Chapter Thirty-Six
Alex
As it turns out, they don’t have to go to Brighton, which is just as well, because this way, Alex doesn’t have to admit how much he dislikes the beach.
From everything he has learned about Jess, he suspects she won’t approve of this.
The way she speaks of the seaside with nothing but joy – the sound of the waves over the pebbles, the smell of suncream, even the squawking of seagulls – is at odds with how he’s always felt about it.
Pesky, persistent sand which finds its way into every crevice of your shoe, even on a rocky beach like Brighton’s.
Children running around with no regard for anything or anyone but their own fun.
Ice cream which always seems like it’s a good idea until it’s stickily dripping down your wrist and inner arm.
Fish and chips, too – admittedly delicious, but impractical to eat in any other place than at a dining-room table with a plate and a proper knife and fork.
Alex suspects that if Jess were to write a list of desirable qualities in a suitor, ‘loving the beach’ would be near the top – or perhaps not even on it, under the assumption that it was a given that everyone loves the beach, just as she would never write ‘has a pulse’ and ‘breathes’ on such a list.
One day, he will have to come clean. But this, thankfully, is not that day.
Jess’s mum comes up to London every year for the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition at the Natural History Museum, and they arrange to meet up for dinner in South Kensington.
‘My mum studied French at uni,’ Jess explains to him, and of course Alex remembers that’s how she met Jess’s French dad.
‘So any chance she gets, she likes to eat French food. Show off her accent a little bit. Bask in some nostalgia.’ Jess mentions all of this off-handedly, glancing past the topic of her dad without landing on it, and Alex takes his cue from her.
This clearly isn’t the time to open up that particular can of emotional worms, especially not once Jess’s mum joins them.
‘I see,’ he says, leaving it at that.
He isn’t sure what to expect of Jess’s mother.
Jess hasn’t shown him a photo, and he hasn’t spotted any in her flat, although it’s possible that they are on display in her bedroom, an inner sanctum he has not yet been invited into.
Alex has stalked Jess on Facebook, even scrolled quite far back, and didn’t come across anything.
He’s curious to see what her mum is like, and if she is flighty and easily distracted, the way he imagined Jess to be before he really knew her.
Jess’s mum, as it turns out, is more glamorous than Alex expected: her blonde hair in the same kind of messy bun that Jess seems to instinctively prefer, her nails immaculately painted a cherry-bright shade of red, perfectly matched to her high-fashion branded handbag.
As for Jess herself, she looks more stylish in yellow dungarees than anyone has the right to, especially yellow dungarees that are patterned with bees.
To Alex’s slight horror, her mum holds out her arms for a hug.
No, thank you, he wants to say, but he ignores his churning stomach and obliges.
She smells of bergamot and citrus, a pleasant scent that brings back memories of his own mother, younger and carefree, before the arguments with his dad started, or at least before Alex was aware of them.
‘I’m Ellen,’ she says into his hair before she lets him go. ‘It’s great to meet you.’
‘You too,’ Alex says. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’ Which isn’t true, of course. Mostly, what he’s heard about is her absence, even if Jess brushes it off as no big deal.
‘All good, I hope,’ she responds, standing back and appraising him with not a hint of subtlety.
‘Of course.’
He can’t help noticing that Ellen doesn’t say she’s heard a lot about him, too.
This could be for one of several reasons: maybe she hasn’t let any calls with Jess be long enough to find out about him.
Or maybe she does know about him, but she’s trying to protect Jess.
Or maybe what she’s heard is not, in fact, all good, and she can’t bring herself to lie about it.
But he is practised at this kind of social situation.
He’ll squash down his anxieties and make polite chit-chat.
It’s not his favourite thing, but he has learned to be good at it.
With a family the size of his, there are a lot of in-laws to get to know; and in his more successful days as an author, there were a lot of book launches to attend – warm white wine sipped from plastic cups in too-hot bookshops while making polite conversation calculated to raise a smile and not offend anyone.
He learned, then, to observe or remember a detail about the person he is talking to, using it to flatter slightly and as a way into the required small talk.
And here, the menu they pick up at the crêperie table, with words like galette and ratatouille, provides him with the perfect way in.
‘Jess mentioned you speak beautiful French.’ Jess hasn’t, of course; but that’s not really the point.
Ellen beams, pink in her cheeks, batting away the compliment with her right hand. ‘I enjoy it,’ she says. Is it possible she picked the ratatouille just to have a chance to show off her accent? Let’s just say it’s not impossible.
‘This one was never interested, were you, love?’
