Me, You and Tiramisu

It had always been the same. When they were little Rachel used to lay out Jayne’s clothes for her each morning to take away the risk of her making a huge sartorial error. Even Rachel’s school uniform had been customised to the point of bearing little resemblance to its original incarnation. Her skirt had given two fingers to the school regulation of knee-length and she’d even cut her tie in half all the way down before carefully hemming it. Jayne had commented at the time that she’d looked like a country-and-western singer, but like Rachel had swiftly retorted, ‘It’s called fashion, Jayne. You wouldn’t understand.’ Which was true. It wasn’t that she didn’t care how she looked, but she’d always placed function above form in life, and warmth and comfort received greater prioritisation than colour or shape.

Jayne sighed. Resistance was futile. ‘Fine, if it’s so important to you to take me shopping and do a Gok, then okay, I will allow you and Marco to guide me through the maze of Selfridges, but if either of you make any attempt to manhandle me into dresses or make any reference to my ‘bangers’, I’m walking out and you can get another hobby.’

‘Deal.’ Her phone pinged. I’m there like a bear. Mxx

Dear Lord, what had she let herself in for? Thankfully Jayne had had a lifetime of dealing with Rachel, and Marco was the exact replica of her, right down to their shared love of the naked male anatomy. They’d felt a gravitational pull towards each other during design college somewhere between the module on concealing air-conditioning vents and the importance of layering textures in your soft furnishings. Back then he was called Mark, before the run-of-the-mill ‘k’ was dropped in favour of the most exotic ‘co’.

Learning the art of making friends at the age of nineteen was a new one for both of the sisters but Rachel, with her chemically straightened afro cut into an angular black bob, heavily rimmed kohl eyes and a scowl that said, ‘what the hell do you want?’ permanently inked on her face, found it harder.

Jayne had tried to get her to smile encouragingly or even just tone down the stare that said: ‘I could kill you with one sarcastic put-down’. Rachel had howled with mirth when Jayne suggested that ‘a stranger was just a friend she hadn’t met yet’, which made her silently vow to stop reading the slogans on t-shirts and memorising them for future repetition. Rachel wasn’t being deliberately rude or obtuse, though, the truth was she was just fiercely independent. Their upbringing had turned Jayne into an apologetic people-pleaser and given Rachel an almost impenetrable body armour.

Jayne had also spent most of her university life with her nose touching her textbooks, but for her it was borne partly out of love for her subject and more than she would ever admit because it was the first time she wasn’t in the same class as Rachel. They’d never had to experience that moment where you walk into a new classroom and have to do the dreaded scan to see where the empty places were and who looked the least-offensive person to sit by, because they’d always been greeted by the other one with one hand in the air waving and the other firmly planted on the seat next to them, mouthing ‘saved’ at anyone that dared to attempt to sit down.

Everyone always assumed that being a twin meant that you had this invisible bubble sealed around you that repelled and reflected any outside interference, and this was sort of true, it does take a very special kind of person to see a crack and squeeze into it, and boy, was Mark/co persistent. When Rachel called her sister excitedly on her way home one day in her second term to say that she’d met this guy called Mark and they were going to see one of his friends play in a band that night at a random bar in Clapham, Jayne couldn’t have been more surprised. Nice surprised. Not a little bit jealous in the least. Nope, not her. Good on Rachel. And Mark. She had hoped they were very happy together.

Thankfully this level of ‘nicely surprised’ soon gave way to ‘actually nicely surprised’ because Marco became the confidante that Rachel always wanted Jayne to be. It meant that she turned to him to discuss the guest editorship of the latest issue of Wallpaper and whether perspex platforms were going to make a comeback. Jayne had very little to contribute on either of these topics, so Marco being around actually worked in everyone’s favour.

How Jayne escaped relatively unscathed from the morning’s shopping she had no idea – in fact she was pretty certain Rachel and Marco would still be standing outside the changing room suggesting that if she leant forward, she could squeeze into the bodycon dress a little easier, had she not called time on the whole charade at about three. Jayne had got so bored she’d even resorted to taking armfuls of clothes into the cubicle with her, locking the door and then sitting in the corner playing solitaire on her mobile pretending to change, while her personal shoppers shouted out encouraging comments and questions, such as ‘what does the teal one look like?’ To which she’d replied things like, ‘what’s teal?’ while putting a three of clubs on top of a four of hearts.

