Growing Up Twice (40 page)

Everyone is here and when I say everyone I mean even some who I didn’t expect. Rosie is here, having managed to pull together a stunning outfit without ever once returning to the flat, and stands gazing at one of Josh’s paintings, refusing to look in my direction. Jackson nods at me over her head, winks and rolls his eyes. I smile back at him and shrug sheepishly. Mrs Selin, even now, has her arm around my waist and is guiding me towards her smiling emotional husband.

‘Jenny.’ He greets me with a firm hug, plants a paternal kiss on my forehead and releases me towards Selin. Selin is not alone. The tall man from the funeral, the over-attentive uncle or whoever he is, is at her side, his hand resting on her shoulder. I can see the strain of the last week in her eyes, and she stands mutely in the crowd looking frightened and alone with this great shadow of a man hanging over her. This time I go in for a rescue.

‘Excuse me?’ I beam up at him and taking Selin’s elbow I lead her away. She follows compliantly. The tall man rubs his hand over his mouth as he watches her depart.

‘Who
is
that guy? Are you OK?’

She shakes her head. ‘No, no, I’m not OK. Not really. I’m trying to be OK. We all made Josh go ahead with this, but I feel numb. I … Oh God, Jen, is every day for the rest of my life going to be like this? Shouldn’t I want it to be? Shouldn’t I always want to feel the pain of not having her? I just don’t think I’m strong enough to bear it.’ She keeps her voice calm and low as she stares at me intently and I’m taken aback by her sudden unloading of feeling, restrained as it is. It’s typical of Selin that she refuses to make a fuss in public, even as she mourns her sister. I look across the group and see that the man is still watching us and is preparing to make his way over.

‘Come on,’ I say lamely, ‘let’s get drunk.’

Unsurprisingly, Danny is at the bar, now fully bladdered and totally pissed off. ‘The fucker never even gave it a second glance, the fucking fucker. I knew it, I knew I should have been a fucking poet.’ He sticks two fingers up at the departing
Time Out
Man’s back. He seems to be going over to Josh’s work.

‘Cheer up, Dan, no one liked Van Gogh’s work until he was dead, did they?’

He snorts at me. ‘I don’t want to be famous when I’m dead! I want to be famous now, get minted, get all the chicks and have a restaurant! Bloody formaldehyde, bloody dead cow, and bloody unmade bed. I’ve been doing the flipping unmade bed thing for bloody donkey’s.’ He pouts but is distracted from his tirade by a passing debutante type in a cut-off top.

As we make our escape I hand Selin a bottle of Moscow Mule and I am relieved to see her smile as we return to our group. Just before we rejoin them I stop her and say, ‘Selin, I don’t know, but I think that one day you’ll be able to remember Ayla without the pain. And I don’t think it means that you will love her any the less. Honestly.’

She squeezes my hand and takes a second to compose herself before walking back over to the tall man who has been joined by Josh and her parents, a family group. Who
is
that man?

At least it’s obvious that Rosie hasn’t yet told her about our fight. I catch Rosie’s eye involuntarily but it seems her curiosity has got the better of her chagrin and she nods at the tall man and raises her eyebrows with a question. I shake my head to show her that I know nothing more about him and our brief truce is over as she sniffs, shoots me a daggers look and turns back to Jackson. I don’t really think it’s that we’re cross with each other. I think it’s that we’re cross with ourselves. No, actually, I am pretty cross with her.

Seeing no one to latch on to, I turn to Josh’s paintings. Unlike many of his colleagues he’s not into installation art, he likes to paint in the old-fashioned way. He loves the smell and feel of paint. He loves the wonder of colour. I love his paintings, although I’m never sure if it is for the right reasons. I love them because they are bold and beautiful and I’m not really sure being beautiful is a good enough reason. I am always badgering him to give me one, but he has always held back. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to see his paintings the way he does. These paintings, the three painted in the aftermath of Ayla’s death, are spectacular and wonderful, I wish I had the right language and knowledge to describe how I feel about them.

‘What do you think?’ My thoughts are interrupted by
Time Out
Man, who nods at Josh’s painting. Christ, I don’t know what to say, what if I let Josh down and say something rubbish?

‘I, um … well, I’m not an expert or anything, but I react to them in … in an emotional way, they make me feel … They make me feel.’ I look at him, trying to gauge his reaction to my inept comment. ‘To be frank, most of the other stuff in here looks like a Blue Peter project to me.’

