Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

There are few things that a good night of sleep cannot remedy. Life always looks better in the morning!

Matilda Beam’s Good Mother Guide, 1959

Grandma is so wrong about things being better in the morning. I didn’t believe it was possible to feel any worse than I did last night, but I absolutely do. I’ve been up with bellyache for most of the night and now I’m groaning in bed while Grandma fusses about, taking my temperature and bringing me sachets of dehydration powdery stuff every hour.

Peach is worse too. We’ve been texting each other from our respective sick beds, wishing all sorts of evil things onto the owner of that dodgy kebab house. Namely, that he eats one of his own bastard kebabs.

I really hate being unwell. Being unwell means you have to stay still. And when you stay still there are no distractions, no fun, and all the things you don’t want to think about start to seep into your brain and take over. I was never ill, growing up. There’s simply no time to be poorly when you have a poorly mum to look after.

I try to distract myself by going online. I open my Facebook app to see if anyone, anyone at all, is wondering where I am, how I am or what I’m doing. But there are no messages or posts at all for me, just a friend request from Peach Carmichael, which I accept. I look at my newsfeed. There’s a status from Betty in Didsbury − she’s planning Henry’s birthday party. And, oh, there are a few photos from Amy Keyplass – all her newly painted skirting boards. I scroll down further and see that Summer has posted a number of particularly passive-aggressive status updates.

Summer Spencer

The cheek of particular people is unreal. #fuming

Summer Spencer

You give and you give and some people just take. Have learned my lesson. #movingonup #blessed

Summer Spencer

thinks that certain people will get what’s coming to them. Karma’s a bitch, folks. #noregrets #karmachameleon #thekittenismine

With an exasperated eye-roll, I log out of Facebook and swipe onto Google, where I idly type in ‘Leo Frost’. To be honest, I’m a tiny bit freaked out by what happened last night. Leo wasn’t at all what I thought he’d be like. The entire night was pretty unexpected. Yes, he’s a twonk in general – he was snobbish and horrible at The Beekeeper party, and I overheard him being completely sexist at the retro fair – but the whole poetry thing, the fact that he wasn’t a dick when I puked up, his git of a dad and that gorgeous drawing . . . I didn’t, you know, hate him.

Google displays a few articles about Leo Frost the advertising wunderkind and his rise to the top, under the helm of the powerful and ruthless Rufus Frost, how he’s just been nominated for a London Advertising Association award − one of the youngest people to ever be nominated. I already read those fluff pieces when I first researched him a few days ago, so bypass them and check out the numerous gossip sites, where Leo is regularly spotted at cool bars and events and hanging out with celebrities. I flick onto Google images. There are a few pics of his print adverts – stark, steely artwork for cars, golf clubs, beers, man stuff!, but mostly it’s paparazzi shots of Leo with various modelesque-looking women on his arm. Oh look, there’s one of him with Valentina. They’re leaving a club and she’s kissing him on the cheek while he grins arrogantly into the camera.

The way his lips are curled in this photograph, his cupid’s bow sneering upwards … He didn’t seem at all like that last night.

Maybe he’s got an evil twin.

Maybe not − this isn’t Sunset Beach.

Confused, I press my phone icon and dial Valentina’s number.

After three rings, she answers.

‘Jess? Is that you?’

‘It’s me.’ I sit up in bed, prop a pillow behind my back and take a sip of water.

‘Jess, my sunshine pudding, how are you? How goes my pet project? I’m so excited about it.’

‘Um, all right, I think … I was actually calling because I went on the first proper date with Leo Frost last night.’

‘Hold on, I’m at lunch, it’s noisy, let me just head outside.’

I hear her apologizing to whomever she’s with, and then the sound of her heels clip-clopping across a wooden floor.

‘I’m back. Go on. Tell me. How did it go? He’s a fucking terror, isn’t he? So charming. Such a prick.’

‘Well, that’s kind of why I’m ringing, Valentina. Leo Frost is a goon, obviously, no diggity, no doubt, but he wasn’t, well, he wasn’t a total dick. He wasn’t what I was expecting at all … ’

‘He schmoozed you with fancy dinner and expensive wines, I expect? Did he bring you extravagant gifts? Exotic flowers? Artisan chocolates? Tell you your face is sweeter than honeydew? It’s easy to be swayed by those things, believe me, but—’

‘Well, no, that’s the thing. He didn’t do any of that. He didn’t take me to dinner. He seemed like he was going to, but then he changed his mind and took me to a poetry night instead. At some little coffee house.’

There’s a pause on the other end. ‘Poetry? Jesus.’

‘I know, right?’

‘Hmmm.’ I hear her long nails tapping against the phone. ‘He never mentioned poetry to me when we were seeing each other. He tried to get you into bed, of course?’

