Given all of that, tidiness is low on the priority list, except when Alex is coming over. She knows from the state of his flat, his always carefully combed hair and tucked-in shirt and immaculate grammar, that tidiness matters to him. And she might as well get used to not leaving her stuff lying around, because if they ever share a home, he probably won’t find it endearing that she leaves a half-read book on every surface, a graveyardof used tea mugs on her bedside table, and a bag of recycling next to the door because she can’t quite be bothered to go outside every time she finishes rinsing out a yoghurt pot.
‘My friend Alex is coming over in a little bit,’ she tells Ivy as they walk across Vauxhall Bridge Road hand in hand, the zebra crossing beeping in the background. ‘We’re going to do some writing together. But I’ve got some colouring books and some dot-to-dot puzzles for you so you can sit at the table with us if you like.’
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Maybe I can do some writing too.’
‘Maybe.’
Jess is just getting out the felt tips and puzzle books when the doorbell rings. Ivy follows her to the door. ‘You’re a boy,’ she says to Alex, by way of greeting, her brow furrowed as if with wisdom beyond her years.
‘Yes, I am,’ he says. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Ivy.’
‘I’ve got a friend called Alex,’ Ivy explains. ‘But she’s a girl.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Alex says, seemingly not in the least flustered. ‘She’s probably called Alexandra. But I’m Alexander. The boy version. Does that make sense?’
Ivy nods more gravely than the situation seems to demand.
‘Shall we let him come in, Ivy?’
Biting her lip, she nods again and moves to the side, letting Alex through. There’s something earnest about this little girl that Jess is particularly drawn to. She’s all thought and intensity, in the most endearing of ways.
On the living-room table, where Alex and Jess usually work, there’s not a lot of space left. The puzzlesand colouring books sit in the middle, surrounded by felt-tip pens. Next to them: a chess set.
This is new.
‘I didn’t know you played chess,’ Jess says.
Another earnest nod. ‘We have a club at school. And do you want to know a secret?’
‘Always.’
Ivy leans into Jess’s ear and whispers loudly enough for anyone so much as passing the flat to hear.
‘I’m the best player.’
‘Wow, that’s cool.’
Alex plays along, pretending not to have heard. ‘Are you good at it?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
Jess envies this ability to state facts as they are. Ivy hasn’t learned to be self-conscious yet, to worry that it doesn’t do to be too confident, or too open about your achievements. Jess hopes that Ivy never learns this. That she gets to go through life with self-assurance, stating her strengths openly. Is that too much to wish for this far into the twenty-first century? Jess hopes not.
‘Want to show me how good you are?’ Alex asks. ‘We can play, if you like.’
‘Aren’t you and Jess supposed to be writing, though?’
Alex looks at Jess for permission.
‘It can wait,’ she says. She feels guilty about making Ivy mostly sit quietly and look after herself while she and Alex work. Jess loved staying at her grandparents’ as a child, but she also remembers a feeling of being shunted around from grown-up to grown-up, trying to find her footing and different things to keep her busyin different homes. It’s how she discovered books, and probably why she’s always loved them.A uniquely portable magic, Stephen King called them once, and for Jess they were that, but also something else: a uniquely portable home. Something she could easily put in her pocket on her way to her grandparents’, and it didn’t really matter where she was, because where sheactuallywas – the only place that mattered – was between the pages of her book, in Narnia or Amsterdam or a bygone London. The continuity of that was comforting, and it was why she especially loved long series whose stories unfolded in one place: a particular boarding school, a magical land, outer space.
It assuages Jess’s guilt to allow Ivy and Alex to play chess together for a while. Besides, how good can Ivy possibly be? She’s seven. The game won’t last long.
‘The King’s Pawn opening,’ Alex says, scratching his chin in a thoughtful-grandpa kind of way that makes Jess smile. ‘I see. You’re not going to get me with the four-move checkmate, I’m afraid.’
Ivy wrinkles her nose. ‘Oh.’
Chess isn’t one of the many hobbies Jess has dabbled in over the years. Whenever anyone has tried to explain it to her, her eyes have glazed over. She can tell, objectively, that it’s an elegant game. Shewants towant to learn. But she doesn’t actuallywant tolearn.
