by James Bailey
She must be here.
“Shall we just take a seat and wait?” Jessie suggests, almost unable to walk now.
We sit down on the leather seating, watching an endless stream of people coming to admire the painting. We wait and we wait. But she doesn’t appear. Jake messages to say he’s had no luck either.
“I’m sure even if we don’t find her today, you can find her online. Did she say anything that might help identify her?” Jessie tries to lift my mood.
I replay everything in my head, but it’s all a blur. I keep seeing her smile, and her twinkling brown eyes, but nothing that will help identify her.
“Was she English? What accent did she have?” Jessie tries to prompt my memory.
“Yes, she was English, but she didn’t really have any particular accent. Hang on, no, she said she was from London.”
“Did she say what she does for a job?”
“Oh yes, of course, so she mentioned she was working abroad right now in a bookshop near to where Van Gogh’s other painting of Sunflowers is.”
“Perfect. So we know where she lives, then. That’s a big clue. Where is the other version of Sunflowers?”
We look at each other, thinking this is something a semi-decent pub-quiz team should know.
We really are going to embarrass ourselves on TV.
Jessie reaches for her phone, dismisses the flood of congratulatory texts, and googles Sunflowers.
“You do realize he painted more than just one other version of Sunflowers, right?” Jessie breaks my heart as she reads this.
It was never going to be that simple.
“How many are there?” I say, fearing the answer.
“Twelve.”
Twelve! What? Really?
“No, hang on, there are two different sets.” She starts to read aloud. “The first series, executed in Paris in 1887, depicts the flowers lying on the ground, while the second set, executed a year later in Arles, shows a bouquet of sunflowers in a vase. So it’s the second set we’re interested in, they’re the same as the painting here.”
I look at Jessie, trying to process the information.
“In the second set, there were seven paintings.”
Slightly better than twelve at least.
“Wait a second.” Jessie carries on reading, almost to herself now. “One was destroyed during the Second World War, and one is in a private collection, so we’re down to five.”
Even better.
“And I don’t suppose these other four are all in the same gallery by any chance?” I ask hopefully.
“No, unfortunately not. In fact, they’re not even in the same country. So there’s the one here in London . . . and then there are other versions in Amsterdam, Munich, Philadelphia, and Tokyo.”
Philadelphia? Tokyo?
“But at least you’ve narrowed it down to four cities.”
“Yeah, but they’re not exactly the smallest cities in the world. Goodness knows how many bookshops there must be in Tokyo!”
“It’s OK, at least it’s something to work with. I think I’m going to need to lie down soon, if that’s OK. You can stay if you want, though,” Jessie apologizes as she checks her watch. She must be shattered.
“No, let’s go. She’s not coming. Thanks very much for waiting with me.”
“I’m sure we will find her somehow,” Jessie says optimistically.
I take one last look around the room and at Sunflowers.
“I really hope so.”
14
When I left school I imagined my return would be an event of momentous and unparalleled fanfare. Baying crowds screaming my name, a limousine dropping me at the entrance. Instead, I’m heading to my ten-year reunion in the passenger seat of Mum’s Ford Fiesta.
I’ve been dreading this day for weeks. Not because I hated school. Quite the opposite, I enjoyed it, so much so that I sometimes question whether my best years are behind me. Life was so much easier when all decisions were made for you and everything was mapped out. My biggest worry was getting to lunch first or whose football team I’d be on at break. I’m dreading it because I have absolutely nothing to show for the last decade.
As soon as Dad opened the invitation and pinned it to the calendar, I had no chance of getting out of it. Especially when the coin sided with Mum and Dad.
Judas.
I spend the next twenty minutes sulking, sitting silently in the car next to Mum as she drives me to school.
“It will be nice to see everyone again, see what they’re up to. I’d like to see my old school friends,” Mum says as we drive along the dual carriageway. She went to a thirtieth-anniversary reunion at her school a few years ago and insisted that she’d keep in touch with everyone, but they’ve not seen each other since.
“Come on, Josh, talk to me . . . what is going on? I thought today, seeing all your old friends, might cheer you up.” Mum always saves serious conversations for the car, when I have no way of escaping them. I half-expect her to have put the child lock on to guarantee I can’t jump out.
“I know you must be heartbroken about Jade, but it’s been a few months now, and I’m worried about you. As much as we love having you at home, I don’t think sitting around doing nothing is helping you move on.”
I’m not sure it’s completely true that they love having me at home. After the water bill arrived for the last quarter, Dad put an egg timer in the shower to tell us how long we’re allowed to wash for.
I finally break my silence. “First, I’m not doing nothing, I’m trying my best to get a job. I’ve sent off about five hundred applications. It’s not my fault that it’s literally impossible to get anything. And second, believe it or not, it’s actually not about Jade. I’ve just had a crap few months and then I think my luck is changing, I meet someone amazing, and that turns out to be a lost cause too. Sorry, but I’m just not in the best mood.”
