One Plus One: A Novel (18 page)

“You haven’t been smoking, have you?”

“You’ve still got my stash.”

“Oh yes.” She had completely forgotten. “But you slept without it. Last night and the night before.”

“Mm.”

“Well, that’s good, right?”

He shrugged.

“I think the words you were looking for are: ‘Yes, it’s great that I no longer need illegal substances
simply to fall asleep.’ Right, up you get for a minute. I need you to help me lift a mattress.” When he didn’t move, she said, “I can’t sleep in there with Mr. Nicholls. We’ll make another bed on the floor of your room, okay?”

He sighed, but he got up and helped. He didn’t wince anymore when he moved, she noticed. On the carpet beside Tanzie’s bed, the mattress left just enough room for them to slide in and out of the door, which now only opened six inches.

“This is going to be fun if I need the loo in the night.”

“Go last thing. You’re a big boy.” She told Nicky to turn off the television at ten so as not to disturb Tanzie, and left them both upstairs.

—

The candle had long since expired in the stiff evening breeze, and when they could no longer see each other, they moved indoors. The conversation had meandered from parents and first jobs on to
relationships. Jess told him about Marty and how he had once bought her an extension cord for her birthday, protesting, “But you said you needed one!” In turn, he told her about Lara the Ex and how on her birthday he had once arranged for a chauffeur to pick her up for a surprise breakfast at a smart hotel with her friends, then spend the morning in Harvey Nichols with a personal shopper and an unlimited budget. And how when he’d met her for lunch, she had complained bitterly because he hadn’t taken the whole day off work. Jess thought she’d quite like to slap Lara the Ex’s overly made-up face. (She had invented this face: it was probably more drag queen than was strictly necessary.)

“Did you have to pay her alimony?”

“Didn’t have to, but I did. Until she let herself into the apartment and helped herself to my stuff for the third time.”

“Did you get it back?”

“It wasn’t worth the hassle. If a silk screen of Mao Tse-tung is that important to her, she can have it.”

“What was it worth?”

“What?”

“The painting.”

He shrugged. “A few grand.”

“You and I speak different languages, Mr. Nicholls.”

“You think? Okay, then, how much maintenance does your ex pay you?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” His eyebrows had lifted to somewhere round his hairline. “Nothing at all?”

“He’s a mess. You can’t punish someone for being a mess.”

“Even if it means you and the kids have to struggle?”

How could she explain? It had taken her two years to work it out herself. She knew the kids missed him, but she was secretly relieved Marty had gone. She was relieved that she didn’t have to worry about
whether he was going to hijack their futures with his next ill-thought-out scheme. She was weary of his black moods and that he was permanently exhausted by the children. Mostly she was tired of never doing anything right. Marty had liked the sixteen-year-old Jess: the wild, impulsive, responsibility-free Jess. Then he had weighed her down with responsibility and hadn’t liked who had emerged from under it.

“When he’s sorted himself out, I’ll make sure he contributes his share again. But we’re okay.” Jess glanced upstairs to where Nicky and Tanzie were sleeping. “I think this will be our turning point. And besides, you probably won’t understand this, and I know everyone thinks they’re a bit odd, but I’m the lucky one having them. They’re kind and funny.” She poured herself another glass of wine and took a gulp. It was definitely getting easier to drink.

“They’re nice kids.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Actually, I realized something today. The last few days have been the first time I can remember where I just got to be with them. Not working, not running around doing housework or shopping or trying to catch up on all the stuff. It’s been nice just hanging out with them, if that doesn’t sound daft.”

“It doesn’t.”

“And Nicky’s sleeping. He never sleeps. I’m not sure what you did for him, but he seems—”

“Oh, we just redressed the balance a little.”

Jess raised her glass. “Then one good thing happened on your birthday: you cheered up my boy.”

“That was yesterday.”

She thought for a moment. “You didn’t vomit once.”

“Okay. Stop now.”

Mr. Nicholls’s whole body had finally relaxed. He leaned back, his long legs stretched out under the table. For some time now one of them had been resting against hers. She had thought fleetingly that
she should move it, and hadn’t, and now she couldn’t without looking as if she were making a point. She felt it, an electric presence, against her bare leg.

