The Accidental Life of Jessie Jefferson

  He ends the call and I’m not sure if I should be infuriated or grateful to him for tying up the loose ends. I stare at him expectantly. He still appears shocked when he meets my eyes.

  ‘Wendel’s going to have someone look into your flights. He said they’d cover it.’ He clears his throat, embarrassed, and my heart goes out to him. Stu has helped to support me for years, something I’ve occasionally felt guilty about. ‘Johnny and his family are going away at the end of July so you’ll have a week with them. Is that OK?’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I say, my face breaking into a grin.

  ‘Wendel asked again that you keep this quiet,’ Stu says in a warning voice. ‘You can’t tell anyone, yet.’

  I sort of neglected to tell him that I might have already mentioned it.

  ‘Who knows what Johnny will be like?’ he adds. ‘You don’t want your whole life to be uprooted if you later decide to do things differently.’

  I don’t know what he means by that, but I’m too distracted to ask. I’m going to LA! I jump up and down on the spot and let out a little squeak.

  Stu smiles, but he’s holding something back. ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ he asks hesitantly. ‘I mean, I know they didn’t offer, but I could buy my own ticket.’

  My heart swells with warmth for him and I do consider it, but I need to do this myself. ‘No, it’s OK,’ I say. ‘It’s probably better that I do this on my own.’

  That week at school, Amanda continues to hang around Libby like a bad smell. Natalie has finished her last exam so she’s no longer at school. Libby makes a bit of an effort to include me and I don’t shun her like I have done in the past, even though Amanda clearly doesn’t want me around. I want to tell Libby about Wendel booking my flights, but I can’t with Amanda there. Libby’s careful not to leave her new friend out, and I can’t help retreating back into myself. Things are not as they were, and I’m not quite ready to adapt.

  I fly on Sunday at midday, arriving in Los Angeles at 3.30pm on the same day. The flight is about eleven and a half hours long, so God knows how I’ll entertain myself on the plane. The longest flight I’ve ever been on was to Italy and that was only about two and a half hours.

  Because this is still top secret, I’ve agreed to stay with Johnny and his family under the guise of being a nanny to his children. I didn’t like it when that was suggested to me, but Wendel assured me it’s just to keep up a front to the press. He warned me it’s for my own personal safety, too. I know he thinks I’m naïve, that I have no idea what I’m getting myself into. Maybe he’s right. But there’s no turning back now.

  On Saturday evening I’m walking home from work when I hear someone call my name from across the street. It’s Tom.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, my stomach flipping as he crosses the street to join me. He’s wearing his footie gear and carrying a football under his arm.

  ‘I’m just heading up to Grenfell Park. You going that way?’ he asks with an easy nonchalance.

  ‘I can take a detour,’ I tell him, mentally switching the map route inside my head to take me through the park instead of around it.

  ‘Cool.’ We fall into step with one another. ‘You out tonight?’ he asks. ‘You’ve not been around lately,’ he adds.

  ‘No, I can’t tonight,’ I reply hesitantly, thinking of the last of my packing. ‘I’m off on holiday tomorrow,’ I explain.

  ‘Really?’ He glances at me with interest. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Er . . . LA.’

  ‘LA? Wow, get you. Mr Taylor’s splashing out.’

  ‘I’m not going with Stu,’ I reply. ‘I’m . . . I’m staying with a friend of my mum’s.’ I breathe a sigh of relief at how easily this explanation falls into place. It’s not even a lie. Well, not really.

  ‘How long are you going for?’

  ‘Just a week.’

  ‘Maybe we can catch Two Things when you get back.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say with a shy smile, pleased that he remembers. ‘I still haven’t seen it.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  Pause. ‘Do you want to text me?’ he asks.

  ‘Sure.’ My insides swell as I dig out my mobile. ‘What’s your number?’

  He reels it off to me and I feel jittery as I pause on the pavement and punch the number into my phone. I drop my phone back into my bag and we keep walking.

  ‘What are you doing this summer?’ I ask him, as he bounces the ball on the pavement in front of us like a basketball.

  ‘Just hanging out. The lads and I are going to Ibiza in August for a couple of weeks.’

  Bet he pulls loads of girls. Urgh. ‘So are you and Isla . . .’ Argh, I’m asking the question and I didn’t even know it!

  ‘What?’ he asks, making me spell it out.

  ‘You looked pretty cosy at Natalie and Mike’s party,’ I say, feeling myself blush.

