‘My art project’s due on Friday as well and there’s still loads I want to do on it.’
Jess winced as she pulled the cuticle away from her thumbnail and watched a small drop of blood ooze out. ‘We’ve been through this before, Mia. The only reason I let you take art as a fifth A-level was because you insisted it wouldn’t interfere with your other subjects. If you can’t stick to that then we’ll have to think again about whether you should be doing it at all.’
‘It’s not interfering, I promise. I can easily finish my English essay tomorrow.’
Jess sucked at her thumb, the blood metallic on her tongue. ‘You know what your teachers said. If you’re going to get into Cambridge, you have to get straight A-stars in your four academic subjects.’
There was another long silence and Jess wondered what Mia was doing, wished she could read her expression and work out what she was thinking.
‘I know that, but it’s just so unlikely. Only one person has gone to Cambridge or Oxford from my school in the last eight years so I don’t know why you think I stand a chance.’
‘Because you’re clever enough, Mia. If you work hard enough, I know you can do it. Just think how amazing it would be. I’d be so proud of you. And, believe me, if you don’t give it your best shot and you end up just missing out, you’ll be kicking yourself for the rest of your life.’
An image flashed into Jess’s head: standing in the school corridor, forming a circle with her three best friends, opening their brown A4 envelopes in unison and pulling out the single sheet of white paper containing the results of their A-levels. Jess hearing her friends squeal with delight and relief as she watched her own future change before her eyes: not the straight As she needed for her place to read English at Cambridge but an A, a B and a C – as though even her grades were showing her just how rudimentary her learning was – that might just scrape her through Clearing to somewhere half decent if she was lucky. She remembered feeling – as if she were back there now, standing in that corridor lined with photographs of the sixth formers’ disco – that all her ambitions were swimming away from her towards a distant horizon she could never hope to reach. Ambitions to get to Cambridge, secure a role on the student newspaper, learn the journalistic ropes. Ambitions to forge connections, work hard, give herself the best chance possible of achieving her dream to edit a national broadsheet one day. Jess had only just turned eighteen but she had understood, even then, that a place at Cambridge was a ticket not just to a first-rate education but to a first-rate contacts book that would service the rest of her career. A ticket she had torn up by failing to get the grades she needed.
‘It’s only fourteen months, Mia, that’s all. Just get the A-level grades you need for Cambridge and you’ll be set up for the rest of your life.’
‘Fine, Mum. I’ll finish my English essay tonight. But I was thinking … I know I’m already doing art A-level but I honestly do find it really relaxing, and I’ve found this brilliant Saturday morning art class at the Royal College. It’s only a couple of hours a week and they’ve still got a few places left for the summer term. I was thinking of putting my name down.’
Jess heard a loud sigh and then realised it was hers. ‘Mia, haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? You can’t possibly take on something else when you’re so overloaded. You’re already doing an extra A-level and it sounds as though you’re struggling to manage that. You’ll have plenty of time for hobbies when you get to university.’
There was the sound of a cupboard door opening and closing, water running into a glass, three long gulps. ‘But this course looks really good. And I can’t study every second of the day. When I spoke to Dad about it he thought it was a great idea. He said I needed an antidote to exams, that it would do me good to relax a bit.’
Jess felt her jaw lock, her back teeth grinding as if in a pre-emptive strike against saying something she might regret. She could hear Iain’s voice in her head, his infuriating nonchalance unpicking all the maternal work she had done over the past seventeen years. It had been the same ever since he’d left: him charging in on a white horse to play the parental saviour whenever Mia felt irked about something. Taking Mia for fun days out a couple of times a month, flitting in to whisk her away for the occasional weekend during the long summer holiday without any consideration for how Jess would manage the remaining weeks while she was at work, leaving her to create a military-style schedule of friends, childminders and, most often, her mum to fill the breach. He behaved more like an irresponsible avuncular family friend than a father. And yet, in spite of all that, to Mia he could do no wrong: she would return from days out with him questioning why Jess wasn’t as easy-going and fun as he was. Sometimes Jess couldn’t help wishing that Iain had abandoned them completely rather than offering this occasional malign interference, that he’d disappeared to the other side of the world and had never been heard of or seen again.
Iain’s face morphed into her head like an image emerging on to photographic paper. The apologetic furrow of his brow, the narrow edges of his eyes, the pinched corners of his mouth as he’d told her he was leaving: I just can’t handle it, Jess. I can’t handle your moods and your insecurities and the sheer bloody unpredictability of living with you. One minute you’re needy and affectionate, the next you’re blocking me out as if you don’t want me anywhere near you. It’s like there’s a part of you that’s permanently shut away, under lock and key, and you won’t let anyone get close. It’s impossible, Jess. Life with you is impossible. You don’t want a partner. You don’t want an equal. You want someone to take care of you when you feel vulnerable and someone to lash out at when you don’t. Well, I can’t handle it any more. I just can’t do it.
Even now, all these years later, the memory of Iain’s criticisms pained her, although Jess was never sure whether that was because they were unfair or because she feared they might be true.
‘Sweetheart, I know it’s hard – please don’t think I don’t understand how you feel – but it’s not for ever. Don’t jeopardise everything you’ve worked so hard for at the eleventh hour for the sake of a hobby. You’ll thank me for it in the long run, trust me.’
‘But if Dad can see it’s a good idea, why can’t you?’
‘Because your father hasn’t been raising you single-handedly since you were one, that’s why. Perhaps if he had, he might have earned a say in what you do with your life.’
The second the words spilled out, Jess wished she could scoop them back in. ‘I’m sorry, Mia, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I’m just tired, that’s all. And I don’t think it’s helpful your dad giving advice when he doesn’t understand how much pressure you’re under. So, please, can we just agree that another art class is something you can do later, but that right now you just need to focus on your A-levels?’
Mia was silent and Jess took a moment to wrap a conciliatory tone around her voice. ‘Mia? Can we agree that, please? Promise you’ll get your head down on your school work?’
‘Fine. But if I’m going to finish this essay tonight I need to get off the phone. I’ll see you when you get back.’
‘OK, sweetheart. We shouldn’t be too long. I love you.’
‘Yep, love you too.’
The phone went dead as the passenger door opened and Jess watched her mum lower herself into the car. There was something slow and painstaking in her movements as if the manipulation of every muscle, tendon and bone had to be silently negotiated.