Page 10 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
“Am I imagining it,” I ask, “or did we just make Bob’s day?”
“I think you did,” Luke replies, smiling. Weird how he’s been distant and grumpy until now, and in the midst of disaster there’s a whole new side to him. “He’ll probably be talking to people in the pub about this for years.”
“Yeah. I wonder if he’s married? Maybe he’ll go home and start saying ‘heightened levels of erosivity’ to his wife...”
“The dirty bastard.”
We all laugh, but it is strained. Luke has done his best for us—he has physically removed me from a stupidly dangerous situation, rescued me from my own recklessness, and he has kept us safe and warm and given us strong liquor. But these are not pleasant circumstances, and this is not a pleasant social occasion. It is a disaster zone.
I feel brittle, taut, like a string that could snap at any moment.
“It’ll be okay,” says Luke firmly. “It might not feel like it now, but it will. You’ll feel better after a shower, and some sleep, and maybe some more brandy. I’ll be here for the next week, and I’ll help in any way I can. Plus you have Betty on your side now, and in my experience there are very few situations that she can’t improve.”
Right on cue, Betty licks my hand. I hope he’s right.
Chapter 4
Bob the Not Builder is a man of his word. He arranged a taxi to take me and Charlie to the glamorous location of a service station with its own version of a Travelodge. It has a dodgy neon sign outside it that is on the blink, announcing to the world that it has free Wi.
“At least it has free Wi,” I said to Charlie as we walked to the lobby.
“Yeah. But the kicker is it’s a hundred pounds an hour for the Fi,” he replied.
Before we left, Luke insisted on handing me some cash, “just in case you need the Toblerone.” I was hesitant to accept it—Luke lives in a motorhome; he doesn’t exactly seem dripping in wealth. I felt that he had done enough, that the kindness of strangers can be taken too far—but one look at Charlie’s face told me he was right. He was pale, exhausted, a faint tremor on his lips.
The boy was going to need a Toblerone for sure, or maybe a bag of fish and chips. Luke’s money also meant that I had enough to stop into a supermarket and pick up a phone charger, which is most definitely one of life’s essentials these days. The hotel wasexpecting us and greeted us like refugees—which I suppose we were. The staff on reception had already got together a package for us: basic toiletries, toothbrushes, a box of spare clothes that had been left behind in rooms and never reclaimed, and, in an especially kind touch, a bottle of red wine. I felt like kissing both the bottle and the receptionist.
We were escorted to a decent-sized twin room on the first floor and told to make ourselves at home.Goodness, I thought,please don’t let that be true—it was a pleasant enough hotel, but it was far from being home. We both showered, and I hand-washed our undies in the sink using shower gel and, before we both collapsed, went in search of food.
The restaurant was still open, and we were told it was all being paid for by the council. Now we are sitting here, among people with normal lives, people who presumably still have homes and possessions. It all feels so strange. The storm has indeed calmed, but the sky is still gray, already dark and gloomy by nine, perfectly suiting our mood as we sit at a small table by the window with plates full of pizza and garlic bread.
Charlie, always hungry at the best of times, is wolfing his down like a man who has been starved for a week. I see the immediate effect—he seems stronger the moment the first bite of pepperoni hits his tongue. I, on the other hand, am finding it impossible to stomach more than a mouthful. I am just too tired, too stressed, too on edge. A million thoughts are swirling around in my mind, none of them good. You don’t realize how much stuff you have—how much stuff you need—until you lose it.
I am chatting to Charlie, trying to keep his spirits up, but at the same time I am mentally cataloging everything we need to replace and how much it will cost. Multitasking at its finest. I am trying to avoid cataloging the things we can’t ever replace—thepictures, the knickknacks, the items that have no financial value but are the ones I will miss the most. I wish I was sitting at my own kitchen table, with its gingham cloth and the little jam jar I’d filled with wildflowers. I wish I was eating beans on toast rather than this feast, looking forward to nothing more exciting than finding something to watch on TV.
As we’d traveled home on the bus earlier today—Could it possibly still be the same day?I wonder—my problems had seemed overwhelming. The threat of losing my job. The few days left until payday. A minor spat with Charlie. Now, looking back, I’d give anything to go back in time and have only those problems to deal with. I suppose that’s always the way in life, isn’t it? A lesson to live in the present, even if it seems less than ideal. In fact, I’d better enjoy this pizza, before Godzilla and King Kong decide to fight their last and greatest battle in rural Norfolk and we become collateral damage. You never know—it could happen.
“Mum?” says Charlie, interrupting my thoughts. I can tell from his tone that it’s not the first time he’s said the word. “Are you okay? You look a bit... wrecked?”
“Ah, thank you, son,” I reply, forcing a smile onto my face. “Always nice to know I’m creating a good impression. I’m all right, yeah... just, you know, thinking about stuff.”
“You always tell me it’s a bad idea to think too much.”
“And it probably is—but there is a lot of stuff to think about right now, and I’m trying to do it before I fall asleep for a thousand years.”
He nods and puts down his fork. He stares at the table, at the remnants of our meal, and says: “It’s nice here, isn’t it? Great food.”
I glance around and see a few business travelers, some tourists probably on their way to somewhere else, men who look likethey’re on a stopover on their truck driving routes. It is nice, in a generic refillable coffee machine kind of way.
“Yep,” I reply. “I’d give it two Michelin Tires.”
He frowns, not getting the reference, but not wanting to show it.
“Michelin is a restaurant guide,” I explain. “And a company that makes tires. That’s what makes it a hilarious joke. You can look it up on your phone, and then it will become real to you.”
“Oh. I see. Is this going to be one of those ‘the younger generation never get off their phones’ conversations? The one where you tell me that in your day, you used to play on rope swings for twelve hours and drink water straight from the sewers and play rounders in the park even though you had a broken ankle and it never did you any harm?”
My mouth twitches in amusement; we have had versions of this conversation many times. It is a game we regularly play. “Yeah. You young people and your phones, it’s a disgrace. I bet you don’t know how to do anything without your phone.”
