One Plus One: A Novel (5 page)

—

“So I’ve brought a lovely selection of things for the discerning young lady. You know they all love their designer labels. And I took the liberty of bringing a few sequinned things, as I know your Tanzie’s a bit of a magpie.”

Aileen’s “shop” voice was formal, with overly precise diction. It was quite odd, emerging as it did, from someone Jess had seen regularly ejected by force from the King’s Arms public house. She sat
cross-legged on the floor, reached into her black holdall, pulled out a selection of clothes, and laid them carefully on the carpet.

“There’s a Hollister top here. They’re all into Hollister, the girls. Shocking expensive in the shops. I’ve got some more designer stuff in my other bag, although you did say you didn’t require high end. Oh, and two sugars, if you’re making one.”

Aileen did a weekly round of the neighborhood. Jess had always issued a firm thanks-but-no-thanks. Everyone knew where Aileen got her knockdown bargains with the tags still on.

But that was before.

She picked up the layered tops, one with glittery stripes, the other a soft rose. She could already see Tanzie in them. “How much?”

“Ten for the top, five for the T-shirt, and twenty for the trainers. You can see from the tag they retail for eighty-five. That’s a serious discount.”

“I can’t do that much.”

“Well, as you’re a new client, I can do you an introductory bonus.” Aileen held up her notebook, squinting at the figures. “You take the three items and I’ll let you have the jeans, too. For goodwill.” She smiled, her skin waxy. “Thirty-five pounds for a whole outfit, including footwear. And this month only I’m throwing in a little bracelet. You won’t get those prices at T. J. Maxx.”

Jess stared at the clothes laid out on the floor. She wanted to see Tanzie smiling. She wanted her to feel that life held the potential for unexpected happy things. She wanted her to have something to feel good about when she gave her the news.

“Hold on.”

She walked through to the kitchen, pulled the cocoa tin from the cupboard where she kept the electricity money. She counted out the coins and dropped them into Aileen’s clammy palm before she could think about what she was doing.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Aileen said, folding the remaining clothes and placing them carefully in the bin bag. “I’ll be
back in two weeks. Anything you want in the meantime, you know where to find me.”

“I think this will be it, thanks.”

She gave Jess a knowing look.
They all say that, love
.

—

Nicky kept his eyes on the computer when Jess walked in.

“Nathalie’s going to bring Tanzie back after maths club. Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”

“Sure.”

“No smoking.”

“Mm.”

“You going to do some studying?”

“Sure.”

Sometimes Jess fantasized about the kind of mother she could be if she weren’t always working. She would bake cakes, smile more, stand over them while they did their homework. She would do the things they wanted her to do, instead of always answering:

Sorry, love, I just have to get the supper on.

After I’ve put this wash on.

I’ve got to go, sweetie. Tell me when I get back from my shift.

She gazed at him, his unreadable expression, and she had a weird sense of foreboding. “Don’t forget to walk Norman. But don’t go round near the off-license.”

“As if.”

“And don’t spend the whole evening on the computer.” She hoicked up the back of his jeans. “And pull your pants up before I can’t help myself and give you the world’s biggest wedgie.”

He turned and she glimpsed his brief smile. As Jess walked out of his room, she realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen it.

M
y dad is such an arsehole.

T
he Feathers public house sat between the library (closed since January) and the Happy Plaice fish-and-chip shop, and inside it was possible to believe it was still 1989. Des, the landlord, had never been seen in anything but faded tour T-shirts, jeans, and, if it was cold, a blouson leather jacket. On a quiet night, if you were unlucky, he would explain in excruciating detail the merits of a Fender Stratocaster against a Rickenbacker 330 or recite with a poet’s reverence all the words to “Money for Nothing.”

The Feathers was not smart, in the way that the Beachfront bars were smart, and it did not serve fresh seafood or fine wines and family-friendly menus catering to screaming children. It served various kinds of dead animal with chips, and it scoffed at the word “salad.” There was nothing more adventurous than Tom Petty on the jukebox and a battered dartboard on the wall.

