I’ve been thinking, Alex has typed, that you and me should go on another exploring trip when you get back.
We’re sitting on the sofa at Mum’s place the next morning. We’ve slept in the little spare room bed, crammed together like sardines in a tin, and I’m exhausted and dreaming of my own bed. James is sipping a mug of coffee and reading the local newspaper, his long legs concertinaed in the tiny space. He looks a bit like someone’s tried to put a giant in a doll’s house. I watch him for a moment, looking out of the corner of my eye. He thinks I’m replying to work emails. I am replying to work emails. I just happen to be looking at a message from Alex and trying to work out why – when I have a handsome, eligible, kind, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera boyfriend sitting here in my mum’s house – I’m more excited by the prospect of walking around London in the October drizzle than I am about being here.
I decide that maybe I’m just being fickle. But – I turn the phone over in my hands, pondering – I do like our wanders. And Alex makes me laugh. And it’s important to have male friends when you’re in a relationship.
I’d like that.
There’s a pause when I see the dots on the screen, indicating he’s writing something, and then they disappear. I wait a moment, but nothing comes.
? I type, waiting for his response.
Just, maybe we should skip inviting anyone else this time?
My insides give a disobedient little fizz, as if I’ve had a tiny electric shock. I’m not doing anything wrong, I tell myself, and I can feel the corners of my lips tugging upwards in a secret little smile as I tap out a reply.
Definitely.
And then I put the phone down on the table and turn towards James. He puts down the paper and gazes at me with his huge, soft brown eyes.
‘You okay?’
I nod.
‘And you’re going to cope—’ he pauses, glancing in the direction of Mum’s bedroom, where she’s still sleeping ‘—when I go back tonight?’
‘Definitely.’
As if he’s summoned her, Mum appears from the bedroom, wrapped in a purple satin dressing gown. She rubs her face, and gives a huge, over-exaggerated yawn.
‘Morning, James,’ she says. She can’t see my face, and I give him A Look – nostrils flaring and eyes wide. Mum has always been very much male focused, and with James around I’ve been relegated to a sort of incidental character, a bit-part player without a speaking part.
‘Do we have anything for breakfast?’ She opens the kitchen cupboard and closes it again, making a little noise of disappointment. It’s as if she’s forgotten that we’re her guests, and she’s the one responsible for catering.
‘I noticed there was a deli on the corner when I moved the car last night. I thought I’d pop over and get us some pastries,’ says James, unfolding himself and standing up, towering over me as I sit on the low, uncomfortable sofa.
‘Oh, you are an angel,’ Mum says, beaming at him. ‘Isn’t he a doll, Jess?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, deadpan. James flashes me a look. He thinks I’m too hard on her. I haven’t told him that much about growing up with her around – or rather, growing up at Nanna and Grandpa’s house with Mum not around. It’s weird that I’ve shared so much of this with Alex, but I think there’s something about walking that makes it easier to talk about stuff. Anyway, I think he’s got a more realistic view of what life with my mother was like.
‘I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,’ James says, picking up the keys. ‘I’ll let myself back in.’
‘He’s very nice,’ Mum says, for the fiftieth time, watching as I put on the kettle and wipe up the kitchen surface from the night before. She’d clearly come in from a performance and made tea and a vodka and orange (or two) and the worktop is covered with a sticky layer of crumbs and juice that has dried into a rough layer.
‘He is,’ I agree, scrubbing at a particularly sticky bit.
‘You should take a leaf out of Sophie’s book,’ she continues.
‘Mum,’ I begin, warningly. I know where this is going, because I’ve been hearing it since I was eight years old. I adore Soph, but my mother has been using her as a poster girl for as long as I can remember. Childishly, I want to point out that Sophie’s in the midst of some sort of super early life crisis, because she and Rich still can’t agree on what they want their wedding to be, so they’ve reached stalemate. But I don’t say anything.
