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Not Near London
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them like she used to.
Birthday party, a twenty-
fifth – Suzie’s best friend
from schooldays, a real
rude-girl turnip called
Kiera, still the wrong side
of the tracks, with three
kids and a partner called
Jed, a builder’s foreman.
Jed! So many J’s in her
life! Suzie had expected
the worst in a sweaty
T-shirt, but Jed was nice
and caring, holding the
kids like china in his big
hands. He’d worked on
that rebuilt concert hall in
Scunthorpe. They nipped
up there in the car and
Jed showed them round
in a biting wind, pushing
the buggy in his T-shirt
and proud of what’d
been done. The place was
very swanky, with plush
crimson seats. It used
rainwater to flush the
loos. Afterwards Jasper’d
stepped on his earphones
by mistake in the car
park and said, ‘Please
knock me the fuck out.’
Forgetting not to sound
posh, to northern up his
vowels. Then they drove
up to the Humber Bridge,
which is either empty or
really packed, Keira said.
Today it was empty, as in
post-apocalyptic. They got
out of the car and walked
to halfway. The sky was
grey, the estuary was grey
with silver highlights, the
empty bridge was grey. An
allover. Jasper Johns, she
thought. Her lover-boy’s
namesake. But didn’t say it.
Instead she said, shouting
into the wind, ‘This’ll blow
the dust off!’
They spent last night
with Jazz’s parents near
Oakham, intheirginormous
old house with its nine
freezing bedrooms, and
she made a huge effort.
It was the first time she’d