  He shrugs and bounces the ball again. ‘Nah. Once it’s over, I don’t go back.’

  The relief is immense. We chat as we walk. It’s easier to talk to him now I’m not worrying about him and Isla.

  After a while, I indicate the pathway off to my right. ‘I’m going to head home that way.’

  He nods. ‘OK. Good luck packing.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He backs away, then spins on his heel and jogs through the park. I keep walking so he’s out of view before I see him reach his friends.

  I have a funny feeling that Tom Ryder and I have unfinished business. I hope that in our case, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  Chapter 9

  I put my book down on my lap and stare out of the oval-shaped window at the pale blue sky. We’ve been flying above the clouds for miles – don’t ask me how many. Hundreds. Thousands. But now when I look down I can see the deeper blue of the ocean, far, far below. We’ll be flying over America soon. Nerves ripple through me. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  I felt oddly emotional saying goodbye to Stu. He walked me to the immigration line and then waited while I made my way through the queue. I had a lump in my throat the whole time, which didn’t leave, even as I walked through the doors to an absolutely mahoosive queue on the other side.

  I think of our conversation at the coffee shop in the airport, just before I went through to the other side, where he couldn’t follow.

  ‘Why did you go back to Mum?’ I asked him. ‘When she had me? I wasn’t yours. She broke up with you and then slept with someone else. Why did you take her back? How could you ever forgive her?’ The questions had woken me up in the night, but I hadn’t been able to find the right time to ask them that morning. Now they needed to be spoken, and I was running out of time.

  ‘I loved her,’ he replied simply. ‘I never stopped loving her. People will go to any lengths for the ones they love, whatever the consequences, whatever the sacrifice.’ His face softened as he read my mind. ‘But you weren’t a sacrifice, Jessie. I loved you. I still do, however much you keep pushing me away. That won’t change. Even though you’re off to bigger and brighter things, you’ll always have a home here with me.’

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ I promised, gulping back tears.

  He nodded. ‘I know you will.’ He smiled. ‘Believe it or not, I’m going to miss you while you’re gone.’

  It’s weird. In a strange way, the last few weeks have made Stu feel more like my dad than ever before. Knowing the identity of my real father has made me appreciate Stu. I feel an intense surge of love for him. Thank you for telling me the truth, I say to him inside my head. My eyes shoot open and I stare once more out of the aeroplane window at the blue sky. But I wish it had been you telling me, Mum, I add.

  There’s a dirty grey cloud hanging over LA, and I hear a mother telling her teenage son in the seat in front of me that it’s smog. There are no other clouds in the sky, not that I can see from this side of the plane, anyway. In fact, it looks sweltering down there.

  I’m Johnny Jefferson’s daughter. I pinch myself. I actually do. And
it bloody hurts. No, I am definitely not dreaming – my pincer-like grip has left a red mark on my arm. I’m going to stay with Johnny Jefferson! I’m about to meet my dad!

  The plane hovers closer to the smog and it makes me think of one of my favourite Wombats’ songs, ‘Jump into the Fog’. It’s the song Mum said she liked when we were lying on my bed together, just before Johnny’s song came on. If they hadn’t told us to switch off our electrical equipment, I would have put it on my iPod. We pass through the dirty cloud and my heart flutters. I’ve just jumped into the . . . well, smog.

  By the time I clear immigration and haul my hefty suitcase off the conveyor belt, it’s after midnight back in the UK and I’m starting to feel a little dazed. I try to text Stu to let him know I’ve arrived safely, but discover that my mobile phone battery is flat – I forgot to charge it up before I flew. I couldn’t sleep on the plane. It was all too exhilarating and I was too jittery about meeting Johnny. I got to fly Business Class, and there were so many good films to choose from I didn’t want to waste a minute of it by sleeping. Wendel told me Johnny’s personal driver, a man called Davey, would be waiting to collect me. I’ve seen paparazzi shots of Johnny trying to get through the airport with all of his fans going absolutely berserk, so he wasn’t about to come and get me himself.

  With my heart in my throat, I push the luggage trolley through customs and towards the exit. I’m wearing a T-shirt, denim jacket, black jeans and black ankle boots, which I know I’m going to regret once I get outside, but it was overcast when I left and I needed something comfy on the plane. I suppose I could change? Too late now. I burst through the exit and am confronted with a sea of faces, four people deep. I scan the placards hoping to see Jessica Pickerill, Jessie, Miss Pickerill, any of the above, but I’m feeling woozy with all of the adrenalin and everything starts to look blurry. Suddenly a man with ebony skin wearing a navy blue chauffeur uniform steps out in front of me.

