Jenny Sparrow Knows the Future

by Melissa Pimentel

  ‘This is incredible,’ I murmured as we ducked under the illuminated frame of a flying angel.

  ‘It’s an incredible city,’ he said, shooting me a grin. ‘You just have to look out for it.’

  The taco place was less a restaurant and more an old silver Air Streamer parked up behind the Hayward Gallery. Jackson rubbed his hands together as he looked at the menu scrawled on a chalkboard next to the service hatch. ‘You know what you want?’ he asked.

  I scanned the options. ‘Maybe the chicken?’

  He shook his head. ‘No way are you getting some lame chicken taco on my watch.’ He turned to the man in the stained apron waiting to take our order. ‘We’ll take two pulled pork tacos, extra jalapeños, extra crackling, extra cheese.’

  I thought of how long it had been since I’d made it to the gym. ‘No cheese for me,’ I piped up.

  Jackson gave me a withering look. ‘No self-respecting taco eater asks for no cheese.’ He turned back to the man in the apron. ‘Ignore her, she doesn’t know what she wants.’

  Anger flared inside me. ‘Actually, I do know what I want, thank you. I’m a grown woman and I can order a goddamn taco without your help.’ The man in the apron’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I’ll have a chicken taco, please, no jalapeños, no cheese, extra lettuce and avocado.’

  Jackson rolled his eyes. ‘That’s just a salad in a taco shell.’

  ‘Well maybe I like salad in a taco shell! Did you ever think of that?’

  The aproned man’s head receded back into the Air Streamer. ‘Your tacos will be ready in five,’ he called.

  Jackson and I stared at each other, our arms folded tightly across our chests, our breath coming out as steam in the cold evening air. ‘You have got some nerve,’ I fumed.

  Jackson heaved out an irritated sigh. ‘Here we go … You know, what’s so wrong about me trying to feed you something delicious?’

  ‘Because you’re steamrolling over what I want, that’s what! I mean, look at the other night – I told you I don’t like spicy foods, and you take me to a curry house.’

  ‘You liked it, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s beside the point! You knew I was scared of heights, and you took me to a climbing center!’

  ‘Which, again, you liked! I’m just trying to get you out of your comfort zone a little, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, maybe I don’t want to get out of my comfort zone!’ We glared at each other. ‘The point,’ I said finally, ‘is that you seem convinced that you know what’s best for me better than I do, and that’s patronizing.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know that you do know what’s best for you,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Excuse me? I am a grown woman. I have a great job, a growing pension, a degree from a very good college, and a successful, attractive fiancé, all of which I managed to achieve without your help.’

  ‘“Successful, attractive fiancé.” Man, the passion just pours off of you in waves, doesn’t it? How is Christopher, anyway?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want to talk about Christopher.’

  He tilted his head up to the sky and blew out his cheeks. ‘I didn’t come here to fight. Look, I’m sorry I was steamrolling you on the taco front. Please just accept my apology and let’s get back to having a nice time tonight.’

  He looked pained, and, I had to admit, genuinely remorseful. I felt a jolt of sympathy for him. ‘Okay,’ I said reluctantly. ‘But no more ordering for me. I’m not some mail-order bride you can boss around.’

  He grinned. ‘You’re right about that. If I had a whole catalog of brides to choose from, you can guarantee I wouldn’t pick one who’s as big of a pain in the behind as you are.’

  I reached out and whacked him on the arm. The tension between us cleared as quickly as it had gathered, like the thunderstorms we used to have in New Jersey at the height of summer. ‘Did you take lots of photos of the lights?’ I asked, pointing at the camera swaying around his neck.

  He nodded. ‘Want to see?’

  He tilted the screen of the camera towards me and clicked view. A photo flashed up of a young couple, arms wrapped tightly around each other, faces tipped up, looks of absolute joy stretched across their faces. I looked up at Jackson. ‘Who are they?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘No idea.’ He clicked on the next one, this time of a man carrying his small son on his shoulders. They were both wearing identical plaid button-downs, and both of them had the same look on their broad, round faces – that same absolute, uncomplicated joy.

