The Accidental Life of Jessie Jefferson (11 page)

‘Get out of the car,’ Mum barks, an edge of panic to her voice.

‘What?’ I squawk. ‘I’m not getting out in this.’

I glare out of the window at the dark night and the pounding rain lit by the headlamps of passing cars on the other side of the central reservation.

Her old Peugeot has broken down – again – and this time we’re on the motorway. Mum has managed to get us to the hard shoulder, and on the hard shoulder is where I plan on staying.

‘Get out, right now!’ she yells as a lorry rattles past us, making the little red car shudder and shake.

‘Why?’ I raise my voice indignantly.

‘It’s dangerous!’ she screams. ‘Do you know how many people die on the hard shoulder every year?’

‘Is this one of the things you learnt in your speed awareness course?’ I ask her with a sneer. I wish she’d just taken the three points on her licence for speeding so she’d stop going on about it.

‘Just get out of the car,’ she snaps. ‘Walk up the hill to the top.’

‘What, and sit in the rain?’ I ask with disbelief.

She yanks her door open and climbs out into the downpour as another lorry passes, making the car vibrate violently. OK, it is a little scary here, I’ll admit. Suddenly my door is open and she’s leaning across the seat and unbuckling my seatbelt. She practically drags me out of there, her wet hair dripping all over me.

‘Bloody hell, OK! I’m coming!’ I shout, wrestling her hands off me. She shoves me up the hill. I’m drenched instantly and really quite pissed off, thank you very much. Where is she? I look over my shoulder with irritation to see that she’s still down by the car, hurriedly getting her bag out of the front passenger seat. At the very least she could have let me get mine. I start to storm back down the hill as she slams the door shut and moves towards me, and then out of nowhere, a car veers off the motorway and clips the back of the Peugeot. I scream with horror as flashes of metal grinding against metal light up the dark night and the Peugeot spins around almost 180 degrees. The other car screeches to a stop further up the motorway as cars and lorries fly past dangerously, and then I’m in Mum’s arms and she’s holding me so tight, and I’m so thankful she’s safe that I don’t even mind the noise of her hysterical cries in my ear.

I blink back tears as I turn away from the window, regarding the limo’s slick interior. We never had money to spend on new cars, ones which didn’t break down all the time. The man in the other car on the motorway was unhurt, thankfully, but our little car was written off and we had to share Stu’s Fiat after that. The only silver lining was the insurance money, which came through two months later. Mum was so happy that week, planning our summer holiday. Little did we know that there was a ticking bomb hanging over all of our heads, counting down the last few days of her life, a life she could have lost two months earlier, thanks to me.

I try to swallow the lump in my throat as I think about how she probably saved
my
life by forcing me to get out of the car. If only I could have saved
hers
. If only I’d helped out more on the morning of my party. If only I’d told her I didn’t even need a cake that year. If only I’d said I didn’t want a bloody party. If only she hadn’t been walking along the pavement at the exact same moment that a loose window came crashing down upon her, spearing her precious, perfect body with shards of glass . . . If only, if only, if only . . .

Tears stream down my cheeks and my chest shudders as I fight back sobs. I could have been going to Spain next week with her and Stu, rather than sitting here in a limo on my own, in a strange country, about to meet Johnny frigging Jefferson. My crying abruptly stops and I brush away my tears as the surreal feeling intensifies. I’d better pull myself together and sort out my hair and make-up before I completely lose it.

The air-conditioning has cooled the car down – and me down with it. I run my fingers through my hair, hoping it will look tousled and not scratty. Brushing it will only make it look worse. I know that from experience. My make-up hasn’t fared too badly so I pop my sunnies on top of my head and apply some powder and lipstick, then pretty much leave it as it is. I don’t want to appear too done up. I look down at my silver swing dress and almost snort. OK, so it’s a little over the top. It’s the sort of thing I’d normally only wear to a party, but I bought it last week at work and wanted to bring it. Who knows what I’ll be doing here, where I’ll be going out, if anywhere. And quite frankly, I’m a bit past caring what I look like at the moment. I’m certainly not going to bother getting changed again.

My arms and legs are a little chilly now in the air-con and my feet are frozen, so I shrug on my denim jacket and drag out some fresh socks, pulling them on. I’ll sort out footwear later, but for now I just want to relax. Ha. As if. I wonder how far away we are.

