It was like waking up and finding out a dream is real. And they’re there, staring at me, like waiting for me to tell them what the fuck is going on.
I had, needless to say, no clue. Not one.
As far as I was concerned, the last five minutes had gone like:
“So,” said P, turning to Lydia, “You don’t like my bruschetta, eh?”
“Boosh!”
“Bruscha,” said Stanton.
I said “Brruschetta,” to him.
“Pooey,” said Lydia, very clearly.
“It’s amazing the things we’ll eat nowadays, huh?” said P.
“Even more amazing what we’ll pay for it,” said Lucy, picking incredulously at the packet. “How much?”
“I was hungry.”
“What about the sandshe turns, her cheekbones catch the light as she smiles shyly. There are a lot of people around us, between me and her, and everything seems to move so slowly that Inot like you’re properly allergic to it, is it?” I blinked slowly. What the fuck was that?
“Oh, properly allergic! Come on – the taste and smell make me want to boke, so technically...”
“Boke?”
“Good, oIt’s like
she dancing to a private beat, the rhythm of which is apparent in her hips, her
shoulders, the way her head dips up and down and
She’s sitting across
the pub table from me, smiling like a lantern and there’s an underswell of
feeling in my guts; so many emotions that
We are alone, she
says “Well, here we are, then...” and I
Crashing, I’m
crashing. Falling into a million
pieces. It’s like the nastiest swoon
because it happens so very slowly. Her
words are distorted above my head, her face creasing in that slowness and
What’s your
name? Jenny, but my friends call me JJ,
long story. Oh, I love long
stories.
Are we dancing? It’s a long way down.
Crash! Thump!
A heavy weight on my nose and mouth, pushing into the bridge. I can taste my own tongue.
What’s your
name? Jenny, but my friends call me JJ,
long story. Oh, I love long
stories. It’s not all that interesting,
really. Oh, I bet it is, come on!
Oh. My.
God. They keep that in their fridge?!
“It’s one of those things – we get older, stuff changes.” Lucy shook her head
and shook her head
and shook her head
Crash. I’m crashing
I’m an old-fashioned
girl, really
Crash. Am I dancing?
Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatttt’s
yooooooooooooooouuurr naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaame?
It’s a grotesque slo-mo.
“‘Curtains’.”
“Well, here we are,
then...”
The room is spinning
and I get up, but that’s wrong because I’m sitting, and we’re very close it’s
noisy I want to hear
Old-fashioned girl
“... winner...”
Is this
dancing? Where’s the music?
Jenny, you okay?”
“Why’s she gone shinyIt’s
not like I don’t know...
Crash.
My eyes fill with
darkness, but that’s okay.
“Jenny, can you hear me?”
“Shit, Jen, answer us!”
What is it, why’s
everyone concerned? I can feel their
love like a weight, an anchor. It’s a thread,
pulling me.
“Forehead be buggered, look at her eyes.”
My friends are here,
they’re holding my hands, and someone’s breathing
Remember to breathe.
She’s... fuck. Crash
No, BREATHE!
Aaah!
I swallowed. It was like my throat was made of PVC. Lucy immediately offered me her smoothie. I started sipping. Uch, bananas! I put it down as quickly as I dared, with my sausage-like fingers. “Thanks.” I blinked and shook myself. The others pulled back, though P kept light contact with the ends of my fingers. I couldn’t decide if that was worse or better – the distance suddenly aching. How can I touch them? Lucy busied herself with Kids, the smaller part of which was kicking and making a spirited attempt at running amok. She secured her and smoothed both their hair.
“So...?” said P
“Well,” I said, “not wanting to be unoriginal here, but I was about to ask: ‘what happened?’”
They both kinda just stared at me.
“You went away,” said P, simply, after a while.
“You were staring away,” added Luce, “and you were white as a sheet and ice-cold.”
I lifted my ridiculously heavy hands to rub them together. They were freezing and clammy like night-long fetishwear. I barely recognised them. What were they doing here?
P seemed to think I had stared at my hand for long enough. I suppose there was a worry about me slipping back. My right was grasped again.
“What happened, babe?”
“Oh god, I don’t know. I went away, yeah. But I’m back.”
They both gazed at me, etched by worry.
“Worry is acid,” I muttered, pleased with the neatness of the analogy.
“Riiiight,” said P.
“Listen, I wish I could tell you where I went... but I don’t know. Actually, I wish you could tell me where I went – that would work...”
P is all creased about with concern. Lucy is... Luce is further away. Ah, crap...
“Was it...” she leaned forward again, out of her enclave of Kids, “was it like a trip, a flashback?”
“Not really my métier,” I grimaced. “It was like one of those dreams where you’re feverish and you’re not properly asleep, but you’re definitely not with it. My head hurts like a fu- like a bastard though.”
Lucy delved into her bag. She was born to be a mum, come on – she’s always the one with the right stuff in her bag for all occasions. She came up brandishing a silver-backed blister pack. “Paracetemol.”
“You are an angel, a wonder and a true friend.”
We all busied ourselves with drinks, medicine, fiddling with napkins, checking on Kids. Just as I had given up and was just about to fall back on the weather to kickstart the conversation again, Lucy checked her watch reflexively, then did a double-take, silently cursing.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Damn, damn, damn.”
“Da-da!” said Lydia.
“Well, quite,” said Lucy, grimly. “I hate to do this so much, but I do have to go.”
“Tell him to, er, go forth... I’ll do it if you like,” said P.
“Can’t,” said Lucy. “You know I can’t.”
She looked down at her children. “And it’s such a small price to pay.”
We both sighed. “Okay,” in unison.
She smiled. “One day we’ll be at a place where I can let you and anyone else loose on the... on him, but right now...”
“We understand,” said P.
“And until that day...” I cracked my knuckles, “we’ll just polish our knuckledusters.”
“Nice one.” She smiled again. Then reached over and touched the top of my head lightly. “Be well, you hear?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Good girl.”
Then there was the usual touching and saying goodbye that accompanies the departure of Lucy, and especially Kids. Lydia strapped securely again in her transport and Stanton slotted into her hand, she set off. After two steps she turned around and said:
“Oh, I forgot to ask, so tell me next time – how did that interview go last night?” She smiled and waved again, and threaded through customers, goth waitress and other people’s shopping.
P and I turned to each other.
“Last night...?”
“Interview...?” I said.
“Ah...” said P.