  I took the camera from his hands and started flicking through. All of the photos were the same – people in the crowd looking up, faces beaming and awestruck and childlike in their happiness. ‘Didn’t you take any of the lights?’

  ‘I sure did.’ He took the camera from my hands, clicked a few times on one of the buttons, and handed it back to me. It was the little boy from the second photo, but Jackson had zoomed in so that all you could see now were his eyes. And in his eyes was a perfect reflection of the kaleidoscopic color of the lights.

  ‘Incredible,’ I murmured.

  ‘Order up!’ called the man in the stained apron. He held two tinfoil-wrapped parcels through the hatch. ‘That’ll be eight pounds.’

  Jackson peeled off a ten-pound note and handed it to him. ‘Keep the change,’ he said, and then handed me my taco. ‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking his taco to mine.

  I unpeeled a corner of the foil and took a bite. It was good – the chicken was juicy and blackened from the grill, the avocado creamy, and the lettuce nice and crisp – but something was missing. I turned back to the aproned man. ‘Excuse me, do you have any hot sauce?’

  ‘On the side,’ he said, nodding towards a condiment station set up on a little metal folding table.

  ‘Am I seeing things?’ Jackson asked as I shook a few drops of Mexican Devil on my taco. ‘Have I died and gone to I Told You So heaven?’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said in between mouthfuls. ‘I don’t want to hear another gloating word out of you.’

  ‘Just hang on one second,’ he said. ‘Here, take a bite.’ He held out his taco, and I grudgingly pulled a little bit off the end with my fingers and stuck it in my mouth. It was infuriatingly delicious, way better than my chicken taco (which did indeed look like just a salad in a taco shell compared to his, even with the Mexican Devil’s help). I tried to mask my enjoyment as I swallowed. ‘So? What do you think?’ There was a triumphant glint in his eye. Dammit. I’d been outed.

  ‘It’s not bad,’ I shrugged. ‘A little greasy.’

  The man in the apron leaned his head out of the window. ‘Did you just call my tacos greasy?’ He looked very angry.

  ‘No!’ I demurred. ‘Of course not! They’re delicious!’

  ‘You’re damn right they are,’ he huffed, before turning to clean down his grill.

  Jackson smirked at me. ‘You really do know how to make friends, don’t you?’

  ‘Just call me Miss Congeniality.’ I polished off the rest of my taco, crumpled up the foil, and tossed it in the bin. ‘Well, dinner’s finished. So what’s next?’

  He licked the last of the hot sauce off his fingers and winked. ‘What comes after all good meals?’ he asked. ‘Dessert!’

  We hailed a taxi at Waterloo and hurtled our way through Covent Garden. The theatres hadn’t yet emptied, so the streets were fairly quiet, peopled with the occasional strolling couple or group of colleagues making their way back to the Tube after a post-work session in the pub. I stared out the window at the passing shops, each one lit up like a stage and filled with mannequins striking poses in shorts and flimsy dresses.

  Summer would be here before I knew it, and by the end of it, I’d be married. I tried to picture myself walking down the aisle in a long white gown, clutching a bouquet and beaming at a waiting Christopher, but my mind couldn’t quite make it real. I’d envisioned marrying him for so long, but now that it was close, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it. It was as if I was stuck in
a state of suspended wedding animation. Maybe I’d waited too long. Dwelled on it too much. And now we were so behind with our plans … I would get on it tomorrow, I promised myself.

  The cab sped up through Seven Dials, around the little roundabout filled with people standing outside bars, smoking cigarettes in their shirtsleeves, and pretending they weren’t cold. I looked over at Jackson, who was also staring out of the window, lost in thought. ‘Where are we going again?’ I asked, though he hadn’t told me in the first place.

