Looking for JJ (6 page)

Out of the corner of her eye she could see him place the drinks on a nearby table. She put her glass back and let herself glance in his direction.

He was still looking at her. His face a little confused. His eyebrows tensed.

She looked away, holding her breath for a moment. Then she picked her glass up again. She held it steadily although she didn’t drink any. She looked from Frankie to the others, all looking relaxed and arguing about how much money it would take to betray someone. Thirty pieces of silver, perhaps.

Had he recognized her? Had he been looking at her photograph for so long that she had become like a real flesh person? Never mind that she had had her hair cropped and lost weight since then. She had the same eyes, the same lips, the same pale skin. She was JJ.

Suddenly she couldn’t sit there for another minute. She stood up, knocking the table slightly, the glasses clinking together, some of the beer spilling over the edge. The lads all looked at her.

“Whoa!” Frankie said. “Careful.”

“I’m just going to the toilet,” she said.

The noise in the bar seemed louder, the smell stronger, the floor more sticky. She didn’t feel well, she needed to be outside, in the fresh air. But as she moved away from the table the detective stepped across and blocked her way. She had no choice but to stop and look up at him.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I know you, don’t I?”

She stood very still, not answering him, focusing on his puffy cheeks, his hair, slicked down and pulled back into a ponytail.

“I do, I’m sure. I know you from somewhere!”

She opened her mouth to speak. Could it be this simple? To be found out here, in this bar, in front of everyone? To have her new life end in seconds, her feet stuck to the floor of a tatty bar in front of dozens of drunken students.

“I . . . I. . .”

He smiled suddenly and clicked his fingers in a dramatic way.

“You work in the coffee place by the station. You found some of my papers one day.”

“Yes,” she said, the tension draining out of her so that she felt lightheaded. As though she might float up and away.

“I must pop in again,” he said. “Next time I’m round there.”

Then he turned and went back to his table and she stumbled on out to the toilet. Once inside she splashed her face with water and stood bent over the sink, letting the droplets fall off, ignoring the sound of people coming in and out behind. Let them think she was drunk, she didn’t care.

The argument at the table had finished when she got back and the lads were sitting quietly, their beers in front of them. One of them was passing a joint around, each person inhaling and passing it on.

“I’ve got to go,” she whispered to Frankie.

She had no intention of sitting there while dope was being smoked. That was something serious that could get her in trouble with her probation officer. Just a little thing like that could send her back.

Frankie walked her to the bus stop.

“Will you come, in August? To Brighton?”

“Absolutely! If Rosie lets me.”

“Oh. . .”

“She will. You might not be her favourite person but she knows how I feel about you.”

“She’s like the mother from hell!” he said, and then, as though the thought had just popped into his head, “What about your own mum? What was she like?”

She was taken aback. He’d hardly ever mentioned her background or her family. It was as if he’d
understood
that it wasn’t something she wanted to talk about.

“She was a model,” Alice said, seeing a bus turn the corner. “Really glamorous. Still is, I suppose. But I don’t see her any more.”

An honest answer. Another thing Alice didn’t have to lie about.

 

 

 

At home, in her room, Alice took a picture of her mother out of her bottom drawer. It was one of five that she owned. A professional shot, taken by a photographer, her mother sitting on a wrought iron chair in an overgrown garden. She was hugging one of her knees, her chin leaning on the back of her hand, her eyes fastened to the camera, her lips parted in a toothy smile.

Carol Jones was beautiful. There was no argument about that.

Alice remembered loving her mother’s looks from a very young age. Just as she loved the smell of her and the feel of her clothes. Looking closely, she focused on the pale skin and the dazzling smile. The straw-coloured hair was pulled back in some kind of clasp and there were wispy bits hanging forward. Her even white teeth contrasted with the perfectly lipsticked mouth. How could anyone not have been affected by such a face?

Alice looked up. From the other room she could hear the sound of Rosie’s voice. She was having a drink with Sara. The two women had been there when she’d got back from seeing Frankie. Sara had started chatting to her immediately but she didn’t feel like talking so she’d left them alone.

There were other photographs, but Alice didn’t want to get them out and start poring over them. She swallowed a couple of times. There in her throat was the old ache.
Don’t dwell on your relationship with your mother
, the counsellor had said. But how could she not think of her? When she had been so proud of her, so glad to have her for a mum. No matter what she did.