I lean over and press the intercom button. ‘Hi, Davey?’

‘Hello, Miss Pickerill,’ he replies warmly. ‘I thought you might have fallen asleep.’

‘No, but I’m dressed now if you want to put the screen back down?’

‘As you wish.’ The screen glides down and he glances at me in his wing mirror, a twinkle in his brown eyes. ‘All set?’

‘Pretty much,’ I reply with a nervous smile. ‘Have we got far to go?’

‘Ten minutes. We’re just coming into Bel Air now,’ he says, and I look out of the window in time to see us pass through a large, wrought iron gate. Now
this
is more like it. Mansions line the pristine streets, landscaped gardens burst with colour, and sprinklers whirr round and round, drenching neatly mown lawns with fat drops of sparkling water. I grin and put my sunglasses back on as the road starts to wind upwards and the ever more enormous mansions begin to retreat behind high walls and impressive security gates.

I’m finding it hard to breathe again and it has nothing to do with the atmosphere.

‘Almost there,’ Davey calls back to me.

God! Really? I could do with a cigarette right now. I quickly zip up my suitcase and sit with a racing pulse. I won’t need my jacket on, will I? Suddenly I’m not sure about the dress. What was I thinking? It’s too flashy, too much, too . . .
late
!

‘Here’s home,’ Davey says as we start to pass through tall gates with security cameras pointing down from tall posts on either side. Davey puts his window down and waves at a man in a small office as we pass. If he could see me through the darkened limo glass, he’d think that I look like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Oh no, what about my shoes?

We start to drive down a long driveway. Leafy green trees, rich from the summer sun, partly obscure the house. I look around with panic and realise that I have no choice but to pull my chunky ankle boots back on – never mind, it’s ‘a look’ and I can carry it off. I try to imbue myself with some of the confidence that I normally feel.

The house comes into view: a long, two-storey, white, rectangular building punctuated with large windows. Davey pulls up outside the big wooden front door and gets out of the car. I feel like I can’t move. I’m glued to my seat. This is, without a doubt, the most scared I’ve been in all my life.

Davey opens the door. ‘Miss Pickerill?’

I don’t know why I haven’t already told him to call me Jessie, but now I can barely breathe, let alone speak, so I move to the door and hold on to it for support as I step one chunky boot out. Here I go.

Chapter 10

My feet crunch on the gravel as I climb out of the car and straighten up to see that the front door has now opened and a woman is standing there. She appears to be about thirty and is slim and pretty with straight, blonde hair which just brushes her shoulders.

‘Hi!’ she calls, coming out of the door. ‘I’m Meg, Johnny’s wife.’

Now, I recognise her from the papers. I open my mouth to return her greeting, but sensing that my voice is going to come out croaky and quiet, I ramp the volume up a notch and end up sounding louder and more confident than I usually do. ‘Hello!’

She comes towards me with an extended hand. She’s wearing white shorts and a navy blue top. ‘And you must be Jessica,’ she says.

‘Jessie,’ I reply, shaking her hand.

‘How was your trip?’ She smiles and I think she’s trying to sound friendly, but she looks a little stressed.

‘It was fun,’ I reply, as Davey pulls my suitcase out of the car behind me.

‘Shall I take this up to the White Room?’ he asks her.

‘Yes, thanks, Davey,’ she replies with genuine warmth.

I’m curious to see the White Room, whatever it is.

Meg turns back to me and nods towards the door, ushering me inside. ‘I’m afraid Johnny’s not here,’ she says with downturned lips. ‘He promised he’d be back in time, but he’s running late.’ She rolls her eyes good-naturedly, but I detect a definite edge to her voice. ‘But come inside and meet the boys.’

I follow her through the hall, then stop short as we step into a huge, cavernous space with floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over the city of LA far below. I thought Wendel’s office was amazing, but this is something else.

‘Wow,’ I say aloud. There’s a huge swimming pool right outside on an enormous terrace, but my attention is diverted by a baby’s laughter. I look past a charcoal-grey L-shaped sofa to see a little boy with blond hair, standing directly over an even smaller child, who is lying on his back on a shaggy lime-green rug. The older boy has one foot on either side of the smaller boy’s waist and is wiggling his hips from side to side while the smaller boy looks up at him and giggles.