‘Um, no. Ew. But I have been putting out the “not that kind of girl” vibes like Grandma’s guides tell me to.’

‘Gosh … He must be trying out a new move. It has to be that. Leo is a shark whose only goal where women are concerned is to get them into the sack and then to heartlessly dump them when he’s feeling bored or tied down. Maybe he’s changing up his M.O. . . . How curious. Keep your wits about you, sweet, naive Jessica. It’s you who must hold on to the upper hand. Stick to Matilda’s tips and remember who you’re dealing with. Keep me updated, OK? I have to go back to lunch now, but let’s speak soon, and Jessica, remember … Leo Frost is not to be trusted.’

She speaks as if I’m going off into battle. Wow. Poor Valentina. He really did pull a number on her.

I say bye and press the ‘end call’ button.

Leo Frost. Artist. Thinker. Man. Not to be trusted.

So it’s all an act? He’s being what he thinks I want, just to get me into bed? Kind of like what I’m doing to him …

I picture Leo gently taking my scarf from around my neck, holding back my hair. The whole kind and sensitive act. How he told me to close my eyes and ‘let it flow’ when I got on stage. And I blummin’ did.

Oh, he’s good. He’s really fucking good.

* * *

At about five p.m., there’s been little improvement in my condition and, according to her texts, it’s the same for Peach. Grandma is dashing from my room to Peach’s and back again to bring us fresh water and soothing platitudes. I’m watching You’ve Been Framed on the iPhone in-between trips to the loo and feeling incredibly sorry for myself.

When there’s another knock at the door I expect it to be Grandma bringing more dehydration sachets, but it’s not. It’s Jamie. He trails in, followed by a small boy in a Leeds United football kit and clutching a football under one arm. Dashing in behind the pair of them comes Grandma, who hurries over to feel my forehead for the gazillionth time.

‘Jessica, dear, the doctor’s surgery isn’t open on a Saturday so I took the liberty of telephoning Dr Qureshi downstairs. Unfortunately he wasn’t there, so young Doctor Abernathy here − ’ she says his name with a wrinkle of the nose; to be fair she has seen his balls − ‘has agreed to take a look at you and Peach in order to check that nothing more serious is occurring here. I shall, ahem, leave you to it, Doctor Abernathy.’

Her chin wobbles for a moment and then she bustles out of the room.

Jeez.

‘Um … hey?’ I say with a sigh. ‘I’m all right, really. Sorry she rang you, we just ate a shifty kebab the other night is all. She’s a bit of a worrier.’

The young boy darts over to the balcony door and gazes out onto the big park opposite Bonham Square. ‘Woah, I can see for ages up here!’ he yells with glee.

‘This is Charlie, my nephew.’ Jamie grins proudly.

Ah, yes. He did say his kid nephew was coming to visit this weekend.

‘I was showing him around the clinic when Old Lady – um, Mrs Beam called to say you were unwell. Say hello to Jess, Charlie.’

‘Hello, Jess,’ Charlie says shyly, wandering back over from the balcony to get a good look at me in all my pukey glory. ‘What team do you support?’

‘Oh, um. Well, I don’t know … ’ I eye his top. ‘Leeds United?’

Right answer. Charlie’s punches the air and Jamie laughs at my quick thinking.

‘Aw, cool, a cat!’ Charlie skips over to the tub chair where Mr Belding is stretched out beside Felicity the doll. He kneels down on the carpet and gently takes Mr Belding’s paw into his own little hands.

‘You play nicely with the cat, Charlie,’ Jamie says in a soft burr. ‘I’m just going to examine Jessica here so we can make her all better.’

Charlie nods solemnly.

‘I’m fine, honestly.’ I roll my eyes. ‘There’s no need for you to—’

Jamie shuts me up by sitting down on the side of the bed and shoving a temperature stick in my mouth. He pulls a stethoscope from around his neck, slipping the cold metal up the back of my nightie. This is weird.

‘OK, your pulse is a little fast, but not weak, so you’re probably not dehydrated.’

He takes out the temperature stick and examines it. ‘No fever.’

Pushing lightly on my shoulder so that I lie down, he flattens his palm against my stomach and has a good feel about. I think about the last time he had his hands in that area. I drift off a little into that far more pleasant memory.

‘How are your stools?’ he asks brightly.

And straight back to earth I tumble.

‘Go away!’ I sit up and push him off. ‘I’m fine. I told you − it was a kebab and too many beers.’

He laughs, rubs his hand over his beardy face and stands up. ‘Yeah, you’re all right. Like you say, just a wee case of food poisoning. Plenty of fluids, OK? And only dry toast to eat until you stop spewing.’

I shake my head. ‘Nice terminology, Doc. Fine. Fine. I have my orders.’

He leans closer to me on the bed and kisses my cheek.

