Page 7 of The Truth About You and Me
‘Yep.’ I give him a thumbs up. He casts his eyes across the empty seats.
‘Just you tonight then?’
‘Yep. Just me.’
5
JACK
I climb out of the taxi and stare up at the hotel. Large symbols naming it Salisbury House loom above me. At least, that was what the taxi driver has assured me. I climb the steps between the two stone pillars; they are lit up in blue lights with a banner wound around them. At a guess, I’d say they announce the DeWinter book awards.
Inside the large foyer is a hive of activity. Editors, literary agents, press, bloggers and authors all holding glasses of fizz and talking loudly. A tall woman wearing a black dress approaches me as I begin to take off my coat.
‘Hi!’ she greets me energetically. ‘Nominee or guest?’
I hesitate, the diazepam taking the edge off her words. ‘Nominee,’ I reply, eyes scouting the room, looking for familiar faces to avoid.
‘Congratulations! If you would like to follow me?’ I nod my assent, dip my head, and follow her into a larger reception room. The noise is louder here. I recognise some attendees; others are new and unfamiliar. ‘Lanyards are over there,’ she continues, arm swooping towards a large table with lanyards set out in neat rows. ‘And do help yourself to a complimentary drink.’ She smiles through deep red lips.
‘Thank you, I’ll…’ I nod towards the bar.
‘Enjoy the evening and good luck!’
‘Thank you,’ I reply a second too late; she’s already striding past me and back out into the entrance hall. I grab a glass of champagne and take two large sips. My uncomfortable, polished shoes lead me towards the table where I’m met with about forty white squares edged with deep blue, all with matching blue lanyards. But I may as well be looking at hieroglyphics. My heart is pounding in my ears as I redundantly search for something that resembles a ‘J’.
The room shrinks, the sounds loud and yet distant: a shriek of laughter behind me, an announcement from a microphone in the next room, a confusing concoction of musical instruments resembling jazz. I scour the white squares for a few seconds more, but the symbols aren’t stationary. Heat rushes to my face; my throat tightens. I knock back the rest of the drink before I turn and walk back out of the building and into a recently vacated taxi.
‘Train station, please.’
I rest my head against the back of the seat and close my eyes, the symbols and white rectangles dancing behind my eyelids. My phone vibrates: Mum’s face.
‘Jack? Where are you? Edna said she saw you leave?’ I look out of the window at the rain blurring the view of the street lamps as the taxi weaves across town.
‘I’m not well. Migraine.’
‘Jack?’ she challenges softly. ‘I know it’s difficult, but?—’
‘Can you give my apologies? And if I win, accept the award?’
‘Sweetheart, you?—’
‘Can you do that?’ She pauses. ‘Mum?’
‘Yes.’ She sighs. ‘Yes, I can do that but this is the last time, Jack. You need to move forward.’ I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.
‘I’m trying.’
‘You can’t keep hiding from your responsib?—’
‘Sorry, Mum… signal’s sketchy. I’ll speak to you later.’
I glance at my watch, the hands telling me it’s almost nine. I’m back outside the station. Two train journeys, and nothing to show for my efforts except a blister on the back of my heel. The rain is unrelenting. I can’t go back to the shop yet; I can’t face the interrogation and so I begin to walk. I have no destination other than ‘not home’. Familiar streets, with unfamiliar signposts, follow my progress. My hands are inside my pockets, the gold-edged invitation scratching against the inside of my palm. I stop next to a bin and discard it. A light flashes in my periphery; my eyes are pulled towards the flickering bulbs surrounding a billboard. I’m momentarily disorientated. I don’t recognise the street I’ve found myself on, and the signposts are as confusing to me as the words on the invitation. I can’t remember the last time I went to the movies – two years ago? Maybe three?
I don’t consciously make a decision to walk up the steps, or open the door, or follow the pull towards the ticket office, and yet here I am. It’s richly furnished in reds and golds and at odds with the humble building. My eyes are drawn to the sounds from the film echoing through into the room, but it’s empty. I step towards the ticket booth.
‘Hello?’ I ask, but there is no response.
I take out a twenty, place it in the small tray beneath the glass ticket sales booth, and follow the sounds of the film. The way is signposted by golden arrows, and my feet step carefully down into the secrets of the building.
