Page 9 of A Wish For Jo
Jo pulled the duvet up to her chin. She remembered shopping with her mum for the chambray cover. Its daisy design clashed with the walls, but that didn't matter. The combination of pretty flowers and paisley-patterned paper might have induced a headache in some people, but Jo had adored her bedroom and all its quirky charms.
Her gaze alighted on the pale-blue towelling dressing gown hanging on the back of the door.Wait a minute.That had been a gift from her mum when she finished school, purchased from an upmarket boutique in Glasgow. It even bore her name, hand-stitched in gold thread.
Throwing herself out of bed, Jo lurched towards the dressing table. She gasped in disbelief. Her reflection was that of a girl in her late teens, before almost three decades of life and its ups and downs had etched themselves on her face.
Touching her cheek, Jo grinned at the mop of badly bleached hair: a DIY job done on a whim when her parents were out at the local pub with friends. Her mum hadn't been best pleased at the state of the bathroom and the ruined towel, streaked with white patches—
'Are you decent?' Her mum at the bedroom door, never one to barge in uninvited.
'Two secs,' Jo replied, grabbing the robe from its hook and shrugging it on over her pyjamas. She tied the belt firmly around her waist — jeez, she'd been skinny back then — and opened the door.
There she stood: her gorgeous, caring, generous mum. She'd be around the same age now as Jo, in her mid to late forties. Beautiful, even without a scrap of make-up, and sporting her checked robe and ancient slippers.
'Did you sleep well, love?' Her mum smiled and Jo drank in her glowing good health, a stark contrast with her last days, when she'd faded to a shadow of her former self.
'I did, thanks.' Jo had no idea if she had or not. One minute she'd made her wish, the next she was in her childhood bed. Aaliyah's wish-granting gizmo had chosen to send her back in time, to her teenage years.
‘I thought you might be hungry, so I've cooked both and some bacon. Dad's just popped out for fresh rolls. Fancy an egg?'
Jo's mouth watered at the thought of a good old Scottish fry-up. Nowadays she avoided such fat-laden delights, but at eighteen she'd had no need to count calories. 'That'd be great, Mum. A fried one, sunny side up.'
Leaving Jo to get dressed, her mum padded downstairs, humming. Jo closed the door and looked around for the clothes she'd been wearing when she made her wish. Slim black jeans, a grey cashmere jumper and suede ankle boots. There was no sign of them. She opened the wardrobe, grinning at the sight of the early nineties attire on display. Garish printed leggings that made her eyes water, with an array of flannel shirts and halter-neck tops in bright hues. Pastel pedal pushers, and corsets for nights out with the girls.
Jo slid some hangers to the side and wistfully stroked the faux-silk baby-pink slip dress and the black crushed velvet number she'd coveted for weeks, eventually saving up enough money from her Saturday job to buy both. She remembered going on a date with a lad to seeJurassic Park, followed by a meal at the local carvery. Looking back, the slinky pink number had been a tad over the top, but Jo had felt like a princess even in her denim jacket. Gavin Collins, that was him. A nice enough lad, a couple of years older, with slicked-back hair and a Volkswagen Beetle. Jo had grabbed his hand several times during the scary bits of the film, and he'd kissed her after driving her home. Conscious of the amount of garlic that had been in her chicken curry, Jo had responded nervously. She needn't have worried, though; Gavin's kissing technique had reminded her of a plunger unblocking a toilet. She hadn't gone out with him again.
Choosing a pair of high-waisted jeans and a long-sleeved cotton top, Jo dressed and headed downstairs. Delicious aromas emanated from the kitchen, and the radio was playing one of her favourite songs of the year, 'Dreams' by Gabrielle.
'Hi, Dad.' Her father sat at the table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He was wearing his weekend uniform of polo shirt and chinos, his hair still damp from the shower. Like her mum, he radiated good health, the heart that would eventually fail him currently pumping blood round his body with military precision.
'Hi, love. Be an angel and butter those rolls, would you? My stomach thinks my throat's been cut. What's a man got to do to get fed around here, eh, Helen?’ He winked at her mum, who whacked him with a tea towel.
'Less of your cheek, Neil! If it were down to you, we'd dine on fish and chips and jam butties day in, day out.'
'Guilty as charged.' Jo's dad was a highly respected plumber, with a roster of clients dependent on his expertise and his willingness to offer discounts to those in need. His culinary skills, however, were a source of constant amusement.
They tucked into their plates of food. Neil slathered his with brown sauce, Helen kept the mugs topped up with tea, and Jo tried not to gawp at them both. She pierced her egg, the yolk pooling around the crispy bacon rashers. She took a bite, her throat tensing as the food slipped downwards.
'All right, Jo?' Her dad looked at her quizzically.
She nodded, forcing the food down with a swig of builder's brew.How long do I have?The kitchen clock showed 10 am. A few hours, a day, or longer? She wanted to freeze time, postpone the inevitable, but something told her that time wasn't on her side.
'I'm fine, Dad.'
Tick, tock, went the clock.
CHAPTER11
'If I Could Turn Back Time'by Cher warbled in the background as Harvey sorted his pathetic selection of socks into pairs. Why was there always an odd one? Did its partner slink off into sock solitude, relieved to break free? Aconscious uncoupling:that phrase coined by Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin when they went their separate ways. That stuck in Harvey's throat and gave him the 'dry boak': the urge to vomit without actually doing the deed.
Tossing the lone sock to one side, Harvey folded a couple of shirts in the manner instilled in him by Lindsey. Straighten up the back, line up the sleeves and smooth everything down with careful precision. Collar neatly buttoned, all ready to put on a shelf. He had two shelves for shirts and T-shirts, a drawer for underwear, and a half-width wardrobe for hanging his two good suits, a handful of casual trousers and Lindsey's wedding dress.
It swung on its hanger, the sweetheart neckline and chiffon bodice so achingly pretty. The full-length embroidered skirt with swirls of mother-of-pearl and appliquéd flowers — Lindsey's favourite apple blossom — as fresh and vibrant as the day she'd stood next to him and said, 'I do'. He'd been the proudest, happiest, most sickeningly loved-up person that day. When Harvey had said 'I do’, he'd wanted to repeat it over and over in case anyone didn't get the message. But Lindsey had. She'd taken his hands in hers, steadied him with a squeeze that spoke a thousand words, and sealed the deal with a kiss that had the tiny congregation whooping and cheering. The minister hadn't been best pleased, but who cared? It had been their day. The joining of two people who'd found each other, for better or worse, and everyone else could form an orderly line behind them on the road to contentment.
'Lindsey.' Harvey brushed away a tear. So many tears… He wondered when — if — they ever stopped. 'Girl, you make my heart break every single day. There are days when I think I can't go on. Without you, there's no point. I'm a husk, I'm broken, and no one can ever put me together again.’ He paused. ‘Is it time?'
Unbidden, the dress swayed a little, as if a gentle breeze had shifted the fabric. Yet the window remained closed, and nothing else stirred. Nothing apart from Harvey's heart, which pumped harder. He touched the dress, then brought his fingers to his nose. The faintest hint of Lindsey's signature perfume lingered — or was that his deluded imagination?
Don't even think about leaving this world yet.