Carol Jones didn’t have to make an effort to look good. She stepped out of bed in the morning and her blonde hair seemed to flop into position, her eyes bright, her skin creamy. All she had to do was throw on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, some big earrings and red lipstick and she was ready. Her high heels she always left until last. They were usually lined up by the front door, ready for her to choose which pair to wear. Thin heels and strappy base in summer; in winter it was ankle boots with fiercely pointed toes.

When Jennifer started nursery school Carol did a modelling course. She had a portfolio of photographs and for a year or so she worked for a couple of photographers; modelling for a clothes catalogue, promotional work at exhibitions, some fashion displays for chain stores.

She had photographs of herself on the wall of the living room. Big glossy pictures; on a beach wearing swimwear, in a garden wearing an evening dress, in a city centre in a smart suit and fake glasses. Carol pointed to them when she had visitors.
I’m a model
, she said, proudly. Jennifer used to sit and look at them. Face after smiling face; different hair, different clothes, but underneath it all was her mum’s smile.

There was money for a while. It paid the rent of a flat in a tree-lined street. It paid for new furniture, clothes for her mum and lots of toys (her favourite was a special model doll called
Macy
). It even paid for a holiday in Spain, where her mum had a different bikini for every day of the week. Modelling was busy work, though, and Jennifer couldn’t be part of it. She spent a lot of time with other people. A woman called Simone looked after her sometimes, taking her to school and picking her up at home time. She was a big lady who walked very slowly along the road, pausing at each corner to get her breath. She hardly spoke and Jennifer had to carry on a conversation with herself most of the time. She usually pulled Macy, her model doll, out of her rucksack and chatted to her.

And what have you been doing today, Macy?

I had a top model job in the palace today.

Did you see the queen?

I did.

Sometimes her gran looked after her. This was worse than being in Simone’s. Her gran lived in a flat that was two bus rides away. She had a small dog called Nelson who would sit on her knee growling at Jennifer. She had to be very quiet there because Gran had sewing to do and liked to watch television while she was working.

Occasionally Jennifer stayed in the classroom with the teacher. She sat at her desk while Miss marked lots of books. She drew some pictures and kept one eye on the playground. Eventually she’d see her mum dashing through the school gate, half running, half walking towards the classroom, coming through the door out of breath and apologizing.

Now and then, when her mum wasn’t working, she would pick her up from school on time. It delighted Jennifer to see her standing waiting, head and shoulders above the rest of the mums. Her fair hair was streaked with blonde and sometimes she wore it hanging loosely round her face. She’d be in the middle of all the grey-faced women, talking animatedly, her mouth opening and closing. In the summer she wore as little as possible: a strappy top that showed her tattoo, shorts that exposed her long brown legs and round her ankle a tiny chain. When she saw Jennifer coming across the playground her face beamed. She might have been standing in front of an important photographer.

Everyone who saw them together was impressed. When Carol Jones squatted down to hug her daughter the other mums seemed to watch with envy. Jennifer reached up to hold her mum’s hand as they walked home from school and knew that people were looking. Men stared at her. Women gave her sideways glances. She knew that she must be with someone who was important. All the while her mum pulled her by the hand and walked on, her head in the air, her body swaying slightly as though she was practising for the catwalk, her spindly heels scraping along the ground.

There were bad days as well. Sometimes there were headaches and her mum had to lie in the dark. Sometimes she felt sick or had a pain and had to be left alone. Often her mum was in a mood; a minicab hadn’t arrived on time or her photographs weren’t right.

Jennifer picked Macy up at these times and went into her room.

What job are you on today, Macy?

I’m doing a fashion show. On a catwalk.

Wonderful.

Macy had a whole box of clothes, different outfits for the seasons, for casual or evening, for work or play. One of Jennifer’s favourites was her ski suit. It was all in one, a shocking-pink colour, and she had matching skis and tiny dark glasses.

After what seemed like hours and hours of playing on her own she would tiptoe into her mum’s room, get on to the bed and lie beside her. If her mum was feeling better she turned and gave Jennifer a sleepy hug. If she wasn’t she just lay still, hardly breathing. So Jennifer left her alone all through the rest of the day and sometimes even the nighttime. She’d reappear the next morning while Jennifer and Macy were having breakfast together.

“What’s the time?” she’d say, yawning, bending over to give Jennifer a kiss. “I must have slept for hours! Thanks for not waking Mummy up, love. It’s too late for school now, you’ll have to stay home.”

