Torn (39 page)

‘Not much of a likeness but he's got the hair just about right.'

Despite her discomfort she smiled, passing her hand over her short, dark crop.

‘Why I've come … I …' he paused again and looked at her intently. ‘Jessica, I really enjoyed our day together.'

‘So did I. I'm not sure I thanked you properly.'

‘I didn't come here for thanks. The way it ended … I didn't intend, didn't plan to carry you off to bed. I messed up. Sorry.'

‘No need. From my memory of the event, it was as much my idea as yours, although not what I anticipated.'

‘Seems like it's ruined everything?'

‘Dangerous thing, sex. It has that tendency. Shame, I've always rather enjoyed it.'

‘I noticed.'

Jessica blushed and dragged her eyes away from his dark, interrogatory stare.

‘Is there any hope … a chance of backtracking to before it happened? I realise you think I'm a right-wing sexist bigot.'

‘Just a bit!'

‘So … how can I rescue myself in your eyes?'

‘I'm not sure you can.'

‘If I say sorry? Of course I don't regard you as a “slapper”! We've all done things in the past we regret.' Again he'd said the wrong thing.

‘I'm not ashamed of my past! I don't want to feel it's got to be shut away in a closet and never mentioned, like some ghastly skeleton!'

‘That's not what I meant –'

‘Nor do I want allowances made. Or, heaven forbid, to be forgiven!'

‘Christ! Jessica! I'm not here to fucking forgive you!' He stopped himself and clutched his hand into his hair. ‘I've come to apologise! You're making it very hard! I just want to know if … if there's a chance we can be friends again?'

‘Not if you're a man who expects a different, more elevated standard of behaviour from women … and by women I mean
me
 … than is acceptable to you in men.'

‘I understand that women these days, perhaps, see sex as a way to assert themselves.'

‘Sex as empowerment, you mean? As some sort of political statement? Not me, James. Try “sex because I like it”. You obviously have a problem with that.'

‘Look,' he paused and seemed to need to gather himself before speaking again. ‘I'm not going to pretend I don't find aspects of what you told me about your history … Daniel … difficult to swallow, but I agree with you, that's
my problem
. Something I've just got to find a way of coming to terms with, if I want to continue to be a friend to you. It's what I want. Jess, what is it
you
want?'

‘I want to be a good mother to my son. That's all really. Other things keep getting in the way.'

‘Motherhood doesn't preclude friendship, does it? We all need friends.'

‘I know. But what do you mean by us being friends?'

‘This,' he said with an expansive gesture. ‘It's what mothers do, isn't it, after delivering their kids to school? They have coffee together. Perhaps go out for lunch? A drink now and again? A trip out somewhere together. And before you say I'm not a mother, I refuse to believe you are so hidebound by convention and stereotype you'd deny the possibility I'm a caring parent, nor that I should be allowed to make friends with other caring parents, whatever their gender.'

‘Of course not,' she said, though it was hard to imagine viewing him as just another mother. ‘I know you're a caring parent. OK. Friends.' She extended her hand and they solemnly shook on it.

She accompanied him through the sitting room and opened the front door. Her stomach dropped like a swiftly descending lift. Men in fluorescent yellow jackets were in the field opposite with clip-boards and theodolites.

‘Don't start worrying yet. The decision's not been made … not as far as I know. I assume they'll have the courtesy to tell me precisely which slice of my land they're planning to tarmac before they actually bring in the bulldozers.' As he left the house she experienced a sudden stab of regret.

‘James.'

He turned, eyebrows raised.

‘Believe me, I am sorry too … about everything.'

There was a choice of jobs she could have got on with while Rory was at nursery this morning. There was defrosting and cleaning out the freezer, ironing, or planting the polyanthus plants she'd bought last week into the doorstep tub. In a melancholy mood she just sat on the step, head against the doorjamb, a purring Tubs in her lap, and stared out over the fields opposite where the men in their yellow jackets continued to wander. She'd not been entirely honest with James. Though she would have denied it to the grave, she did feel some shame at the way she'd been living before she fell pregnant with Rory. It was one of the reasons she became so angry and defensive when tackled about that phase in her life; easier to nonchalantly shrug off criticisms which had no basis in truth. And as for her recent behaviour … There was no way she could justify it, apart from the libertarian – let it all hang out – argument, beloved of her mother.