‘Gerrof.’ I shrug him away. ‘I’m gross.’

‘Get better, you. I’ll see you soon … in secret?’ he whispers, giving me a knowing grin. And then in his normal voice. ‘Come on, Charlie. Our next patient awaits.’

Charlie quickly jumps up from the floor, startling Mr Belding who proceeds to screech and dart into the air, knocking Felicity off the tub chair and onto the floor, where her melancholy face loudly smashes into three sharp pieces. At the noise, Charlie starts crying. Really loudly.

I jump up worriedly in the bed. Jamie hurries over to Charlie. ‘Woah, watch your feet, buddy!’ he warns, scooping the kid up into his arms and looking at him with a tenderness that makes my neck prickle.

‘Sorry about that,’ he says with a grimace once he’s calmed Charlie down via lots of hugging and shushing. ‘Kids, you know.’

I don’t know.

‘Oh, don’t worry about it.’ I breezily wave him away and pull a pissed-off Mr Belding onto my lap. ‘I’ll clean this up in a bit. You go and see Peach. Thanks for coming. It wasn’t awkward at all.’

He hovers by the door looking worriedly down at the broken doll.

‘Go! It’s fine. It’s just a doll!’ I say with a shrug. ‘Honestly, it’s really no big deal.’

* * *

Oh, but it is a big deal. It is apparently a very big deal. When Grandma spots smashed-up Felicity on the floor, she almost crumples down there with her. I thought I had seen the worst of Grandma’s emotional meltdowns, but I hadn’t. I really hadn’t.

‘Shit, I’ll clean it up, OK?’ I crawl quickly to the end of the bed in horror. ‘I was just, you know, waiting for a fresh burst of energy before I did it. No! Don’t cry! It was a total accident.’

Grandma gathers the body of the doll up into her arms, holds it to her chest and bawls. She doesn’t even notice that I said shit.

Fuck.

‘We’ll get a new one,’ I try. ‘I’ll pay for it. I’ll get one today.’

Grandma slowly sits down on the chair. She takes a shaky breath.

‘There are no new ones,’ she mutters, delicately straightening Felicity’s pinafore.

‘I’m sure they sell them at Argos,’ I say brightly. They always sell that sort of tat at Argos. ‘I’ll have a look, shall I?’ I grab my phone from the side table and open up the Internet icon.

‘You don’t understand. This was Rose’s doll.’

‘What?’ I drop my phone onto the duvet. These were Mum’s dolls? I knew she was unstable, but … porcelain dolls?

‘These are all her dolls,’ Grandma sobs, indicating the many creepy porcelain dolls positioned around my room. ‘Jack and I bought her a new one for every birthday since her first. This one is the last one we gave to her before she … ’

Grandma dissolves into tears.

‘Before she what?’

‘Before she left. And now it’s gone. Broken, and I cannot fix it. I will never be able to fix it.’

My eyes scan the large room, counting out the dolls. Including Felicity, there are twenty-five of them. One a year for twenty-five years.

Mum was twenty-five when she got pregnant with me.

That can’t be a coincidence. Shit, was I something to do with why she left Matilda and Jack?

I’m not sure I even want to know the answer. It never does any good to dwell on the past. But suddenly I’m really, really curious.

‘Um, why … why did Mum leave?’ I ask lightly, the crawling sensation already making its way over my head. I clench my fists and ignore it. ‘I mean, she never talked about her life here, about you or Granddad Jack. Was it … ’ My voice goes unusually small. I swallow. ‘Was it because of me? Was it my fault she left? Because, you know, she was pregnant with me?’

Grandma meets my gaze, blinking as if she had momentarily forgotten I was in the room. She takes a sharp breath, removes her specs and fiercely wipes the tears from her eyes with her embroidered hanky.

‘Of course not, Jessica,’ she says, speedily dabbing at her nose and attempting to be brisk. ‘Your mother left home because she … she wanted to be independent. It was nothing to do with you, dear. Nothing at all. You mustn’t think that.’

I frown. I don’t want to push her and I really don’t want her to cry any more, but … something doesn’t add up.

‘But … if she left home because she wanted to be independent, then why did you guys never speak? Why have we only just met? Why—

Grandma interrupts me with a gasp. ‘Goodness, is that Peach I can hear? Is she … is she calling for me?’

I scrunch up my face. I hear nothing.

‘Yes. Yes, I do believe I hear Peach.’ Grandma picks up the pieces of Felicity and clutches them close to her chest. ‘She must be very unwell. I must go and see to her right away.’

‘Wait—’

Grandma ignores me, dashing out of the room super quickly. From the hall she calls, ‘Rest up, dear. We have a busy week ahead. Lots to do!’

If I wasn’t already sure that Grandma was hiding something about my mum, I’m certain of it now.

And I’m going to find out what it is.