They’d finally all decided that skinny jeans were not made for her – Jayne knew this after trying one pair on; why she had to try on a further three pairs was beyond her, ‘They’re different brands, so different cuts,’ was Marco’s reasoning, but she thought the clue was in the name. But the outfit that finally raised a smile from Rachel, jazz hands from Marco and an ‘Hallelujah’ from Jayne was a long maxi dress with a swirly paisley print in oranges and reds, which, according to Rachel, was very ‘retro-chic’ which was, apparently, a good thing.

That evening she teamed her new purchase with her failsafe denim jacket that had been a faithful staple of her wardrobe for a decade, big hoop earrings and, miracles of miracles, hair that seemed to instinctively know that it had to behave itself, and she was ready to go.

‘You look lush, Jayne, really lush.’ Rachel stood to give her a hug and Marco gave her a big thumbs-up from the sofa, where he was lounging, throwing cashews into his open mouth. ‘If you’re not coming home tonight, text me.’

‘Shut up, like that’s going to happen. It’s not even a date date. Just two friends talking about old times. Together. In a friendly, platonic, keeping-clothes-on kind of way.’

‘Oh okay. I’ll come too then, shall I?’ Rachel said mischievously.

‘Don’t you bloody dare. See you later!’

He was already sitting at the bar when Jayne walked in, and spotting her loitering at the door, gave a little salute. Oh God, he was gorgeous. She had a flashback to the restaurant last night, even once she had the gift of 20/20 vision, she’d been so overwhelmed with the reality of who he was she hadn’t fully comprehended quite how absolutely beautiful he was. The gaunt, lanky features of fifteen-year-old Billy had mellowed and softened, and thankfully his dark straggly mullet had since been ceremoniously lopped off. Even his childlike nickname had morphed into a more mature moniker that suited his new broad shoulders and strong silhouette. The ridiculously blue eyes that had once been hidden behind a centimetre-thick piece of glass were now dancing. He stood up as Jayne approached him – gentlemanly too, she thought – and he towered over her, which, as she was just shy of six foot herself, almost never happened.

‘Hey you.’

‘Hey.’

There was a semi-awkward moment where they both weighed up how to add an element of tactility to the greeting. Kiss, hug, both? Both it was. Excellent.

‘So we don’t see each other in eighteen years and then twice in twenty-four hours?’ He helped her shrug off her coat and hang it on the back of her chair. He even waited until she sat down to perch back up on the stool himself. ‘I ordered a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate. I know it’s essentially poor man’s fizz, but I thought this moment warranted something sparkly, and I am, lamentably, a poor man.’

Jayne grinned to put him at ease, and also to give her mouth something to do, ‘bubbles are bubbles to me, and that sounds super.’ Super? Super? Jesus, Jayne, why not just order lashings and lashings of ginger ale and be done with it.

After returning the bottle to the ice bucket on the bar he turned and held out a glass for her. ‘Here you go, Madam.’

‘Cheers, here’s to … erm … old friends?’

‘Old friends. And new beginnings.’ They tapped glasses, ‘Um, did that sound as cheesy as I think it did?’

Thankful that the first laugh of the night was aimed at his awkwardness and not hers, she giggled, ‘yes, a little bit, but I know what you mean.’ She could see his neck and cheeks colouring a little – if she didn’t know better she would say that he was nervous, which was ridiculous, he couldn’t be. That would be like Heidi Klum in awe at meeting Meatloaf. Rachel said she did this too much, exaggerate her flaws for comedic effect, and she knew she was right. Obviously she didn’t actually resemble Meatloaf, that would be incredibly unfortunate, but she was also fairly realistic that neither, sadly, would she ever be mistaken for a close, or even distant, relative of Ms Klum’s. Except perhaps in one of her annual over-the-top Halloween costumes. See? I did it again, Jayne thought.

‘So,’ Will said finally, taking a Dutch courage sip, ‘How were the last nineteen hours since I last saw you?’ Jayne started regaling him with the highlights of her day spent with the fashion police and soon they were both laughing, which proved to be quite difficult while balancing precariously on a barstool that was about half the width of her behind.

