Wasted (17 page)

At least Jessica isn't like her mother either. Head on her shoulders, that one. Though she should have emailed him as he'd asked. Probably Sylvia didn't pass the message on. Lorenzo loves his daughter, though he may not have much opportunity to show it. He doesn't see that as his fault. Life.

He wonders if Jessica is still talking about music college. She'd mentioned it months ago and he's been waiting for her to ask again – when he'd reminded her, she'd kind of clammed up, said she didn't think it was such a good idea any more. He's planning to ask her and offer to pay for it. Though she must have missed the deadline for this year now. Mind you, he'll have to get past the barbed-wire fence of Sylvia's hang-ups first. But he'll cross that bridge, etc.

Lorenzo yawns. Looks at the clock: 10.52. His eyes are prickly with tiredness. He needs coffee. He'll stop at some town near the motorway – not one of those awful service stations full of ugly fat Brits in cheap clothes – and have something quick to eat and drink.

Roughly half an hour later, he parks in a car park in a decent town. Gets out and locks the door. Lorenzo appreciates good cars and this is not a good one. He likes the colour – loud, rich red – but it wasn't a model he was comfortable being seen in. And the girl at the hire-car place had not been very helpful.

Anyway. Having that argument had held him up, delayed him by a quarter of an hour while the girl phoned around to see if there was a better car available. There wasn't, so he had the red one.

Irritating. Sylvia always said he let small things get to him. Well, he isn't about to change now. Or ever. He is quite happy with the way he is.

A couple of possible coffee places are closed for Sunday but he finds a small upmarket establishment along the street. It's 11.24 when he arrives. Soon he is drinking a coffee and eating a panini. Or, he is
trying
to eat it but it really is absurdly hot. Why can't they make them a sensible temperature? He sips his coffee. Also too hot. His phone is on the table in front of him. He keeps glancing at it, hoping for an email from Jessica. If she doesn't contact him soon he'll email her. He needs to know which day she can see him – he'll have to tell the hotel; and find somewhere to stay when he sees her.

He looks around. Two women are talking too loudly. An overweight mother feeds chocolate cake to an overweight child. The father (or maybe an unconnected man) reads a Sunday paper. A young man and woman stare into each other's eyes and the man touches the tip of her nose with some cappuccino froth. Lorenzo looks away.

Tries another mouthful of his panini, which is just about bearable at the edges. More coffee. Still too hot. Really feels the need of a decent caffeine kick. Should have asked for a double shot.

Glances at the mobile again. Nothing. Picks it up. He will email her. In a moment. Drums his fingers. Takes another slug of coffee. Taps the phone to open up a new email screen. It's 11.45, he notices, because time is something which is important to him.

Thinks. What best to say? Doesn't want to sound as though he's nagging. He'd like this visit to be just right. After all, it's not often your only daughter leaves school. He deserves to be part of that, doesn't he? He's not a bad father – they were just a bad couple and it's best for everyone that they are not together. Maybe he'll arrange to send flowers. Would that be a nice touch? Or not. Probably not.

He taps in the letters:

Dear Jessica, Hope your mother told you I'd phoned. Need to know about the weekend. Email me asap please. Dadx

The clock digits slip to 11.47.

And behind him the window explodes. Shatters. Noise. Glass. Screaming. Something flying through the air. Chairs scraped back. More screaming. Glass on his table, on his lap. Blood oozes from his hand. It doesn't hurt. Some people are running; others sitting with shocked faces, brushing glass away. There's so much noise that he can't hear anything. Can make no sense. Time does something weird. He thinks it's a bomb. Or gas. Can he smell it? Suddenly he can. But a woman is laughing. You don't laugh when a bomb goes off. Do you? Also, no one seems dead. Other people have glass on their tables, but he seems to be the only one who is bleeding. It still doesn't hurt. There's glass on his panini, in his coffee. All these things he takes in, one by one and at the same time. It's that sort of weirdness.

His legs don't move. Won't. He isn't sure he's trying, can't remember what it is you do when you want your legs to move.

And then he understands.