  He started at the sound of my voice. He really had been zoning out. He recovered himself quickly and shot me a wink. ‘Cool your jets,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’

  We pulled up to a café on Frith Street. There was a green awning stretched across the front, under which sat a line of small metal tables and chairs. A clock jutted out from the side of the building, the name of the place – Bar Italia – picked out in neon lights above it, and on the street in front, a row of candy-colored Vespas sat patiently awaiting their riders. It looked like a café you’d find down a backstreet in Rome, or in a Fellini film. Definitely not in the middle of London.

  ‘What is this place?’ I asked.

  ‘It does the best macchiato in the city,’ Jackson said, opening the door and ushering me in, ‘and a tiramisu that will make you go weak at the knees.’

  The inside of the café matched the exterior – all 1950s Italian charm. The room was long and narrow, with tables packed closely against one side. The walls were covered with framed photographs and newspaper clippings and mementos from the old country. Above us, a huge Italian flag hung across the length of the ceiling. The main event, though, was the long marble bar, at the end of which an enormous red Gaggia hissed and banged and whizzed as the white-shirted bartenders made endless perfect espressos.

  One of them looked up at us and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Inside or out?’

  ‘Out,’ Jackson said, before looking over at me nervously. ‘I mean, if outside’s okay with you …’

  ‘Sure.’ I appreciated that he’d finally asked for my opinion, but after the taco incident I was starting to suspect that he really did know better than me when it came to these things.

  The bartender pouted artfully and thrust a pair of laminated menus at us.

  ‘We don’t need those,’ I said, pushing them back across the bar. ‘We’ll have two macchiatos and a tiramisu to share.’

  ‘Make that two tiramisu,’ Jackson added. ‘Trust me, you won’t want to share.’

  The bartender nodded towards the tables outside. ‘Sit. I’ll bring to you when ready,’ he said.

  We nabbed the last available table and sat down with happy sighs, tucking our bags by our feet. Jackson raised an eyebrow at me. ‘You don’t need to look at the menu, huh?’

  I shrugged. ‘You said the tiramisu was good.’

  ‘And now you’re taking my word all of the sudden?’

  ‘Don’t get a big head about it.’

  All of the chairs were arranged so that they looked out on the street, so we sat side by side in silence and watched the parade of people stream past. The light festival had bled into Soho, and above us huge illuminated clouds seemed to float between the Georgian terraces. Even though it was a Wednesday night, the streets were thronged with people tumbling out of restaurants after a boozy meal, or huddled against the side of pubs, smoking cigarettes and clutching pints in plastic glasses.

  It was too cold for it, really – back in New York, you’d never find people desperate to stand outside in fifty-degree weather – but Londoners took any dry, non-frigid night as an invitation, and the light festival had brought even more people out than usual. Couples and groups of friends wandered past, fingers entwined, gazing up at the brightly lit clouds, and smiling as though they couldn’t believe their luck.

  In the distance, we heard the beat of drums and the faint chime of bells, and as it grew closer we saw that it was a band of Hare Krishnas, heads closely shaved, dressed in bright shades of orange and white, dancing up Old Compton Street and chanting at the top of their lungs. A few passers-by joined in with them, clapping their hands and stomping their feet as their friends took photos with their phones. Suddenly, out of one of the pubs charged a man dressed in an enormous Bart Simpson costume, complete with inflatable skateboard, who took his place at the head of the parade. His friends appeared in the doorway of the pub and shouted encouragement, and soon the Hare Krishnas had gathered around him, arms thrown around Bart’s plush shoulders, and they made their way singing and dancing up through to Shaftesbury Avenue.

  I glanced over at Jackson’s face and saw a look of pure delight etched across it. He turned to me and shook his head. ‘Only in London,’ he said.

  ‘What do you think that guy was doing in a Bart Simpson costume?’

  He shrugged. ‘Bachelor party, I guess. You know how nuts the Brits go for those things. I once went to one—’ he stopped himself. ‘Nah, never mind.’

  ‘What were you going to say?’ I prompted.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not for polite company.’

  I hooted with laughter. ‘I am hardly polite company. C’mon, tell me! I promise I won’t judge.’

  He hesitated for a minute before leaning towards me conspiratorially. ‘Let’s just say that it ended with a guy straddling one of the lions in Trafalgar Square.’

