Page 64 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
This is an interesting twist for me—it is something I had never really understood about Richard. He always seemed straightforward, simple, secure in his role as Number One Son. But then again, I was only fourteen when he left for uni, and probably never noticed him unless he was doing something to annoy me. Like I said, we were never close—but maybe I was wrong about us not being close in the future. Maybe we have more in common than I thought.
“So,” he says, grinning. “What’s up with Luke? Are you shagging or what?”
Ah. Maybe we won’t be that close, after all.
I stand up and chuck a napkin at him as I walk past. “None of your beeswax, numb-nuts,” I say, giving him a poke in the back of the head for emphasis. As I reach the doorway, I pause, look back at him. “They weren’t bad parents, though, were they?” I ask. “Even though we’re moaning like this. They always loved us, and we were really lucky in so many ways.”
“I know, sis,” he replies, looking at me over his shoulder. “They always did love us. They still do. And nothing makes you more tolerant of your own parents’ mistakes than having your own kids, does it?”
“For sure. I’m positive we’ll provide them with plenty to moan about themselves when they’re older. Anyway... good night, bro. See you tomorrow.”
As I make my way up the wide stairs, hand skimming along the polished mahogany banister, listening to the familiartick-tockof the old grandfather clock on the landing, I realize that we all have our own realities. We all remember what we want to remember, understand what we want to understand. Families are complicated devils.
I walk along to my room and take my time getting into my pajamas, brushing my hair, fluffing up my pillows. I sit on the edge of the bed and know that I am going to struggle with sleep again tonight. I’m very slightly drunk, and my brain is just too busy. If I get under these covers, I will simply lie here for hours, tossing and turning and switching the pillow over to the cool side and back again. I will get up for water, get up to use the loo, get up to check my phone. It will be pointless.
I open up my laptop, try to do some writing. Shannon has a desk set up in here, some random school texts scattered across it. I resist touching any of the notebooks, just in case she’s like me and has written terrible, slushy teenage erotica in them.
I flick through half-written blog posts, not satisfied with any of them. I was telling the truth when I said to Charlie that I had plenty left to write about—I just don’t seem able to write any of it. I haven’t finished a single piece since we arrived here. I have been telling myself that it’s because I’ve been busy, that there is too much else going on, that it is understandable that I need a break—but, whatever the reason, writing has stopped being a refuge, stopped being something that comes naturally to me.I hope it comesback, I think sadly as I shut down the laptop.
I am still restless, still too awake—that awful netherworld where your body is tired but your mind wants to go and run a marathon. In fancy dress.
I walk toward the window, look at a beautiful night sky. It is a dark shade of blue, tinged with violet, scattered with stars. It reminds me of the night I slept outside, the night Luke told me more about his life, about the events that led him to his travels. The events that, ultimately, I suppose, led him to me, and led me to here, to this place that is so laden with both love and lament.
I glance down, see that there is still a light on in Joy. His bedroom, at the back. I wonder what he is doing, if he is struggling to sleep as well. If he is sad or happy or somewhere in between. I find that I don’t like this—I don’t like not knowing, I don’t like this sense of distance that has opened up between us. I don’t like the fact that he is still here, but we are not connected in the same way. Sometimes it feels like he’s already left.
I put my flip-flops back on and go back down the stairs. I peek into the dining room, see that Richard is snoring open-mouthedon the chaise longue with Frank draped across his chest, and creep toward the back kitchen door. I sidle out as quietly as I can and cut through the flower garden to Joy’s field. What is it with me and this house and sneaking out to see men?
I knock gently on the door, smile as I hear Betty snuffling around on the other side. She already knows I am here, of course. Clever girl.
I wait for a few moments, telling myself that I will leave if there is no answer, rather than simply let myself in. He might have fallen asleep while he was reading a book. He might be on the phone to someone. He might be...
“Jenny,” Luke says, opening the door and staring at me in surprise. “Are you okay?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” I reply, gazing up at him. “Would you mind if I came in?”
Chapter 19
I am trying to sneak back into the house the next morning, feeling like a guilty teenager all over again, when my mother collars me.
She has been sitting in the living room with the dog, a full view of everything going on outside, and I freeze as she says: “Jenny! Come here, darling!”
I’d just about managed to get one foot on the lower stair, and consider ignoring her and running all the way back up to my room. Old habits, dying hard.
I sigh and trudge in to see her, a sense of defeat hanging over me.
“Please, sit... ,” she says, gesturing at the chair. I wonder when she will start shining a bright light in my face.
“It’s not what you think, Mum!” I say preemptively. “I just stayed over for the night. Nothing... inappropriate happened!”
Frank hears my tone and ambles over to shove his head under my hands.
My mum raises her eyebrows into a delicate arch and sips her tea.
“You’re a grown woman, Jenny,” she replies, looking marginally amused. “Although I’m not sure a grown woman would spend quite as much time in pink flip-flops as you do.”
I glance down at my feet and silently curse them.
“I have limited supplies,” I say, defending myself, even though I wish I didn’t feel the need to. “Most of our belongings went over the cliff, and these were cheap.”