A pigeon. That's all. Smashed right through the window. The bird is flapping horribly among the cups and saucers and plates and bottles of syrup and canisters of chocolate powder. There is blood on its head and one wing doesn't seem quite right.

A load of girls at the back of the coffee shop are screaming. One member of staff has her apron over her head. The manager is attempting to take control. But it is, frankly, chaos. And Lorenzo wants out of it. It is not his problem and there is nothing he can do to help. His brain engages and now he can move his legs. He stands up, brushing glass from his clothes, picks up his phone and leaves. 11.50, the phone says.

His heart is racing but on the surface he seems calm. Outside, he looks back at the empty area of the window. The hole is oddly symmetrical and almost circular. He'd never have thought a broken window would look like that – if he'd had to imagine it, it would have had jagged edges. Mind you, he'd never have expected a pigeon to smash through a window. Just shows you how unexpected the world can be. He shakes his head to rid himself of peculiar thoughts, get himself back to the logical, controlled person that he is. A coupled of shards of glass tinkle to the ground.

The bird lurches with drunken wings across a table. A waiter scoops it up with a tea towel and then doesn't know what to do with it. A customer strokes its head. Lorenzo can't hear what they're saying. Anyway, it's just a bird. But no doubt they'll take it to the vet or call the RSPCA or something.

Customers stand in huddles, talking loudly about how amazing it was that a bird flew through the window. At the very least they should get a free meal out of it, they joke. Or not joke. Their faces are all lit up.

Lorenzo finds their reactions irritating. The screaming and then the chitchat, as though this is about the most interesting thing that's ever happened to them. All he'd wanted was a quiet, quick coffee and snack. He'd paid for it too. Should have got a refund, but that would have taken longer. A snarl of anger increases his hunger.

Lorenzo goes back to the car. He contemplates getting a coffee from somewhere else, but he can't see anywhere near by and he decides not to. Better just to get going. The tiny cut on his hand has stopped bleeding.

Then he remembers: he hasn't sent the email. He opens it up again. Clicks
SEND
, though his last thought as he does so is that it's a little abrupt, could have been more friendly. Never mind. She should have emailed him. Then he wouldn't have had to nag.

11.55.

His heart is still racing as he drives off. The car pulls on to the main road, and before long joins the dual carriageway. And the motorway. He has a slight headache now. Combination of jet lag, low blood sugar from hunger, and physical shock. Perhaps he should have got coffee from somewhere else. Maybe he should stop at a service station after all. He rubs his eyes.

It is worth noticing – though Lorenzo is not thinking of this – that if it was not for the pigeon, he would have been at this particular section of motorway a bit later. Also, his concentration would be better – thanks to a combination of coffee, food and the lack of both stress and preoccupation about the exploding window. It takes a while for a shock like that to subside.

Then there is, or will be, Jess's email, which will arrive as he's driving, if Jess remembers to send it.

The email that Jess should have sent the night before. And would have done if her drunken mother had not annoyed her by breaking a glass in the kitchen.

12.04.

Also, if the hire-car company had given him the car he'd wanted in the first place, instead of this red one, he'd have been at this spot at a slightly different time. Mind you, the same could be said if he'd left five minutes later, or earlier.

Not to mention that it's a red car. Red. Not that that should make any difference at all, surely. Farantella saying beware of red was just a coincidence,
obviously
. We must not fall into the trap of believing that this is relevant at all. Red cars are supposed to have more accidents anyway, so there's even some science going on here.

But there's something else we don't know about yet: a car driven by an idiot is speeding towards a junction rather close to where Jess's father happens to be. What will happen next depends on exactly where Jess's father is at exactly what time and on his ability to react if Jess's email arrives at just the wrong moment.

12.06.

In order to know for certain what might happen, we would need to be able to predict the position of every particle. But the tiniest unimaginable particles may change when observed, so just by
watching
Jess's father and the idiot and all the other cars on the road, and the pigeon, we could be changing the future. It's that scary.

