped to one knee, I’d decided not to tell Christopher about what had happened that night in Vegas. What was the point? It would only hurt him, and besides, I wasn’t even sure what had happened. Maybe nothing! Maybe it had been as innocent as a sleepover party. No, I wouldn’t tell him. I couldn’t. The guilt was something I’d just have to carry with me.

  A month passed, and things returned pretty much back to normal, with added flourishes of wedding talk. I started working on a case about a man who’d crashed his car into his ex-wife’s house, ploughing through the bay window and sailing halfway into the living room before finally settling on the sofa. The photographs made it look as if the car had just stopped by to watch TV. The man claimed his brakes had failed.

  I was in the middle of researching brake failure in 2007 Honda Civic XLs when I had a call from Bethany on reception.

  ‘Your husband’s here to see you,’ she trilled. I told her I’d be down in a minute, and twirled around in my chair.

  ‘Christopher’s here to see me!’ I announced to Ben, who managed to glance up briefly from the sheaf of papers spread out in front of him and smile.

  I practically skipped down the hallway. How sweet that he was calling himself my husband! And Bethany obviously thought Christopher was cute – she sounded all breathy and excited over the phone. Granted, she always sounded breathy and excited. Ben called her Shirley Temple. But she sounded even more breathy and excited than usual. My chest swelled with pride. Tonight, we’d sit down and pick a venue. No more stalling. It was time.

  I walked into reception to find Bethany pink-cheeked and beaming. She shook her head and pulled her mouth into an exaggerated moue when she saw me. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been hiding him from us all this time,’ she chastized. ‘I didn’t even know you were married!’

  I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. I’d barely exchanged a half-dozen words with Bethany over the past three years, never mind details about my romantic life, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was Christopher. Speaking of which … ‘Where is he?’ I asked.

  She nodded towards a man standing with his back to us, staring at one of the godawful motivational prints the office manager had put up to ‘freshen up the space’. I stared at the back of his head and froze.

  Bethany cleared her throat. ‘Here she is!’ she announced.

  The man turned around and grinned. He was tall, with shaggy blond hair and unsettlingly white teeth. He was wearing a worn gray T-shirt peppered with holes, and a pair of baggy cargo pants held up with a braided leather belt. He took a step towards me, arms outstretched. ‘Sweetheart!’

  I stumbled back into a large potted fern.

  It was him. The man from the casino. And, if Isla was right, the man whose hotel room I’d spent the night in. I blinked rapidly in the hope he might dematerialize. But no, he was still standing there looking at me, that same stupid grin on his face.

  ‘Come on, baby – don’t be shy!’ He turned to Bethany and shook his head. ‘She’s not big into PDAs.’

  I managed to work up enough saliva to speak. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He put his hands on his hips and swayed back on his heels. ‘What? Can’t a man visit his wife at work?’ I recoiled further into the fern. The man was clearly insane.

  ‘You have absolutely no right to barge into my place of work like this,’ I said, with as much authority as I could muster.

  Bethany’s eyes bulged. I could hear her mind compiling a list of people to tell about her rude American co-worker.

  ‘Please forgive my wife,’ the man said. ‘Jenny’s just not good with surprises. Isn’t that right, sweetheart? Maybe a little fresh air would help.’ He raised his eyebrows at me and nodded towards the elevator door.

  I had two choices. I could follow this madman into the street and risk him murdering me in broad daylight, or I could risk causing a scene at work. I’d lived in England long enough to know which would be frowned upon more.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but it better be quick.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, lips quirking into a grin. ‘I know you’re always in a rush.’

  He pressed the button to call the elevator, and we stood and waited for it in silence. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the doors opened and we stepped inside. ‘Very nice to meet you!’ he called to Bethany as the doors closed in front of us, and I watched her cheeks flush with renewed pleasure.

  The elevator descended. He began to hum. My mind continued to unravel.

  I dragged him through the lobby, out of the building, and down a urine-and-bacon-scented alleyway.

  He looked around at the discarded industrial-sized drum of mayonnaise lolling on its side and the heap of black bin bags stacked against the wall, and smiled. ‘It’s not where I imagined our reunion, but it’s nice to see that you want to get me alone.’ And then he winked at me. I fought the urge to slug him.

  ‘Will you please tell me what the hell you’re doing here? Seriously, this could qualify as – as harassment or something. And why on earth did you tell Bethany that we’re married? Do you know how awkward it’s going to be when I have to go back inside and explain that was just some sick joke played on me by a guy I met once in Las Vegas?’

  ‘Twice. We met twice.’

  ‘Fine! Twice! That still doesn’t give you the right to come to my work and spin some kind of genuinely insane yarn about being my husband!’

  His grin faltered for a minute. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t remember.’

  ‘Remember what? That you’re an asshole? Because yeah, I’m remembering that pretty clearly.’

  ‘The little white chapel? The guy dressed as Elvis? The two old guys who agreed to witness the papers for a fifth of whisky?’ I stared at him blankly, and he let out a low whistle. ‘Shit. What about the Hells Angels who serenaded us on our way out? Do you remember that?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said, more weakly this time. The truth was, I could feel the kernel of something in the back of my mind slowly popping. It wasn’t quite out of its shell yet, but it was there.

  ‘They sang that song from Top Gun,’ he prompted. ‘You know – “Take My Breath Away”.’

  The song filled my head, and as I reached the soaring chorus, it suddenly became clear. Him dropping to his knee in the crowded bar, us hurling ourselves into the taxi, both of us doubled over with laughter as it careened down the Strip. Somehow, a bottle of champagne was produced. Then we were getting out of the cab and … yes, there it was, the Little White Chapel, with its wedding-cake gazebo and enormous neon sign, and a group of burly Hells Angels serenading us.

  ‘I’m going to throw up,’ I said,
and true to my word, I did. To be fair to the man, he held back my hair as I retched into a pile of garbage.

  ‘I’m guessing you remember now?’ he asked, as I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.

  I nodded weakly. ‘A little.’ I looked up at him, appalled. ‘The hotel room … did we?’

  He shook his head. ‘We were both too far gone. We watched an episode of Cheers, and then passed out.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I might be married to another man, but at least now I knew that I hadn’t cheated on Christopher. ‘Thank God.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’d be thanking God if I were you. You missed out on an earth-shattering experience.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word on that. Look, how do we fix this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We need to get a divorce as soon as possible, obviously. Do we need lawyers, or is there some kind of form we can fill out online, like when you renew your driver’s license?’

  He held a hand to his heart. ‘I can’t believe you’d compare the sanctity of marriage to a trip to the DMV. Just what kind of monster have I married?’

  ‘Stop! I don’t have time for this! I’m getting married this year – married for real, to the man that I love – which means I need to make this whole thing disappear.’

  He groaned. ‘Don’t tell me you’re marrying that Christopher guy.’

  I looked at him sharply. ‘How do you know about Christopher?’

  ‘Jesus. I guess your memory is still a little patchy. You don’t remember telling me about him in the bar that night?’ I shook my head, and he sighed. ‘You told me the two of you had broken up and that you were glad because you hadn’t been sure you wanted to be with him anyway.’

  ‘I did not say that.’

  ‘Trust me, you did. Many, many times. You told me you were happy you were free, and that you were better off alone, and then you sang “I Will Survive”, but you couldn’t remember how most of the lyrics went, so you just kept yelling the words “I Will Survive” over and over again until the bouncer came over and told you to stop.’ He studied my face. ‘Not ringing any bells, huh?’