Jenny Sparrow Knows the Future

by Melissa Pimentel

  ‘No, but even if I did say those things – which I seriously doubt – it doesn’t matter because I was obviously not in my right mind at the time. I married you, for Christ’s sake!’

  He pulled a face. ‘I’ll have you know that I was voted prom king both my junior and senior year in high school. You ask any of the girls back in Texas, and they’ll tell you that you got yourself a helluva catch.’

  I winced. ‘You’re from Texas?’

  He tipped an imaginary hat. ‘Yes, ma’am. A little town called New Deal.’

  ‘God, it just gets worse,’ I muttered. I checked my watch – I’d been gone from the office for nearly twenty minutes. Ben would notice any moment, and I didn’t want to have to answer any more questions than were strictly necessary. ‘So are you going to help us get divorced or what? Or did you just come here to torture me?’

  He tilted his head and pondered for a minute. ‘Tell you what. I haven’t been to London for a couple of years, and I could use someone to show me around.’

  ‘You want me to be your tour guide?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m only here for a week. You keep me company, show me a good time, take me to your favorite places, and when it’s time for me to leave, we’ll shake hands and say nice knowing you and I’ll get you your divorce so you can marry good old Christopher. What do you say?’

  ‘When you say “show you a good time” … you do know that absolutely nothing is going to happen between us, right?’

  ‘Sweetheart, I just watched you throw up. I promise you I’m not itching to get in your pants at this particular juncture.’

  I considered his offer. A week wasn’t that long in the grand scheme of things, and if he was true to his word, all of this would be over, and I could forget the whole mess had ever happened. There was one thing that was nagging me, though. ‘I don’t get why you’re doing this,’ I said finally.

  He grinned his wolfish grin and shrugged. ‘Same reason we decided to get married, I guess. I thought it’d be fun. And you, my darling wife, look like you could use a little fun in your life.’

  ‘My life is actually really, really fun,’ I said, folding my arms across my chest.

  He looked at me and laughed. ‘Yeah, I can tell. I’ll pick you up outside your office at six tonight – I won’t risk going back in the building in case they set security on me or something.’

  I blinked at him. Tonight? We were starting tonight? ‘What am I supposed to tell Christopher?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s your problem, I reckon,’ he said, sauntering away. ‘And make sure you’ve got something good planned for us!’

  He was halfway down the block when a thought occurred to me. ‘Hey!’ I shouted. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jackson! Jackson Gaines!’ And with that, he tipped that goddamn imaginary hat again, spun on his heel, and disappeared into the crowd.

  9

  ‘Jenny, you’re going to have to breathe.’

  ‘How – can I – breathe – at a time – like – this?’ I gasped down the phone. I was locked in the disabled toilet at work while Isla listened to me have a panic attack from the on-call room at Mount Sinai.

  ‘Slow down, buddy. Deep breaths.’ I forced myself to block out the voice screaming inside my head and listened to Isla’s instead. ‘That’s it,’ she coaxed. ‘Good girl.’

  I took one last deep, shuddering breath and exhaled. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Good. Now tell me what the fuck is going on.’ I brought her up to speed, leaving out the part where I threw up in the alleyway. ‘Holy fucking shit,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘I can’t believe you guys got married! That is some badass Vegas behaviour right there.’

  I let out a strangled groan. ‘I can’t believe it either. I’m screwed.’

  ‘You are not screwed. Jackson told you he’d give you a divorce, right?’

  ‘Yeah, after I spend a week acting as his personal London Beefeater.’

  ‘Okay, so that’s a little weird, but it could be so much worse. What if he hadn’t told you, and then you’d married Christopher? You’d have had to move to Utah. Instead, you spend a week with a guy who you don’t completely hate – at least you didn’t when you guys were in that bar together – and you take him to see Big Ben or whatever, and then he goes back to America, you get a divorce, and you never see him again.’

  ‘What if Christopher finds out?’