The red car is spinning along. Lorenzo's thoughts are with the exploding window and the flapping pigeon and people laughing and screaming. His headache is a little worse. He takes a hand from the steering wheel and squeezes the place between his eyes. It helps for a few seconds but as soon as he takes his fingers away, the throb returns.

The phone sits on the passenger seat beside him. He glances at it. Nothing.

12.07.

Idiot is on the slip road, coming on to the motorway. He doesn't want to wait. Black car in the left lane needs to do something – speed up? Slow down? Move to the right? Can't speed up: there's a car in front. Can't slow down: there's a car behind. Too many cars everywhere – people going shopping.

Idiot is not slowing down.

12.08.

Black car needs to move into overtaking lane.

Lorenzo, foot on brake, slows.

Black car swerves. In front of him.

Close.

Very close.

Frowns. Heart skittering. Cars dancing. Grips the steering wheel. Creases forehead. Ache. Eyes blurry. He blinks.

Idiot slices on to the motorway. Lorenzo scowls at him. A horn blares. Idiot grins.
What's your problem, mate?

The phone.

Bleeps.

An email.

He glances down.

12.08.

Back to the road. Back to the screen. It's Jess. Horns blare. Foot on brakes. Cars in front.
What?
Idiot – in front of black car. Red lights.

Braking.

Skidding.

Swerving.

Screeching.

Screaming.

Burning.

Black.

The phone flies through the air as the windscreen shatters.

Jess's father has gone.

12.08.

JESS'S
father is driving a silver car. Fast. He probably shouldn't be driving, as he's still somewhat jet-lagged from his late flight the night before. A restless night in an airport hotel and now he's heading towards London, where he'll be staying in a decent establishment, courtesy of the university, which has sent him on an extended trip across the Atlantic. Then a week of meetings and lectures before he'll travel to see his daughter. Still hasn't had an email from her, which is annoying, and that phone call with Sylvia set his teeth on edge. She sounded even more fragile than ever.

Funny, he'd loved her for that once, but fragility can become very boring. She'd only been twenty-one when they'd married and twenty-three when Jessica had been born, but by the time she was thirty he'd really wanted to tell her,
Grow up, for crying out loud
. Let's face it: they were too different. And he'd partly fallen for her to annoy his own family, who wanted him to marry a good Italian Catholic girl. That was unfair of him; but he'd been young too. He'd stayed with her till Jessica was ten and then the big academic job in Chicago had been a good excuse. He'd gone, and had never regretted it once. Best thing for Sylvia too, probably. And his second wife is nothing like her: strong, career-minded, icicle-focused, but with Italian passion. Perfect. Or as perfect as you could hope for.

At least Jessica isn't like her mother either. Head on her shoulders, that one. Though she should have emailed him as he'd asked. Probably Sylvia didn't pass the message on. Lorenzo loves his daughter, though he may not have much opportunity to show it. He doesn't see that as his fault. Life.

He wonders if Jessica is still talking about music college. She'd mentioned it months ago and he's been waiting for her to ask again – when he'd reminded her, she'd kind of clammed up, said she didn't think it was such a good idea any more. He's planning to ask her and offer to pay for it. Though she must have missed the deadline for this year now. Mind you, he'll have to get past the barbed-wire fence of Sylvia's hang-ups first. But he'll cross that bridge, etc.

Lorenzo's mind empties, freewheels for a while.

He soon yawns. Looks at the clock: 10.43. His eyes are prickly with tiredness. He needs coffee. He'll stop at some town near the motorway – not one of those awful service stations full of ugly fat Brits in cheap clothes – and have something quick to eat and drink.

Less than half an hour later, he parks in a car park in a decent town. Gets out and locks the door. Lorenzo appreciates good cars and this is a good one.

A couple of possible coffee places are closed for Sunday but he finds a small upmarket establishment along the street. It's 11.09 when he arrives. Soon Lorenzo sits drinking his coffee and eating a panini, which is just the right temperature. He sips his coffee. His phone is on the table in front of him. He keeps glancing at it, hoping for an email from Jessica. If she doesn't contact him soon he'll email her. He needs to know which day she can see him – he'll have to tell the hotel; and find somewhere to stay when he sees her.