Chapter 24.
‘Don’t judge me,’ I whisper, as I put the key in my mother’s lock.
‘For what?’
‘The way my mum is.’
‘You’re not your mum, Neve.’
True, but still. I know how easy it can be to judge someone by association.
We head inside, then make our way to the living room. Mum’s curled up on the sofa in the gloom, thankfully fully clothed in a long sequinned dress and high heels, half covered with a cashmere wrap. The overhead lights don’t work in here, so I snap on the House of Hackney standard lamp I bought her two Christmases ago, which still has a functioning bulb.
‘Mum.’ I crouch down beside her, making the floorboards creak. Ash remains standing at a respectful distance behind me, in the doorway. I catch the scent of strong perfume and alcohol, but nothing resembling the contents of her stomach, thank goodness. ‘Are you okay?’
Her eyes flutter open. Her hair is twisted into a giant topknot that’s been lacquered into submission by what must have been an entire can of hairspray. She still smells slightly flammable. ‘Neve?’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh,’ she says, eyes drifting closed again. ‘Load of fuss about nothing.’
‘The taxi driver said you couldn’t remember your address.’
‘I told him . . . Senior moment . . . No need for all the . . .’
Most of her make-up has migrated to the folds of her face. Her teeth are patched dark red in places, and for a moment I think it’s congealed blood, before I realise it’s lipstick.
I glance at Ash and shrug, lightly. He responds with a supportive smile.
‘Mum, how much have you had to drink?’
‘No idea.’
‘We need to get you to bed.’
She opens her eyes again, then looks over in Ash’s direction and smiles. ‘Hello, Jamie.’
My stomach drops off a cliff. ‘Mum, that’s not—’
‘What’s Jamie doing here?’
‘No, Mum, it’s... This is Ash. He’s...’ I glance back at him, and he gives me another reassuring smile. A just say what you’ve got to say smile. ‘He’s a friend.’
‘Nice to meet you, Daniela,’ he says softly, patiently.
‘Are you my taxi driver?’
‘No, Ash is my friend. He’s an architect, Mum.’
‘Jamie’s an architect.’
I feel a flare of panic. Maybe bringing Ash here was a stupid idea. I remember how weird Mum used to be towards Jamie. How awkward the room felt whenever they were in it together.
‘Would you like a drink of water?’ Ash says. Without waiting for a response, he disappears into the hallway, and I hear him making his way to the back of the house. My panic recedes a little.
‘First time Jamie’s ever been helpful,’ Mum slurs, shooting me an enormous, exaggerated wink, the supposed inference of which I don’t even begin to get.
I draw in a couple of steeling breaths. She’s way too drunk to make it upstairs, so instead I fetch a blanket, remove her heels and encourage her into the recovery position. Is that what they still recommend? I fetch an ornamental bowl from a shelf – something she bartered for on holiday in Turkey years ago – and decide that if she wakes up tomorrow and discovers it’s full of puke, then that can be her punishment.
‘Duke’s back with his “wife”.’ She makes air quotes with her fingers – though I’m not really sure why, since it’s reasonable to assume the man hasn’t invented being married.
My impatience gives way to pity. Because, despite everything, I know Mum’s heart is too fragile to be dating some arsehole who thinks wedding rings are optional. Especially an arsehole who has a nickname more suited to a 1980s porn star.
‘Then he doesn’t deserve you,’ I whisper, squatting down next to her and gently squeezing her arm.
Ash reappears with a pint of water and some paracetamol, setting them down between the newspapers and unwashed mugs on the coffee table.
‘Thanks, Jamie,’ Mum says, with the heavy sincerity of the very drunk, looking up at him, eyes rolling as she attempts to focus. ‘All right if I call you Jamie?’
‘No,’ I say, sharply, ‘it isn’t.’
He reaches out to touch my shoulder, mouthing, ‘It’s really okay.’
I get to my feet. ‘I’d better stay with her.’
A beat. ‘I can stay too. If you like.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, if . . . If that’s okay.’
I glance down at Mum. Her eyes have fluttered shut now, her breathing becoming weighted.
I realise I feel relieved. I don’t want him to go. ‘Only if you don’t mind.’
He puts an arm around me, and my heart unclenches.
My bedroom door probably hasn’t been opened since I was last here, and the space has that locked-room smell. I go straight to the window and yank it open, letting in a warm gust of night air and the faint sound of traffic moving along Earlham Road.
‘It’s a gorgeous house,’ Ash says, sitting down on the edge of the stripped single mattress.