  ‘He’s not going to find out. Men don’t just randomly start researching their fiancée’s marriage records for shits and giggles. The only way he’ll find out is if you tell him, so just don’t tell him. Simple.’

  ‘I’m married to a stranger, Isla. This is definitely not simple.’ I bit at a patch of skin around my cuticle until it bled. A thought struck me like a lightning bolt. ‘I’m going to be a divorcee.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Isla trilled. ‘See, before long, this will all be behind you. You might even find it funny one day!’

  ‘No, you’re not getting it!’ I felt my chest tighten and my throat begin to close. My tongue felt like a great slab of concrete in my mouth. ‘Isla, I’m going to be divorced.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she cautioned. ‘You are not your mother.’

  But it was already in my head. It was always there, really.

  ‘Jenny? Are you there?’ I became suddenly aware of Isla shouting at me down the phone. ‘JENNY?’

  ‘I’m here,’ I said softly, but I didn’t feel like I was here at all.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she said sternly. ‘This is different. This isn’t a real divorce, this is—’ I could sense her casting around for the right word. ‘Admin!’ she announced triumphantly.

  ‘Admin,’ I murmured.

  ‘Exactly. You spend a week with a guy you don’t know, sign on the dotted line and then the whole thing is over. It’s basically like getting your driver’s license, only without the three-point turn.’

  Could I really see it as admin? I guess it wasn’t a real marriage – according to Jackson, we hadn’t even come close to sleeping together, and Christ knows we didn’t have any of the normal trappings of a marriage, like a joint bank account or a shared home or an intimate knowledge of each other’s failings. My mind raced. ‘What am I going to tell Christopher when I’m out showing Jackson around?’

  ‘Make something up! Tell him you’re having a crazy week at work.’

  ‘He knows my hours are super regular.’

  ‘Then tell him a friend of yours is having some kind of personal crisis.’

  ‘He knows I don’t have any friends here.’

  ‘Tell him you have a friend visiting from back home,’ she said. She sounded exasperated, not that I could blame her. I was a little exasperated myself. ‘It’s not that far from the truth if you think about it.’

  ‘Jackson is not my friend.’

  ‘Sorry, you’re right. Tell him your accidental husband is in town, see how that goes over.’ I didn’t say anything. ‘Jenny, I know you don’t like to lie, but right now, the truth is not your friend. You’re going to have to bend it a little until this whole shitshow blows over.’

  I sighed. ‘I know. I know! It’s just …’

  ‘I know,’ she said. Her voice was gentler now. ‘Look, I’ve got to go – they’re paging me here. It really will be okay, I promise.’

  I nodded, but my reply caught in my throat.

  ‘Jenny? Are you there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ I said finally.

  ‘I love you. You need anything, you call me. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ I listened to the phone go dead, and sat in the cold stall for a few minutes, listening to the sound of the faucet dripping into the basin and feeling my chest tighten with dread. I forced myself to breathe again and tried to imagine Isla’s voice in my head. It will be fine, I chanted under my breath. It will be fine. But the tightness in my chest refused to loosen.

  Ben took one look at me when I got back to my desk and immediately reac
hed for his coat. ‘Pub?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve got too much work.’ I also wasn’t sure drinking was the best solution, considering it’s what got me in this mess in the first place. Besides, how was I supposed to explain what had happened to Ben? To anyone? They’d think I’d lost it. They’d think I was crazy. My heart thudded in my chest and I felt my throat begin to close.

  Breathe, I chanted to myself. Breathe.

  Ben gave me one last look of concern before turning back to his computer. We typed in silence for a few minutes, though I didn’t get too far in my case notes. The cursor blinked at me accusingly. Finally, he sighed and swung his chair around towards me.

  ‘Whatever’s happened between you and Christopher, just try not to worry about it too much. When my sister was planning her wedding last year, she and her fiancé fell out all the time. Because of the stress and everything,’ he added with a shrug.