  I wrinkled my nose. ‘So what? People do that all the time.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, eyes twinkling, ‘but do they do it at ten a.m. on a Sunday morning, naked as the day they were born, off their heads on ketamine?’

  ‘I see your point. God, I genuinely can’t imagine anything worse. I’d rather stick my tongue in a toaster than subject myself to anything like that.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘So no bachelorette party before your big day with Christopher?’

  ‘What, and be forced to drink pink drinks out of penis straws while a bunch of women who can barely stand each other play pin-the-cock-on-the-naked-guy? No thank you.’

  ‘You know, men are meant to come with those. They aren’t supposed to be pinned on.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s like pin the tail on the donkey, only—’

  He let out a belly laugh. ‘I was just pulling your leg! I’ll be damned if you aren’t the most literal woman I have ever met.’ I wasn’t entirely sure, but I didn’t think he meant that as a compliment. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘What about your folks?’ he asked.

  I looked over at him. ‘What about them?’

  ‘I don’t know – are they married?’

  I shook my head. ‘Divorced,’ I said curtly. This was not a conversational path I wanted to venture down. There were too many ghosts hiding in the woods.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Eleven. Is this table wobbly?’ I jiggled the edge and the legs scraped on the pavement. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I said, digging around in my purse. I pulled out a bunch of napkins and dived under the table, wedging them under one of the legs. I surfaced hoping he’d forget all about the whole divorce thing. ‘There,’ I said, giving the table another shake. ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Nice work, MacGyver,’ he said, nodding approvingly. ‘So you were saying about your parents?’

  I ducked back under the table. ‘I think this chair is uneven, too,’ I muttered.

  He grabbed me by the elbow and hauled me back up. ‘The chair’s fine.’

  We sat there in silence for several minutes, the noise from the crowd washing over us. Finally, I opened my mouth, and something surprising came out. ‘My mom got sick after my dad left.’

  He looked at me. ‘Man, that’s tough. Was it serious?’

  My heart thudded in my chest and, to my horror, I felt myself well up. The day of the flying ants came flooding back. It was like I was living it all over again. The wail of the ambulance. The hushed voices of the doctors. The neighbors lining the lawns, straining to get a closer look while pret
ending to mind their own business. The fear I’d felt. The shame.

  Jackson didn’t say anything. He just reached over, patted my hand, and turned back towards the street. He wasn’t going to push me on it. He was going to leave it be.

  My heart ached from the kindness of it.

  A waiter appeared and silently deposited two perfectly-poured macchiatos, and a pair of plates threatening to shatter beneath the weight of two enormous slabs of tiramisu. He tucked the bill discreetly under Jackson’s plate and left without a word.

  I took a few deep breaths to recover, and slowly the dark thoughts edged offstage. That’s how it was – they were never gone completely, but I could hide them from plain sight. I forced a smile on my face. ‘Just so we’re clear,’ I said, picking up the delicate little espresso cup and raising it towards him, ‘I’m getting the bill.’

  ‘Afraid not,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It goes against my chivalric code.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear? Chivalry’s dead.’ I took a sip. The coffee was smooth and creamy and ever so slightly bitter. Delicious.

  ‘Not in Texas it isn’t.’

  I tucked a fork into the tiramisu and pushed it through the layers of sponge and mascarpone. I lifted the fork to my lips, closed my eyes and savored the taste. Jackson was right again – their tiramisu was enough to make you weak at the knees. And tight at the waistband, if I was right about the amount of cream involved. I would definitely, absolutely, go to the gym tomorrow, I vowed as I took another bite.

  ‘You okay over there?’ I looked up to see Jackson watching me eat, a smile playing on his lips. ‘You don’t seem to like that tiramisu one bit.’

  I scraped the final morsel of cream from the plate with the side of my fork and licked it off. ‘It was disgusting,’ I agreed.

  He finished the last of his coffee and put a few notes on the table. ‘Come on,’ he said, scraping back his chair. ‘Time for a nightcap.’