Page 25 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
‘No, I’m not sure, Skanky Elaine. I’m not sure at all. But’s the only bloody idea I’ve got.’
* * *
Going on the hunt for your long-lost grandma when you’re sad and drunk on a Tuesday afternoon is an unusual idea. In the back alleys of my mind, I know that perhaps I should be thinking this whole thing through more carefully: maybe making a few phone calls, verifying that Grandma actually still lives at the Kensington address I found on Google, or is definitely, absolutely still, you know, alive. But desperation plus tequila equals mental things, and Iamdesperate and so full of tequila. My decision to do one is further solidified when I arrive back home to pack and find that Summer has guests over. I’ve only been out of the house for an hour or so, and now I can hear them giggling in the kitchen. The unmistakable pop of a champagne cork echoes out through the hallway.
What the fuck?
Are theycelebrating?
Jeez. She must really want me out! I hurry wonkily to my room, flop onto the bed for a moment and try to have a cry. I do my best to squeeze out a tear, just one teensy little tear, but of course it doesn’t happen. As expected, I remain cryless.
Unable to find any proper luggage, I hurriedly pack a bin liner of clothes, grab my laptop bag and sneak back down the stairs and past the giggling festivities in the kitchen. As I reach the front door, Mr Belding darts out of the living room, a curious look upon his fluffy face. He’s wearing a tiny purple pork pie hat today in aid of the hours of pictures Summer will be taking of him later for her Instagram page. Poor thing. Destined for a life of preening and posing instead of playing and purring.
I hear another burst of laughter from the kitchen and the clinking of glasses in a toast. Someone, Holden, I think, calls out, ‘Here’s to the rise of Summer!’ Christ. They’re congratulating her on getting rid of me. Today really has taken the grimmest turn.
I exhale steadily, a hot flicker of resentment piercing my chest. Then, without really thinking about what I’m doing, I scoop our kitten up under one arm and leave the flat.
* * *
Spending the last of my life funds on a ticket, I catch the train to London for the second time in less than a week. Which, when you’re pissed, carrying a huge bin bag of dirty clothes , a laptop bag and smuggling a kitten inside your leather bomber jacket, is not the most joyful of experiences.Especiallywhen the bin liner gets a hole in it and the gusset area of your bobbly grey thong is poking out for everyone to see, including the guy you were sadly yet stoically eyeing up at Euston.
Now I’m standing outside a massive white stucco-fronted house in Kensington.
This is it: Grandma’s house.
I take a few rapid deep breaths and press a little silver buzzer on the wall. Almost immediately, a high-pitched female voice sounds out through the intercom speaker.
‘Hello?’
It’s a bit crackly. Grandma, or not Grandma?
I haven’t got a clue.
Shit, I don’t even know this woman. Can I really just show up and ask for a loan when we’ve never even met? I look down to where Mr Belding purrs contentedly from inside my coat as if maybe he knows the answer. He doesn’t. He knows nothing.
What am I doing?The booze has pretty much worn off now and all that remains is the harsh reality of who I really am: a kitten-nicking, book-deal-ruiner with a bag of skanky clothes and a bit of tequila-induced acid reflux.
‘Um, I hope y’all don’t mind me asking but w-what are you doing out there? Can I help you? Are − are you in trouble?’
I startle as the intercom crackles back into life.
‘Er … ’ I lean forward and speak into the intercom. ‘Hello. Uh … I thought my gran lived here. But you’re young and American, and I think she’s old and English, so I’m guessing she’s probably not here any more. So I’ll go. Sorry to have bothered you.’
Brill. I’ve spent the last pounds I have in the world on some ridiculous grandma goose chase. I hate myself right now.Damn it, Jess.
‘Is Matilda Beam your grandma?’ the squeaky voice asks.
‘Er, yeah. I’m Jessica. Jess.’
Immediately there's a low buzz and a clicking noise as the shiny black door swiftly unlocks.
Shit! My grandmaishere?
‘We’re the second and third floor,’ the intercom woman says in a lilting southern American cadence. ‘Downstairs is a medical clinic.’
‘Oh! Right! OK, cheers, great. See you in a sec, then!’
I push open the heavy door to find myself in a grand-looking lobby with a black and white chequered floor and, from what I can gather, a whole load of stairs. I bypass them straight away − lifts are always the easy and best option, I feel, and particularly so when I’m carrying a cat and a bursting plastic bag.
