10
At 6 p.m. the following evening, after a long day of radio interviews, we meet in the corridor to travel to my mum’s house together. I’m wearing a soft pink dress and a navy cardigan she made me a few years ago when she went through a phase of knitting prolifically – mostly, I think, to keep thoughts of Dad at bay. It lasted for the time it took to knit three scarves and four cardigans, and just before she started knitting jumpers her friend Barbara asked if she wanted to join the local council. I was glad, obviously, that she was spending her time doing something a bit more social, but did feel a little sore that my consistent supply of hand-knitted clothes suddenly stopped. I’d started to look forward to the packages – always arriving unexpectedly, lumpy and soft and wrapped in far too much tape.
‘You look very – smart,’ I say, and I mean it: he’s dressed the part of star author, in jeans and a blazer and a white shirt with the top button undone.
‘I didn’t really know the dress code,’ he says, grimacing. ‘Is it too much?’
I shake my head. ‘They’ll love it.’
And they do – we can barely get through the door of my mum’s house when we arrive. Jack is immediately swept to the corner of the room where an armchair has been set up for him. My dad’s old armchair, I realise with a pang as he sits in it, but I keep my expression carefully blank as he smiles at me through the crowd, shrugging as my mum’s friends compete to offer him a beverage or some crisps. I spot my mum on the other side of the room and move to stand next to her. She’s enjoying this, warm with the company. She’s always loved it when the house is full. Which it’s probably not very often, these days. My stomach twists with guilt. If I lived in London, I could visit her. But I can give her this evening, at least. It’s going to be a good one, Mum , I promise internally. Jack looks up at me from the crowd of women and raises his eyebrows as if to say ‘Help me.’
‘Mum, is there an order to this evening,’ I ask, ‘or is Jack just going to be suffocated by your friends for three hours?’
She ignores my question. ‘He’s even better looking in person than in photographs,’ she says. She winks at me, and before I can say anything in response, she taps her glass with a spoon.
‘Ladies, can you give Jack some breathing room?’ She waits for them to move away from him, then continues. ‘Now, I believe I asked you to each come with a question for our special guest. Who would like to start?’
And so begins a portion of the evening where Jack is asked everything from what his main literary inspirations are – Stephen King, John Steinbeck and Frank O’Hara – to whether he’d ever consider writing the next Fifty Shades of Grey – ‘Never say never’. He weathers it well, answering every question respectfully, even when the questions themselves are not respectful (several ladies take it upon themselves to ask in increasingly direct ways whether Jack is romantically attached – he dodges each one expertly, my favourite being: ‘Unless you ever find yourself single, Elizabeth, I’m afraid I shall remain married to my writing.’).
When the questioning ends, Jack takes advantage of the brief lull to make his way across the room and approach my mum.
‘Thanks so much for having me tonight, Deborah,’ he says, his voice kind. Mum lights up as he offers his hand.
‘It is I who should be thanking you, young man,’ she says, and I blush at her use of the words ‘young man’ to describe Jack, but he only smiles wider.
‘It was my pleasure,’ he says.
‘I hope you’re taking good care of my Andie on this trip,’ she replies, squeezing my arm.
‘Mum,’ I start, mortified by the turn this conversation has taken. ‘That’s not how it works—’
‘Actually, it’s Andie that’s taking good care of me. She’s an excellent publicist. You should be very proud.’ And if I didn’t want to die before, I absolutely do now. I stare intently at my shoes, unwilling to make eye contact with either of them.
‘I am,’ my mum says, putting her arm around me now. And all of a sudden, I find myself very close to tears. Jack seems to notice, shifting on his feet and changing the subject.
‘Deborah, I’ve noticed you have an impressive collection of vintage lamps in this room. Is there a story there?’
‘Do you know, you’re the first person who’s noticed that they’re vintage,’ she says, and launches into a lengthy description of her process of winning eBay auctions. He flashes me a smile as she leads him across the room to one of her favourite pieces, and a warmth starts to spread through my chest, followed by a flash of warning. Truce or no truce, this feels dangerous. It’s just a favour , I remind myself, but I can’t deny it feels like more. He’s given up his night off, and made my mum happier than I’ve seen her in ages. Conflicting emotions swirl through me, gratitude blending with dread at how vulnerable this all suddenly feels.
‘Thank you,’ I say to Jack as we head for the door half an hour later. We’ve finished saying goodbye to everyone. My mum hugged me for a minute longer than was comfortable, so I found myself unable to leave without promising to meet her for a walk through Hampstead Heath tomorrow morning, before we leave for Berlin in the afternoon.
‘That sounded almost sincere, Andie. Are you feeling OK?’ he jokes, giving me a sideways glance.
‘Seriously, Jack,’ I say, resting my hand on his arm to turn his attention back to me as he opens the door. ‘I really appreciate what you did tonight.’
As the cool night air hits us both, an emotion crosses his face that I don’t recognise. ‘You’re welcome,’ he replies, his tone soft, then turns away and we both head out towards the waiting car.