  ‘Miss Pickerill?’ he asks, with a raised eyebrow that disappears under the brim of his cap.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply with relief.

  ‘I recognised you instantly!’ he exclaims, revealing an enormous array of shiny white teeth. He relieves me of my trolley. ‘I’m Davey. Right this way, miss!’ He moves at great speed, expertly dodging other travellers. He glances at me over his shoulder. ‘You look like your father,’ he says with a knowing nod, and I feel overwhelmed as I hurry to keep up. He zips out of the airport doors on to the pavement outside and the heat damn near sucks my breath away. I feel a little faint.

  ‘You OK?’ Davey asks with a frown.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t worn my jeans,’ I reply.

  ‘You can change in the car,’ he says. ‘I’ll put the screen up.’

  Easier said than done, I think to myself. And then I see the car. It’s more like a bus.

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe, as we approach the shiny, long, black Mercedes. Davey opens the back door with a flourish and I climb inside. There’s carpet on the floor and one long, black leather seat to my left which starts near the door and curves all the way along one side to the back of the car. Opposite the seat, under the window, is a pristine white bar, stereo system and what I’m guessing is a small fridge.

  ‘Shall I put your suitcase here, Miss Pickerill?’ Davey asks, indicating the long bench seat. I must look a bit dumbfounded, because he elaborates. ‘So you can find something cooler to wear?’

  ‘Oh, y . . . yes, please,’ I stutter.

  ‘I’ll get the air-conditioning started up straight away,’ he promises with a smile, shutting the door. He climbs into the front and a black screen glides upwards, separating us. ‘So you have some privacy,’ he says, as he disappears out of view. His voice sounds over an intercom. ‘But I can hear you if you press the red button by the basin,’ he tells me. ‘Please, help yourself to refreshments, and ask me anything you wish. We’ll be at Johnny’s in approximately half an hour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I call as he falls silent, but I’m not sure if he heard me. I sit for a moment and try to take in my surroundings. I feel very, very strange. There are seatbelts all the way along the seat, but I leave mine off for a moment. I still feel a bit woozy. Maybe I should have a drink. I lean across and open the fridge. One bottle of champagne, various cans of soft drink, fresh apple juice and, er, milk? How bizarre. I could use a drink to calm down, but wouldn’t dare open the champagne so I pour myself an apple juice and turn to look out of the window, trying to gather my thoughts.

  Everything looks different: the shops, the small bungalows set back behind dry, ratty-looking grass, the wide sidewalks . . . I feel like I’m in another world, and I am. I don’t even really recognise America from all of the TV series I’ve been addicted to over the years. Where’s the gloss? Where’s the shine? Something catches my eye and I see tinsel hanging out in front of one of the tatty houses that we pass. That’s not exactly the sort of shine I was talking about. There are more Christmas decorations hanging out in front of a lot of the houses, glinting off the sun. Clearly these people aren’t worried about bad luck – Mum used to take our decorations down on the sixth of January, no matter what. Mind you, look where that got her. Before I can think any more about that, it dawns on me: Tinseltown. We’re in Tinseltown. Maybe these people leave their tinsel up on purpose.

  I down my juice and put the empty glass into a cup holder, then unzip my bag and stare at the contents, my back still damp with sweat from the short journey from the airport to the car. I spot a flash of silver from within my suitcase and grin, pulling the item out. The tinsel has inspired me.

  I take off my boots and damp socks, my feet feeling blissfully cool as I ease myself out of my jeans. I throw my denim jacket into my bag and drag my T-shirt over my head, quickly pulling my silver swing dress on, just in case Davey’s screen accidentally comes down. Then I stuff the dirty clothes into the inside pocket of my suitcase and let the lid fall shut, not bothering to zip it up again because I’ll probably sort my hair and make-up out in a bit, too.

  But not yet. I’m still feeling a bit queasy so I pour myself another juice, dig out a packet of crisps from a cupboard, and scoot up the bench seat to the back. I slip my sunglasses back on, put my feet up on the curved part of the seat and try to relax. A smile forms on my face as I stare out of the window again at the wide road lined with ridiculously tall, matchstick-thin palm trees. The sky burns blue above the smog cloud and the big cars reflect the sun, right into my eyes. This is real. This is really real.

  ‘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 . . .