The Accidental Life of Jessie Jefferson (7 page)

I pull up a chair and sit down, confused by my feelings.

The door whooshes open and Amanda walks in. ‘There you are!’ she exclaims.

I glance at Libby and see her face light up. ‘I thought you were ill today,’ she says with a smile.

‘I had a doctor’s appointment,’ Amanda reveals with a roll of her eyes. ‘Sorry, I tried to text you but idiot Kevin unplugged my charger so my battery was dead.’

I don’t know who Kevin is – her brother, her boyfriend – but I don’t ask. Now I’m the outsider and I don’t want to be here.

‘Come on, shall we go and sit on the grass?’ Amanda urges.

‘Shall we go and sit outside on the grass?’ I ask.

‘I forgot to put sunscreen on this morning,’ Libby replies with downturned lips.

‘We can sit in the shade,’ I say. ‘Well, you can. I’ll sit next to you in the sun. I really want to get a tan this summer.’

‘I wish I could tan like you,’ Libby grumbles. ‘I’ll just end up with even more stupid freckles.’

‘Your freckles aren’t stupid,’ I say with a grin. ‘They’re highly intelligent. Doesn’t that one speak French?’ I prod her arm.

She giggles. ‘No, you’re thinking of this one.’ She prods a freckle on her other arm, then indicates the one I pointed at. ‘This one knows how to do algebra.’

We crack up laughing and I drag her outside.

I blink back tears at the memory, feeling an unexpected pang of loss.

‘Come on, Libs, it’s gorgeous outside,’ Amanda says.

‘Sure,’ Libby replies. She stuffs her book into her bag. Amanda’s eyes flit towards me, but she doesn’t acknowledge me. We barely know each other, and if Libby has told her anything about me, I doubt it was favourable, considering my recent behaviour.

Libby stands up and hesitantly looks down at me. ‘Do you . . . Do you want to come with us?’ she asks uncomfortably.

‘No, no, it’s OK,’ I brush her off. ‘I’m not feeling that well. Like I said, I wanted some quiet.’ I feel like I need to give her some excuse. Any desire to reveal the truth has flown right out of the window.

‘OK,’ she says, stepping away from me and meeting Amanda’s eyes. I’m sure they’ll be bitching about me the moment they go out the door. No. Libby is not a bitch. She was a good friend. A best friend. And now she’s Amanda’s.

I clear my throat and try to gee myself up. Then I see the three computers up against the far wall and an idea comes to me. I relocate myself in front of one of them.

Google: Johnny Jefferson.

Over a hundred and forty million hits come up. The first is his official website, the second his official fan club, but I click on the third link: Wikipedia.

I could write a five-thousand-word essay using all of the information I find, but the things that stick out the most include the following:

His birth certificate says his name is Jonathan Michael Sneeden.

Sneeden, not Jefferson.

His father, Brian Jefferson, left his mother, Ursula Sneeden, before Johnny was born.

Something we have in common.

He was raised in Newcastle by his mother.

So his mother gave him her name? Mine did, too: Pickerill.

His mother died of cancer when he was thirteen.

And mine died at the age of fifteen . . .

After her death, he went to live with his father in London, an aged musician, serial womaniser and recovering alcoholic.

Sounds familiar. Johnny has been described like this, too.

He dropped out of school to concentrate on his music, took on his father’s surname and formed Fence in his late teens. They signed a record deal and were global superstars by the time Johnny was twenty.

I would have been born around this time.

At the age of twenty-three, the band split.

How old would I have been then? Three?

Johnny had a well-publicised breakdown, spiralling out of control with drink and drugs.

Like father like daughter?

Two years later, he came back as a solo artist and was more successful than ever. He met his wife-to-be, Meg Stiles, when she went to work for him as his personal assistant.

He was 30 when they met, which means I was about ten. I was consumed with the identity of my real dad around this time. Libby would remember.

They now have two children together: Barney, three, and a baby boy called Phoenix.

I have half brothers. I’ve never had any siblings. Stuart couldn’t. Am I the only one like me out there? Or are there others that I don’t know about, that the world doesn’t know about?

My head is still prickling with this thought a while later, when I open up YouTube and watch some music videos. It freaks me out to see that I actually look like Johnny: the same piercing green eyes, the same colour hair. A shiver goes up and down my spine. What will
everyone
say when they find out the truth?

