For a moment Jo thinks of a storm breaking and she thinks, ah,thisis the storm, and she leans forward over her belly, which once held the promise of a baby, and she rocks on the bed. The tears come in earnest now and the sobs break from her, and she feels them as part of a rhythmical anguish, which rocks along with her. And then Lucy has her arms around her – and she is part of it – and Jo feels the comfort of her, the movement of the two of them, soothing her, even as their tears flow.
34
Mindy from Hot Springs
They are back in Uncle Wilbur’s sitting room. Lucy in his chair, Jo on the floor with her back resting against it. On the coffee table are the remnants of their impromptu picnic.
‘Will you be home for Christmas?’ Lucy asks.
‘Of course I will. You know I was always coming home, Luce. I was never going to stay in London.’ Jo means what she says, but she realizes it costs her something to say it.
‘And when the baby comes in February …?’
Jo swivels on the cushion she is sitting on and looks up at her best friend. ‘I meant what I said: I will be the best Auntie Jo your baby could wish for.’
‘But will it be … I don’t know. Jo, will you be okay?’
Jo thinks of the conversation they had earlier, hugging, toes tucked under the tulip-covered duvet. ‘Of course. That baby will be sick of the sight of me.’ As she says this, Jo knows her commitment is unfailing, but she is left wondering about the rest of her life. Who will she be, apart from Auntie Jo? She wouldn’t want to work in a bank again, she knows that. She thinks of Eric the Viking calling her Stationery Girl? What will happen to her?
As if reading her mind (well, Jo thinks happily, best friends do that), Lucy asks, ‘What about this Eric – you texted quite a lot about him. I haven’t got to see the Viking.’
Jo is about to launch into an explanation about how Eric is with someone else and all about Caramel Toffee Clare. Then she realizes that if she mentions the double date it will bring up Finn, and she doesn’t want to go there. So, instead she says, ‘He’s not into me, well, only as a friend. It was never going to work. He’s too young for me.’
‘What is it with you and age? You’re always banging on about it.’
‘Well, James …’
‘Not all men are like James. Thank God.’
Jo thinks about all that she has kept from Lucy. There is one final thing she knows she needs to share with her.
‘Look, when I was getting suspicious about James, I did check his phone records and stuff, but I also looked at his social media. And what made me feel really, really crap about myself, apart from all his snidey comments, was his thing on social media for younger women.’
‘How young?’ Lucy demands.
‘Oh, early twenties, nothing sick, Luce, just – well – definitely a lot younger than me.’
‘Sounds pretty sick to me,’ Lucy declares. ‘You know Jemima says he’s going bald,’ she adds with relish, ‘Definitely thin on top.’
This does make Jo smile.
‘So what did you find out?’ Lucy continues.
‘It was his Instagram,’ Jo says, and she feels cold and clammy, as she did the first time she scrolled through all the women that James was following.
‘What? Weird stuff?’ Lucy queries – Jo thinks, hopefully.
‘Well, not really. They were women who were professing to be financial experts or stuff like that. All blonde, all about twenty. And from all over the world. They were called things like Brandi, and there was one he was really into, Mindy from Hot Springs, Arkansas. They kept posting stuff that was so cheesy. You and I would have laughed.’ But back then Jo certainly did not feel like laughing.
‘What sort of stuff?’ Lucy sounds intrigued.
‘Oh, things like, “Brand Me is rockin’ it. And you can take that to the bank”, and there was a hell of a lot about loving themselves.’
Lucy is snorting in derision, ‘What a load of crap!’ she declares. ‘And James was into this stuff?’ She doesn’t sound surprised.
‘Seems like. And it was the images they were posting. They were all pouting at the camera. You know the sort of thing, shirts unbuttoned a bit too low. Sitting on a desk, leaning back. And that did it for him. Well, going by his comments.’
‘What sort of thing?’
