When I’m spending time in my fantasy world—the one in which there are posters of my shows on Tube stations in London—there’s always a moment where I buy her the house she deserves. To let her know that, despite everything, we made it. That she did all right.
Dom being gone is tough on Mum. She sees it as a form of rejection. I keep telling her it’s a gap year, not a gap lifetime, but each new month gives her more reason to fret. She’s told herself the reason he’s gone is because of her. I remind her she’s been sober for a decade and, if that really was the case, he would have left years ago. She’s not convinced. Once you tell yourself a story, especially one about your own life, it’s pretty hard to ever see another version of events. I worry she’s lonely and I really worry my swanning off to the other side of the world for a month isn’t going to help. To do my bit, I put the kettle on and make some not-so-subtle inquiries into her social life. Something is eating away at her and I want to find out what it is.
“How’s Janet?” I call to Mum, from the kitchen into the living room.
“She’s fine,” Mum yells back, as I enter with two builder’s teas. “Or at least she was last time I saw her. It’s been a little while.”
I hand her the mug I bought her for Christmas a few years ago. It reads Queen of the Mums on one side and tells her she deserves all the biscuits on the other. It’s true. She does.
“Do you still swim on a Thursday?”
“No. I got a bit bored of just going up and down and up and down.”
“They wouldn’t let you on the water slide?”
She fakes a laugh and I ask another question: “Do you see much of Michael these days? I always thought he was nice.”
“What’s this, the Jessica Inquisition?”
I turn my back on her and fiddle with some books on her bookshelf. She’s always known when I’m up to something. She says she can see it in the corners of my mouth.
“Just asking,” I say, picking up some Agatha Christie novel I want to pinch for the plane.
“You’ve never got anything past me in twenty-eight years of trying—what makes you think you will now. Is it Australia? Are you worried about your trip?”
I sigh and face her.
“No! I’m worried about you, that’s all.”
Her face warms into one of adoration and she throws her arms around me.
“Oh, petal. You’re a good egg. But, please, you’ve got to live your life. You can’t spend all your time worrying about others. This time next week you’ll be neck-deep in Hemsworths.”
“That was clean for you,” I jibe.
Her face goes serious, a rare look on her. And one that gives me cause for concern.
“As callous as it sounds,” she tells me, “worry about yourself a bit more.”
A pang of guilt rises up my spine as I realize I’m meeting a guy whose relationship status is still very much undefined. It will be defined in the first five minutes of seeing him, though, that’s for damn sure. No more of this are-you-aren’t-you, were-you-weren’t-you crap.
“And you definitely need to stop worrying about my love life,” she says, with a maternal huff. “When are you gonna bring someone home so I can get out your naked-baby photos?”
It’s too much of an opening not to share a little, especially when I’m sharing it with one of the best people in my life.
“There is…was…someone…sort of. The problem is there’s a good chance he’s”—I play up for Mum’s amusement—“a cad. A bounder. A rogue. A good-for-nothing ne’er-do-well. But aren’t they all?”
“They’re not all bad, Jess.”
“You mean, they’re not all like Frank, Mum?”
“You can’t call him Dad?”
I shake my head.
“Nope. Because he isn’t. A dad is someone who’s there for you. So that man you once knew called Frank is not, and never will be, my quote-unquote dad.”
My reluctance to acknowledge the man she must have loved once brings a sadness to her, the past writ large on her face. There’s no hiding our emotions, me and Mum. We know too much about each other. Straightforward and true is the only way we can be. Which makes the fact that she’s hiding something now tough to take.
“Jess?” The simple syllable carries plenty of weight.
“Mum?”
“Sit down, love.”
I do as I’m told and in the few seconds before she explains things, my mind races with alternative realities. It’s only when she opens her mouth that this timeline begins to form.
“Your dad…Frank…he’s been in touch.”
I can’t form a whole word to exit my mouth. The best I can do is a vowel.
“Oh.”
“You remember that newspaper thing you and Julia did a few months back?”
I nod. It was just a little piece in a local paper profiling our comedy night. Julia thought it might get us a bit of an audience. And it looks like one person in particular took note.
Mum continues, “Frank read it, saw your name. He took a chance that we’d still be at the same address and, well, he sent me a letter, I’ll get it if you—”
“No.” I cut her off quickly, before she’s had the chance to get out of her seat.
“I understand.”
As awful as this is for me, I know she has chasms of sadness that I deny his existence.
“You’re gonna be OK, yeah, Mum?” I ask, hoping I’ll get the truth.
She grabs my face between her hands and repeats her new catchphrase. “Worry about yourself, love.”
It isn’t the answer I needed.
* * *
—
Anger, fear, disgust, sadness: they’re all jostling for control of the console in my mind.
My focus should be on tonight. Meeting Tom. But distractions are nothing if they’re not distracting. I try and play them at their own game.
“Are you sure you won’t come to the gig?” I ask Julia, as I put on and remove makeup in equal measure, unsure as to what “look” I’m supposed to be presenting. “Moral support?”
