The Ugly Swan

This story was first published in the STORYCUTS series by Transworld Digital 2011

Jilly Cooper has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

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Jessica raced down the High Street, deep in thought. She was trying to work out an opening paragraph for the big stabbing story she’d heard at the Juvenile Court that morning. A teenage boy had plunged a knife into his stepfather, who’d come home drunk from the pub and started beating up the boy’s mother. The whole case had upset Jessica very much. The accused boy had looked so dead-eyed and defeated when the magistrates remanded him in custody for a fortnight. But she knew she had to get over her squeamishness and sensitivity if she were going to be any good as a journalist.

She was so preoccupied as she galloped along that it was a few seconds before she realized her name was being shouted.

‘Jessica. Jessica!’

She stopped in her tracks, long legs sprawling like a colt, short, spiky dark hair standing on end, looking everywhere but at the blond young man in the dark green Lamborghini who was shouting at her. He backed the car until he was level with her.

‘Jessica,’ he said patiently, ‘I’m here.’

‘Oh hello, Oliver,’ she gasped, blushing crimson and dropping her paper bag and her notebook, ‘How are you? Are you better now?’

Oliver Cotswold was one of the string of golden boys who’d run around with Jessica’s sister, Helen, before she married. A racing driver, he’d been badly burned in a multi-crash at Silverstone last year. As he turned to talk to her, she could see the livid scars disfiguring the left side of his face.

‘Totally recovered,’ he said. ‘I’m giving a party on Saturday to celebrate my return to the circuit. I’d love you to come.’

‘Gosh, how incredibly kind,’ said Jessica, retrieving her paper bag and notebook from the gutter. ‘I’d simply adore to if I’m not working.’

‘On Saturday night?’

‘The W.I. are doing Dear Octopus. I’m supposed to be covering it.’

‘Well, come on afterwards, it’ll go on all night.’

‘Shall I bring a bottle?’

‘No, just yourself – Danny’s coming down for it by the way.’

Jessica’s knees seemed to buckle. Her heart stopped beating. Thank goodness Oliver was lighting a cigarette, and therefore didn’t see her total confusion. Her voice would hardly come out of her dry throat, as she whispered, ‘Did you say Danny?’

‘Yes, Danny McCarthy – you remember, he went out with your sister, Helen.’ He started up the green car with a dragon’s roar which had the passers-by clicking their tongues. ‘See you Saturday then.’

Jessica stood in the street clutching her packages. Looking down she realized she’d squeezed her paper bag so hard that the egg and tomato in her sandwiches had burst through the cellophane, and got all mixed up with the leaking coffee. She’d promised Victor Price, the Editor, that she’d have her Juvenile Court reports written by four o’clock, but instead she chucked the coffee and sandwiches into an adjacent litter-bin, and went into a nearby café and sat down by herself in the corner.

‘Danny’s coming back,’ she muttered, and putting her burning face in her hands, tried to rub away the blaze of excitement.

Helen, Jessica’s eldest sister, had been so beautiful she had always had hoards of admirers, but the one the family always remembered and talked about was Danny. All Jessica’s four sisters, and even her mother, had gone out and had their hair done for the weekends Danny came down. It wasn’t that he was particularly handsome. He was thin, very dark and small, and had the saddest, bony, harlequin face when he wasn’t laughing, which was most of the time; but he had beautiful hands, a soft Irish voice, and he seemed to have time for everyone. At a party, he would talk to the plainest woman in the room, and within ten minutes she’d be glowing and happy with a crowd gathering round her. People warmed themselves on Danny; he was like a bonfire on a raw winter’s day.