  I swiveled my chair. ‘Why do you think I’m in a fight with Christopher?’

  He looked at me, puzzled. ‘That’s who was in reception, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh.’ My mind spun. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that it’s probably over something stupid, that’s all. My sister once threw her fiancé out of their flat for three days because he said the bridesmaids’ dresses she’d picked out looked like old tablecloths. And then he threw her out because she told him he couldn’t ride to the church on his motorbike. Weddings are seriously mental.’

  ‘Ben, it’s fine, honestly.’

  ‘I read somewhere that weddings are the third most stressful experience a couple can go through, behind buying a house and having a baby.’ He shook his head. ‘It can really turn you into a nutter. The way I see it is—’

  I sighed. ‘No offense, but you’re the last person I would take relationship advice from, considering you haven’t made it past a first date with a woman in the three years I’ve known you.’ I felt the air go out of the room, and I knew I’d really hurt him. I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye.

  ‘Right then,’ he said quietly. ‘Right.’ He spun back around in his chair, and I heard the typing start up again, sharp thwacks on the keys. We didn’t talk again for the rest of the afternoon.

  I found Jackson leaning against the side of the building opposite, hands shoved in his pockets, staring out into the street. He waved when he saw me and headed across the road, only narrowly avoiding collision with a black cab and an irate cyclist.

  ‘Why’s everyone always in such a rush in this town?’ he asked as he hopped onto the sidewalk.

  I shrugged. ‘It’s London. Also, word to the wise, it’s always good to look both ways before you cross the street. Or did your mother not teach you that?’

  ‘My mom taught me a lot of things,’ he said, grinning. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to keep track. So where are we heading?’

  I’d spent the afternoon racking my brains trying to think of somewhere suitable to take him, and finally settled on that venerable British institution, Claridges. I figured it was the kind of place that would strike awe in most Americans, particularly those who hadn’t traveled much outside of the US. The checkerboard marble floors in the lobby, the heavy crystal chandeliers, the high, straight-backed chairs and similarly straight-backed waiters darting between tables. It was just what I’d imagined England would be like before I moved here. I’d brought my aunt there when she’d come to visit, and she’d spent the whole time nudging me under the table and asking if various glossy brunettes were ‘Princess Kate’. Jackson, I assumed, would be suitably impressed.

  But now that I was standing in front of him, I wondered if I’d be able to sneak him past the doorman. He was wearing a beat-up denim jacket, jeans so worn the knees had all but given up, and a pair of cowboy boots. This was not a joke. The man was wearing cowboy boots. ‘Are you dressed?’ I asked finally.

  He looked down. ‘This sure as hell isn’t what I look like naked.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I take it I’m not dressed the way you were hoping I’d be dressed?’

  ‘No! I don’t care how you dress! How you dress is none of my business at all. Whatsoever.’ I was still rattled by him invoking the specter of his naked self. ‘It’s just – the restaurant, I think it might have a dress code.’

  He tilted his head and smiled at me. ‘What restaurant is that?’

  ‘Claridges.’

  He let out a low whistle. ‘Damn! I had no idea my wife had such fancy tastes!’

  I folded my arms across my chest and glared. ‘You told me to take you somewhere special!’

  ‘Sure, but I didn’t tell you to take me to a mausoleum full of old rich people.’

  ‘It’s nice there,’ I said lamely.

  ‘It’s so far up its own ass it hasn’t seen daylight in forty years.’

  ‘Fine! We won’t go there! Any suggestions on where you want to go instead?’

  ‘How do you feel about spicy food?’

  I wrinkled my nose. ‘I hate it.’

  ‘I know just the place.’

  I hesitated. Why should I trust him? I didn’t know him, not even one bit. For all I knew, he might chop people up and stuff them into freezers as a hobby. I might be next.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said, gentler this time. ‘Trust me. Please?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But I am definitely not taking your arm.’