Julia, head down in her laptop, looks up and shakes her head. “Sorry, buddy. The fact I’ll be on the other side of the pub for your ‘date’ is weird enough. Watching you watch him on stage for ninety minutes is just a step too far.”
I’m grateful that she’s going to be there for Act Two of the evening at least. Usually going to a gig solo would not faze me one jot, but there’s something different about this. The idea, as Julia says, of watching him for an hour just feels…intimate?
And so I don’t blame her. I went against her smart advice and sent that stupid email. That it ended up having little effect, beyond lessoning her view of me, is irrelevant. Sometimes friends say it best by not saying anything at all. She’s not an “I told you so” sort of person. But something is telling me that by the end of tonight, she’ll have every right to be.
I told her about Tom’s email, how it had nothing to do with the fake journalist plan. I told her about my response and our subsequent exchange of emails, and the more I told her the less I could see she wanted to be involved in any of it. She thinks the whole situation is crackers and I don’t blame her. She’s also extremely worried that this might have an effect on my imminent career plans. It’s all very bad timing.
I do not mention my mum and Frank for many reasons, but the main one is that I want nothing to do with him, so he’s not worth mentioning. Instead, I try once more to elicit some solidarity, waving the spare ticket I have in front of her.
“Final answer. Standing room only to the hottest show in town?”
She shakes her head. “But I will be there for beers in the Rutland Arms after. I will watch from a distance as you tear a man’s insides out.”
“Depending on the way things go,” I remind her.
&
nbsp; She proffers her trademark look of unromantic skepticism. I let it go and ask if she’s seen my hair clip, the one with the moon on it. Without looking up she says, “Bathroom.”
I fiddle with my phone, scrolling through my contacts to see if there’s anyone else I can ask for gig support. Someone who can stay for the fireworks after, if they so choose. Once my spleen is fully vented. As I enter the bathroom my phone rings. It’s Mum.
“Hey, Mum. Whatcha doing?”
There’s no answer. Just silence.
“Mum. Mum.” I try one last time, a little louder. “Muuuum.” Still nothing. I hang up and try to call her. It rings with no response until voicemail cuts in. I don’t leave a message, and just as I hang up, my phone rings again. Mum’s number.
“Mum?” I start to panic, fear rising through me along with an avalanche of possibilities. What’s happened? Is she OK? Is it him? “Mum?” Still nothing.
“Julia!” I yell and Julia comes running into the bathroom to be met with my panic-stricken face.
“What’s wrong?”
I hand her the handset. “Can you hear anything?”
“Some heavy breathing. Urgh. Is that the guy you’re meeting?”
I take the handset back.
“It’s my mum. Something bad has happened.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do!” I tell her, even though she’s one hundred percent right. I don’t know. But I feel it.
“Jess.” She places her hands on both shoulders. “I’m sure it’ll be OK.”
I call my mum’s number again. Still no answer. It just rings and rings.
“I’ve got to go,” I tell her. She nods. She knows that this is my worst fear come to life.
Then it hits me. Tom, the gig. Our meet-up. I won’t make it to Mum’s on the other side of town and then back. Even spending what little money I have left for the month on two taxis. That’s if Mum is in any state to be left.
“If there’s anything I can do…” Julia offers.
“Will you still go to the pub? If he’s there, if you see Tom just sitting on his own, tell him I really am sorry. That I meant to be there. I’ll email him anyway, but I don’t have his number and…”
Julia looks like she wishes she never said “if there’s anything I can do.” Her mind is looking for a way out of something she really doesn’t want to do. But she digs deep. Like the true friend she is.
“Sure. I will. Just go see your mum.”
I hug her and sprint out the door.
17
Macho Bullshit
Tom
Shoreham Street, Sheffield
May 25, 2016
She doesn’t seem happy to be here. Like there are a million places she’d rather be than sitting opposite me in a dark corner of a dingy pub as I try not to pout or fidget too much at being stood up by her best friend.
“She’s sorry,” Julia tells me. “It’s her mum, she’s…” Julia stops herself, unsure as to how much information she should be divulging. I feel for her. It’s an awkward one for sure. Go meet a guy her friend has met once before, because he’s told her he has something important to say. She finally comes up with a diplomatic response. “Jess is worried about her. That’s all.”
“This is a bit weird,” I say. In doing so I crack her necessary defenses.
“It is.”
“You’re a good friend for coming all this way to deliver a message.”
Julia shrugs. “Going to the pub isn’t exactly the biggest sacrifice anyone has ever made.” There’s something she’s not telling me, and a small squint is enough to get it out of her. “I was going to come anyway, sit in the corner and check up on you both, to make sure you weren’t a complete psycho.”
I can’t help but chuckle at her honesty. She smiles and my foot stops bouncing. My usual fears of being seated opposite a stranger start to abate.
