She pushes against this intrusion but is only rewarded by a splatter-gun of other thoughts exploding in her brain:
Eric the Viking is a bit weird.
And messy.
But he doesn’t eat noisily which is a very good thing.
I bet he snores. It’s the sort of thing he would do.
He has the most amazing eyes.
And body.
I don’t really mind the teasing.
Idomind the teasing. I felt stupid.
Lando likes him.
I like Lando.
What would Mum think of the tattoos?
Lucy would like them … and she’d like him.
Those hands.
Forget it.
He’s far too young for you.
Then come the whispery words, worming their way in:
I don’t want to live in London.
He’s an optician, he could work from anywhere.
Will we tell our children about tonight?
She doesn’t want any of these thoughts. They make her feel desperate and out of control. Like her yearning for a family has taken over.
And yet, there, lying in the dark, within the confusion and anxiety, there is a glimmer of something. A spark.
Jo closes her eyes tight and tries to grasp it.
Then it comes to her.
She could almost believe she could hate James right now.
What he didwaswrong. Long before the ‘It’s not me, it’s you.’ She wasn’t being unreasonable. Telling herself it was a small thing, not worth making a fuss about had been a mistake.
Jo swears, very loudly, into the stillness of the room.
It is only as she is dropping off to sleep, having said goodnight to Uncle Wilbur (and apologized for the swearing), that a stray thought drifts in, twisted in with the first tendrils of sleep. Isn’t she also running away from Finn?
Finn, Lucy’s youngest brother.
14