She quite liked it.

Because something had happened somewhere between the pie and chips and the last round, and it wasn’t just drink. She wanted Mr. Nicholls not to feel angry and hopeless. She wanted to see that big, sleepy grin of his, the one that seemed to defuse all the suppressed anger spread across his face.

“You know, I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said, gazing at the table.

Jess had been about to make a joke about cleaners and baristas and staff, but instead she just felt this great lurch in the pit of her belly and found herself picturing the taut
V
of his bare torso in the shower. And then she wondered what it would be like to have sex with Mr. Nicholls.

The shock of this thought was so great that she nearly said it out loud—
I think it would be nice to have sex with Mr. Nicholls.
She looked away, blushing, and gulped the remaining quarter glass of wine.

Mr. Nicholls was looking at her. “Don’t take offense. I meant it in a good way.”

“I’m not taking offense.” Even her ears had gone pink.

“You’re just the most positive person I’ve ever met. You never seem to feel sorry for yourself. Every obstacle that comes your way, you just scramble over it.”

“Ripping my trousers and falling over in the process.”

“But you keep going.”

“When someone helps me.”

“Okay. This simile is becoming confusing.” He took a swig of his beer. “I just . . . wanted to tell you. I know it’s nearly over. But I’ve enjoyed this trip. More than I expected to.”

It was out before she knew what she was saying. “Yeah. Me, too.”

They sat. He was looking at her leg. She wondered if he was thinking what she was thinking.

“Do you know something, Jess?”

“What?”

“You’ve stopped fidgeting.”

They looked up at each other. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Mr. Nicholls had just been a means of moving forward out of an impossible mess. Now all Jess could see were his big dark eyes, the backs of his strong hands, the way his torso shifted under his T-shirt.

You need to get back on the horse.

He looked away first.

“Whoa! Look at the time. We should really get some sleep. You said we had to get up early.” His voice was just a bit too loud.

“Yup. Nearly eleven already. I think I calculated that we need to leave here by seven to make it there for midday. Does that sound right to you?”

“Uh . . . sure.”

She swayed a little when she stood up, and reached for his arm, but he’d already moved away.

They arranged an early breakfast, bade Mrs. Deakins a slightly-too-hearty good night, and made their way slowly up the stairs at the back of the pub. Jess was barely aware of what was said, for she was acutely conscious of him behind her. Of the way her hips moved when she walked.
Is he watching me?
Her mind swirled and dipped in unexpected directions. She wondered, briefly, what it would feel like if he were to lean forward and kiss her bare shoulder. She thought she might have made a small, involuntary sound at the thought of it.

They stopped on the landing, and she turned to face him. It felt as if, three days in, she’d only just seen him.

“Good night, then, Jessica Rae Thomas. With an
a
and an
e
.”

Her hand came to rest on the door handle, and her breath caught in her throat. It had been so long. Would it really be such a bad idea?
She pushed down on the handle and leaned in. “I’ll . . . see you in the morning.”

“I’d offer to make you coffee. But you’re always up first.”

She didn’t know what to say. It was possible she was just gazing at him.

“Um . . . Jess?”

“What?”

“Thanks. For everything. The sickness stuff, the birthday surprise . . . In case I don’t get a chance to say this tomorrow”—he gave her a lopsided smile—“as ex-wives go, you were definitely my favorite.”

She pushed at the door. She was going to say something, but she was distracted by the fact that the door didn’t move. She turned and pushed down on the handle again. It gave, opened an inch, and no more.

“What?”

“I can’t open the door,” she said, putting both her hands on it. Nothing.

Mr. Nicholls walked over and pushed. It gave the tiniest amount. “It’s not locked,” he said, working the handle. “There’s something blocking it.”

She squatted down, trying to see, and Mr. Nicholls turned on the landing light. Through the two inches of door space, she could just make out Norman’s bulk on the other side of the door. He was lying on the mattress, his huge back to Jess.