Jess shrugs. She’s told Alex that she has a vague memory of watching Pierre Le Facteur on old DVDs and of her mum reading Mr Men books in French to her, but that’s about it.
It was probably never realistic for an English woman living in England to bring up her English daughter to speak French, especially when being a single parent likely presented plenty of its own challenges, without attempting to live life in what remained essentially a second language.
But in this moment, he wonders if there is something more to it – a lightly spoken criticism belying deeper frustration, just as Jess’s shrug was shorthand for a multitude of emotions.
‘Quel dommage,’ he responds, trying not to sound smug about his own more-than-passable accent.
‘There’s a lot of verbs,’ Jess says. ‘I’d never have the patience for all those – what do you call them again?’
‘Conjugations?’ he supplies.
‘Conjugations, yes. I should know that.’ She shakes her head, as if willing her brain to cooperate.
Her A level Latin brain, which surely knows all about conjugations and parts of speech and all the other awkward grammar.
Her brain which, in this moment, is perhaps vying for supremacy with her bruised heart.
‘Nonsense,’ says Ellen. ‘You’re perfectly capable.’
Something pleading in Jess’s eyes instructs Alex to move on.
‘I think I’ll have the ratatouille too,’ he says, leaning into the guttural r, showing off a little perhaps.
And it has the desired effect: Ellen’s eyes crinkle around the edges, and she touches Alex’s forearm as she tells him he’s made a good choice.
Opposite, Jess rolls her eyes good-naturedly – the kind of eyeroll Alex recognises from noisy family Christmases when Susannah is cheating at Monopoly again: the eyeroll that says, Your ridiculousness makes me somehow even more fond of you.
Despite the initial foray into discussion of the French language, which so clearly made Jess uncomfortable, this is all going very well.
Over savoury galettes – smoked salmon and spinach for Jess, ingredients both easy to pronounce and written in English on the menu – Ellen asks insightful questions about the writing process, and how editing works, and the dynamics of co-authoring.
By the time they are onto their desserts – Nutella and strawberries; bananas and chocolate; apples and cinnamon – they are also onto their second glasses of wine, conversation and laughter flowing more freely, which is maybe why Ellen feels free to ask a question he probably should have prepared for.
‘So am I right in assuming that the two of you are more than just writing partners?’
The blood in Alex’s veins turns into ice.
He knows this is not rational. Although he hasn’t told anyone apart from Nathan and Louisa about his increasing closeness to Jess, it’s not a secret, as such.
But still, there’s something about family knowing – his family, her family – that makes all of this real in a way that he isn’t sure he is ready for.
He takes another gulp of wine to steady his nerves. His feet find Jess’s under the table. He hopes that they communicate several things to her: Ignore how pale I probably am; I definitely like you. And also, Over to you, to answer this question. And finally, Please get me out of this conversation.
‘A little bit more than that, yes,’ Jess says. Her cheeks are pink, and he’s pretty sure it’s not just the wine.
‘Well, I very much approve,’ Ellen says, making what seems like meaningful eye contact with her daughter and touching Alex’s forearm again, and then moving on to talk about her latest holiday.
His charming French has clearly done the trick, and just like that, it’s official.
And yet, what it is that is actually official is a little unclear.
Are they boyfriend and girlfriend? And what is it about those words that makes him feel like a gangly, acne-ridden teenager, sweaty-palmed at the idea of speaking to the girl sitting next to him in A Level English?
Are they partners? Such a clinical word, so achievement-driven, reminiscent of unromantic things like law and business.
Seeing each other? Yes, that. Seeing each other regularly to write and sometimes to do other things too.
Although it’s been a while since the other things, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about them in the presence of Jess’s mother.
And her seal of approval – clearly meant to reassure; clearly, in most contexts, a green light to proceed with those other things – makes his chest tight, his blood cold.
It’s just a dinner, he tells himself. It’s just crêpes.
He practises the grounding technique his counsellor has shown him.
Three things he can see: a father cutting up a crêpe into tiny pieces for his daughter; a group of tourists waiting for a table; a butterfly on the window just past where they are sitting.
Three things he can hear: a baby whimpering in its pushchair; a mangled pronunciation of French words two tables away; and, regrettably, the buzzing of his own ears.
Three things he can feel: the tang of apple on his tongue.
The warm metal of the fork in his left hand.
Jess’s foot brushing his, entirely non-threateningly.
But, despite all of this, his chest remains tight and he remains terrified. It’s all he can do to stay in his seat, to keep making pleasant conversation, while he has the bizarre sensation of being outside his body, watching himself be trapped.