‘Story of my life: no money.’
‘Hmm,’ she sniffs, disapprovingly and for some reason I get the feeling that the story of my blocked, knackered loo is the one she’ll be retelling later on. ‘OK if I light up a fag to disguise the smell?’
I lead her through the dining room (‘A table that seats fourteen, Jessica? And where do you all sit when there’s something you want to watch on telly?’) and then on out to the massive conservatory. She wanders around, freely tipping cigarette ash everywhere, passing disparaging comments about how expensive every single thing must have been, all the while comparing and contrasting with the soft furnishings in her own house.
Anyway, I hasten to remind myself, the thing to remember is that she means well. She’s the one person who volunteered to give me a dig out and if it’s the last thing I do, I’m determined to build bridges with her. If nothing else, on the principle of divide and conquer; if I have Joan on my side, it should make life with Laurel and Hardy that bit more bearable. Shouldn’t it?
She plonks herself down on a wicker two-seater, wincing a bit at how uncomfortable it is, then asks me the one question calculated to reduce me to a blubbering wreck inside of four seconds. ‘So, what none of us can understand is…has that Sam Hughes really just broken up with you and disappeared off the face of the earth? Where, I’d like to know, is he in all of this?’
‘Dunno,’ I say weakly, slumping down beside her. Desperate to talk and yet knowing that it’ll only bring on yet another tsunami of tears.
My latest theory is actually way too painful for me to articulate out loud, but for the record, it’s this: you see, while Sam juggles so many balls in the air when it comes to his career, in his private life, he’s a pure minimalist. From 6 a.m. when he starts his day, he’s like a puppet master, buying this, selling that, hiring this person, letting that one go, taking this meeting, having a high-powered business lunch with some top executive then off again in a whirlwind of activity and money making and success and all the trappings. But when it comes to his private life, he doesn’t just crave, he demandspeace, tranquillity and absolutely no hassles of any kind whatsoever. Ergo, the very second I became a problem, I was unceremoniously dumped so fast that my head is still reeling from it.
And the reason I landed on this particular theory? Because this is history repeating itself. It’s all happened before. Years ago, when I was still pointing to warm pressure areas on maps in the TV weather room and Sam was dating a high-profile politician who was never out of the papers. Anyway, big scandal at the time, but basically she lost her shirt on stocks that crashed, was forced to declare insolvency and ended up having to resign from her party on account of some mad rule that bars anyone bankrupt from sitting in government. Huge deal, headline news, the papers even called it ‘Stock-gate’. But I distinctly remember reading in the gossip columns not long afterwards that she and Sam had split up. Coincidence? I think not.
I say none of this to Joan, of course. In time, I’d like to think she would become a confidante, but right now, if I have to articulate these thoughts aloud, there’s a good chance I’ll have a full-blown breakdown. So I go for a gag instead, ‘Oh, you know Sam, out helicopter shopping, probably.’
‘Well, no Jessica, I don’t know him, do I? Only through what I read in the papers. We were never introduced. Or even invited here before you fell on hard times. Remember?’ There’s a hint of ice in her voice now, which wasn’t there before.
Shit. I was kind of hoping that wouldn’t come up. Right then. Nothing to do but deal with this head on. Build bridges, keep allies and at all costs, get her onside. ‘Joan, I know I haven’t exactly been a model stepdaughter in the past, but please know how much I appreciate you taking me in.’
‘Well I can’t say we’re exactly looking forward to it…’
‘I know, I know, we fight like Italians…’
‘Oh please don’t say that. It makes us sound so…garlicky.’
‘Come on, I know we’re family and everything, but let’s face it, Dad’s anniversary mass once a year on Christmas Eve is taxing.’
She just pulls on her cigarette and doesn’t answer, but I know she agrees with me.
‘But, the thing is, Joan, I want you to know that I will try. To make an effort, I mean. If it’s one thing the last few awful weeks have taught me, it’s that I’ve been completely wrong about everyone who was closest to me up until now and I’m really hoping that…’ The actual end of that sentence is’…that I’ve been wrong about you, Sharon and Maggie and that somehow we’ll all miraculously morph into the Waltons over the next few weeks, right before I get offered a fabulous TV gig that puts me back on top of my game again. And gets me out of Whitehall and back to a life of luxury, with luck. And then Sam will realise what a moronic gobshite he’s been in letting me go and will come begging for me to take him back, with an engagement ring tucked under his armpit to woo me with.’ Not too much to ask, now is it? But of course I can’t manage to get a word of this out, so I settle for just sobbing my heart out instead. A real cri de coeurthis time.
‘Oh Jessica, for God’s sake stop that right now, you’re getting carried away,’ snaps Joan, coughing on her fag now, but then this is a woman who hates all overt displays of emotion. Even at Dad’s funeral, the only way you’d have known she was having any kind of emotional experience was by the number of fags she chain smoked. ‘Do you know, driving here I saw a car with a bumper sticker that said “All men are bastards. Best you can hope for is to find a nice bastard.” Quite apt for you at the moment, I’d say.’
Through choked-up tears, I thank her for her pearls of wisdom courtesy of some bumper sticker, but as anyone on the verge of a breakdown will tell you, once the crying really starts, there’s just no stopping it. Next thing, Joan starts fishing around the bottom of her handbag, I’m presuming for a tissue, but no. She whips out a blister of tablets, pops out two, one for me and one for her and tells me to knock it back, that it’ll shut up my whinging. And that I can keep the rest of the pack.
‘Zanax,’ she explains. ‘Very mild sedative.’
‘Ah Joan, no,’ I sniffle, handing them right back to her. ‘The state I’m in, I doubt a sedative would know what to make of my central nervous system.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Jessica, these are no stronger than a glass of vino. That’s all. Gets you through the day. It mightn’t take away the pain but it’ll make you not give a shite about it any more.’
The funny thing is, she’s right. Because half an hour later, I’m loading all my boxes and bags into the boot of Joan’s little Toyota Yaris and for the first time in ages, I’m actually feeling…all right. OK, so I mightn’t exactly be dancing on the rooftops singing ‘Oh What a Beautiful Morning’ but you get the picture. I’ve finally stopped whinging and from where I’m coming from, that’s a pretty big deal.
Joan’s defrosted a lot too; she even says that if I drop her off at the hairdressers where she works part-time as a receptionist, that I can have her car for the rest of the evening to keep moving the rest of my stuff into the house. ‘And don’t worry about where to put everything,’ she calls back to me as I drop her off at Curl Up and Die (the salon’s actual name; couldn’t make it up, could you?). ‘Plenty of room in the garage!’ Friendly as you like. Amazing.
Half eight that night
Right then. By now, the tiny garage in our little corpo house looks like Ellis Island at high tide, with the amount of suitcases and bin liners belonging to me. I’ve done three runs back and forth to my house and am almost finished moving. Best of all though, the Zanax haven’t even begun to wear off and I feel wonderful. Blissed out and totallyrelaxed. So chilled, in fact, that I’m seriously considering joining Maggie on the couch inside, where she’s fast asleep and snoring, sedated after two Chinese takeaways and four tins of Bulmers. Sharon is working late tonight at Smiley Burger, so I know that for once, there might actually be room for me on the sofa too.