Juliet, Naked

A lot of women had to say a version of that sentence every single day of the week, probably, without feeling particularly emotional about it. Or rather, the emotion they were most likely to feel was a very deep self-pity, rather than an ache of love and loss and longing. That seemed like an ambition, of sorts: to get to a stage where she wanted to hang herself because putting a T-shirt on a child’s bed seemed indicative of the slow and painful death of the spirit. At the moment, she wanted to hang herself because it seemed like the first tiny glimmers of a rebirth.

“Spider. Is Spider-Man okay for your party?”

“I’m the only one who has to go dressed up,” she said. “You’re the exotic special guests.”

“Only because we’ll be wearing T-shirts,” said Tucker.

“And you come from the U.S. When we first started thinking about a Gooleness in 1964 exhibition, we really weren’t banking on American visitors.”

“The exchange rate was bad back then,” said Tucker. “You watch, there’ll be hordes of us.”

Annie laughed with inappropriate volume and vigor, and at preposterous length, and Tucker stared at her.

“You nervous?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I was just thinking about you leaving. I don’t want you to. And that made me laugh too loudly at your joke. For some reason. Maybe just in case it was the last joke you made in this house.”

She regretted the explanation immediately, but that was because she always regretted everything. And then, after the regret had flared and burned out, she didn’t care. He should know, she thought. She wanted him to know. She felt something for somebody, and she’d told him.

“Okay. Who said we’re leaving, anyway? We like it here, don’t we, Jacko?”

“Yeah. A bit. But I wouldn’t want to live here or anything.”

“I could live here,” said Tucker. “I could live here in a heartbeat.”

“Really?” said Annie.

“Sure. I like the sea. I like the… the lack of pretension.”

“Oh, it’s not pretentious.”

“What does that word even mean?” said Jackson.

“It means, the town doesn’t pretend to be something it isn’t.”

“And some towns do that? What do they pretend to be?”

“Paris. Giraffes. Whatever.”

“I’d like to go somewhere that pretends to be somewhere else. That sounds fun.”

He was right: it sounded fun. Who wanted to be in a place that prided itself on its lack of ambition, its pig- headed delight in its own plainness?

“Anyway,” said Jackson. “I have to see Mom, and my friends, and…”

And even then Annie hoped for some clinching argument from Tucker, as if she were watching a courtroom drama, and Jackson was the slow-witted and obstructive juror. But he just put his arm on his son’s shoulder and told him not to worry, and Annie gave another inappropriate laugh, just to show that nothing was serious and everything was funny and it didn’t matter that Christmas was nearly over. She was nervous now.

Tucker was worried for Annie when they walked into the cold and ominously empty museum, but then he remembered that she was the host, and she had to be there first. And they didn’t have to wait very long before people started turning up; late wasn’t a fashion option in Gooleness, apparently. Before long, the room was full of town councillors and Friends of the Museum and proud owners of shark pieces, all of whom seemed to have taken the view that the later you turned up, the narrower the choice of sandwiches and potato chips.

Once upon a time, Tucker hated going to parties because he couldn’t introduce himself without people making some kind of a fuss when he told them his name. It turned out to be the same at this party, except the people who made the fuss were people who’d apparently never heard of him.

“Tucker Crowe?” said Terry Jackson, the councillor who owned half the exhibition. “The Tucker Crowe?”

Terry Jackson was probably in his sixties, and he had a weird gray hairdo, and Tucker was surprised that his name had any currency in weird-gray-hairdo circles. But then Terry gave Annie a big wink, and Annie rolled her eyes and looked embarrassed, and Tucker understood that something else was going on.

“Annie wanted you to be the special guest tonight. But then I pointed out that nobody knew who the bloody hell you were. What was your big hit, then? Just kidding.” He patted Tucker on the back mirthfully. “But you really are from America?”

“I really am.”

“Well, then,” said Terry, consolingly. “We don’t get many American visitors to Gooleness. You might be the first one ever. That’s special enough for us. It doesn’t matter about the rest of it.”

“He really is famous,” said Annie. “I mean, if you know who he is.”

“Well, we’re all famous in our own living rooms, aren’t we? What are you drinking there, Tucker? I’m going to get myself another one.”

“Just a water, thanks.”

“I don’t think so,” said Terry. “I’m not getting Gooleness’s only American visitor a glass of bloody water. Red or white?”

“I’m actually… I’m in recovery,” said Tucker.

“All the more reason to have a drink, then. Always helps me, when I’m under the weather.”

“He’s not under the weather,” said Annie. “He’s a recovering alcoholic.”

“Oh, you’d just be normal here. When in Rome and all that.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Oh, well. Suit yourself. Here they are, the real stars of the evening.”

They had been joined by two men in their forties, obviously uncomfortable in jackets and ties.

“Let me introduce you to two Gooleness legends. Gav, Barnesy, this is Tucker Crowe, from America. And this is Jackson.”

“Hello,” said Jackson, and they shook his hand with exaggerated formality.

“I’ve heard that name before,” one of the men said.

“There’s a singer named Jackson Browne,” said Jackson. “Also there’s a place called Jackson. I’ve never been there. Which is kind of weird, if you think about it.”

“No, not your name, sonny Jim. His. Tucker Wotsit.”

“I doubt it,” said Tucker.

“No, you’re right, Barnesy,” said the other one. “It’s come up recently.”

“Did you get here okay?” said Annie.

“You were going on about him,” said the man who had to be Gav, triumphantly. “That night we met you. In the pub.”

“Was I?” said Annie.

“Oh, she’s always going on about him,” said Terry Jackson. “In her head, he’s famous.”

“You’re country and western, is that right?”

“I never said that,” said Annie. “I said I’d been listening to you recently. Because of Naked, I suppose.”

“No, you said he was your favorite singer,” said Barnesy. “But… is he the person you said you were seeing? In America?”

“No,” said Annie. “That was someone else.”

“Bloody hell,” said Barnesy. “You know more Americans than an American.”

“I’m sorry,” said Annie, when they’d gone. “We seem to keep bumping into people who think we’re together.”

“You just told him you were seeing some other American.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“I guessed.”