I’ll shut up now, I think.
Chapter Six
Jennifer
I roll onto my front and reach for my cup of tea, blowing over the rim.
‘What time are your parents picking up the kids?’ Ed whispers. It is one of those rare occasions when I have been able to make a cup of tea without the kids being up.
‘Nine.’ I blow steam from the top of my cup and take a sip.
‘Shall we go to the garden centre?’
‘Mmmm,’ I answer noncommittally.
‘We can have a teacake in the café,’ he encourages.
I roll my eyes.
‘What? Teacake is my favourite.’
‘It’s just that—’
‘What?’
‘Well it’s hardly making the most of our free time, is it? A teacake at the garden centre.’
‘OK. So where do you want to go? Next?’
‘Not Next.’ I put my tea onto the bedside table and roll over.
‘Let’s go to a theme park,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Sure.’
‘I’m not joking.’
‘And after that we can go skiing in the Alps?’
‘Why do you always do that? Take my suggestions and make them sound stupid.’
‘It is stupid. You’re thirty, not thirteen.’
‘Neither am I ninety.’ I shuffle up the bed. ‘Come on . . . when do we ever do anything spontaneous?’
‘Well, there was shagging in the cupboard under the stairs last week.’
‘I’m not talking about sex stuff, and don’t remind me about that . . . I’ve still got a bruise from the door handle. We never go anywhere exciting, Ed. Remember when we first got together? We went to Spain without a place to stay, just a cheap ticket that we bought that morning, and by the evening we were eating churros on the beach, drinking cheap wine and talking and making love until the sun rose.’
‘We were young then—’
‘We’re young now!’ I get out of bed and stand nakedly in front of him. ‘Look at me!’ I stretch to the right, to the left; I squat up and down a couple of times while Ed sits up smirking. ‘I’m not old, Ed,’ I say finally, trying not to sound out of breath. I crawl back onto the bed while Ed flops onto his back. ‘Come on. Let’s go ride roller coasters until we feel sick.’
He throws his arm over his face. ‘OK, OK . . .’ is his muffled reply.
I climb on top of him and shower his face with kisses.
I am upside down; the world around me and me in it are fighting the rules of gravity. Momentarily, the sun breaks through the clouds, my hair is hanging from its roots and we – the passengers of this roller coaster – are all holding our breath, waiting for the moment that we know will come in the next few seconds, when we will hurtle almost vertically into the darkness below.
My life is in the hands of a machine and the myriad of people who check the nuts and bolts. I think of the responsibility of those who do the safety checks. I picture a man called . . . Trevor, who after a row with his wife (disgruntled because she has lovingly packed his lunchbox every day that week for a week without a word of thanks), spent the evening trying not to become more and more frustrated by her one word answers. Let’s say the argument with his wife bothered him more than he was letting on and so he didn’t get a wink of sleep. As a result, poor Trevor’s head is pounding while he does the safety checks. Let’s say Trevor stops mid-check to swallow a couple of paracetamol and misses the one bolt that has been working itself loose over the previous day’s joyriding.
The Imaginable Death of Jennifer Jones – #2
Death by Roller Coaster
The bolt finally twists its last rotation. It falls with a faint clatter inside the mechanism that holds the over-the-shoulder harness in place while the snake of carriages slithers over the tracks. It enters its final trip, one last systematic stop to enthral its prey as they hang upside down, waiting for the final descent into darkness: passengers with hair falling like wisteria. For Jennifer Jones, time slows down as the rubber-coated arms open, releasing her body. Her upper torso leaves the constraints of the carriage, legs following, and then she’s flying, her arms opened as if to embrace the ground rushing towards her. For the others still strapped into their seats, the horror they see is but a split second, a flash of limbs, a green top, a black ponytail followed by the scream escaping their mouths.
I blink.
My fear bleeds into the atmosphere and I scream. I can’t stop thinking about the bolt unscrewing as I hurtle at eighty-five miles per hour. Fear grips me: my hands grasp onto their bar so tightly that I can already feel the aching in my knuckles, already feel anxiety creeping through my veins, stealing saliva.
I pull the man called Trevor back into my thoughts. I replay the scene so he doesn’t have that argument with his wife; instead, he gives her an unexpected bunch of flowers to thank her for the little things she does for him every day. He makes cups of tea for himself and his wife, suggesting they open the posh chocolate biscuits, and then they have an early night. So when he wakes up bright and early, smiles as he picks up his lunchbox, kisses his wife and heads to work, he is extra vigilant when checking the nuts and bolts; he knows how important his job is.
I close my eyes, the pressure in the air pushing my hair backwards until the machine stops and I’m suspended – upside down – trapped in that adrenaline-filled static that shoots through our veins before plummeting into the darkness once again. I’m filled with adrenaline; it has awoken every single nerve ending in my body: the thrill of the roller coaster has made me feel alive.
I turn my head against the forces of gravity towards Ed, certain that he will be feeling some of the endorphin-filled high that I am experiencing, but his eyes are screwed tightly shut; his face is pale, not flushed with euphoria. I slow my breathing and watch his head jolting to the left and right, a sheen of sweat along his brow. Amongst the ponchos and images of My Imaginary Death comes a memory – it’s distant, a conversation we had on one of our first dates.
‘What are you most afraid of?’ I’d asked, reaching for a piece of pizza as we sat on plastic seats, Italian music playing, trying to kid our brains into thinking this was genuine Italian fare.
‘Theme park rides.’
‘Really?’ I’d replied. ‘I love them.’
‘I suppose it’s because you have to trust so many people to do their jobs right.’
‘Ah . . . so you have trust issues.’ I grinned and bit into the dough.
Why hadn’t I considered that?
I release my grip on the bar, push my hand against the force of gravity and clasp my fingers over Ed’s. His thumb finds mine, rubbing it rhythmically.
‘It’s almost over,’ I say to Ed above the screams and the air filling our ears and mouths . . . ‘It’s almost over.’
Chapter Seven
Jennifer
When I was a child, grown-ups would tell me that I was just like my mother. I can see why: we both have thick hair that hangs straight and heavy against our shoulder blades, even though mine is dark and hers is light, and as I pass her the milk, I think about how our mannerisms are similar: we hold our backs straight, we laugh at the same things. But as a child I could never understand why people thought we were alike. My nose lifts at the end, hers is hook-like. My eyes are almond shaped, blue and wide apart, whereas hers are round, hooded and green.