Wasted (20 page)

Sylvia is in the kitchen in some degree of happy chaos. She is drinking a glass of wine as she cooks, and humming to herself. “Hello, Jessie darling! Oh, thanks – did you get everything I needed?” And she twitters on about what she's cooking, not leaving any space for Jess to speak.

There is a lit candle wafting lily scent into the air and the kitchen table is nicely laid. Sylvia pours Jess a glass of wine. “Sit down, Jessie. I'm doing everything tonight.” But Jess can't sit down for long because suddenly the sauce is ready at the same time as the rice and there's no salad dressing because Sylvia's forgotten to make it. Jess deals with the rice and the dressing. Sylvia is flapping. She's not drunk, but her brain is not entirely engaged.

Soon, they are eating.

“It's great, Mum.” And it is, surprisingly: chicken strips in a creamy lemon sauce, and wild rice with splashes of fresh coriander leaf. The salad is casual but has all the right things in it and is herby from their own garden.

“So, tell me all about tomorrow. What happens and what are you wearing? And everything. Are you nervous? I wish I could see you – do you think…?”

“No, Mum, you can't! But maybe one day, hey? Come and see us play somewhere.” And they chat on about just this and that but really nothing is
just
this and that any more, because anything can open up the earthquake crack. Anything they might talk about is likely to be the future, and that is a frightening place for Sylvia.

Sylvia should not say what she is about to say. But she has had at least two drinks now and that is the risk. She really does not want to bring up the subject,
really
does not want to. But she does.

“Are you still thinking of backpacking in India?” Her fork picks a leaf out of the rice. The other hand twiddles the stem of her near-empty glass.

“I expect so. We haven't had much time to think about it yet.”

“Well, don't you need a plan? Like, you can't just
go
, can you? And what about the money? And is Jack definitely to be trusted?”

Now there's a good question.

“Look, Mum, you have to trust me. And of
course
Jack… What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing, just that you haven't known him long.”

“Oh God, that old one. We're together, Mum, seriously, and we want to go together. We've not planned any details yet though – let's just wait till after tomorrow, hey?”

“And the money?”

Why is it that jaw muscles clench? “I can get a job – in a shop or anything. And anyway, we're going to busk. Jack's serious about the band. So am I.” Sylvia may be arty and floaty and dippy but she's also a mother and it's the mother part that shrinks at the idea of her daughter and boyfriend in a band. Which is why she can't say,
How lovely for you, darling.

“How long will you go for?” Sylvia pours herself another glass. The wine splashes. With her finger, she wipes up some spillage.

“Don't know. A few months. And I'm definitely going to apply to music college for next year.”

“That's expensive though. You mean the local one?”

“No, Mum, proper music college. London.”

Sylvia flinches. How could she not have known? Of course, she did know – not that it would be London but that it would not be here – but she has been shutting it out.

The glass is half empty. Silence sinks over them. Spike, on the windowsill, opens one eye.

“But, Jess, that's going to be
so
expensive.” Of course, she's right, but that's not what she's most worried about. She's just thinking that her little girl in London is such a scary thought. London is so big and Jess is so … so needed here.

A pause. “Dad's going to pay, I think.” Of course he is.

“When did he say that? The bastard! How does he think that makes me feel?” Red spots have formed on Sylvia's cheeks and there's a sheen on her forehead.

“Mum, it's not about
you
! Dad can afford it and it's what I really want. You both always said I should use my musical talent – well, now I am. And this is not a new idea. And, God, Mum, kids leave home, you know. You don't want me to be one of those sad people who live with their parents until they're old themselves, do  you?”

“Well…”

“Well, that's stupid.”

There is a silence that seems longer than it is, and Sylvia twiddles the stem of her glass, her lips twitching, but no words coming out. “No, of course I don't. I'm only joking. Now, how about some ice cream? I got mint choc chip,” she says, her eyes bright.

Jess stopped liking mint choc chip about five years ago but she does not remind Sylvia. They eat it together and Sylvia does not drink any more wine. Or at least not while Jess is there. And when, a little later, Jess says she's going upstairs to get her outfit ready and have a bath and an early night, Sylvia behaves perfectly, even though she'd have loved to sit up longer with her daughter on such a night. Jess doesn't notice this perfect behaviour; she is not thinking about her mother now. Sylvia is like the little girl who has such a reputation for naughtiness that no one notices the one time she is not bad.

Someone should give Sylvia credit for her effort that night. It may mark the beginning of her improvement, or this may be too much to hope for.

As darkness settles on Jack and Jess and the people connected to them, many possibilities shift into position. All the particles and laws of motion, all the immeasurable and unpredictable forces roll on. That's the science of it. But instead, we merely ask,
Who will be lucky and who will not?

What Jack might ask is:
Is there anything that I should do differently?

Differently from what?

Differently from whatever it is I'm going to do.

But what are you going to do?

I don't know, but whatever it is.

If you're going to do it, you're going to do it.

But I could do it differently, if I knew.

Then you wouldn't be going to do it.

For nothing is decided. The Oedipus story is an exercise in thought, a nonsense story not of the real world. And the only way to deal with it is not to believe it. Same with Farantella the Fortune-teller: if you believe her, you are doomed. If things turn out to fit with her prediction, it will only be a coincidence.

SYLVIA
has bought Jess flowers for this day. And she has another gift: a beautiful framed picture of tall Californian poppies dancing strong in the wind, which Sylvia has painted herself. She has written a note and put it with the presents, leaving them outside Jess's door before she wakes up. This has involved hiding the flowers the night before, which is a feat of forward-planning most unlike Sylvia. It has also involved Sylvia not being hung over, so that she can get up before her daughter. So, no, she did not drink any more after we left her last night. Which is nothing short of a miracle but just shows what is possible.