He laughs and looks around. ‘Well, I wouldn’t quite say that. But there is quite a lot of chaff to sort through before you find the wheat. It’s like looking for a pop star, so many of the hopefuls should have stuck to being a runner-up at the local pub karaoke night.’

I like him, he makes me laugh. ‘So, you’re the
Time Out
Man, aren’t you?’ I ask.

He looks a bit pleased with himself and nods. ‘Sort of
Time Out
Man, more freelance really. I do the odd review here and there and I run a gallery down the road. Always looking for new talent. Are you his girlfriend, then?’ He nods at the painting again.

‘Me? No, no, I’m no one’s girlfriend.’ He is a bit short, but he has nice hazel eyes and yes, I am flirting. Just a bit, for old times’ sake.

‘So you aren’t an artist, I take it?’ He turns on a flirty smile.

‘Oh, and how can you take it?’ I reply archly, flirt feigning offence.

‘Well, the Blue Peter comment gave it away.’ He laughs and looks down my top. I flick my hair off my shoulders, no point in obscuring his view.

‘Fair enough. No, I’m not. I work in computer hardware sales, but I’ve decided to make a career change. I’m going to enrol in a journalism course, a good recognised one, full time if I have to. Give getting the career I want a go.’ He is the first person I have said it out loud to. I am instantly afraid of failing and suddenly see the merits of one mundane spreadsheet after another, and a million, ‘Hello, UK sales, how may I help you?’ a day.

Time Out
Man looks back at my face, and I’m fairly sure that not all the admiration displayed there is purely for my person.

‘Good for you, you should ring the
Time Out
office, they might give you a couple of weeks’ work experience, it never hurts to network. I’ll mention your name if you like,’ he finishes with a flourish. He must think he’s just cinched a snog for sure.

‘Really? Really, would you?’ Calm down, try not to sound too grateful.

‘Yeah, sure I will, but I can’t guarantee anything, OK? What is it, by the way?’

‘What is what?’ Is he asking me about the painting again? My cup size?

‘Your name!’ His laugh borders on the patronising.

‘Jenny, Jenny Greenway,’ I say quickly and I watch him write it on the back of a business card.

‘Jenny, and what’s your number, Jenny?’ I tell him, knowing that the likelihood of any desk editor ever seeing it is slim to nil.

‘Can
I
call you some time?’ The inevitable line.

I sigh and look at the back of Josh’s head, the sweep of his shoulders under his T-shirt. You never know, maybe this bloke is a nice bloke under his libido.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask him, with a polite smile.

‘Mike,’ he replies. Christ, not another one. There really should be more male names to go around. Has the person in charge of thinking up names never thought that in the twenty-first century the small Anglo-Saxon name pool often causes confusion and heartache to the average sociable girl?

‘Mike, will you still mention my name if I turn you down? It’s not that you’re not cool. It’s just that I broke up with someone recently. After his mother told me I couldn’t see him any more. And I’m sure you don’t want to get involved with a needy commitment-crazy girl on the rebound, do you?’

He takes a hurried step back, already searching though his repertoire of ‘I have to be going now’ excuses. When in a sticky corner push the commitment-phobe button, works almost every time.

‘Well, I appreciate your honesty. Of course I’ll mention your name, Jenny. And, well, I have to be going now, lots more art to look at. Good luck.’ And he’s gone, clearly unwilling to waste any more of his time on a dead prospect. I hold out little hope for the name mentioning, and frankly, as I have never experienced the benefits of professional nepotism, I’m not entirely sure what I would do about it anyway. But I guess I should ring them up and find out about work experience. Work experience at nearly thirty, well, whose fault is that?

Selin has managed to pry herself away from the grip of her aged admirer and is chatting to Rosie. Jackson must have gone to the bar. Well, here goes the bridge-building exercise phase two.

‘Can you believe it?’ Rosie says with unrepressed incredulity to Selin who stares at her open mouthed.

‘Hi!’ I say as brightly as I can. Selin smiles at me, and I feel annoyed that whatever Rosie has told her has diverted her sufficiently to forget herself.

‘Hello there, I thought you’d pulled?’ she says sunnily.

‘Oh no, I’ve given up men for a bit.’ I look Rosie in the eye. ‘I’ve decided to have a shot at growing up properly this time.’ Rosie purses her lips and drums a false nail against her glass of water, but won’t look me in the eye.

‘Anyway, can Selin believe what?’ I ask, bracing myself for the worst.

‘Jackson has asked Rosie to go back to the States with him! To live with him!’ Selin exclaims.