“You’ve met someone else? Why didn’t you tell me? That’s very exciting. When was this?” In her excitement she takes her eyes off the road and nearly crashes the car.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I know you’re going back to school today, but please can you act your age, Josh? You can talk to me about these things.”
We sit at the traffic lights. The Audi next to us is blaring Radio 1 at top volume. I flick through Mum’s CDs in the glove pocket, and go to put on Simply Red, hoping that might silence her questioning, but all the discs are in the wrong cases.
“It was when I was in London. I met a girl but I didn’t get her details, so the chances of ever seeing her again are virtually zero.”
“You never know. The other day, I was thinking about Annabelle, who I used to work with, completely randomly, and then that afternoon I drove past her. Graham says that’s called synchronicity.”
“I don’t think seeing a woman who lives five minutes away and is always out walking her dog is quite the same, but I will keep thinking about her and see if she magically appears. Does it also work with money? And a job?”
The car jerks and screeches as Mum attempts to change gears, struggling to get up the steep hill.
“Can you drop me round the corner?” I ask, so no one can see her dropping me off.
“OK, well, I hope you will be smiling tonight, and you have a better time than you think, Gary, sorry, Josh . . .” she calls as I jump out of the car before she’s even pulled over. I never understand how she mixes up me and my dad. She was the person who chose my name.
“Look who it is! Josh, how are you doing, mate?”
It’s just my luck that Luke-fucking-Piercy walks past as I get out. He holds his hand out to shake mine.
“Not the best, Luke. You see, my car had to go in for its MOT this morning, very annoying.” I am impressed at my quick thinking and reckon I’ve got away with it until I remember my mum is not a trained improv actor.
“Darling, just text when you want me to pick you up later . . . and remember to let me know if you’re going to want
any dinner,” she yells out of the window.
Luke clicks the fob to lock his brand-new Mercedes, and we walk together toward the school gates.
“Oh and Josh, you need to let me know when you want me to book your dentist’s appointment for you. Bysey-bye,” she shouts out as she drives off.
It’s going to be a long afternoon.
Ten years after leaving school, each year group is invited back for a special reunion, which culminates with the digging up of a time capsule containing the hopes and dreams of our eighteen-year-old selves. It’s essentially the school’s gimmick to get us back into the building, to start giving them money and to collect our new contact details at a time when most people are moving into new houses, not old ones.
We follow the signs toward the dining hall, where everyone is gathered. Everything seems smaller than I remember, but very little seems to have changed. I pause to look at the photos of the staff on the noticeboard, and even most of the teachers are still the same.
Entering the newly painted dining hall, I survey the crowd as I’m offered a glass of prosecco by a sixth-former. The current pupils look so young, and the staff look so old. I spot the ancient rugby coach who ignored me for three years after I switched from playing rugby to football, and my English teacher, who used to set off the school fire alarm by smoking in the toilets. I look around at all these teachers, who fed us a narrative that we could be whatever we wanted to be, that we could achieve whatever we dreamed of. That was a load of nonsense. Why didn’t they teach us how to cope with heartbreak and disillusionment rather than Pythagoras and the periodic table?
I sip my drink and browse the copies of the school magazine, which have been laid out on the tables. I flick through the pages about alumni who have returned to speak to and inspire the current students. Maybe my invitations were lost in Dad’s sorting office.
As I look up and around the room, memories come flooding back.
“Josh!”
I recognize the voice in spite of not having heard it for years. Will Stevens, an obnoxious kid who always thought he was the best at everything, bounds over to me.
“How are you doing?”
He pats me on the back strongly.
“What have you been up to, mate? You were in London, weren’t you? And then working in hotels? Is that right?”
School reunions have been ruined by the internet. All the fun and suspense have been spoiled by the ability to keep tabs on everyone. It means there is very little to discuss, as everyone knows everyone’s business already, and in some cases every single meal they’ve eaten in the last few years.
“Yes. I’m not working there anymore, I’m actually in between things currently.”
“To be honest, if anyone was going to be doing something with their life, I’d have bet my house on it being you.”
Good thing you didn’t have a bet then.
I catch sight of my name engraved into the prefects’ board on the wall, beneath an illustrious roll call of people who have achieved great things with their lives—scientists, charity campaigners, TV stars.
“What are you doing now?” I ask him, not that I really want to hear the answer.
“So I’m working in the City for a headhunting company.”
Everyone seems to be working in banking or HR. When there are recruitment companies recruiting recruiters, then you know it has gone overboard.
“Are you enjoying that?”
“Yeah, it’s not bad, I make a shedload so can’t complain. What about your girlfriend? She not here? You must be getting hitched soon, you’ve been with her for a few years now, haven’t you?”
“Actually, we broke up a few months ago now, so back to being single. What about you?”
On cue, a beautiful, tall, blonde woman walks over and takes him by the arm. She looks like a Victoria’s Secret model. I remember why I didn’t like him at school.
“So me and Erin got married last year in the Maldives and, well, as you can see, we’ve got a new addition to the family on the way.”
