Page 18 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
“I thought maybe you might be tempted, though,” she adds, stirring her iced tea, “by Kidderminster. Because, you know—Charlie will be leaving soon, and... the other thing...”
She doesn’t even know how to say it. It’s as though my house has become He Who Shall Not Be Named. I nod to put her out of her misery. I haven’t really had much time or headspace to genuinely think about moving, what with everything else going on.
We are both silent for a moment, as though paying our respects to the memory of my former home. We are probably both still shell-shocked by the news about our jobs—I knew it would be landing this week, but perhaps not so early. It is another layer of WTF added to the ones I am already being smothered by, and I am unsure how to react. Literally everything that rooted mehere, to this place, to this life, has been taken away from me. I should be in pieces, but I am not—I think I am numb to it all, and maybe that is a blessing. My own mind has provided me with some much-needed anesthetic to tide me over.
Or maybe, it sneaks into my thoughts,it is all just pointing me in one direction: change.I’ve been scared of change for a very long time—all you really want for your kids when they’re little is a stable life. Now my kid isn’t so little—and my life isn’t so stable. If there are any cosmic coincidences in the universe, maybe this is one of them.
Barb and I chat some more, both of us distracted, probably thinking about different things. I, personally, am adding up exactly how much redundancy pay I might get, how long it will last me, and when it might land in my bank account. It will probably be enough to pay for a security deposit on a new rental place, with enough left over to live on until I find a new job—but is that really what I want?
I am excited for Charlie’s future, for his time at university, for the next phase of his life—but now that I am forced to think about it, I am not so excited about mine. I would have stayed in the cottage, at the office, if everything had retained its status quo—but neither of those is an option anymore. I wouldn’t have chosen for my house to fall off a cliff, or to lose my job, but now that both have happened, can I really face launching myself right back into different versions of exactly the same thing?
I find myself thinking about Luke, and his van-that-isn’t-a-van, and about how he said I am at a crossroads. He was even more right than he knew. I am at a crossroads, and I have no idea which way to turn.
By the time Barb has started to make “I really must be going” noises, I have come to a decision. I ask her if she will give me alift, and she is more than happy to oblige. Now I’ve been paid, I really need to get Nina fixed—she’s slipped down my priority list and is currently still languishing in her parking spot. I will feel better about things once I have my own transport.
We load my washing into Barb’s pink Fiat 500 and drop it off at the hotel, and then she is kind enough to drive me to the end of the lane where I used to live.
As I walk along the path and onto the field, I do a bit of googling to confirm statutory redundancy pay and then make my way to the motorhome. I avert my eyes from the rubble, from the dumpster, from the debris. I need to start trying to think of the future, and I know I will be easily derailed by a random glimpse of a precious object calling to me from the wreckage.
Nobody is home at Luke’s, and when I knock, all that happens is that I hear a ferocious amount of woofing from Betty. I peer in through one of the windows, and she jumps up at me, bouncing up and down like a yo-yo.
Delightful as Betty is, she’s not much of a conversationalist, and I still have no clue if Luke is in and doing something else, or out and about, or maybe just lying on the floor and pretending not to be in so he doesn’t have to talk to me.
I do a circuit of the vehicle and see an empty bike rack on the back.Aha, I think—the mystery is solved.It is like an episode ofCSI Norfolk. Maybe I could be a private detective.
It still doesn’t help me guess where he is and how long he will be away, though. I realize I should have done something sensible like get his phone number before I left last time.
I go over to stroke one of the donkeys—the friendly one who always comes for a scratch on the ears—and tell myself off for being impulsive. Now I’m stuck out here for no reason and will have to either wait for the bus, which isn’t due for another fortyminutes, or call a cab. The donkey looks at me with big, sad eyes, and I say: “Yeah. I know. I don’t blame you for judging. I didn’t think this one through, did I?” The donkey remains silent but swishes its tail in what I take to be agreement.
“You’re right,” I continue. “I’m not very organized. I’m like an un-superhero. Like Captain America before the magic potion, or Spider-Man before the radioactive venom. I am... the Amazing Crap Woman!”
“Are you talking to a donkey?” says an amused voice from behind me. “Does it talk back? Is that one of the Amazing Crap Woman’s superpowers?”
I whirl around and see Luke standing next to his bike. He’s so hot, his close-cropped hair is shining and his arms are coated in a sheen of sweat. He looks fit and healthy and active, like an advertisement for multivitamins. I hate him a teeny bit just then.
“Hey! You’re here! Um... so far the donkey hasn’t replied. I’m counting that as a good sign, because my life is already weird enough.”
“Is everything okay?” he asks, before he takes a long gulp of water from a bottle he has attached to the frame of his bike.
“Yeah, fine... sort of. I was just wondering if I could pick your brains about something?”
“Of course, but I need a quick shower. Can you give me five minutes?”
“I have nowhere else to be,” I say honestly. “Charlie’s with a friend for the night. Take as long as you like.”
We stroll back over to the motorhome, and he opens the door to let Betty out. She flies at him in a flurry of licks and yips and he scoops her up for a cuddle. It is quite the contrast, this big, brawny dude and his tiny dog.
“You make a cute couple,” I say, reaching out to stroke her lovely ears.
“I was only out for about an hour and a half, but even if I’m only gone for ten minutes I get this kind of reception... She’s the very best kind of traveling companion. I take her with me when I’m walking, but she has certain leg-based disadvantages when it comes to cycling.”
We make our way inside, and again I am struck by how homely it is, how welcoming. I love the way that everything you need is here, but in miniature. I gaze around, seeing the hidden cupboards and cleverly designed shelving; how every inch of the space has been used. I notice there are fairy lights strung around the top of the sides and imagine how cozy it must be at nighttime.
“What’s this stuff?” I ask, pointing at the blue matting I see on various shelves and spots in the kitchen.
“Anti-slip mat,” he replies. “It does what it says on the tin. So when you’re driving, you don’t want stuff moving around too much—like the microwave sliding off the counter, or even your phone falling off the dashboard, whatever. You put this stuff on shelves, in cupboards, on surfaces, and it helps keep things stable.”
I reach out and prod it and make a smalloohsound. It’s all so sensible, this motorhome stuff. I wonder if my mind could ever adjust to being so practical.