But it was a formula that worked. The Feathers was that rare thing in a seaside town: busy all year-round.

“Is Roxanne here?” Jess started putting out the bags of potato chips as Des emerged from the cellar, where he had been tying on a fresh barrel of real ale.

“Nah. She’s doing something with her mother.” He thought for a minute. “Healing. No, fortune-telling. Psychiatrist. Psychologist.”

“Spiritualist?”

“The one where they tell you stuff you already know and you’re meant to look impressed.”

“Psychic.”

“Thirty pounds a ticket, they’re paying, to sit there with a glass of cheap white wine and shout, “Yes!” when someone asks did someone
in the audience have a relative whose name began with
J
.” He stooped, slamming the cellar door shut with a grunt. “I could predict a few things, Jess. And I won’t charge you thirty pounds for it. I predict that so-called spiritualist is sitting at home right now, rubbing his hands and thinking,
What a bunch of Muppets
.”

Jess hauled the tray of clean glasses out of the dishwasher and began stacking them on the shelves above the bar.

“Do you believe all that old bollocks?”

“No.”

“Course you don’t. You’re a sensible girl. I don’t know what to say to her sometimes. Her mother’s the worst. She reckons she’s got her own guardian angel. An angel.” He mimicked her, looking at his own shoulder and tapping it. “She reckons it protects her. Didn’t protect her from spending all her compensation on the shopping channels, did it? You’d think that angel would have had a word. “Here, Maureen. You really don’t want that luxury ironing-board cover with a picture of a dog on it. Really, love. Put a bit into your pension instead.”

Miserable as Jess felt, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re early.” Des looked pointedly at his watch.

“Shoe emergency.” Chelsea slung her handbag under the bar, then fixed her hair. “I got chatting online to one of my dates,” she said to Jess, as if Des weren’t there. “He’s absolutely gorgeous.”

All Chelsea’s Internet dates were gorgeous. Until she met them.

“David, his name is. He’s looking for someone who likes cooking, cleaning, and ironing. And the odd trip out.”

“To the supermarket?” Des asked.

Chelsea ignored him. She picked up a dishcloth and began drying glasses. “You want to get yourself on there, Jess. Get out and about a bit instead of moldering in here with this lot of droopy old ball sacks.”

“Less of the old, you,” Des said.

The football was on, which meant that Des put out free crisps and cheese cubes, and, if he was feeling particularly generous, mini sausage rolls. Jess had taken home the leftover cubes, with Des’s
blessing, to make macaroni and cheese until Nathalie had told her the statistic for how many men actually washed their hands after going to the loo.

The bar filled, the match started, the evening passed without note; she poured pints in the commentary gaps and thought, yet again, about money. The end of June, the school had said. If she didn’t register by then, that was it. She was so deep in thought that she almost didn’t hear Des until he dumped a bowl of potato puffs on the bar beside her. “I meant to tell you. Next week we’ve got a new till coming. It’s one of those where all you have to do is touch the screen.”

She turned away from the optics. “A new till? Why?”

“That one is older than I am. And not all the barmaids can add up as well as you, Jess. The last time Chelsea was on by herself, I cashed up and we were eleven quid out. Ask her to add up a double gin, a pint of Webster’s, and a packet of dry-roasted and her eyes cross. We’ve got to move with the times.” He ran his hand across an imaginary screen. “Digital accuracy. You’ll love it. You won’t have to use your brain at all. Just like Chelsea.”

“Can’t I just stick with this? I’m hopeless with computers.”

“We’re going to do staff training. Half a day. Unpaid, I’m afraid. I’ve got a bloke coming.”

“Unpaid?”

“Just tap-tap-swipe on a screen. It’ll be like
Minority Report.
But without the bald people. Mind you, we’ll still have Pete.
Pete!
”

—

Liam Stubbs came in at a quarter past nine. Jess had her back to the bar and he leaned over it and murmured “Hey, hot stuff” into her ear.