The note says,
Thinking of you today, Jess! Hope you have a wonderful evening. All my love always, Mum xxxx.

Jess, when she comes down to the kitchen later and finds her mother drinking coffee and eating toast, just like anyone, gives Sylvia a hug and a smile and a breezy
Thank you, Mum. That was so sweet.
She looks round and sees no detritus from the night before, feels the fresh air through the open window, smells bacon ready for a roll with her favourite mustard and ketchup.

She sees no fragile look in her mother's eyes, because she does not look for it, does not want to find it. She feels only happiness and excitement for herself. It is all she wants to feel this particular day. The last day of the first part of her life.

Sylvia is trying. She really is. It is not a daughter's job to spot fragile looks in a mother's eyes.

JESS'S
dad, Lorenzo, is not thinking about Jess. He has work to do and he is one of those people who can shut things away until they are needed. He has already sent her a present, which the woman in the shop had assured him that his daughter – even though she has never met her – would like. It is a silver bracelet of intricate and unusual design. He has sent her some money too, to buy herself something special to mark this important day.

And he has ordered flowers and a bottle of champagne to be delivered during the day. Isn't that the sort of thing you do when your daughter leaves school? He is not entirely sure but he does it anyway. Then, once the credit card has gone through, he puts it all from his mind and focuses on his paper on genetics.

He loves genetics: so beautifully mathematical. It follows rules, and once you know the rules and the behaviour of the particles then you can begin to make wonderfully accurate predictions.

Lorenzo is not someone who concerns himself with thoughts of luck. He looks for more scientific answers. If this, then that; if that, then this follows. It makes him smile.

JACK
and Jess are about to walk underneath a ladder.

It's Jack's fault. More or less. They would have walked past but he'd stopped.

“Why don't we walk underneath it? Are you afraid?”

“Dangerous things, ladders,” Jess says, pretending to look serious. “A pot of paint could fall on you as you walk under it.”

“There's no paint there. It's just a ladder. No one's even on it.”

“I don't know. It makes more sense to walk around it though. Even apart from the fact that it's supposed to be unlucky.”

“Yeah, but that's rubbish, isn't it? It's supposed to be unlucky to walk on the cracks in the pavement too, but I don't see you taking notice of that.”

“Yeah, but ladders – I don't know, it would feel weird to walk under it.”

“Toss you for it?”

“I thought you weren't playing that game any more.”

“I'm not. You've got the coin, remember. If you don't want to, we don't have to. It's totally your choice.”

Is there an extra intensity in Jack's eyes? Is there anything to watch out for here? Or is it just any old moment, not a moment that matters?

“I say we don't use the coin,” says Jess. “We just
decide
ourselves, without the coin. Free will.”

“Excellent! So, how do we decide? Let's say you have free will: which way will you go? I'll follow you.” He wheels around to face her.

She laughs. Closes her eyes. Looks inside her head. Under the ladder? Not under the ladder? Follow superstition? Or not? Use science? Or emotion?

It's not easy, this. Deciding this way or that when there's no real reason to choose one more than the other. Avoid the ladder, because that's normal? Or go under it because it's interesting? Avoid it because superstition might be right? Go under it because
of course
superstition is ancient rubbish?

Decide, Jess. It doesn't matter
.

Or does it?

Of course it's easy. All you have to do is choose.

A red car flashes past, its silencer broken so that it explodes its noise into the air. It makes her jump, kind of grates on her feelings.

She decides. She thinks.

Grabs Jack's hand and pulls him after her.

They slide beneath the ladder together and run down the pavement, laughing.

KELLY
and her friends are being preened and coiffed and made-up at Samantha's house. They've had a glass or two of cheap fizzy wine already. After all, they won't be allowed much at the prom, not with the teachers there to keep an eye on things.

Doesn't matter though. Kelly and her friends have other plans. The main part of the plan involves vodka. And a desire to disrupt Schrödinger's Cats in some way – to do something to take the arrogant smirks off the faces of Jack and Jess. Everything else is unplanned: they'll go with the flow. After the prom they're lined up to go to Simon's house. His dad own a speedboat and jet skis. He's stinking rich.

They're not bad girls, not really. It's just that they don't think very much. They're just girls who want to have fun.

Should be an amazing party.

JACK'S
dad, Sam, has driven the band to the school in his van. After unloading everything and helping them set up, he gets ready to leave. He plans to come back in the morning to collect it all again, with Jack and the others to help, once they can get themselves out of bed. The things parents do for their kids.

“Break a leg and all that!” And he smiles at his son, and at Jess. They thank him. “You look great,” he tells her. And she does. A short green and black dress with lots of netting in the skirt part, tight corset thing on top. Leggings underneath. Little shoes, which she's going to kick off once she's on stage. Her hair is a waterfall of black ice. Her eyes shine.

Jack and Jess hurry away, forgetting him as he stands there watching. He lingers, just looking, thinking. He is pleased for Jack, glad that he has met Jess. She seems like a lovely girl.

Lucky boy. And he deserves it. Hope it works out. That he's happy.

And then – of course:
If only Liz could have been here.
There is always that thought, lurking, ready to swoop out. But he's pretty good at shutting it back in again. And it's a weird thought, because it's not Liz, but his first wife, Jane, who should really be there.

He turns away then. Job done. And he drives back home. He'll watch a DVD, maybe do a bit of work. He can't imagine getting much sleep, not tonight. There's too much in the air. He should have organized to go out with some friends. Tessa wasn't free that evening because she had some family thing to go to involving her own younger kids. Tessa is someone you might call his girlfriend, though it is more casual and yet more important than that. Tessa would understand how he feels this night, but he also would not have wanted to take her from her own kids. Jack's dad is too nice for bad stuff to happen to him; though, as we know, that hasn't helped him in the past.