God, Wiley. What the hell has that got to do with you?
Henry looks a little confused. “No. Why d’you ask?”
“I was just wondering. Never mind. Forget it.”
“I’m here almost every weekend,” he says. “I sometimes go to my grandparents, but they live in Cheshire, which is a bit south of Manchester. We used to spend most of our summer holidays there too.”
Oh, is that where his accent is from? It’s incredibly hot. Oh, God, what’s wrong with me?
“Do you visit them often?” I ask, just for something to say.
“Not as often as I should,” he admits. “It’s five hours by train. Sometimes my brother drives me—he’s got a car.”
I’m about to ask him about his brother, but almost the moment we step through the gate, a man approaches us. He taps his watch with his index finger.
“Ten o’clock. Wing time,” he calls out.
“We’re practically there,” Henry replies. He turns back to me. “Are you here this weekend?”
“Yes.” I don’t know where else I’d be.
He smiles. “Good.” He leans forward. He hugs me. Breathe,breathe. “See you around, then. Sleep well, Emma from Germany.”
10
Emma
Jacob Wiley was born in Glasgow and is a Scottish singer-songwriter.
I stare at the letters until they blur as my eyes start swimming. Not that that matters—I know every line of his Wikipedia entry by heart. I’ve read it often enough. Probably too often to be good for me, but what can I say? If your only source of information is a web page that, in theory at least, any random person can edit however they like with just a few clicks, it’s easy to get paranoid. There could be something new, so I have to look. Every day. Several times on some days. That’s just how it is. Even long after I ought to be asleep. I’msoootired, but even after almost a week at Dunbridge, everything’s so new and exciting that I can’t get any rest at night, no matter how exhausted I am. There’s too much to think about. My dad, Mr.Ward, Grace, Isi, Henry—especially Henry and his freaking smile. He’s got dimples too and it’s just not fair. I’d like to ask him what he meant by “See you around, then.” I should have asked him for his number again. Or would that have been inappropriate? He only wanted to give it to me so that I could find him atlunchtime. Which still makes no sense, but obviously I haven’t dared ask him about that either.
Whatever. Whatever... I have to think about something else. I have to get some sleep. But the bed still doesn’t feel like it’s mine, and it’s too quiet here. All I hear is the occasional glugging from the old water pipes in the wall or some nocturnal animal outside.
Do the teachers stay at school over the weekend too? Maybe I could look for Mr.Ringling tomorrow and ask him subtle questions about my dad. Or should I try Ms.Barnett first? She’s sure to be here. But I don’t even know what I want to know. To be honest, I know nothing at all. All I can do is lie here, next to my laptop, reading these sentences that I know by heart.
Life
Jacob Wiley grew up in the Hillhead area of Glasgow. He began to play the guitar and piano at the age of five. Wiley attended Dunbridge Academy, where he was a member of the school choir. He left school at the age of seventeen, without completing his A levels, to tour as a support act for the band The Vagabonds.
It’s all there. The title of his first single, the dates of his first solo tour. That he lived in Germany for a few years. As a support act to a different band. You can read it all on the internet.
Wiley’s second marriage was to the Puerto Rican singer Camila Soler, and the couple lived together in Sacramento, California. After their divorce, he moved back to his homeland.
That may be true, but it’s not the whole truth. Properly speaking it ought to say something like:Prior to this, he had an on-again, off-again relationship with German lawyer Laura Beck. They have one daughter together, Emma Wiley, who barely knows her father and wonders to this day why he left.
But it doesn’t.
Those words have been in the Wikipedia edit pane a few times, typed by me, the blinking cursor mocking me.You haven’t got the guts, don’t kid yourself. You’re not part of his life. Deal with it. If he wanted you in his life, you’d know about it.
Sometimes I hear his voice in my head. Promising to take me with him the next time he goes on tour. He sounds seriously euphoric. I must have been about seven at the time, and I didn’t doubt him for a second. I still believe him to this day. Believe that one day Jacob Wiley, my dad who doesn’t want anything to do with me, will turn up, stand there with his guitar slung casually over his shoulder, and say,Time to go, Emma. Come on, the tour starts tomorrow.
You’d think at some point that would all stop. That you’d eventually forget someone’s voice after you hadn’t seen them for years.
But the problem is that if your dad’s a singer, you can’t forget his voice. It’s all too easy to open Spotify or, on really bad days, YouTube. Then you can see him too. And then you can start looking for similarities. Until your head aches and your eyes are burning, whether that’s from the harsh light of the laptop in the darkness, or from the tears.
And then you google the boarding school he went to and imagine what it would be like to go there and find out more.Because the Facebook messages and emails you sent him have gone unanswered. Because you don’t want to make a fool of yourself by asking your mother. Does she still have his mobile number or anything?
Just leave it.That voice in the back of my mind is getting louder and louder.You’re running into trouble here.And maybe that’s true, but let’s face it, running’s the only thing I’m any good at.