I manage to avoid talking to people pretty much all day, but later when I’m walking to the staff car park, I spy Natalie with a group of Year Elevens.

‘Hey!’ she says.

‘Hi,’ I reply.

‘Just finished my final exam.’

‘Bollocks!’ I exclaim. ‘Of course you did! Sorry, I meant to text you and wish you good luck.’ I’ve been so preoccupied. She was going home after Winter Hill yesterday to revise. Not that she thought you could do much revision for Maths. ‘By now, you either know it or you don’t,’ were her words.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tom and Chris coming out of the hall. I try to focus on my friend.

‘How did it go?’ I ask her.

‘It was alright, actually,’ she says casually. ‘I’m relieved I’ve finally finished. You coming to Dougie’s tonight? His end of exams party is going to be great.’

‘Um, I don’t think so . . .’ Tom and Chris reach our group and start joking around with their mates. They’re all on a high after finishing their exams.

‘Seriously?’ Natalie asks. I look back at her to see her face has dropped.

‘I can’t,’ I reply regretfully.

She smiles kindly. ‘Next year will fly by, Jess,’ she says, mistaking my mood. She thinks I’m upset because they’re all leaving and I’m staying. And a couple of days ago, that would have been my biggest problem – I’ve been dreading it for weeks – but not now. Now I have bigger things on my mind.

‘Come on, come with us. Help me celebrate.’

‘No, really, I’ve got to get home.’

Tom looks over at me. ‘You going to Dougie’s tonight, Jessie?’

My butterflies lift their dozy heads as he looks at me hopefully, but even they are too consumed with other things to bother taking flight in my stomach.

‘No, I can’t,’ I tell him, noticing Stuart come out of the door near the staff room. I lift my hand up to wave at him and he nods his acknowledgement.

‘Are you grounded?’ Tom asks.

‘Nope, just gotta go,’ I tell him, backing away. ‘See you later,’ I say to Natalie. She looks put out, but hopefully she’ll understand soon enough. Tom looks disappointed, too.

I jog over to Stuart. He raises one eyebrow at me over the hood of his car.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘I’m just waiting for you to ask if you can go out with your friends,’ he says.

‘No.’ I open the car door and climb inside.

‘Huh,’ he says as he appears next to me and starts up the ignition.

‘Any news?’ I ask eagerly.

‘No.’ He shakes his head and looks uncomfortable. ‘This could take some time.’ He glances across at me. ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’

‘But you did contact his people, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘I left a message with his lawyer. I’ll try him again tomorrow if he hasn’t returned my call by then.’

It’s three whole days before we hear anything and by then I’ve chewed all of my fingernails down to the quick and would consider starting on my toenails if only I were that flexible. Stuart comes to find me at lunchtime. I’m in the library again, researching Johnny on the internet. I’m here whenever I get the chance. It’s like an obsession.

I can tell instantly that he’s heard something. His eyes are lit up and his body is practically vibrating with excitement.

‘What is it?’ I ask, pushing my chair back and turning to face him.

He glances around the library to check it’s deserted. ‘His solicitor called me.’

I gasp. He pulls up the chair next to me and sits down.

‘He said that you’ll need to do a paternity test.’

‘Oh.’ I feel ill. ‘But anyone can see that I look like him,’ I say. ‘Did you email them any photos?’

‘I haven’t done, yet.’ He presses the tips of his fingers together. ‘But don’t worry. I’m not surprised they want you to do a test. It’s probably just so they can be sure we’re serious.’

‘What does it involve?’ I ask with trepidation.

‘A DNA sample, so a piece of your hair would do it. You don’t have to go anywhere for it. They’re sending the test to us.’

‘What?’ I’m confused. ‘We don’t even have to meet anyone?’

‘No.’ He averts his gaze. ‘Maybe when the test comes back positive.’

They think we’re wasting their time. ‘They don’t believe us,’ I say dully.

Stu puts his hand on my arm. ‘They will,’ he replies solemnly. ‘But we’re going to have to jump through a few of their hoops first, OK?’ I meet his eyes and he regards me steadily. ‘The important thing is we’ve made contact,’ he reassures me, squeezing my arm. I’m glad he’s being positive.