Friday night saw Jess pushing open the door of the Prince Rupert. Sheila wasn't there, but as Jessica went to the bar she looked around to see who was. The regular band of new-agers were over in their usual corner. Jess looked for Danny's thick straight hair – the dark ash-blonde colour usually singled him out in the crowd. He wasn't here. She commandeered a small table and draped her jacket over the second chair.

Equally comfortable in bars, clubs, wine bars, and restaurants Jess began to read her newspaper. There'd been a big May Day climate change demonstration in London. An anarchist element among the demonstrators had come up against over-enthusiastic policing. There'd been violence.

‘Woah! Jessica!' Jessica looked up in surprise to see the multiply pierced and moustached features of the juggler smiling down at her.

‘Mind if I …?'

‘Oh! Owen! Hello! Course not.' She moved her jacket so that he could sit down. ‘Can I buy you a drink?'

While at the bar, buying his pint of Guinness, she wondered why he'd made such a point of joining her. Others from the new-agers' table were looking across at them, possibly wondering the same thing.

‘Are you well? Have you had any more bookings?'

He told her about the only gig he'd done since Sasha's party. She wondered how he managed to support himself and if there were benefits he could claim? Judging from his dishevelled state, he was still not sleeping under a roof. A silence fell, and she struggled for something else to say.

‘Why don't you advertise?' she eventually suggested. ‘I'm sure you'd get loads of work that way.'

‘Don't believe in it,' he said. ‘Advertising's corrupt. Leeches on the credulity of ordinary people and supports the capitalist hegemony!'

‘Course it does, she agreed silently. I wasn't thinking you might hire some big city ad agency to plan a campaign. She censored the thought and enquired innocently, ‘Even the Yellow Pages?'

Someone squeezed past their table and a splash of his Guinness slopped over the rim of the glass. It puddled onto the table before dribbling down into his canvas bag. He neither answered her nor paid any attention to the spillage.

‘I've wanted to talk to you,' he said, getting a tobacco tin out of his pocket and opening it. ‘About Planks … y' know … Danny.'

What on earth did he want to say? She watched him take a paper from the packet of Rizlas and smooth it flat on the table. Then he began to take pinches of tobacco and layer it carefully down the centre.

‘You do know it's no smoking in here?'

‘It's for later.'

Owen rolled and fiddled and poked and licked until she could have ripped the roll-up from between his fingers and crushed it under-foot.

‘He doesn't open out to many people,' Owen eventually continued. ‘A lot of ‘em,' he tipped his head towards the new-agers' table, ‘think he's a bit of a muppet, y'know? But I know he's all right. He opens up to me, sometimes.' He placed the wrinkled little tube, with its escaping brown strands, back in the tin then began smoothing out another paper. ‘Like … I know you and him had a thing, which, I guess, wasn't too serious on your side.' He continued with the careful placement of tobacco strands. And? she was silently thinking. Get on with it!

‘But it
was
serious on his side. He's not one of your typical lads … he doesn't bowl it around … just scouting out for the next willing skirt. He thinks you're fit. He was really proud of you. Don't know if you realise how much he liked you. How much he's been hurt.' Owen squinted up at her as he licked the paper to seal it. ‘He cared, you know? He really cared. I just thought you ought to know.'

Chapter Twenty-four

Jessica watched Owen move back to the other table, his glass still half full. It was a distinctly odd experience to have felt lectured by such an eccentric individual. She'd made no direct response to the information, but she thanked him and wished him well in finding work. As he sat down she exhaled, and some of the rigidity went out of her. What she wanted to do was drop her face into her hands and weep. Everyone must think she was such a cow! Even James, though he claimed to want to remain a friend, must now view her differently – as if all she'd been interested in was pleasure, and stuff the consequences.