Jennifer was happy. On those days she had her mum all to herself. She’d help her to sort out her clothes and tidy up her make-up. She’d flick through the picture portfolio, sorting out the glossy prints. She played in the bathroom while her mum lay soaking in bubbles. Sometimes her mum let Jennifer put Macy in the water and wash her hair. Later, they’d watch television together, her mum smelling of shampoo and cream, her hair still wet, hanging in thin strips around her face.

After a while the work dried up. There were other girls who were more unusual-looking or had better hair or looked more mysterious. It was nothing personal. Just business. The photographers stopped calling and the agencies just asked her to leave a message.
We’ll get back to you
, they said, but they never did. Her mum searched everywhere for jobs, showing her photographs to agencies. She left Jennifer with Simone or her gran; a couple of times she left her with neighbours. It was a bad time.

Early one morning, when it was still dark outside, she took Jennifer to Simone’s. Simone was in a giant pink dressing gown and her hair was sticking up. Her mum stood in the hallway getting ready to leave. She was full of sparkle beside Simone, in skintight jeans and fitted leather jacket, her hair parted at the side and pulled back into a severe bunch at the back of her head, her lips looking pink and wet. She had a glittery scarf wrapped round and round her neck and Simone, in between a couple of yawns, remarked on it.

“I bought it in Bond Street,” her mum said. “Must go. . .”

But as she turned to go, Simone put her arm out and held her there for a moment. Simone’s arm, plump, and red, her fingers short and stumpy, holding on to the leather jacket.

“Go inside, Jen,” her mum said.

Jennifer backed around the door but she could still hear them talking.

“I will pay you.” Her mum’s voice was whispery. “I’m getting some back pay this week! All right?”

Later that week Jennifer was surprised to see Simone, at the school gate, waiting with the other mums, wearing the glittery scarf that had come from Bond Street. It sat awkwardly round her chubby neck and didn’t go with her grubby jacket. It probably still had her mum’s perfume on it.

There were a lot of headaches then. Her mum spent a lot of time in her bedroom with the curtains drawn.

Alice heard the sound of the flat door closing. Then a moment later she heard Rosie’s footsteps padding along the hallway to her room. She placed the photograph under her pillow. Rosie gave a light knock and then walked in. It had always been like that. Rosie, knowing she could come into Alice’s room whenever she wanted. Alice didn’t mind. She had had enough locked doors in her life.

“You all right, Alice? You looked a bit peaky when you came in.” Rosie sat on the edge of the bed and Alice felt the mattress sink down.

“No, I’m fine. It’s just. . . Well, I’m not that keen on. . .”

Alice pointed downwards, meaning Sara.

“She’s all right. Her school is having a theatre trip and she wondered if I wanted to go. I said fine. It’s free, after all. Do you want anything? Tea? Coffee?”

Alice shook her head, “I just thought I’d have a lie down.”

Rosie nodded and backed out of the room, making exaggerated tiptoe movements, giving Alice a little wave at the door, as if she was going out for a long time, not just moving into another room.

Alice pulled the photograph out from under the pillow. She realized then that she’d never shown any of her mum’s pictures to Rosie.
What would she think?
she wondered. Would she think that Alice looked like her mum? Alice shook her head. Apart from the fact that they were both thin there was almost no resemblance. She was small and plain. Her mum was tall and glamorous.

She was gripped by a sudden feeling of sadness. Where was her mum now? At that very moment? Was she lying on a bed thinking of Jennifer, the daughter that she hadn’t seen for years? They’d been joined together once, she and her mum. How could they be so far apart?

No one really understood.
Did your mum abuse you?
the counsellors said.
Did she hit you? Hurt you? What about all the men she knew? Did any of them touch you?

Just after her sixth birthday Simone refused to look after her any more. Instead of seeing her moon face at the school gates she would now see her mum, her blonde hair blown here and there by the wind. She wasn’t always cheerful, and sometimes she forgot to put her red lipstick on, but Jennifer was thrilled to see her all the same.

One day a photographer rang. He had some work for her mum. The receiver made a ding noise as her mum replaced it and she danced up and down the tiny hallway. Jennifer and Macy watched.

“All I need is to get my foot back in the door,” her mum said, peeling off her clothes, standing stark naked at the bathroom door.

Her foot in the door
. It was an odd image and Jennifer thought about it for a few minutes. Then she took Macy into her mum’s bedroom and sat on the bed while she got ready. Her mum sprayed herself with perfume, rubbed cream into her skin, her arms, legs, her stomach and back, her tiny breasts. She was humming and posing in the big mirror like she’d done before, when she’d had lots of model jobs. She held her clothes up, outfit after outfit, almost as many as Macy had.