‘Alright.’ I nod, feeling slightly better. At that moment, I’m really grateful to have Stu in my life.

The paternity test comes by UPS the next day. We carefully follow the instructions and send it back the very same day. It’s Friday and I don’t want to waste any time by letting this run into the weekend.

I plan to lay low for the next few days, so I’ve told Natalie I have a stomach bug. I just want to be with Stu right now. I feel closer to him than I ever have. I’m aware of the irony of that, considering my search for his replacement.

It occurs to me that night, the night after I’ve sent the test back, that Johnny may well know about me by now. I wonder if he’s told his wife. I doubt it. I suppose he’ll want to make sure I’m telling the truth before he does anything. But if Stu knew Mum as well as he thinks he did, then Johnny’ll have to tell her soon.

If Stu knew Mum as well as he thinks he did . . .
That sentence carries a lot of weight. What if Mum lied? What if there
was
someone else, other than Johnny? What if Johnny Jefferson is not my dad, after all? Then I really will never know who my real dad is. Anxiety rushes through me, swiftly followed by an almost crushing disappointment as I imagine the paternity test coming back negative. I haven’t properly got my head around the idea that Johnny
is
my dad, but suddenly I desperately, desperately want him to be.

The following Thursday, Stuart is waiting for me in the corridor outside my English Lit lesson.

‘The result is back,’ he says quietly, taking me to one side as my classmates pour out of the classroom behind me. ‘It’s positive.’

My heart somersaults and I feel dizzy. Libby catches my eye as she follows Amanda out and I see her do a double take. God knows what I look like. I feel like I’ve seen a ghost.

‘Come on, let’s go home,’ Stu says, and I allow myself to be led by him, too dazed to point out that I’m going to miss my Art lesson.

I’ve resisted telling anyone else about what’s been going on, partly so I won’t have humiliation to contend with if Johnny turns out not to be my dad, and partly because I’ve wanted to keep this secret close to my heart. But now I feel like I’m going to burst.

‘What happens now?’ I ask when we’re in the car.

‘He’s asked us to go into his office tomorrow.’

‘Who?’ I feel panicked. Am I going to meet Johnny so soon?

‘Wendel Rosgrove, Johnny’s solicitor. His office is in London.’

‘But I’m going to miss school . . .’

Stu gives me a look. He knows I’ve skipped school quite a bit recently, and
now
I care about missing classes? My face breaks into a grin.

‘Cool,’ I say. ‘But what about you? Can you get the day off?’

He grins back at me. ‘I’ll call in sick.’

I crack up laughing and hold my hand up for a high five. He hesitates, leaving me hanging, so I let my hand drop and shrug.

‘I shouldn’t really,’ he says, more in line with the spoilsport stepdad I’ve come to know and, well, love, I guess. Ew. ‘But this is important,’ he adds.

I bite my lip and stare out of the window. He’s not wrong.

Chapter 7

I must go to the toilet ten times the next morning, and I’m still crossing my legs on the drive to London. I’m so nervous, so excited, so full of emotions that I never imagined I’d experience again, at least, not deeply. When Mum died, anything other than grief felt muted. My heartache dominated everything else, and I didn’t think I’d ever feel pure and unadulterated happiness again. I still don’t know if I will, but my present intense anticipation is a welcome distraction from my usual pain and anger, that’s for sure.

Wendel Rosgrove works just north of Oxford Street in a seven-storey shiny block of glass. That’s what it looks like. We’ve parked in a nearby car park, hanging the expense, and as we walk towards it, past a neatly groomed square surrounded by tall townhouses, I look around for a public loo to relieve myself in.

‘You don’t really need to go, you know. It’s all psychological,’ Stu tells me, reading my mind.

‘Whatever, I’m busting,’ I reply.

‘I’m sure there will be a toilet in reception,’ he says.

I hope he’s right, because we’re here. My reflection looms out of the shiny glass door and I see that I appear as small, scared and lost as I feel. I tried to look my very best today. I brushed my hair and fixed it up into a big, loose bun on the very top of my head. I’m wearing my nice yellow sundress again and my only pair of clean ballet slippers, and I resisted applying too much make-up.

But now I wish I’d caked it on. Now I wish I’d left my hair long and messy. I wish I’d worn a beanie hat and my camo jacket. I wish I didn’t look like I cared as much as I do.