Sheila arrived out of breath and smiling. ‘Sorry I'm late!'

‘No problem. What do you want to drink?'

Prompted by Jessica's newspaper they sat for a while talking about the demonstration. Then the door opened and three new customers entered the bar. Horizontally striped legs and heavy boots somehow didn't seem to go with the light ruched skirt and oriental embroidered jacket one of the women was wearing. The other had chosen to team a biker jacket with a long, black, stretchy velvet dress, the nap worn away at her knees. But it was the black and white shawl around her shoulders that Jessica noticed, with a pang. And its owner …

‘Danny!' she exclaimed involuntarily, rising to her feet. There was something unfamiliar about him. The short beard was there, and the beaded thongs around his throat, but instead of the usual lumberjack jacket or waistcoat, he wore a long, caped, shammy-leather coat. But it wasn't just his coat that made the difference; there was something about the way he held himself, the way he spoke casually to the women, before acknowledging Jess, then his slow stroll across the room, thumbs hooked into the belt loops on his jeans, which seemed studied.

‘So this is Danny!' said Sheila, as if she'd never seen him before. Jessica reminded them both of the fact they'd met, even shared a car home from the New Year party. But they looked at one another as if total strangers.

‘Not seen this before.' At a distance the loose coat had looked like a soft tan buckskin. Stupid of her. Danny wouldn't wear leather. Jess fingered the napped linen; it was thinned and softened through wear. ‘It's nice.'

‘Pete gave it me.'

‘Can I buy you a drink?'

‘No. S'OK. I'm with …' She followed his glance to the occupied table where his companions had joined Owen and the others. The young women stared back.

‘We were just wondering if you and your friends took part in these May Day demos in London?'

‘A few went up. Boss had too much work. Said he was saving me from myself.'

‘Sounds like him. You didn't mind?'

‘I'd have liked to show sol'darity, but …' There was a half smile, a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Can't say I missed the aggro.' Between his eyebrows the faint reddish scar was still visible from when he'd been the victim of the randomness and illogicality of violence. ‘I'm not an anarchist, Jess. I'm not into destruction.'

‘I know you're not.' Suffused with a sudden tenderness, only increased by his self-conscious attempt to play this scene ‘laid-back', she spontaneously touched his hand. ‘Are you all right, Danny? Really?' Though the real questions in her head were unexpressed, it felt as if he understood what she was asking.

‘Yeah. I'm fine. Don't worry about me. I'm fine.' He squeezed her hand lightly. ‘I'd better …'

‘Of course. You go back to your friends. Nice to see you. And Danny …' He had begun to move away, nonchalantly hooking his thumb back into his belt loop. He paused, eyebrow raised.

‘You're looking cool … really fit.'

Danny's mouth quirked up on one side and he nodded. ‘Cheers. See you then.'

‘Yes.' She nodded energetically. ‘See you.'

‘That was a revelatory exchange!' Sheila commented as Jess sat down. ‘I can see what attracted you to the guy … his incisive wit and razor-sharp intellect!'

‘He might not be a brain on legs but he's a gentle soul, and he's not had it easy.' Even as she said this, Jess realised she could not substantiate the last remark, but intuition combined with the hints she'd picked up, created a picture of an upbringing which had been at best negligent. Uninterested in the young man, Sheila let the comment pass.

‘Now, tell all about your date with James Warwick.'

‘There's nothing to tell. It was a very successful day. I found I liked him a lot better than I expected to.'

‘He turned on the charm?'

‘I never felt he was trying to charm me, but he talked a bit about his life: Serena and so on. What happened was so dreadful, you can't help feeling sorry for him.'

‘It was his own bloody fault.'

‘I really don't see how you can say that. From what he told me, the pile-up was down to her. She was overtaking on the inside lane.'

‘Driving too fast and without due care. Why? Because she was angry. And why was she angry?'

‘You can't know –'

‘I can because she phoned me that day, just before she left. She needed to blow her stack to someone. That someone was me!'