‘Jenny, love?’
I didn’t move. It was like my whole body was immobilised, finally broken beyond repair. I smelt Mum’s hairspray as she leaned in closer, that retro floral scent of L’Oréal’s Elnett that instantly transported me back to when I was little, bare feet kicking off the end of Mum’s bed as I’d watch her getting ready, the hairspray tickling the back of my throat.
‘Jenny, is it Joe? Is he here right now?’
The sound of Joe’s name prompted something inside me to snap and my head spun round so fast I felt the tip of her nose brush against mine.
‘No, Mum,’ I hissed angrily, having to work to keep my voice from getting any louder. ‘Joe’s gone, all right? I’ve not seen him since my accident and it’s becoming increasingly clear that I’m never going to see him again, OK? Are you happy?’
Mum’s eyes crinkled at the edges, wincing at the sharp sting of my voice. I sighed, pulling the programme out from where it was bunched beneath me, pretending to read.
‘You know,’ Mum said slowly, as my fingertips scrunched at the edge of the programme, ‘when someone or something we love dies, it feels like the whole world has stopped, frozen at that precise moment because the thought of life carrying on seems impossible. But no ice ever freezes so thick that it can never thaw, Jenny, and quite often that thawing can reveal hidden beauty beneath.’ She paused, clearly hoping that I’d ask what she meant. What possible beauty could have come out of losing the very person that made my world turn? When I refused to play the game, she continued. ‘Like the reminder that life’s short,Jenny. Too short to take any of it for granted, and that we have a duty to make the most of every precious second, because every single one is a gift. By my calculations there’s still—’ she paused, each of her fingers touching her thumb in turn ‘—189 days left of the year. 50, 60, maybe even 70 odd years left on this planet for you, if you’re lucky.’
‘What are you saying?’ I huffed impatiently.
‘I’m saying you’ve still got time, sweetheart. Time to take a first step, time for doors to close and others to open. Time to say “goodbye” and “I love you”. My point is there’s still time,’ she repeated, her fingers squeezing mine with such urgency I felt my eyes prickle with tears. ‘There’s no correct timeline for life, my darling. You do things at your own rhythm, in the order thatyouchoose. Don’t let what anyone else is doing dictate your next step or make you feel like a failure just because you’re taking a different path. You’re never too young, or too old, or too late. Happiness can still be found even in the darkest of times, you’ve just got to be willing to let it in.’ She inclined her peroxide-blonde head over to where Luca was crouched beside the bench of children, simultaneously tying Kiki’s shoelaces and pulling a silly face to crack a smile from an anxious-looking Andrea. A drop of water plopped onto the programme in my lap, blurring the words to nothing. I looked up, frowning at the roof before realising that it was me, big, silent tears rolling down my cheeks and into my lap.
I took a slow, steadying breath. ‘I don’t know, Mum,’ I sighed wearily, twirling my engagement ring round and round my finger. ‘I’ve made such a mess of things and I think it’s too late to fix it.’
‘It’s never too late, sweetheart,’ Mum said wisely, patting my knee as the lights went down. ‘Have you been to Joe’s exhibition yet?’ she whispered in the dark as the children marched single file onto the stage to rapturous applause. I frowned, wonderingwhat that had to do with anything.
‘You know I haven’t. So, you can stop passive-aggressively leaving the flyer all over the house for me to find,’ I huffed, annoyed she’d brought it up – although not as annoyed as I’d been on finding the flyer inside the fridge when I’d gone in search of orange juice that morning.
‘It’s the final night tomorrow. Your last chance to see it before it closes,’ she pressed, a teasing singsong to her voice that made my jaw clench. She managed two seconds. Two seconds during the dying-off applause before she leaned in once more. ‘Letting go is not forgetting, sweetheart. It just means that you find a way to survive without them, of remembering them without pain. I think you should go and see it.’
‘OK!’ I hissed through gritted teeth, stabbing the clicker of my pen with excessive force against my notepad. ‘If I say I’ll think about it, will you drop it?’