Thankfully, before too long a couple vacated the battered leather Chesterfield that was nestled at the end of the bar, so they could continue their inane banter in more comfort. They sat alongside each other, both turned inwards, he stretched his arm along the back of the sofa and Jayne kept getting whiffs of a heady combination of expensive aftershave that almost masked his coconut shampoo, and his natural masculine muskiness that made her want to run her tongue all over his face. She didn’t, though. Not yet.

He told her all about his day in the deli over a sharing platter of fried seafood, giving her enlightened observations on all the regulars that came in for a chat and a slab of stinky Italian cheese. It seemed to Jayne as if he’d built up a proper little community around his shop; she had no doubt that the quality of his produce was outstanding, but she was also absolutely certain that the Bugaboo Brigade found other reasons for choosing his establishment as their regular low-fat latte haunt – less to do with what was on the counter and more to do with what was behind it. He seemed totally oblivious to his own personal merits, though, just delighted that his carefully sourced prosciutto was garnering such a following. Bless him.

‘There’s this old dude called Bob the Boat because he lives on a canal barge,’

‘And his name is Bob?’ Jayne helpfully interjected.

‘Exactamondo. And by all accounts he was this proper Romeo back in the day, with a little black book of women that was not very little. He’s hilarious. He’s over eighty and is always entertaining different ‘companions’ on his barge – so he comes in for exotic ingredients for aphrodisiac canapés, dirty sod.’

‘Good on him.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Will raised his glass, ‘Here’s to Bob the Boat, and all who allow him to sail in them.’

‘Eugh! That’s gross! You’re gross.’

He paused for a moment, studying his glass before looking sideways at Jayne. He reached over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear and said quietly, ‘And you’re beautiful. I thought it then, and I think it now.’

They half-walked, half-ran, doing a funny sort of power walk that Jayne had only ever seen lycra-bottomed mums with pushchairs and wrist weights doing along the towpath. Quickly weaving in and out of people meandering slowly along the pavement, Jayne didn’t know who was pulling whom along, they both seemed equally eager to reach their destination.

As soon as the door to his flat slammed behind them they’d collapsed on the stairs, ripping at each other’s jackets, buttons and belts. His fingers were in her hair, then tilting her chin so his lips could run around her neck, his teeth gently biting her earlobes. Her mouth desperately searched out his and their lips locked as they fumbled out of their clothes. With their tongues still heatedly circling each others’ Will kicked off his shoes so he could wriggle out of his jeans, while Jayne reached behind her and unlocked her bra. Will gasped and pushed her breasts together. He buried his face in between them and they both laughed.

‘We could actually go upstairs?’ He murmured into her chest.

‘No, let’s stay here. I’ve never made love on the stairs before.’

‘Are we about to make love ?’

‘It certainly looks that way. Now stop talking.’

Chapter 5

Jayne backed away and looked suspiciously at the beige-green sludge that Will was offering to her on an outstretched spoon. ‘Try this.’

‘What is it?’ she said gingerly, edging a little closer, but still not fully entering into the spirit of the game.

‘Elderflower and pear chutney. I don’t know if I’ve got the right amount of juniper berries in it or not. What do you think?’

Cautiously she allowed the tip of the spoon to touch her lips, ‘Oh my days, Will, that’s amazing,’ she opened her mouth wide so he could put the whole spoon in. ‘You need to do something about the aesthetics, though, because it looks like snot.’

‘Thanks for that, sweetheart, beautifully put. I might put that on the label as its tagline – Looks like phlegm but tastes delicious.’

‘There’s something to be said for honesty in advertising. Can I have another spoonful?’ she said leaning in.

‘No. You’re procrastinating, go to parents’ evening.’

‘Don’t make me,’ she whined, laying her head on his shoulder. ‘I can’t cope with the angry stage mums no doubt already forming a line to abuse me for not picking their kids for the main parts in the play. Can’t I stay here and eat chutney all evening with you? Please?’

He kissed her on the top of her head, momentarily flattening the wild black ringlets that fizzed out at right angles in every direction. He gave her bottom a playful swat. ‘Go. Go and be charming, be beguiling, and lie through your teeth as to why their cherished offspring didn’t make the cut. I, meanwhile, am going to attempt to master a pumpkin, orange and chilli marmalade. I may save you some if you’re good.’ He started humming the same jaunty tune he always did when he was concocting culinary brilliance. ‘Call me if you’re done by ten and I’ll come and join you in the pub.’

