The Accidental Life of Jessie Jefferson by Paige Toon Page A

car,’ she snaps. ‘Walk up the hill to the top.’
    ‘What, and sit in the rain?’ I ask with disbelief.
    She yanks her door open and climbs out into the downpour as another lorry passes, making the car vibrate violently. OK, it is a little scary here, I’ll admit. Suddenly my door is open and she’s leaning across the seat and unbuckling my seatbelt. She practically drags me out of there, her wet hair dripping all over me.
    ‘Bloody hell, OK! I’m coming!’ I shout, wrestling her hands off me. She shoves me up the hill. I’m drenched instantly and really quite pissed off, thank you very much. Where is she? I look over my shoulder with irritation to see that she’s still down by the car, hurriedly getting her bag out of the front passenger seat. At the very least she could have let me get mine. I start to storm back down the hill as she slams the door shut and moves towards me, and then out of nowhere, a car veers off the motorway and clips the back of the Peugeot. I scream with horror as flashes of metal grinding against metal light up the dark night and the Peugeot spins around almost 180 degrees. The other car screeches to a stop further up the motorway as cars and lorries fly past dangerously, and then I’m in Mum’s arms and she’s holding me so tight, and I’m so thankful she’s safe that I don’t even mind the noise of her hysterical cries in my ear.
    I blink back tears as I turn away from the window, regarding the limo’s slick interior. We never had money to spend on new cars, ones which didn’t break down all the time. The man in the other car on the motorway was unhurt, thankfully, but our little car was written off and we had to share Stu’s Fiat after that. The only silver lining was the insurance money, which came through two months later. Mum was so happy that week, planning our summer holiday. Little did we know that there was a ticking bomb hanging over all of our heads, counting down the last few days of her life, a life she could have lost two months earlier, thanks to me.
    I try to swallow the lump in my throat as I think about how she probably saved my life by forcing me to get out of the car. If only I could have saved hers . If only I’d helped out more on the morning of my party. If only I’d told her I didn’t even need a cake that year. If only I’d said I didn’t want a bloody party. If only she hadn’t been walking along the pavement at the exact same moment that a loose window came crashing down upon her, spearing her precious, perfect body with shards of glass . . . If only, if only, if only . . .
    Tears stream down my cheeks and my chest shudders as I fight back sobs. I could have been going to Spain next week with her and Stu, rather than sitting here in a limo on my own, in a strange country, about to meet Johnny frigging Jefferson. My crying abruptly stops and I brush away my tears as the surreal feeling intensifies. I’d better pull myself together and sort out my hair and make-up before I completely lose it.
    The air-conditioning has cooled the car down – and me down with it. I run my fingers through my hair, hoping it will look tousled and not scratty. Brushing it will only make it look worse. I know that from experience. My make-up hasn’t fared too badly so I pop my sunnies on top of my head and apply some powder and lipstick, then pretty much leave it as it is. I don’t want to appear too done up. I look down at my silver swing dress and almost snort. OK, so it’s a little over the top. It’s the sort of thing I’d normally only wear to a party, but I bought it last week at work and wanted to bring it. Who knows what I’ll be doing here, where I’ll be going out, if anywhere. And quite frankly, I’m a bit past caring what I look like at the moment. I’m certainly not going to bother getting changed again.
    My arms and legs are a little chilly now in the air-con and my feet are frozen, so I shrug on my denim jacket and drag out some fresh socks,