Looking for JJ by Anne Cassidy Page A

joint around, each person inhaling and passing it on.
    “I’ve got to go,” she whispered to Frankie.
    She had no intention of sitting there while dope was being smoked. That was something serious that could get her in trouble with her probation officer. Just a little thing like that could send her back.
    Frankie walked her to the bus stop.
    “Will you come, in August? To Brighton?”
    “Absolutely! If Rosie lets me.”
    “Oh. . .”
    “She will. You might not be her favourite person but she knows how I feel about you.”
    “She’s like the mother from hell!” he said, and then, as though the thought had just popped into his head, “What about your own mum? What was she like?”
    She was taken aback. He’d hardly ever mentioned her background or her family. It was as if he’d understood that it wasn’t something she wanted to talk about.
    “She was a model,” Alice said, seeing a bus turn the corner. “Really glamorous. Still is, I suppose. But I don’t see her any more.”
    An honest answer. Another thing Alice didn’t have to lie about.

 

     
     
    At home, in her room, Alice took a picture of her mother out of her bottom drawer. It was one of five that she owned. A professional shot, taken by a photographer, her mother sitting on a wrought iron chair in an overgrown garden. She was hugging one of her knees, her chin leaning on the back of her hand, her eyes fastened to the camera, her lips parted in a toothy smile.
    Carol Jones was beautiful. There was no argument about that.
    Alice remembered loving her mother’s looks from a very young age. Just as she loved the smell of her and the feel of her clothes. Looking closely, she focused on the pale skin and the dazzling smile. The straw-coloured hair was pulled back in some kind of clasp and there were wispy bits hanging forward. Her even white teeth contrasted with the perfectly lipsticked mouth. How could anyone not have been affected by such a face?
    Alice looked up. From the other room she could hear the sound of Rosie’s voice. She was having a drink with Sara. The two women had been there when she’d got back from seeing Frankie. Sara had started chatting to her immediately but she didn’t feel like talking so she’d left them alone.
    There were other photographs, but Alice didn’t want to get them out and start poring over them. She swallowed a couple of times. There in her throat was the old ache. Don’t dwell on your relationship with your mother , the counsellor had said. But how could she not think of her? When she had been so proud of her, so glad to have her for a mum. No matter what she did.
    Carol Jones didn’t have to make an effort to look good. She stepped out of bed in the morning and her blonde hair seemed to flop into position, her eyes bright, her skin creamy. All she had to do was throw on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, some big earrings and red lipstick and she was ready. Her high heels she always left until last. They were usually lined up by the front door, ready for her to choose which pair to wear. Thin heels and strappy base in summer; in winter it was ankle boots with fiercely pointed toes.
    When Jennifer started nursery school Carol did a modelling course. She had a portfolio of photographs and for a year or so she worked for a couple of photographers; modelling for a clothes catalogue, promotional work at exhibitions, some fashion displays for chain stores.
    She had photographs of herself on the wall of the living room. Big glossy pictures; on a beach wearing swimwear, in a garden wearing an evening dress, in a city centre in a smart suit and fake glasses. Carol pointed to them when she had visitors. I’m a model , she said, proudly. Jennifer used to sit and look at them. Face after smiling face; different hair, different clothes, but underneath it all was her mum’s smile.
    There was money for a while. It paid the rent of a flat in a tree-lined street. It paid for new furniture, clothes for her mum and lots of toys