Mum sat back with a little humph of satisfaction, her lips pressed tightly together as though there were something else she was desperate to say. But then everything around me fell silent. Except for the beautiful, almost angelic sound of Kiki in her sparkly velvet dress standing centre stage, singing the opening lines of ‘This Is Me’ fromThe Greatest Showman.Little Kiki who’d barely uttered a single word since her mother died a year ago, her unwavering voice so full of strength and hope that it filled the entire hall, bursting through the holes in the leaky roof and spilling out into the night sky. It filled me too, touching every fibre of my being from my head right down to my toes, a pressure building inside of me like a balloon ready to take flight. Ready to soar.
19
‘I can’t do this.’
I was huddled in the doorway of a little antiques shop in The Lanes, counting the checkerboard black and white tiles beneath my feet to stop myself from hyperventilating.
‘Jennifer Thompson,’ Mum said firmly, her voice crackling in my ear down the phone. ‘Youare the strongest person that I know.Youcan do anything.’
I managed a weak smile. ‘It’s just—’
‘Do you want me to go with you? I could be down there in ten minutes?’ I heard the faint jangle of her car keys amidst the raucous pub crowd and my heart swelled at the thought of her dropping everything just to be here with me. I took a deep, unsteady breath in through my nose.
‘Thanks, but I think this is something I need to do on my own.’
‘OK, love. Call me after? Let me know how it goes?’ Her voice had that slightly giddy high-pitched tone of excited anticipation, as if she knew something I didn’t.
I nodded, before realising that Mum couldn’t see me.
‘OK,’ I muttered, grasping the phone tightly against my chest long after I’d ended the call.
The Lanes art gallery was abuzz with activity, light and laughter spilling out onto the cobbled street whenever the door opened, an endless stream of silk scarves and crisply pressedtrousers coming and going. It took a few deep breaths before I could pluck up the courage to emerge from the shadow of the doorway, my ankles wobbling unsteadily as I crossed the street. A man in a smart black suit was manning the door. He looked up as I approached, eyes widening in recognition, even though I’d never met him before. He held the door open for me.
‘Welcome to the Joseph Carter exhibition.’ He smiled warmly, handing me a glossy pamphlet with Joe’s face on the front cover. There he was, in glorious black-and-white. My Joe. I traced my fingers over the lines of his face, a familiar ache blooming in the pit of my stomach that made me just want to turn and run. I nodded dumbly, one foot still on the street, the other on the kerb, as though my feet were still deciding which way I should go.
‘You’ve come just in time, it’s the final day of the exhibition. Last chance to see it in all its glory.’ The doorman’s words were enough to propel me up the steps and through the door before I could change my mind.
It was busy inside, the air warm and alive with the buzz of conversation, bubbles chattering just as excitedly to each other in the long, thin-stemmed glasses that everyone seemed to be holding. I grabbed one from a passing tray, the waiter throwing me a judgemental look as I downed it in one, swapping my empty glass for another full one before he could move on. I joined a sort of unofficial queue, a woman dressed in all black shepherding me along behind a gentleman in a green corduroy suit. I was grateful to have been given some sort of direction, a set path to follow. The woman held my gaze for a second longer than normal, something akin to recognition passing across her face before she shifted her attention to the person behind me.
‘Fantastic,’ the man in green marvelled as we stood in front of the first photograph. It was a black-and-white portrait of an elderly couple. They were sat on one of the wrought-ironbenches that lined the promenade, a tartan blanket stretched across both their shoulders as if they were a single entity. A package deal. The woman’s shoes didn’t quite meet the floor, the tips of her toes just scraping the concrete as she rested her head on the man’s shoulder with the ease of someone who’d been doing it for a lifetime. Joe had chosen to take the photograph from behind, their stooped backs facing the camera, and I could see why. As an onlooker, you were treated to the very same view that the couple were enjoying, the vast expanse of ocean beyond the railings stretching as far as the eye could see, a sea of infinite patterns and colours.