‘I’m just saying,’ she says, pouting slightly, her tone bruised. ‘You’re always looking for something to be offended by. Sophie’s got a good job, nice house, she’s trying for a baby – you’re not getting any younger, Jess.’
‘I’m not even thirty.’ I’m trying to keep my tone level. How can she be so different to Nanna Beth?
‘And he’s a good-looking young man. Very good-looking,’ she purrs, in a way that makes me feel slightly uncomfortable.
‘This is 2019. I don’t have to snare a man before it’s too late. I’m not going to be on the shelf if I’m still single when I turn thirty. I’ve just started a brand-new job.’
‘Well yes of course,’ she says, shaking her head as if I’m the one being unreasonable. ‘I’m just saying, if I were you I’d put a ring on it before it’s too late.’
She gives a little shimmy, and heads for the bathroom, humming Beyoncé. I stand there, open-mouthed, fuming.
When James walks in a few moments later, I’m still recovering.
He puts the paper bags full of pastries down on the table and turns to me, smiling with his lovely white perfect teeth. I go over and kiss him, taking him by surprise.
‘What was that for?’ He takes me by the shoulders and steps back, looking at me as if he’s taking me in. I look back at him. He is a nice man, I think.
‘Just because,’ I say, and I hug him, wrapping my arms around his broad back and gazing out at the rooftops that lead to the sea. He feels safe, and solid, and like he’s not going anywhere. Maybe that’s a good thing, I think, looking sideways at Mum’s place. Maybe that’s what I should be aiming for.
And then Mum’s phone rings.
‘Yes. Oh, right. Yes. Of course.’ Her face blanches whiter and whiter as she speaks until there are just two spots of high colour on each cheekbone, and something in my stomach drops down to the floor and I realise I’m clenching both hands into fists.
‘Of course. Yes. We’ll be there straight away.’
‘Mum?’ I squeeze the word out.
‘We need to get a taxi to the hospital.’
‘I’ve got the car,’ says James, picking up his car keys.
‘Of course. I need my bag,’ says Mum, her words mechanical and stiff. ‘Jess?’
‘I’m ready.’
I don’t even want to ask what’s happened. If I don’t ask, it can’t be the worst thing. It can’t be the worst thing.
Nanna’s lying in a bed in the Coronary Care Unit. I see her through the window. She looks tiny, propped up in bed with wires coming from her arms. When the nurse takes us into the room I spin round, as if to walk away from it all, covering my face with my hands. It’s Mum who puts a hand on my arm and says, ‘Come on, love.’ I turn back, and we walk in together.
The room is oddly silent. I don’t know what I was expecting: beeps and machines and all the sounds you think of when you watch this sort of thing on Casualty on television, not just this weird, deathly silence. Mum sits down on the chair beside the bed and looks to the nurse as if to ask permission to hold Nanna’s hand. The nurse who is checking something on the machine smiles and gives a brief nod. He looks exhausted.
‘She’s just sleeping. We did a procedure last night to unblock an artery and put in a stent.’
I glance up at him, horrified. ‘Heart surgery?’
‘Not the way you’re thinking,’ he says, gently. ‘We went in through her arm, and removed the blockage that way. She should be okay to go home in a few days, although there’ll be rehab and some lifestyle changes—’
‘I’ll look after you, don’t worry,’ says Mum, squeezing Nanna Beth’s hand. The nurse gives another reassuring smile and leaves us.
I watch him heading down the ward, checking the time on his watch. I stand at the other side of Nanna Beth’s bed, stroking her fingers. There’s a cannula coming out of her hand, and wires coming out of her arm. Across the way, in another bed, there’s another woman, half awake, being helped upright by a nurse. It’s weird to think of Alex in the same situation, doing that day in, day out. I wish there was reception in here. I want to message him and ask what he knows about all of this. I feel scared and powerless and—
‘Hello,’ Nanna Beth croaks.
‘My God, you gave us a fright,’ says Mum.
Nanna looks at me through heavy lidded eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she says. Her voice is not much more than a whisper. ‘Didn’t mean to cause a fuss.’