It’s my turn to be open mouthed. After my corridor conversation with him the other day I was sure he’d given up any hope of winning her over. She must really have caught his heart for him to go for this last-ditch attempt, it’s the kind of thing I’d usually try. Would have, in the past.

‘Bloody hell, he’s keen,’ I understate, but I’m delighted that something has happened that might take her mind off Chris.

‘Of course I can’t go, I’ve only known him five minutes and we haven’t even, well, we haven’t even had sex,’ Rosie says, primly.

‘Ohhhh,’ Selin and I say together. We did wonder.

‘And anyway, I can’t go, so there. We’ll keep in touch though, you know, and maybe after the baby is born and big enough, we’ll have a holiday. But I haven’t told him one way or the other yet so, shhh.’ She presses her index finger to her shell-pink glossed lips. Rosie is the only person I know whose lip gloss doesn’t go tacky and dry, ever.

Selin nods conspiratorially, but I think I hear uncertainty in Rosie’s voice. This is not like Rosie. If Rosie wants something, she’ll just go for it, long-term future or no. She must be having a second go at growing up too. Anyway, I decide to implement my plan to bond us all back together properly.

‘Look Selin, why don’t you come back to our place for a nightcap? Hot chocolate and toast, a pyjama party? What do you say? Rosie, were you planning to go back to Jackson’s? It’s just that we haven’t all been together for a while, have we? I thought it would be a good chance for a proper talk.’

‘I agree, there are things we need to discuss,’ Rosie says meaningfully. I hope she means her apology to me and her grateful acceptance of my opinion and advice, which will make my grudging acceptance of her life choices unnecessary. ‘I was planning to come home, anyway. What do you say, Seli?’

Selin glances over her shoulder at her family and nods. ‘Yeah, sure. I’ve got something to tell you, too.’

Tonight we must let Selin talk. We must not turn this into the Rosie-and-Jenny show yet again.

‘Shall we make a move then?’ I say.

Rosie takes out her mobile. ‘I’ll call Kaled, and then say goodbye to Jackson,’ she says.

As we make the round of goodbyes Josh gives me a hug and kisses me primly on the cheek. The memory of the few minutes we spent together next door hovers hungrily between us and we exchange a quick glance of mutual remembrance. I won’t take too long, I think.

Rosie appears suddenly at my side and gives us a knowing look. ‘Come on, Kaled’s outside,’ she says, turning to look at Josh’s face one more time before we depart.

I can still feel the impression of his lips as we step into the cold night air.

Back at the flat Rosie makes the toast, while I get some milk in a pan and heap two more than the recommended number of teaspoons of chocolate powder into our orange mugs.

Selin is in the other room looking for something on the TV, I guess. Eventually I say to Rosie, ‘I’m so sorry about everything, especially that you had to get caught up in the end of Michael and me. That was really crap. Some mad woman comes over to your house, screams and yells and then I have a go at you about Chris. I’m sorry about what I said, I mean, I’m sorry about the way I said it. But you’re right, I don’t see the Chris you do and I love you, I don’t want you to get hurt. It might be stupid or impulsive but I think running off with Jackson would be more sensible than getting back with Chris. That’s all I’m saying.’ I lift my hands palm up and back away from her.

‘Let’s just put the Chris debate on hold for a second, OK? I’m sorry for what I said about your dad. It wasn’t fair and it’s not true.’ She doesn’t look me in the eye as we both know that neither of those two things is strictly true. But I’m glad she’s said them anyway. In return, I offer a partial explanation for Michael.

‘Believe it or not, I genuinely hit it off with Michael. I really did. I cared about him. Actually, I’m really going to miss him, and the whole thing hurts quite a lot. More than I expected.’ I hadn’t realised it until I said it, I had been so prepared for the end right from the start, but I hadn’t been prepared for how I would feel afterwards. Not the gut-ripping trauma of an ending with Owen but real sadness and loss, a chapter closed. I suppose he was a sort of swansong.

Rosie rewraps the bread and considers the simmering milk. ‘I don’t really understand what you and the ginger kid were up to, and I don’t really want to know. It wasn’t so much him, or his age, it was more you getting on your moral high ground over Chris when all the time you were behaving in just as, if not a more, irresponsible way. Not that considering a life with my baby’s father
is
irresponsible, actually. Anyway, it was
that
that really pissed me off. Plus, as you know, pretty much everything makes me cry at the moment. Especially love-lorn teenagers and furious red-headed mums. I understood how she felt, you know, she was protecting her baby.’