Despite her procrastinations, which she reasoned were completely understandable – who wouldn’t want to spend their evening perched on a kitchen stool being spoon-fed tenderly invented recipes from the love of their life – Jayne actually quite enjoyed parents’ evenings. Admittedly nothing really prepared her for one parent a couple of years ago sticking their iPhone into her face saying ‘Can you say again for the tape how Mia can improve her comprehension skills?’ Or the dad who kept rolling his eyes and making quack-quack movements with his hands whenever his wife was talking – she could tell he was a real keeper.

The hubbub of noise emanating from the hall could be heard from the adjacent staff room, which was packed with every member from each faculty. Jayne nodded, waved and smiled her way through the throng to the kettle, where Abi stood waiting for her, two mugs of extra-strong Nescafé in her hands. She handed Jayne the one saying ‘Keep Calm, It’s Almost Summer’. They’d joined the school at the same time almost ten years ago, both of them fresh from finishing their PGCEs, sporting wide Bambi-eyes and proudly clutching their meticulously filled-in and highlighted lesson plans with noticeably shaking hands. Fast-forward a decade and the hopefulness that they had then was still there, despite an unhealthy dose of hard-earned cynicism trying its best to erode it.

Abi blew across the top of her coffee and said, ‘So what’s it to be this time?’

‘I was thinking about that on the way over here. I think Queen.’

‘As in your son is one?’

Jayne laughed and spilt a bit of coffee on her shirt, ‘Oh no! Quick give me a tissue!’ She arranged her scarf over the damp patch of brown and shrugged, ‘That’ll do. Right, what’s mine?’ They’d devised this game to get them through the early years of parents’ evenings to keep the terror at bay and it had become a rather un-PC ritual they did every term now.

‘Eiffel Tower.’

‘Bugger off. I can’t just drop in the words Eiffel Tower when I’m talking about year eight English. Make it an easier one.

‘Okay … what about ice skating?’

‘Wow, you’re on fire tonight. Okay, fine. Ice skating.’

They took their seats at adjacent tables in the hall and, despite the parents all having booked their allotted ten minutes with each teacher, there was already a jostling crowd gathering in front of both of them.

A few parents in, Jayne remembered the task in hand. ‘Right then, okay, well, Sophie did very well on the Anne Frank project, some very insightful creative writing on the diary excerpts, which gained her a B+, which was excellent.’

‘Why didn’t she get an A?’

‘Well, I like to think that grading projects is like judging an ice-skating competition,’ Jayne heard a muffled snort from the next table, ‘every technical aspect has its own mark and there are floating marks for added flair and flourishes, so in that respect, B+ was the end result. So all in all, very good effort.’

Bidding a weary farewell to the last parents, the two teachers sat back in their chairs, mentally exhausted. ‘Jeez, how many different ways can you cover up the fact that you haven’t got the faintest idea who their child is?’

Abi’s acerbic comments delivered with her singsong Irish accent made Jayne laugh every time. The first time they’d met was the interview day for the new intake of NQTs. Abi had run into the crowded classroom late, the door slamming behind her, punctuating her arrival, her dishevelled hair piled high on her head with a colourful scarf wrapped around it. She’d hurried to the empty seat next to Jayne and after a time whispered, ‘I’m going for the art job – please tell me you’re not or I can’t be your friend.’

‘You’re safe, and so is our friendship,’ Jayne whispered, ‘I’m English.’

‘That’s unfortunate, but you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself,’ she had muttered back, without a hint of sarcasm.

Jayne had tried hard to suppress a giggle and failed. ‘Is something funny?’ barked the deputy head who was in the middle of her surprisingly unwelcoming welcome speech. Abi had surreptitiously winked at Jayne after they’d shaken their heads in unison and Jayne knew that wasn’t the last time this barmy woman from County Mayo would get her in trouble.

In the summer holiday after their terrifying first year had ended, she’d taken Jayne back to Ireland to decompress for a few weeks. Her family were from this gorgeous little town on the banks of the River Carrowbeg called Westport that was bathed in the shadow of the Croagh Patrick Mountain. It was so beautiful that a big-shot Hollywood director visiting Ireland to discover his ancestry had decreed it was the perfect setting for his upcoming rom-com, which even before the first scene was filmed was already being hailed as the hit of the following summer.

