Jim couldn’t help himself: he breathed a sigh of relief as the taxi drew away from the house and the oppressive presence of her sick mother. Guilt for his lightness of heart quickly descended on him as the taxi made its way to the A23, and an overwhelming sympathy for Nancy, left behind to deal with her difficult family. But he knew, whatever she said, that he was not helping by being there.
Nancy was someone who felt responsible for making everyone happy, and he was sick of pretending that he was, sick of seeing her suffer because he wasn’t, and she knew it. He felt suffocated in that house—both literally, because the heating was cranked up to intolerable levels for Frances, and mentally. He couldn’t play his guitar when he wanted, couldn’t blast the rooms with music. He felt big and too male, too . . . just too much somehow. He had tried and tried to make nice to Frances and Louise, but he felt constantly monitored, judged, in their company.
Jim found himself hoping Nancy’s mother would die soon, even though he felt bad for thinking it. But Frances was clearly unhappy in every way, and in pain. And Nancy was miserable. Surely it would be better all round for Frances just to slip away. He began composing lyrics in his head about death and the stupid taboos about feeling as he did, tapping his fingers on his thighs as a melody presented itself to him. We’re all going to die, he thought. Why can’t we say it how it is instead of disguising the subject, like ruffles on Victorian piano legs?
Mal called him while he waited in the departure lounge for his easyJet flight to board.
“Hey,” Mal said. “Where are you?”
Jim told him.
“Lucky bugger. Wish I was coming with you.”
“You can. Jump on a plane to Marseille and I’ll pick you up. There’s acres of space there, five bedrooms.”
He heard Mal sigh. “Yeah, like Sonia would let me.”
“Bring her too,” Jim said, slightly regretting the invitation as soon as it was out of his mouth. He and Sonia, although they respected each other, did not really see eye to eye on many things. Sonia had always blamed Jim and Jimmy P for any bad behavior she suspected Mal of indulging in, although Mal had never needed any help in that department.
“Ha! Fine chance.”
“Izzy, Stevie’s next-door neighbor, knows a bunch of musicians in Avignon. She says there’s a big music scene there. She might be able to get us some gigs. You’d have to come over then.”
“Just tell me when,” Mal said, chuckling with relish.
There was a pause.
“So you’re really serious about living there, Jimmy?” There was a pause. “What’ll you do about Nancy?”
“I told you her mother’s been ill? Well, she’s worse.”
“You mean ‘worse’ as in check-out lounge time?”
“Yeah, seems so. Looks like a ghost already, poor woman.”
“Right . . . So she’ll come when her mum’s popped her clogs?”
Jim couldn’t help smiling at his friend’s directness, but felt a shadow cross his heart at his question. “I—I hope so, mate.”
“Don’t sound too sure.”
“No, well, she’s a bit under pressure at the moment, can’t really make plans.”
“Fair enough.” Mal fell silent. “But you’re still into her, right?”
“God, yes.”
“Bloody hell. Who’d have thought it? You a man of property now, buggering off to France with Fancy Nancy, leaving your mates high and dry. Sonia thinks you’re nuts.”
“Sonia always did.”
*
As he sat on the plane, gazing at the sunlit floor of billowing white cloud from the plane window, he wondered if Sonia was right and he was, indeed, nuts. He would miss Mal in particular, and Jimmy P occasionally—they weren’t that close these days. But none of that would matter if Nancy were by his side. They would have people—family—to stay, they’d come home and visit. It could work, he was sure of it . . . if only Nancy were able to see that.
*
Izzy was at the airport, dressed in a multi-colored knitted jacket, jeans and black boots. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was—he noticed the men around her, old and young, giving her surreptitious stares. When she saw him, she ran over, threw herself into his arms as if they were lovers—her habitual way of greeting, apparently. Jim, embarrassed, patted her shoulder and pulled away as quickly as was decent.
“So happy to see you,” she said, taking his arm as she guided him across the road to the car park. “I’ve been really missing Stevie. We used to see each other all the time.” She clicked open the door to her Peugeot. “I’ve asked some friends over for supper tonight . . . You remember the drummer guy I was telling you about? Bruno? Well, he’s coming with his girlfriend, who’s a singer, and another guy, Hervé, a sculptor who lives down the hill—used to be mates with my ex.”
“Uh, sounds fun.” He had absolutely no desire to spend the evening with Izzy’s friends. He just wanted to hunker down, have a whiskey or two, play some chords, talk to Nancy. But if he was really thinking of living here, he would need friends. He hoped to God Izzy would be busy over the next two weeks, working or whatever she did, staying out of his hair. The last thing he wanted was for her to be constantly popping by, using him as a poor substitute for his brother.
*
Worried that the house would seem empty and creepy without Stevie, he was happy to find that it welcomed him, as it always had. Although it was colder now, the sun was out, filling the room with brightness. Madame Laverne had lit the pot-bellied stove in the corner, put some apples in a bowl, a small posy of pine leaves and cones in a jar on the table. Stevie’s ghost still inhabited the place—everywhere Jim went reminded him of his brother—but he could already imagine a winter snugged up here in Stevie’s broad yellow chenille armchair facing the balcony and the hills, the blue-gold rug under his feet, the ornate wrought-iron standard lamp with the globe shade shedding a warm glow. It was a friendly, relaxing room.
*
“Was your flight okay?”
Jim called Nancy before he went down to supper at Izzy’s. It was an hour earlier in Sussex and he knew she would probably be getting tea for the girls. “Fine. Izzy picked me up—which was kind of her.”
“Very kind.”
There was a silence. He could tell she wasn’t really listening. “Things okay with you?”
He heard Nancy walking across the floor and what sounded like the fridge door shutting, her voice low when she finally answered. “No, I’m missing you.”
“I’m missing you too.”
“I wish you were here.”
Jim’s heart contracted. “I wish you were here. It’s so beautiful.”
“Yes, I know, Jim. I know it’s bloody beautiful. Don’t wind me up.” Her voice was sharp suddenly. “It’s hardly fair to tell me about how gorgeous it is when I’m stuck here in the pouring rain, looking after my bloody mother.”
There was a tense silence between them.
“Sorry, I just . . .” There seemed nothing to say that wasn’t contentious, and he stopped talking.
“Sorry,” she said after a minute, but he could tell she was still upset.
“I’ll come back if you like,” he offered. “Seriously, if you need me, I’ll be on the next plane.”
“No, no, that’s stupid . . . I’m just being stupid. We had Joyce over for lunch today. Those two are like a couple of schoolgirls—they kept giving each other conspiratorial looks, then getting into a huddle and going silent when I appeared. No idea what it was about.”
“Probably working out how to score some weed, now your mum’s under house arrest.” Jim heard Nancy chuckle, and his heart lightened.
“Hilarious . . . Joyce, in her beige cardie, approaching some hoody on the corner and palming a bag of dope.”
As they laughed, he checked the kitchen clock and saw he was late for Izzy. “Listen, better get on. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
“What are you going to get on with?”
“Umm . . . sorting stuff . . . Probably not a lot. . .” He’d made a decision earlier that Nancy didn’t need to know about supper with Izzy. It was enough of a betrayal that he was out socializing, without driving home the point. And he didn’t want Nancy to get the wrong idea about his neighbor.
“I love you,” he told her, and the knowledge brought tears to his eyes.