One Plus One(49)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Mum just sat there, staring at her mobile.

He blinked at her, registering the phone, and muttered, ‘Were you trying to reach me?’

‘He’s sacked me,’ Mum said. ‘I don’t believe it. He’s bloody sacked me.’

17.

Jess

She wouldn’t have slept much anyway, given that she now had to worry about having lost her job at the Feathers, as well as everything else. But Jess spent most of that night looking after Mr Nicholls. She had never seen a man be so ill without actually coughing up a kidney. By midnight he was a shell. There was literally nothing left in him. ‘I feel better, I feel better,’ he would insist, trying to sound reassuring. And then half an hour later he would grab at the bucket she had pulled from under the sink and cough up a thin string of green bile.

The night took on a weird, disjointed quality, the hours running into each other, fluid and endless. She gave up trying to sleep. She stared at the caramel-coloured, wipe-clean walls of the caravan, read a bit, dozed. Mr Nicholls groaned beside her, occasionally getting up to shuffle backwards and forwards to the toilet block. She closed the kids’ door and sat waiting for him in the little caravan, sometimes dozing on the far end of the L-shaped sofa, handing him water and tissues when he staggered in.

Shortly after three, Mr Nicholls said he wanted a shower. She made him promise to leave the bathroom door unlocked, took his clothes down to the launderette (a washer-dryer in a shed) and spent three pounds twenty on a sixty-degree cycle. She didn’t have any change for the dryer.

He was still in the shower when she arrived back at the caravan. She draped his clothes from hangers over the heater, hoping they might dry a bit by morning, then knocked quietly on the door. There was no answer, just the sound of running water, and a belch of steam. She peeped around the door. The glass was clouded but she could make him out, slumped and exhausted on the floor. She waited a moment, staring at his broad back pressed against the glass panel, an oddly beautiful, pale inverted triangle, then watched as he lifted his hand and ran it wearily over his face.

‘Mr Nicholls?’ she whispered, behind him, then again, when he didn’t say anything. ‘Mr Nicholls?’

He turned then, and saw her, and perhaps it was the water, but she wasn’t sure she had ever seen a man look more defeated. His eyes were red-rimmed and his head sunk deep into his shoulders.

‘Fucksake. I can’t even get up. And the water’s starting to go cold,’ he said.

‘Want me to help?’

‘No. Yes. Jesus.’

‘Hold on.’

She held up the towel, whether to shield him or herself, she wasn’t sure, reached in and turned off the shower, soaking her arm. Then she crouched down, so that he could cover himself, and leant in. ‘Put your arm around my neck.’

‘You’re tiny. I’ll just pull you over.’

‘I’m stronger than I look.’

He didn’t move.

‘You’re going to have to help me here. I’m not up to a fireman’s lift.’

His wet arm slid around her, he hooked the towel around his waist. Jess braced herself against the wall of the shower, and finally, shakily, they stood. Usefully, the caravan was so small that at every step there was a wall for him to lean on. They made their way unsteadily to what would have been the living room and he collapsed onto the sofa cushions.

‘This is what my life has come to.’ He groaned, eyeing the bucket as she placed it beside the bed.

‘Yup.’ Jess viewed the peeling wallpaper, the nicotine-stained paintwork. ‘Well, I’ve had better Saturday nights myself.’

She made herself a cup of tea. It was a little after four. Her eyes were gritty and sore, and she felt light-headed. She sat down and closed them for a minute.

‘Thanks,’ he said, weakly.

‘What for?’

He pushed himself upright. ‘For bringing loo roll out to me in the middle of the night. For washing my disgusting clothes. For helping me out of the shower. And for not once acting like it was my own fault for buying a dodgy doner from a place called Keith’s Kebabs.’

‘Even though it was your own fault.’

‘See? Now you’re spoiling it.’

He lay back on the pillow, his forearm over his eyes. She tried not to look at the broad expanse of chest above the strategically placed towel. She couldn’t remember when she had last seen a man’s naked torso other than at Des’s ill-advised Pub Beach Volleyball Match the previous August.

‘Go and lie down in the bedroom. You’ll be more comfortable.’

He opened one eye. ‘Do I get a SpongeBob duvet?’

‘You get my pink stripy one. But I promise not to regard it as any reflection whatsoever on your masculinity.’

‘Where will you sleep?’

‘Out here. It’s fine,’ she said, as he started to protest. ‘I’m not sure I’ll sleep much now anyway.’

He let her lead him into the tiny bedroom. He groaned as he collapsed onto the bed, as if even that caused him discomfort, and she pulled the duvet over him gently. The shadows under his eyes were ash-coloured and his voice had become drowsy. ‘I’ll be ready to go in a couple of hours.’

‘Sure you will,’ she said, observing the ghostly pallor of his skin. ‘Take your time.’

‘Where the hell are we, anyway?’

‘On the Yellow Brick Road.’

‘Is that the one with the God-like Lion who saves everyone?’

‘You’re thinking of Narnia. This one is cowardly and useless.’

‘Figures.’

And finally he slept.

Jess left the room silently, and lay down on the narrow sofa under a peach-coloured blanket that smelt of damp and furtively smoked cigarettes, and tried not to look at the clock. She and Nicky had studied the map while Mr Nicholls was in the toilet block the previous evening and had reconfigured the journey as best they could.

We still have plenty of time, she told herself. And then, finally, she, too, slept.

All was silent within Mr Nicholls’s room well into the morning. Jess thought about waking him, but each time she made a move towards his door, she remembered the sight of him slumped against the shower cabinet and her fingers stilled on the handle. She opened the door only once, when Nicky pointed out that it was just possible he had choked to death on his own vomit. He seemed the faintest bit disappointed when it turned out Mr Nicholls was just in a really deep sleep. The children took Norman up the road, Tanzie in her dark glasses for authenticity, bought supplies from a convenience store and breakfasted in whispers. Jess converted the remaining bread into sandwiches (‘Oh, good,’ said Nicky), cleaned the caravan, for something to do, went outside and left a message on Des’s answerphone, apologizing again. He didn’t pick up.