I roam aimlessly until I realise I’m close to Zac’s parents’ house, a small terrace in a nicer part of town than mine, but not by much. I hesitate, debating whether it’s worth the hassle of dealing with Zac’s mum’s disapproving stares, but my feet keep moving until I’m at the door. I ring the bell, and immediately regret it – maybe he’s already gone to the pub. Maybe he’s with some new girlfriend, the one I’m always convinced he’ll leave me for. But then the porch light flicks on, and Zac answers, hair tousled, eyes pinched and glazed from one of his gaming sessions.
‘Hey,’ I say, suddenly exhausted.
‘You came.’ Zac’s eyes light up. ‘I was just about to leave for the pub. Shall we go now, or do you want to come in for a bit first?’
‘Do you mind if we don’t go out?’ I ask.
‘Really?’ His face drops. ‘Jed and Cal are expecting me.’
I give him a look, and his shoulders drop too. ‘But, no, yeah, that’s cool. We can stay in. I’ll message them.’
‘Thanks.’ I stand on my tiptoes and press my lips to his.
‘Close the door, Zac! You’re letting all the cold air in,’ his mum calls from upstairs.
‘Sorry!’ he calls back.
Inside, the house smells like toast and air freshener. Thankfully, his parents are already in bed, so Zac leads me up to his room, dodging a stack of laundry and their cat, Leo, who hisses at me as usual.
I sit on the edge of Zac’s unmade bed, and he immediately starts fussing, clearing away crumpled clothes and beer cans, and putting on some music.
‘You okay?’ he asks, sitting next to me.
I shake my head – a small, tight movement. He puts his arm around me, and for a second, I let myself collapse into him, breathing in his familiar scent of sweat, shampoo, and rolling tobacco.
We sit like that for a while, both of us silent except for the low hum of the computer fan and Zac’s breathing.
Eventually, he breaks the silence, wanting to know what happened when I confronted Mum, but I ask if we can leave it for now. It’s too big to talk about. And I don’t know what I’m going to do. Not yet. A brief image of the bailiffs pops into my head, but I don’t want to talk about that either.
Instead, I distract him with my body and my lips, kissing him harder than usual, like I’m trying to ignite something in the dead air. He responds, surprised but not unhappy, and soon we’re tangled up together, in knotted sheets and desperation. I want to forget, for just a short while, that there’s another me out there, a better or worse version of Jade, living the life that could have been mine.
Lost in our bodies, I don’t stay quiet, and he keeps shushing me, putting his hand over my mouth. His parents go to bed at some ridiculous hour as they have early starts, which means we have to keep the noise down. Zac is being such a drag about it that I pull away, the moment lost. I reach down to the floor and yank one of his old T-shirts over my head before lighting one of his roll-ups.
‘You can’t smoke in here, Jade.’
‘So open a window,’ I retort, knowing how mean I sound but unable to care.
He shakes his head, but does as I ask, then takes the roll-up from me and inhales deeply. The more Zac takes shit from me, the more he annoys me. I know I’m being an irrational bitch, but I can’t help it. My mind is all over the place. I want to cry. I want to smash something. I want to do something terrible.
I take back the roll-up, lie next to Zac and stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster. ‘Do you think people can change?’ I ask.
‘Dunno. Not really. Why?’
‘Just wondering.’
He props himself up on one arm, peering at me with that intensely sincere look he sometimes gets. ‘You’re not your mum, you know. Or your dad. Or anyone else. You’re... you.’
That’s the problem, I want to say. I don’t know who that is. I’m just a collection of habits and reactions and now, apparently, a twin-shaped emptiness no one bothered to mention to me.
Zac doesn’t press. He just wraps his arms around me and holds on, like if he squeezes tight enough, I’ll stay here and not drift off into the ether of other people’s choices. I want to believe he can anchor me. I really do.
Chapter Twelve
Nicola walks the drizzly streets with four-month-old Jade bundled warmly inside her pram. It’s July, but a British July, which means cold rain and grey skies. Her thoughts are sliding all over the place. She doesn’t feel like herself.
The past few months have been a blur of exhaustion, resentment, and fear. Fear that she’s made the wrong decision. That she’s messed up her life. That she’s going to mess up Jade’s life. Her days are dictated by her daughter’s wailing and her insatiable hunger. When she sleeps – which isn’t often – Nicola slumps comatose on the sofa or dozes fitfully under her unwashed duvet.
Sometimes, when she looks at Jade, she feels a surge of pure, uncut love – physical, like being punched in the heart. Other times, she feels nothing at all, just a blankness, a sense of going through the motions. She worries that this makes her a bad mother, but she read in a magazine that many women feel the same way. That apparently there are mums who love their babies and hate them in equal measure. She takes comfort in these articles. It makes her own failings feel less unique.