Julia continues, “I should have been here earlier but I’ve been debating whether or not coming at all was best for Jess. She’s usually a very good judge of character. Doesn’t suffer arseholes, as the saying goes. When she told me about you, I was quite surprised.”
“Why, what has she told you about me?” I ask. This question causes Julia to shift in her seat and I realize I’ve just put the wall back up between us. She lets out a lengthy “Err.”
“That bad, huh?”
She shrugs again. “It’s not my business. I’m just here because she didn’t want you thinking she’d stood you up.”
“Did she tell you about Sarah?” I say, before instantly hiding behind my pint.
Julia nods. “It may have come up that you told her you didn’t have a girlfriend before your friend came in with the truth.”
“I never had a girlfriend.”
She sits forward, suddenly intrigued. “So…your friend lied to Jess?”
“Nope.” I take another swig for courage from the Dutch. “I lied to my friend.”
I’m unsure as to whether Julia is suppressing a laugh, but she’s definitely tickled by the whole mess. As a comedian, I’m guessing she knows a thing or two about funny, and, well, once the hideous personal embarrassment of it fades away, I suppose it is pretty absurd.
“Why?” she asks, now genuinely curious about my tale. It takes me a moment to find the best, most honest expression of my thought process at the time.
“Macho bullshit, I think.”
At this, Julia really does let out a laugh. I think about what she said about Jess being a good judge of character. Judging by her best friend, that judgment is spot-on.
“It’s true,” I tell her. “All my friends were seeing someone, and I was incapable—and still struggle, if I’m honest—to not trip over my tongue when I talk to people I like. Just seemed easier to invent someone.”
“Well, that really backfired.”
Her laughter dissipates and she’s suddenly sad again.
“If Jess had known at the time…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence and I’m glad. The thought of missed months over something that’s so fundamentally my mistake has been tearing me up since August.
“Why didn’t you get in touch with her sooner? Come clean about the mix-up?”
“Vomit-worthy embarrassment.”
Julia makes a face as if to say she gets it. I decide she’s a very understanding person and find myself opening up more than I usually would.
“I only confessed to my friend last week. Once I did, it dawned on me pretty quickly how stupid I’d been to—one, start the lie in the first place, and two, keep it up. He didn’t care. He thought I was a bit of a knob…”
“He sounds like a good friend.”
“He is.”
But Scott isn’t who I want to talk to Julia about. I want to talk to her about Jess. I want to use this chance to get to know Jess through the person who knows her best.
“Can I get you a drink?”
I’m surprised and delighted by her reply. She says she’s parched from the journey and could do with a pint. Once I’ve ordered her a drink and me a fresh one, I sit back down opposite her, full of a rare confidence.
“Tell me about her.”
Julia half chokes on her drink at the forwardness of my question. I’m more than a little surprised myself.
“What, like her favorite color?”
“No. Like, what she’s like. We only had a few hours but she left a mark…”
Julia takes a proper drink and thinks carefully about the question.
“She’s brilliant. And infuriating. She’s brilliantly infuriating. The way her mind works, when we write together, she’s able to think in the abstract with virtually no effort.” Julia is on a roll now. “She’s highly principled. As you’ve already had a taste of. Infidelity is rage-inducing for her, but it’s al
so small things. Like littering, or talking in a cinema. She does not suffer fools. But then she’s pretty foolish herself. Impulsive. Quick to get excited over new shiny things. Quick to anger too. Very easily distracted. Like, right now, her mind should completely be on Australia, but—”
“Australia?” I ask, unable to mask the fear in my voice.
“She leaves in a couple of days. Or at least she should. Depends on the mum situation, I reckon.”
“A couple of days?”
She nods.
“For how long?”
She grimaces at revealing too much. “Just a few weeks.”
“Oh,” I say, unable to hide my despondency. “We’ve got to drive down to Nottingham tonight.”
“Another gig?”
A dash of pride runs through my veins. “Yeah. Things are finally going well for us. We even sold out our first four nights.”
“Jess played me some of your music. It was good. Hard to listen to with Jess calling you every name under the sun over the top of it…”
I look at my pint to see I’m already close to the bottom of it. While Julia’s open and talkative, I know I have a finite amount of time to say what I want to say. The problem is, I’m no longer sure what I want to say. The Australia thing is a bit of a curveball. Especially if there’s now no way I’ll see her tonight. My phone buzzes, a message from Scott. It tells me not to forget our bus leaves at midnight. It’s now 11:21.
“I’m glad she disliked me so much,” I tell Julia. “I like that she has a code.”
Julia’s expression is one of acceptance. She’s still slightly guarded, but that wall is coming down, brick by brick. Then, in one strike of the wrecking ball, it’s decimated.
“She likes you. I mean, she really does. Even despite the fact her evidence suggests you’re a total scoundrel. If she didn’t like you, she’d have chalked you off straightaway. Like I say, she’s a good judge of character and she’s clearly felt, and still feels, something for you.”
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