Free Jam by Jake Wallis Simons

She could see his silhouette in her mind, though his face was always dark. He had to be out there somewhere. When he made his appearance finally, shewould recognise him. There would be an instant connection. And his opinion on her figure would count.
    And now this traffic! This was all she needed, a reminder of life in this accursed city. If she lived in a nice village in the countryside, or even a town or something, this traffic would be a thing of the past, only to be negotiated on her own terms, whenever she chose to take a trip to the Big Smoke to see friends or a play or a concert. The truth was, she was split down the middle, black and white, like an Othello counter. Could you still get Othello? Could you play it online now? Was there an app? She took out her iPhone but, not being able to face that fucking skiddy keyboard yet again, she put it back in her pocket.
    Yes, she was split. Half of her wanted the life she had, and the other half wanted something altogether different. It was time for her life to enter the next phase, she felt that deeply. She was on the cusp; but unlike ‘normal’ people she had been on the cusp for years. Here lies Shauna Williams, she thought, who lived and died on the cusp. She was thirty-six, still living the same life as when she was twenty-four. She was even at the same law firm, fuck’s sake, even that hadn’t changed. Every day the same slog down to the City. Every day the same slog back to Fulham. Sure, she had more money now; she owned her own property, went on holiday at least twice a year, shopped on the King’s Road most weekends, went out two, three times a week, would drink two hundred pounds of Krug in one fell swoop. One fell swoop: what was the etymology of that? She didn’t pull her iPhone out of her pocket. She didn’t even consider it. As it was she had a migraine. And there was no signal.
    She rested her forehead against the steering wheel. It was the same temperature as flesh.
    Life, she feared, was leapfrogging her. For years she had not questioned the way she lived. She had assumed that Hubster would make his appearance when he was good and ready, and when that happened she could flip the Othello counter onceand for all; they would marry, she would get preggers, they would move out to the country; her former existence would be present only on Facebook, like some online ghost. Until then, she did in London what she had always done at Durham, at Bedales. Work, booze, dancing, casual flings, bacon breakfasts on hangover Sundays, shopping, the theatre, long novels read in hammocks in the garden in East Sussex, skiing trips plus sex with muscular Germans, villas in Morocco with friends. Horse riding. Yoga. The Apprentice . Lie-ins. In the summer, croquet and Pimm’s (lots of). But now she was increasingly feeling that Hubster could do with making an appearance now, please. Yes, now would be nice. So that they could get on and move out to the country, and do what people are supposed to do. Pro-bloody-create.
    To some extent, she blamed it on her schooling. Bedales was an ultra-progressive place, where students called teachers by their first names, were allowed to wear whatever clothes they wanted, and were encouraged to regularly bake bread; all the students and all the teachers would shake hands twice a week, which would take quite a while. It was fun, an optimistic and free-spirited time. But now she wondered whether perhaps it hadn’t made her into an outsider. Whether, perhaps, happiness could only lie in empty-headed conformity. A horrible thought.
    Or perhaps it was the fault of her parents, who had chosen to bring her up at arm’s length rather than have her live at home, every day, with them. Who were concerned with her wellbeing enough to shell out extravagant school fees, but not to shell out much of themselves.
    Her head was splitting, and she had no paracetamol. Her mouth was horribly dry, and she had no water. When would