I am so taken by the beauty of this woman, I hadn’t even noticed the blossoming baby bump, which Will is now patting. Considering I struggle to look after a rabbit, let alone a human, when a friend tells me they are pregnant I’m not sure whether to say congratulations or sorry. I think in this instance, as she proudly cradles her baby bump, I’m meant to be pleased for them both.
We look around the room as Will updates me on what everyone is doing. Eddie is a dentist, Alex is in politics, Greg is running a tour company, Louis is an accountant. There don’t seem to be any of my old friends in attendance, just those who want to come back and show off about something. The people who were annoying at school and are even more annoying now.
“Can you believe that Tommy is now a doctor? He’s just finished medical school. I hope he’s not delivering our baby!”
This is the kid who ran an illegal snack shop out of his locker for his entire school career, and would visit the school nurse most days due to smashing his head while playing excessively violent games of bulldog.
In contrast, my school reports were rapturous with praise. I was destined to do something great. I wonder what went wrong. Yesterday I woke up at 2 p.m., felt a sense of accomplishment that I’d cut my fingernails, but didn’t want to overexert myself by cutting my toenails, binge-watched a series on Netflix, and got rejected for a job stacking shelves.
What happened?
“It’s a shame we’ve not met up before this, really. How has time gone so quickly?” Will asks Hugo, another rugby jock, who has joined us.
“You know, I’ve just been too fucking busy, and vice versa, if you get what I’m saying.” He snorts as he downs his glass of prosecco and elbows me in a jovial manner.
Twat.
“Miss Williams is still looking hot, I see.”
This was an all-boys school, so any female teacher under the age of forty was considered attractive, but there was one in particular whom all the boys fancied so much that some would collect her chewed pencils and water bottles she’d drunk out of.
“Sorry, guys, do excuse me, I’m going to go and work my magic.” He strides over to her confidently, and I am excited to watch him fail miserably, but he is replaced immediately by the school’s development director, who has spotted the opportunity to swoop in with his paperwork and pitch.
“Hi, guys, just wondering if you would be interested in giving money to support the school and bursaries? Ten percent of the pupils receive financial assistance, and as ever we really do rely on the generous support of our Old Boys.”
I know full well. I only attended the school because I was on a scholarship—there was no way Dad was going to pay to send me here. The man passes around direct debit and Gift Aid forms.
I can barely afford to support myself or Jeremy, but everyone else is agreeing, and I don’t want to look bad, so I sign up to a regular giving scheme.
I’m never going to move out of home. Maybe I can just tell my bank to cancel the direct debit before they take the first installment.
The bang of a gong rings out through the hall, silencing the conversation.
“Can everyone make their way downstairs?” the headmaster announces, holding a mallet.
We all follow him down the main staircase, out to the front lawn, where the school’s gardener has already started digging up the soil to reclaim the time capsule. I never quite understood why they needed a full-time gardener to maintain the tiny plot of grass in front of the building. As the capsule is hauled out, I’m hoping that the contents have been ruined, but miraculously all our letters are perfectly preserved, and the headmaster distributes them. I glance over at Will’s aims—to bleach his hair and to go to IKEA.
I hesitantly take mine out of the manila envelope that has my name scrawled across the front. My handwriting was a lot neater then.
By 28:
I will be married to a supermodel.
I will be a successful entrepreneur.
> I will own a house in Los Angeles.
I will drive a Lamborghini.
I will have traveled the world.
I will be world-famous.
I am twenty-eight, single, unemployed, living with my parents, unable to drive, never been farther afield than Spain, and even my own mother can’t remember my name.
Fuck.
15
He could have put the quiz team first, really. He’s the one who signed us up for the show.”
“Josh, it’s his anniversary. I think he’s allowed to go out with Jake tonight.”
“He could have celebrated his anniversary on another night, surely?”
“But that wouldn’t have been his anniversary, then, would it?”
“Who celebrates their seven-month anniversary anyway?”
“I remember you and Jade did! In fact I remember you missing the quiz for it!”
It’s a Wednesday night, but Jake has abandoned me and Jessie for a date night with Jake. We decide against quizzing. If we struggle to beat the Quizlamic Extremists with three, or four, team members, entering with just two would be challenging to say the least. Instead, we are sitting in Pinkman’s, a modern bakery-cum-café, with a pot of tea and a deck of trivia cards, revising for our TV appearance. Situated a couple of minutes’ walk from Bristol University’s Wills Memorial Building, by day it is packed with students, but in the evening the long wooden communal tables are sparsely occupied, and there is just one other man working away on his laptop.
“So have you recovered yet from the marathon?” It’s been two weeks, and it’s the first time I’ve seen Jessie since the race.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever recover. Think it will cost me a fortune going to a chiropractor for years. The day after was horrendous, and my legs are still pretty achy.”
“Would you do it again?”
“I don’t know, despite the pain it was pretty amazing. Maybe. But it’s your turn next, anyway. I’ll come and cheer you on, and miss you running past.” She raises her eyebrows.
She knew all along.
“Yes, I’m really sorry about that, although they were exceptional circumstances.”