‘Barney!’ Meg cries. ‘I’ve told you not to stand over Phoenix like that!’

Barney pushes his bottom lip out, but steps off the other child, wobbling slightly as he does. Meg rounds the sofas to get to him and kneels down on the floor. ‘You mustn’t do that,’ she says sternly. ‘Remember how you fell on him and hurt him?’

Barney looks sad and I feel sorry for him. He was only trying to make his little brother laugh.

Meg glances up at me and smiles apologetically. ‘Sorry about that.’

I shrug and wander towards the sofas.

‘This is Barney.’ She purses her lips at the little boy, and I think that maybe she’s trying to keep a straight face. ‘And this is Phoenix,’ she says with a smile, tickling the smaller boy and making him giggle.

‘Hello!’ I say as chirpily as I can.

Barney looks over at me with mild interest and then falls to his knees and starts zooming a car across the rug.

‘Barney, say hello to Jessie,’ Meg prompts.

‘Hello,’ he says casually, returning to his zooming. Meg casts her eyes heavenwards as the smaller boy sits himself up.

‘How old are they?’ I ask. It’s so weird to think that these two little kids are related to me.

‘Barney is four, and Phoenix has just turned one,’ Meg replies with a smile.

There’s a noise of a car or something – a motorbike? – outside on the drive. Meg’s head shoots towards the door.

‘I think Johnny’s back,’ she breathes with relief, but I feel anything but. A powerful thrum of nerves surges through my body and I turn back to face the door with my heart in my throat. I suddenly realise I still have my sunnies on – the sunlight in here is so bright that I didn’t notice. I pop them on top of my head as Meg walks briskly past me.

From my position in the living room I can see her open the door and stand in the doorway with her back to me. In the background a figure approaches, wearing a shiny, black motorcycle helmet. He takes his helmet off and his just-below-chin-length, dirty blond hair instantly gives him away: Johnny Jefferson. He reaches Meg, but she doesn’t budge from the doorway for a moment. I hear him say, ‘Sorry,’ and, without a word, she steps aside. He appears contrite as he glances past her, and then he sees me.

His face looks shocked. Meg turns around and meets my eyes and even she looks taken aback, although I don’t know why. Johnny composes himself as he pushes his hair off his face and stalks towards me, dropping his motorcycle helmet and gloves on a table in the hall as he passes, but leaving his black leather jacket on.

‘Hey,’ he says in a deep voice I recognise, coming to a halt in front of me. His green eyes are even more piercing in real life and I feel utterly out of my depth. ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ He offers his hand for me to shake and I take it. It’s warm and sweaty from wearing gloves.

‘It’s OK,’ I reply timidly.

He’s taller than I thought he’d be, well over six foot.

‘Jessica, right?’

‘People call me Jessie,’ I tell him.

‘It’s good to finally meet you,’ Johnny says with a decisive nod. I’m not sure I believe him. This is so weird, so awkward. It’s not like I expected any long lost hugs, but . . . I don’t know what I expected, actually.

‘Has Meg offered you a drink or anything?’ he asks.

‘She’s only just arrived,’ Meg chips in, a little defensively. ‘I was introducing her to the boys.’

Johnny jabs his thumb towards a curved glass wall. ‘Let me get you a juice or something.’

I’m not particularly thirsty, but I follow him anyway, while Meg hangs back. Behind the curved glass wall is an enormous kitchen, almost as big as the whole downstairs area of our house. There’s a big, shiny white table with eight designer-looking chairs of various colours: yellow, red, green, blue. Johnny pulls one out and indicates for me to sit. I’m happy to because my legs feel like jelly. There are two large, silver fridges, and he goes to one of them and opens it, revealing a door full of cans.

‘What can I get you?’ he asks.

‘Just a lemonade or something would be good.’

He sets about getting us both a drink, then shouts through to the living room to ask if Meg wants one, too. She declines. I think she’s angry with him for being late.

‘So,’ he says, placing two tall glasses of sparkling lemonade, on ice, on the table. He pulls up a yellow chair and sits down opposite me. ‘Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,’ he says again with a small shrug. He seems a bit tense. He’s not the only one.