Page 47 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
I click on his profile page, noticing that his avatar has been professionally shot. It’s black and white and manipulated by one of those hyper-contrasted Instagram-type filters. In the photo, Leo Frost is wearing a sharp black suit and smoking a cigar. The Manhattan skyline looms behind him.
‘Very handsome chap.’ Grandma nods approvingly.
Peach squeaks. ‘Oh my, what a beautiful man. He looks like that actor Tom Hiddleston.’
‘He does not. Not really. He’s an idiot, anyway.’
A wave of dislike rushes through me as I read Leo Frost’s twitter bio:Leo Frost. Woolf Frost ad agency. Artist. Thinker. Man.
Ew. What an absolute turd. I can’t believe I’m going to have to spend actual time with this knucklehead and, worse, pretend tolikehim. ‘Ugh,’ I hiss at the screen. Scrolling down past the hyperlinks and the conversations and the retweeted compliments, I see a tweet from four days ago.
‘Got it,’ I say in the manner of an FBI agent locating a perp. ‘Leo Frost is going to a funfair tomorrow night. It’s a pop-up retro summer funfair in Regent’s Park. The event company who run it are a big client of the agency where he works, by the looks of it.’ I Google speedily like a pro. ‘The launch is tomorrow and Leo is a VIP guest.’
‘Wonderful. The funfair is a perfect place to approach Mr Frost for the first time, especially on a balmy midsummer’s evening. The scent of the cotton candy, the sound of young laughter … ’ Grandma sighs to herself and looks into the distance. ‘My precious Rose alwaysadoredthe funfair as a girl. She was ever so fond of the carousel . . . ’ She trails off into her memories.
I blink. My mum liked the funfair? I think of her face, drawn and always tired. I can’t imagine her anywhere near a funfair. At the doctor’s, the benefits office, crying in her bed, at Morrisons, yes. Never a funfair. It seems like such a stark juxtaposition. And to hear Grandma describe her as happy? Mum was pretty much theoppositeof happy.
I bite my lip, examining Grandma as she scribbles in her notebook. It strikes me once more that Mum had this completely separate life before I came along. She had a whole long, complex, funfair-going life that I know absolutely nothing about. To me she was just Mum, the person who took me to school (on the good days). The one who bought me books from the charity shop and wrapped them up in gift paper, even if it wasn’t a birthday or Christmas. The woman I loved so much and wanted to make laugh and smile and be happy again. Didn’t quite manage that, though.
‘Why didn’t you go to her funeral?’ I blurt out to Grandma before I can stop myself.
Grandma quickly looks up from her notebook. A lock of her frizzy silver hair falls out of her chignon. She blinks rapidly beneath her red spectacles and opens her mouth as if to say something before closing it again. Looking around at the cafe tables surrounding us, she eventually opens her mouth again.
‘I-I had … a terrible … chest infection,’ she says slowly. ‘Sadly, I was too unwell to go, I’m afraid.’ I notice her hand shake a little. She notices me noticing and puts it on her lap underneath the table. ‘Jessica, this is hardly the place to talk about such things.’ She purses her lips. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do and only a little time in which to do it.’
What an odd response. I frown at Grandma. She looks back at me for a moment – her expression inscrutable − before her eyes slide away and she goes back to note-making.
I take a big gulp of my lemonade and try to clear my head. I don’t like thinking about Mum. It makes my brain and my insides ache.
I wonder if it’s too early for a glass of pear cider?
Why am I asking? It’snevertoo early for pear cider. I signal over to the waitress.