‘Well, it could be. Or should be. She won’t let me touch it. It’s her special way of tormenting me. What would you do with it?’ I say, with a smile.
‘Architecturally? If it were down to me... not much, actually. A few tweaks, maybe. I might frame the view of the garden from the kitchen a bit differently. Redesign the lower part of the rear elevation, create a better entertaining space.’
I laugh softly. ‘I don’t think my mother needs any more encouragement to entertain.’
‘Was this your bedroom?’
I nod. ‘It hasn’t changed much since I was a kid.’
‘A Timberlake fan,’ he observes approvingly, nodding at my posters.
Occasionally, Jamie would have a go at the dance moves to make me laugh, so badly I’d always threaten to break up with him. ‘I mean, who isn’t?’
‘Well, quite.’ He leans back on his arms and smiles, looking every inch the double-O in his black tie. ‘And is that Lara?’
I follow his gaze to the photos still clinging doggedly to the wall. In every shot, we’re squeezing each other tight, our skinny arms wrapped around each other. There’s one of us in this house, downstairs in the kitchen. One on a pair of canvas chairs, at a caravan park in Devon. One at school, on our last-ever day, white shirts graffitied with messages from our friends. We’re sticking our tongues out, and for some reason they’re stained green, but I can’t remember what from. ‘Yep. That’s her.’
‘You look close.’
‘We were. We were... inseparable.’ And then, before he can ask more, I say in a rush, knowing I have to confront what happened downstairs, ‘I’m sorry, by the way. About my mum calling you Jamie. She’s just drunk.’
He nods. ‘I know.’ But I wonder if his eyes are saying, Are you only with me because I remind you of him?
I feel sure this is what he’d been going to ask me at the beach that day.
But I can’t tell him he does far more than just remind me of Jamie. That all the stories I read online about souls swapping over, and the countless similarities between Ash and Jamie – way too many for it to be coincidence – have continued to beetle at the back of my mind.
And now my mum – based on two seconds of conversation – has made the link too. And yes, she is bonkers and drunk and generally about as reliable as a helicopter in fog. But how can I ignore it being the first thing she said, unprompted; the first thing she thought when she saw him?
‘Do you recognise this dress?’ I ask him.
‘In what way?’
‘Can you remember... ever seeing it before tonight?’
It’s the same question I wanted to ask when I told him about the baby, and when we walked into this room just now. Does this memory seem in any way familiar to you?
He stares at me for a couple more moments before his expression becomes a smile. ‘I mean, I love it, if that’s what you’re asking.’ From where he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, he reaches out, places his hands on my hips. ‘Why do you ask? Has someone famous worn it, or something?’
‘So you do think you might have seen it before?’
‘You carry it off way better than any celebrity I can think of.’ Misunderstanding complete, he moves one hand to the dress’s hem, then starts to push it upwards, bunching its fabric over my thighs. Slowly, he starts to roll down my tights, his gaze gripping mine the whole time.
But just as I’m about to shut my eyes and abandon earth, I feel him hesitate, let out a punch of breath. ‘Sorry, Neve. Is this a bit... weird, with your mum downstairs?’
‘No. No, not at all. She wouldn’t care. She’d do the same.’ Of this, I could not feel more confident.
‘You looked really good, you know, up on that stage tonight,’ he murmurs, returning his attention to my legs, my dress. ‘CEO would suit you.’
I smile, though I’m struggling to fully focus. ‘Kelley’s going nowhere.’
‘You could start a rival business.’
‘Never. She’d bury me.’
He pauses. ‘Just so you know, this isn’t my idea of dirty talk.’
I look down at him, lifting an eyebrow. ‘But ambition turns you on.’
He laughs. ‘Never really thought of it like that before but... yeah. I guess it does.’ He bends forward to kiss my stomach, begins to hitch up my dress again. He takes my tights down just enough. Struggling to stay rooted, I grip on to his shoulders. The room, suddenly, is soundless as a cave. I can hear only my ragged breathing, the failing brakes on my heartbeat.
‘Ash,’ I manage, as his fingers inch closer to my underwear, ‘can I ask you something?’
‘Yeah,’ he breathes, ‘yeah, anything.’
‘Do you feel like you’ve met her before?’
His hands still. He pulls back and looks up at me. ‘Who?’
‘My mum.’
‘What?’
‘Does she seem . . . familiar to you?’
He shakes his head. ‘Um, Neve, I know I brought it up – but any chance we could stop talking about your mum?’
At this, I finally shut up, to let him finish what he started.
The whole time, as I suspected he might, he insists I keep the dress on.