Abi had told Jayne on the ferry over that the whole town, ‘nay, the whole county, was excited beyond belief to have this happen, then a week into filming they realised it was the biggest load of ball-ache that ever was.’ But on the flipside, her parents, who were born and bred in Mayo, had rented out their two spare rooms to movie extras and had made enough to finally leave Ireland for the first time and go on a cruise around the Greek Islands. ‘Every cloud, Abigail, is sewn with a lining of silver thread,’ her mother had poetically said at the time.

It was the perfect way to unwind after three terms of permanent heart palpitations. They had spent their days sleeping, eating breakfasts cooked by the mother Jayne wished she’d had and drinking unfancy coffee on the riverfront promenade. Their evenings invariably ended up with them seven sheets to the wind singing in the lively Matt Malloy’s in the town centre. Everyone knew Abi, welcoming her back to the town with a hearty wave or heartfelt hug, and as a friend of hers – albeit an English one – Jayne wasn’t denied the odd embrace either.

‘It would have been so fabulous to grow up here, where everyone looks out for one another,’ Jayne had said wistfully one afternoon as they sat on a bench overlooking the river, eating little pots of ice cream, that had flecks of real vanilla seeds in it, none of your supermarket own-brand impersonal white tub for the County Mayo folks.

‘Aye, it’s alright when you’re being good, but as soon as you decide you want a bit of fun, your mam knows about it before you’ve even done anything.’ As brilliantly timed evidence, the butcher from the shop opposite stood in his doorway and shouted across the road, ‘Abigail Sheeran, can ye tell ya mammy we’ve got some lovely steaks in for your da’s supper?’

Abi had raised her hand and nodded her assent, before turning to Jayne and muttering, ‘Exactly how many days until we bugger off back to London’s wonderful anonymity, where nobody cares what the hell you’re having for your dinner?’

Jayne had leaned her head back on the bench, closed her eyes and allowed the warm afternoon sun to bathe her face, ‘Seriously, enjoy it, if we’d have gone to my mum’s we’d be sitting in the dark with the curtains closed to avoid either the landlord collecting rent or cajoled into joining a séance or something.’

Jayne smiled at the memory of that summer as she watched Abi gather up her papers on her desk and stuff them into her large straw bag.

‘Why are you grinning like an idiot?’ Abi said accusingly, looking up.

‘Nothing, nothing at all. Right, are we going for a drink?’ Jayne paused, ‘Will said he might join us …’

‘What? How’s he going to do that if he’s not real?’ Abi was convinced that Will was a figment of Jayne’s imagination, carefully crafted so she didn’t have to go on any more soul-murdering blind dates with men that she described as ‘perfect apart from [insert interchangeable disgusting trait here]’.

Jayne didn’t know why she’d delayed introducing Will to any of her friends, and both him and they were starting to question her motives. She supposed the truth was, because she’d never really had a boyfriend before, she had no idea how to share him. Rachel imagined that it all stemmed back to the two of them pitching themselves against the world, and with Will, Jayne had fallen into the same default setting. She didn’t quite know exactly how being part of a couple could transfer to being part of a couple in a crowd of people.

It had been six months and so far she’d sidestepped the inevitable introductions, but he’d recently brought up the subject of them moving in together – albeit carefully shrouded in a discussion about ‘unnecessary outgoings’. He’d even casually mentioned that he’d been thinking that a three bedroom flat was too big for a man on his own … he might have to bring in two lodgers … oh hang on … He’d delivered this speech in a nonchalantly informal non-rehearsed way, that smacked completely of someone who had very much rehearsed it, very formally, in front of a mirror. Jayne hadn’t really answered yet, just giving nonchalant nods and saying that she’d talk to Rachel, whilst inside she was screaming ‘Hell to the Yes!’

‘I thought I told you Abi, he’s real, but just invisible.’

‘Aye, so you did. So the only way we’ll know he’s there is if he pees on the floor and we see a puddle?’

‘Exactly. So you’re very lucky you’re not wearing your expensive LK Bennett heels this evening as they’d be absolutely ruined by my boyfriend’s wee.’ Jayne tried to dodge the register of parents’ names that Abi had deftly rolled up and was aiming at her best friend’s head. ‘Come on then, the Pitcher & Piano?’