“Norman,” she hissed. “Move.”

Nothing.

“Norman.”

“If I push, he’ll have to wake up, right?” Mr. Nicholls began leaning on the door. He rested his full weight on it. Then he pushed. “Jesus Christ,” he said.

Jess shook her head. “You don’t know my dog.”

He let go of the handle and the door shut with a gentle click. They stared at each other.

“Well . . . ,” he said finally. “There are two beds in here. It’ll be fine.”

She grimaced. “Um. Norman is sleeping on the other single. I moved the mattress in there earlier.”

He looked at her wearily then. “Knock on the door?”

“Tanzie is stressed. I can’t run the risk of waking her. It’s fine. I’ll . . . I’ll . . . just sleep on the chair.”

Jess headed down to the bathroom before he could contradict her. She washed and brushed her teeth, gazing at her alcohol-flushed skin in the plastic-framed mirror and trying to stop her thoughts chasing themselves in circles.

When she arrived back at the room, Mr. Nicholls was holding up one of his dark gray T-shirts. “Here,” he said, and threw it at her as he walked past to the bathroom. Jess changed into it, trying to ignore the vague eroticism of its scent, pulled the spare blanket and a pillow out of the wardrobe, and curled up in the chair, struggling to bring her knees up to a position that made it comfortable. It was going to be a long night.

Some minutes later, Mr. Nicholls opened the door and turned off the overhead light. He was wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of dark blue boxers. She saw that his legs bore the long, visible muscles of someone who does no-excuses exercise. She knew immediately how they would feel against her own. The thought made her swallow.

The little bed sagged audibly as he climbed in.

“Are you comfortable like that?”

“Totally fine!” she said too loudly. “You?”

“If one of these springs impales me while I sleep, you have my permission to take the car the rest of the way.”

He gazed at her across the room for a moment longer, then turned out the bedside light.

—

The darkness was total. Outside, a faint breeze moaned through unseen gaps in the stone, trees rustled, and a car door slammed, its
engine roaring a protest. In the next room, Norman whined in his sleep, the sound only partially muffled by the thin plasterboard wall. Jess could hear Mr. Nicholls breathing, and although she had spent the previous night only inches from him, she was acutely conscious of his presence in a way she hadn’t been twenty-four hours earlier. She thought of the way he had made Nicky smile, of the way his fingers rested on a steering wheel.

She thought about an expression she had heard Nicky use a few weeks ago: YOLO—You only
live once, and remembered how she had told him she thought it was just an excuse idiots used for doing pretty much anything they felt like doing, no matter what the consequences.

She thought about Liam, and how she knew in her gut that he was probably having sex with someone right this minute—that ginger barmaid from the Blue Parrot, maybe, or the Dutch girl who drove the flower van. She thought about a conversation she’d had with Chelsea when Chelsea had told her she should lie about her kids because no man would ever fall in love with a single mother of two, and how Jess had gotten angry with her because deep down she knew she was probably right.

She thought about the fact that even if Mr. Nicholls didn’t go to prison, she would probably never see him again after this trip.

And then, before she could think too hard about anything else, Jess eased herself silently out of the chair, letting the blanket fall to the floor. It took only four steps to reach the bed, and she hesitated, her bare toes curled in the acrylic carpet, even then not quite sure what she was doing. You only live once. And then in the inky dark there was a faint movement and she saw Mr. Nicholls turn to face her as she lifted the cover and climbed in.

Jess was chest to chest against him, her cool legs against his warm ones. There was nowhere else to go in this tiny bed, with the sag of the mattress pushing them closer together and its edge like a cliff drop just inches behind her. They were so close that she could
breathe in the remnants of his aftershave, his toothpaste. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, as her heart thumped erratically against his. She tilted her head a little, trying to read him. He put his right arm across the duvet, a surprisingly heavy weight, gathering her in closer to him. With his other, he took her hand and enclosed it slowly in his. It was dry and soft, and inches from her mouth. She wanted to lower her face to his knuckles and trace her lips along them. She wanted to reach her mouth up to his . . .

You only live once.