Vin had had his way, she’d be Diddymu.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Name of a nag. Came in for him at forty-to-one on the day she was born. Mum obviously wasn’t having that. They couldn’t agree and rowed about it for two months. In the end they compromised. Went for two names. Mum chose Scarlet.’
‘What about Vince?’
‘Bubbles.’
‘That’s the name of—’
‘Yeah, Jacko’s chimp. I told him he was mad; he was writing out a permit for adult therapy right there on her birth certificate. I mean, if they had to have two names the least they could’ve done was make one of them Kate.’
‘Does he have custody?’
‘Fuck, no—he makes Fagin look like a model carer. But he’s very hands-on. Takes her to toddler ballet every Saturday and brings her to all-night edits at Moving Pics.’
Bang on cue, Vince reappears with Jakki. His hand is on—what else?—her bum and I’m trying—struggling, frankly—to picture him cosseting a tiny bundle of humanity; his pride and joy.
‘Here, Jakks, do something with your soppy boss, will you?’ he says, shoving her in my direction. She lands in my lap, where she stays, giggling. She smells icky-sweet—Dune mingling with the Bacardi marketing department’s notion of passion fruit, which at least masks the sardine sandwich she had for lunch. I pull her upright and she slides off onto the bench seat beside me.
‘Leave him alone, Vince, he’s lovely,’ she slurs, putting an arm around my shoulder. He takes her advice and leaves me alone, heading back to her mates. Jakki looks me in the eye and says, ‘You OK? You’ve been very…distant lately.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yeah…I notice stuff, you know. I’m like a radio. I pick things up.’
‘I’m fine, Jakki. Just a bit under the weather…You know, tired.’
‘You wanna pull yourself together,’ she snaps suddenly, pulling her arm from my shoulder. ‘You don’t know how bloody lucky you are.’
What did I say?
She starts to cry.
What did I say, for heaven’s sake?
‘My uncle’s got cancer,’ she says through drunken sobs.
‘I’m sorry, Jakki,’ I say, though she’ll never know how truly sorry I am.
‘He had this lump on his forearm for ages. He used to joke about it—said it was his extra muscle—but it’s cancer. They cut his arm off at the elbow last week. He’s having chemo now. They reckon he’ll be OK, but you’re never OK after that, are you?’
No, I don’t suppose you are.
‘It’s like a knife hanging over you—’
OK, I get the picture.
‘—a ticking time bomb—’
Shut up, for God’s sake.
‘—a death sentence. It’s so sad.’
Sad? It’s tragic, girl. You do not want to know how much that little nugget of family news is churning me up inside.
‘I’m sorry about your uncle, Jakki, really sorry, but…’
But what? She looks at me for a morsel of comfort.
‘…But I’ve got to go.’
I stand up, grab my jacket and leave the bar.
10.01 p.m.
Outside the icy air whacks me in the face. I suck it in, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. My legs are shaking and I have that sharp, presick taste in the back of my throat. I try to swallow but my mouth is too dry. I can’t shift my mind off tumescent, throbbing tumours.
I need to get home. Now.
I see a taxi—a rare sight in Docklands at this time of day. A rare sight at any time of day. Docklands is placed next to Papua New Guinea in the cabdriver’s atlas. I stick my arm out. Barely slowing, the taxi swings through a dizzying U-turn and pulls up in front of me. The driver’s window slides down and a cheery voice calls out, ‘Where to, chief?’
‘South Woo—’
The rest of the word comes out as a stream of vomit that pebble-dashes the Rimmel poster on the cab door—it looks as if Kate Moss has suddenly quit extolling longer, lusher lashes in favour of drawing attention to the horror of eating disorders.
‘Drunken fucker,’ the cabby shouts as he accelerates away.
I wish—I truly, truly wish.
thursday 20 november / 11.04 p.m.
What am I doing here?
It’s barely an hour since I gave the taxi a spray job. Here is nowhere near South Woodford. Here is Barnsbury Square, Islington. I have no idea which house they live in, but it’s surely close. I start in the northeast corner and set off. Halfway round I spot the Bentley. I can’t be far away. Resisting the urge to give the car a good kicking, I look at the houses. They’re only terraces—albeit nice, big terraces—but each one must be worth over a million. I walk along the iron railings that separate them from the pavement and peer down into the basement wells. Most of the windows are shuttered, but light pours out of one—shining like an irresistible come on. I stop and look inside. A couple sits at a rustic pine table. In front of them are half-empty glasses and dirty plates decorated with scraps of rocket, Parmesan shavings and smears of glossy, dark brown sauce.
I look at the couple. He’s thirty-ish, deliberately unshaven. A chunk of surgical steel glints in his eyebrow, paint splatters his jeans. A decorator? Eating rocket in Barnsbury Square? More likely he spends his working days in a barn-like studio off Old Street roundabout which he shares with canvases and objets trouvés—AKA shit from skips according to Brett, who’s something of an art critic. She’s long and angular in a way that a scout from Storm would describe as momentous before booking her on the next flight to Milan. Her hand is on his leg and they’re laughing.
I remember that. Laughing. With Megan. Her hand resting casually on my thigh.
Jesus, what the hell am I doing here?
Did I really think I’d see her and him through an un-curtained window? And even if I did, what was I proposing to do? Ring on the doorbell and invite