She didn’t turn round. “Oh. You again.”

“There’s a welcome. Pint of Stella, please, Jess.” He glanced around the bar, then said, “And whatever else you have on offer.”

“We have some very nice dry-roasted peanuts.”

“I was thinking of something a bit . . . wetter.”

“I’ll get you that pint, then.”

“Still playing hard to get, eh?”

She had known Liam since school. He was one of those men who would break your heart into tiny pieces if you let him; the kind of blue-eyed, smart-mouthed boy who ignored you all the way through years ten and eleven, laughed you into bed when you lost your braces and grew your hair, then gave you nothing more than a cheery wave and a wink forever after. His hair was chestnut brown, his cheekbones high and lightly tanned. He drove a taxi at night and ran a flower stall in the market on Fridays, and whenever she passed, he would whisper, “You. Me. Behind the dahlias, now,” just seriously enough to make her miss her stride. His wife had left him about the same time Marty had departed. (“A little matter of serial infidelity. Some women are so picky.”) And six months ago, after one of Des’s after-hours specials, they had ended up in the ladies’ loo with his hands up her shirt and Jess walking round wearing a lopsided smile for days.

She was taking the empty cardboard crisps boxes out to the bins when Liam appeared at the back gate. He walked up to her so that she had to back against the wall of the pub garden. The entire length of his body was just inches from hers and he said softly, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” He held his cigarette hand well away from her. He was a gentleman like that.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“I like watching you move around that bar. Half the time I’m watching the football, and half the time I’m imagining bending you over it.”

“Who says romance is dead?”

God, he smelled good. Jess wriggled a bit, trying to get herself out from under him before she did something she’d regret. Being near Liam Stubbs sparked bits of her to life that she had forgotten existed.

“So let me romance you. Let me take you out. You and me. A proper date. Come on, Jess. Let’s make a go of it.”

Jess pulled back from him. “What?”

“You heard.”

She stared. “You want us to have a relationship?”

“You say it like it’s a dirty word.”

She slid out from under him, glancing toward the back door. “I’ve got to get back to the bar, Liam.”

“Why won’t you go out with me?” He took a step closer. “You know it would be great . . .” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

“And I also know I have two kids and two jobs and you spend your whole life in your car and it would take about three weeks for you and me to be bickering on a sofa about whose turn it was to take the rubbish out.” She smiled sweetly at him. “And then we would lose the heart-stopping romance of exchanges like this forever.”

He picked up a lock of her hair and let it slide through his fingers. His voice was a soft growl. “So cynical. You’re going to break my heart, Jess Thomas.”

“And you’re going to get me fired.”

“I take it this means a quickie’s out of the question?”

She extricated herself and made her way toward the back door, trying to make the color subside from her cheeks. Then she stopped. “Hey, Liam.”

He looked up from stubbing his cigarette out.

“You don’t want to lend me five hundred quid, do you?”

“If I had it, babe, you could have it.” He blew a kiss as she went inside.

—

She was walking around the bar to pick up empties, her cheeks still pink, when she saw him. She actually did a double take. He was sitting in the corner alone, and there were three finished pint glasses in front of him.

He had changed into Converse trainers, jeans, and a T-shirt; he sat staring at his mobile phone, flicking at the screen and occasionally glancing up when everyone cheered a goal. As Jess watched, he raised
a beer and downed it in one long, thirsty gulp. He probably thought that in his jeans he blended in, but he had “out of towner” written all over him. Too much money. The kind of studied scruffiness that only comes with expense. As he glanced toward the bar, she turned away swiftly, feeling her mood darken.

“Just popping downstairs for some more snacks,” she said to Chelsea, and made for the cellar. “Ugh,” she muttered under her breath. “Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.” When she reemerged, he had a fresh pint and barely looked up from his phone.

