The room tilts sideways, and I dig my fingernails into my palms. The pain helps, but not entirely.
Oh my god. This can’t be happening.
What. The. Fuck!
Kiki takes Rach into the lounge to watch a sitcom while I clean up. Canned laughter floats into the kitchen as I fill the sink for the dishes and stand there in a daze. I’m struggling to get my head around this:Rach is my mum!Nichols was her maiden name. However, in the present timeline, she calls herself Racquel and looks very different. She has bleached-blonde hair, her face is sunken and prematurely wrinkled; and she hardly ever smiles because she’s missing a few teeth. Rach is so fresh-faced and joyful that it’s no wonder I didn’t recognise my mum in her.
Did Sebastian know about this? He must’ve. That snake. Was it supposed to be a fun surprise? A joke? Has he been secretly laughing at me the whole time? It’s tempting to go to my room and see if he’s there, lounging on my bed. So I can pummel him senseless.
But I force myself to wash the dishes, though I feel like smashing all the crockery.
I put it off for as long as possible. Finally, with my heart in my mouth, I slowly push open the door to my room.
He’s not there.
Disappointment is stronger than my wrath.
I clench my fists, trying to stave off a fierce need for him. I can’t handle any of this; it’s too overwhelming. First my dad. Now my mum. Walking to my bed, I collapse on it and bury my face in the pillow and scream his name, but it doesn’t help. It smells like him: aftershave and brimstone. And it doesn’t makehim magically appear. I try snapping my fingers, but that doesn’t work either.
Sebastian’s always just shown up. I’ve never contacted him. Apart from that one time I rang him to take him up on his offer. But I don’t have a mobile here.
My eyes flick to the door, thinking about the green phone in the hallway. What if I ring him on that? Would it even work?
Sebastian’s mobile number was pretty easy to memorise: 666-696969. It made me roll my eyes and thinkHow clichéat the time. Now I’m grateful it is cliché.
The phone has a long curly cord, which reaches into my room. Closing the door, after feeding it through the gap underneath, I sit on the bed with it resting in my lap. It’s a clunky thing with a giant receiver and a see-through plastic wheel with numbered holes. I guess I turn each number? I start dialling.
Oh my god, this is taking forever!
Too bad if you have to call 999 in a hurry!
Finally dialling the last number, I hold the receiver to my ear with a sweaty hand, my stomach in knots, like I’m a teenager calling my crush. The line connects, and it starts ringing. Then someone picks up.
‘Sebastian Burns. Devil at your service.’
I had a short angry speech planned. About how he needs to get his ass to the 1980snowandfucking give me an explanation. But at the sound of his familiar deep voice, all my staunchness flies out the window.
‘Hello,’ I whisper.
‘Who is this?’ he says. ‘Speak up.’
‘It’s me. Jade...’
‘What do you want?’ He doesn’t sound too pleased to hear from me, and I die a little inside.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Please, Sebastian. Don’t make me beg.’
‘I think a little begging is in order,’ he says stonily.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that begging does not make me any less of a feminist.
‘I need you. Please please please. Can you come?’
There’s a heavy silence, under which I hear a faint buzzing as the line stretches across time and space, and my poor heart aches as Sebastian considers my grovelling request.