  ‘Suit yourself!’ He set off at a rapid clip, and I had to hurry to keep up, the click of my sensible heels on the pavement echoing in my wake. We snaked our way through the quaint cobbled yards of Westminster School and down to the Embankment, where black cabs and Ubers and Addison Lees hurriedly sped Londoners to dinners and dates across the city.

  A man in a dark suit clutching a worn briefcase shouldered me as he passed. Jackson caught me as I stumbled. ‘You all right?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘What a jackass,’ he said, shaking his head.

  Sometimes, walking around this city, I felt like a moving target. Men with briefcases, scuffed white vans, pigeons … all of them seemed set on a collision course with me. And if I wasn’t dodging out of the way of someone, I was invisible. Everyone’s eyes on the Tube, staring at worn paperbacks or glowing screens, never looking at each other, never connecting. There were times when Christopher had gone away for the weekend to run across some hilly stretch of countryside, and I’d reach Sunday evening and realize I hadn’t spoken to a single soul since Friday afternoon. You could do it, in this city. You could just … melt into the background. Even when a pigeon was dive-bombing your skull.

  ‘It’s a left up here,’ Jackson called, steering us down a narrow alleyway.

  ‘How do you know your way around?’ I asked, trying to ignore the rising dread in my stomach. I could be home right now, I thought. I could be curled up on the couch watching a rerun of Gilmore Girls, waiting for Christopher to get home, rather than careening down an alleyway that reeked of piss, trying to keep up with a man who may very well be a psychopath.

  Jackson threw a grin over his shoulder but didn’t answer. I scowled and doubled my pace. We rushed across Vauxhall Bridge, minnows caught in the stream of commuters, and then down into the arches below, where he stopped in front of an unpromising-looking doorway.

  ‘Still here!’ he announced, shooting me an excited glance.

  A single flickering bulb hung above the rotten wooden door. Mounted on the wall to the left was a laminated menu featuring pictures of various ambiguous-looking brown foods. ‘What is this place?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s only the best curry house in London,’ he said, eyes gleaming with excitement.

  ‘God, Jackson! I literally just told you I don’t like spicy food!’

  ‘Everybody likes spicy food! It’s just that some people haven’t discovered the right spicy food. And you, my friend, are about to discover the right spicy food.’

  As if that settled the matter, he opened the door with a swoop and ushered me inside.

  It was
a dank, dark little room, the walls stained with streaks of yellow. A ceiling fan moaned ineffectually above. There were only six tables in the place, all of them crowded together so closely that people had to synchronize their eating so as not to elbow their fellow diner in the face when lifting their forks to their mouths. Incredibly, all of the tables were full.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Neither can I! I haven’t been here in years – it hasn’t changed a bit!’

  A disgruntled-looking waiter approached us and thrust a pair of menus at us. ‘Half hour wait,’ he grunted, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the kitchen, which was hidden behind a tattered floral curtain.

  I scanned the menu, but nothing looked even remotely familiar – or appetizing. ‘Are you sure you want to eat here?’ I whispered, eyes scanning the grimy laminate floor and cheap paper tablecloths. ‘It looks like it might give us food poisoning.’

  ‘I’ve eaten here a dozen times and have never had so much as a hiccup afterwards. Trust me, you’re going to love this place. Just give it a chance.’

  I shot him a sceptical glance. ‘Fine, but if I throw up, tomorrow night’s dinner is cancelled.’

  ‘Not going to happen …’

  ‘Do we have a deal or not?’

  He held out a hand. ‘Tell you what. If the food here makes you puke, you never have to see me again.’

  We shook on it. For the first time in my life, I was praying for botulism.

  ‘So where did you tell Christopher you were tonight?’ he asked, leaning against the presumably-once-white-but-now-brown wall.

  ‘Work,’ I said tersely. The truth was, I’d told Christopher that I was taking Ben for a drink because he was having ‘relationship problems’, a lie that Christopher had accepted with a kindness that nearly killed me.

  ‘What sort of work do you do? Your office looked like a law firm or something.’