The evening stretched. Chelsea discussed her Internet options, Mr. Nicholls drank a few more pints, and Jess disappeared whenever he got up to the bar—and tried not to meet Liam’s eye. By ten to eleven, the pub was down to a handful of stragglers—the usual offenders, Des called them. Chelsea put on her coat.

“Where are you going?”

Chelsea stooped to apply her lipstick in the mirror behind the optics. “Des said I could leave a bit early.” She pursed her lips. “Date.”

“Date? Who goes on a date at this time of night?”

“It’s a date at David’s house. It’s all right,” she said, as Jess stared at her. “My sister’s coming, too. He said it would be nice with the three of us.”

“Chels, have you ever heard the expression ‘booty call’?”

“What?”

Jess looked at her for a minute. “Nothing. Just . . . have a nice time.”

She was loading the dishwasher when he appeared at the bar. His eyes were half closed and he swayed gently, as if he were about to embark on some free-form dance.

“Pint, please.”

She shoved another two glasses to the back of the wire rack. “We’re not serving anymore. It’s gone eleven.”

He looked up at the clock. His voice slurred. “It’s one minute to.”

“You’ve had enough.”

He blinked slowly, stared at her. His short dark hair was sticking up slightly on one side. “Who are you to tell me I’ve had enough?”

“The person who serves the drinks. That’s usually how it works.” Jess held his gaze. “You don’t even recognize me, do you?”

“Should I?”

She stared at him a moment longer. “Hold on.” She let herself out from behind the bar, walked over to the swing door, and, as he stood there, bemused, she opened it and let it swing back in her face, lifting a hand and opening her mouth as if to say something.

She opened the door again and stood there in front of him. “Recognize me now?”

He blinked. “Are you . . . did I see you yesterday?”

“The cleaner. Yes.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Ah. The whole door thing. I was just . . . having a tricky conversation.”

“‘Not now, thanks’ tends to work just as well, I find.”

“Point taken.” He leaned on the bar. Jess tried to keep a straight face when his elbow slipped off.

“So that’s an apology, is it?”

He peered at her blearily. “Sorry. I’m really, really, really sorry. Very sorry, O Bar Lady. Now can I have a drink?”

“No. It’s gone eleven.”

“Only because you kept me talking.”

“I haven’t got time to sit here while you nurse another pint.”

“Give me a shot, then. Come on. I need another drink. Give me a shot of vodka. Here. You can keep the change.” He slammed a twenty on the bar. The impact reverberated through the rest of him so that his head whiplashed back slightly. “Just one. Actually, make it a double. It’ll take me all of two seconds to down it. One second.”

“No. You’ve had enough.”

Des’s voice broke in from the kitchen. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jess, give him a drink.”

Jess stood for a moment, her jaw rigid, then turned and poured
two measures into a glass. She rang up the money, then silently placed his change on the bar. He downed the vodka, swallowing audibly as he put the glass down, and turned away, staggering slightly.

“You forgot your change.”

“Keep it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Put it in your charity box, then.”

She gathered it up and shoved it at his hand. “Des’s charity of choice is the Des Harris Holiday in Memphis Fund,” she said. “Really. Just take your money.”

He blinked at her, and took two unbalanced steps to the side as she opened the door for him. It was then she noticed what he had just pulled from his pocket. And the super-shiny Audi in the car park.

“You’re not driving home.”

“I’m fine.” He batted away her protest, dropping his keys. “There aren’t any cars around here at night anyway.”

“You can’t drive.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere, in case you haven’t noticed.” He gestured at the sky. “I’m miles away from everything, and stuck here, in the middle of fucking nowhere.” He leaned forward, and his breath was a blast of alcohol. “I’ll go very, very, slowly.”

He was so drunk that peeling the keys from his hand was embarrassingly easy. “No,” she said, turning back to the bar. “I won’t be responsible for you having an accident. Go back inside, and I’ll call you a taxi.”

“Give me my keys.”

“No.”

“You’re stealing my keys.”