Free Jam by Jake Wallis Simons Page A

this traffic move? Hoping against hope she took out her phone, but then, without warning, the screen went completely black. She pumped the button, but to no avail. Stupid bloody phone. She sat up straight, looked around. Nothing but herself, her Smart car, and this crowd of machines pressing in on all sides,stretching out into the distance like some vast mechanical beach. Now she had no connection to the outside world. A frisson of panic rose in her, but then passed as quickly as it had arisen, leaving a fresh calmness, like the first light of morning. For the first time in ages – her yoga habit had died a quick and painless death – she became aware of the sound of her breathing, the rhythm of it. She felt still.
    Shauna turned off the stereo – Frank Ocean had been playing at a barely perceptible level – there. If you’re going to do quietude, you might as well do it properly. She was sitting in a car that now showed no sign of life. It might have died permanently for all she knew. A snippet of information swam into her mind: in a sandstorm one can survive by hollowing out the corpse of a camel and taking shelter inside. She had got it from TV, she thought, from some rugged survivalist type. It was absurd, but this car, cramped as it was, immobile as it was, yes, silent as it was, was her own hollowed-out camel. Yes, she was permanently absurd. She’d better get used to it. She had been trying not to think about it, but now she couldn’t stop herself. The wedding.
    It had been a lavish affair (she and Hubster would prefer something more discreet), held in the grounds of Chloe’s father’s house in Hampshire, following a ceremony at the village church. Vast marquees had been erected with drapes ballooning from a central point in the ceiling: one for the dinner, another for the bar, a third for a cloakroom. There were luxury portaloos too, which looked like they were made out of solid mahogany, and swarms of waiters and waitresses who seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once.
    The church was a beautiful old crumbling affair dating back to 1070, scarfed by a skewiff graveyard. When asked, she had been stumped for a moment, and had then answered ‘bride’; she was (literally) ushered to a pew several rows from the front. By rights, she should have said ‘groom’. After all, that was moreaccurate. But somehow she felt it would be inappropriate, even after all this time. After lengthy deliberation, she had decided to wear an off-the-shoulder cocktail dress in turquoise, with a fuchsia fascinator, clutch and Manolo Blahnik shoes. She had immediately regretted it. The colour contrast, which had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, in these ancient surroundings felt gaudy, even obscene. She could feel people looking at her, and the song ‘Raspberry Beret’ was going round maniacally in her head, which was a bit of a disaster. When she fell prey to an earworm, there would be no escape for days. She smoothed her dress, made polite conversation, turned her phone off, breathed, breathed, tried to compose herself.
    Just before the service started, she caught Seedie’s mother looking at her. They exchanged nervous smiles; did hers appear as forced as it was? The mother – what the hell was her name? – looked older. Her hair, which had retained some of its blondeness ten years ago, was now pure white and cut in a shimmering bob. Her dress was gold, gold! Shauna laughed to herself nervously. Some of the old emotions were returning, as if they’d never left. There was Seedie, bathed in sunlight from the high windows, looking larger than life, sharply etched; his face was shading into an expression she had only ever seen when he was having an orgasm. He was scanning the congregation, but he didn’t meet her gaze.
    Suddenly the light left the church, as if somebody had sucked it out with a hoover. Shauna looked up at the stained-glass window; a glowering,