Songs For Your Mother

lesson there. Poetry will only take you so far. After that, you’re on your own. I’m mulling this over when I am snapped back to reality as a klaxon sounds.
‘Look, Jon…’ Will says, trailing off.
When he says this, a sweep of cold sweat washes over me. Will never calls me Jon. It’s always Johnny. So, before he says another word, I know that something is up and that something cannot be good.
Very slowly, I venture: ‘What?’
Will proceeds to thrust his arms out like he’s about to break into song. ‘Our paths diverge,’ he says.
‘Our what?’ I’m confused. Is he a) making another movie reference or b) misquoting Robert Frost? I’m still turning the phrase ‘paths diverge’ over in my head, and trying to work out what it means when it all becomes clear.
‘I’m flying back to London tomorrow; it’s TSP, I have to go,’ Will says.
TSP (Jones) is Will’s girlfriend. I’m dumbstruck. What he is saying is that the divergence, this fork in our road, involves him leaving me stranded with a rental car and more than two weeks to go on our American road trip to run back home to his girlfriend.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this. I hope that any second you’re going to tell me you’re joking. What about “road trip rules”? We’ve only been in California for five days, and I swear you have said that a dozen times. I’m surprised we don’t have a bumper sticker.’
Will looks at me as I speak and he doesn’t crack a smile, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that he isn’t joking. I’m so angry. I can feel the heat on my face, and it’s burning up. I imagine TSP laughing insanely to herself like one of Shakespeare’s wicked wayward witches. This is terribly unfair. TSP is a tall, beautiful blonde, and quite lovely. She comes complete with hippy parents turned new-age farmers. They made a lot of money selling their organic cleaning products company to a multinational. Being hippies, they, of course, burdened their children with ridiculous names. Who names their daughter Trees?
Let alone Trees Serenity Pure Jones. It’s because of this that she’s always been known as TSP, or sometimes Jones, since we met her at university. TSP’s name clearly had a severe impact on her psyche as a child. She’s been acting out ever since, having rebelled and become a lawyer. She, of course, denies this. She claims to love being a lawyer, which for obvious reasons cannot possibly be true. Fortunately, her younger brother is keeping the family tradition alive by working in a circus, as a clown. His parents think this is marvellous, and they encourage his clownish career choice. With a name like Cloud, TSP’s brother is, of course, known as Cloudy the Clown. Sometimes when TSP does something that is so wholly TSP, her surname does allow us all to joke ‘that’s Pure Jones’. She hates this, and rolls her eyes at it every time. Right now, this is what I am thinking. This move is Pure Jones.
‘I don’t have a choice here. I’m sorry. I have to go,’ Will says.
‘You do have a choice. It’s called free will.’
Will stares at me blankly. Not a hint of a smile at this line. The two of them had been arguing over this trip for weeks before we left London. TSP hated the fact that Will and I had planned this trip together. She did not see why we couldn’t all go. I adore TSP, but Will and I both saw this as our last hurrah. After the trip, I knew he was going to propose. Will had the ring and was planning to take her to the top of Primrose Hill. It was going to be sunset over London, champagne and a bended knee. She loves it up there, and the view of the city is spectacular.
‘She’s making herself sick over this whole thing. You know how she gets when she’s like this, it kills me,’ Will says.
‘Can I say again: I CAN’T. BELIEVE. YOU’RE DOING THIS. You idiot, we planned this for months. There are more than two weeks to go. Seriously, stop and think.’
‘I already did. I fly home tomorrow evening, and I need you to drop me in San Jose. I can get the train to San Francisco. I’m sorry.’
Ugh. I shake my hands at Will and try to work out when he became such an idiot. I don’t understand how he can’t see it.
‘No, Will, you stopped and let TSP think for you. It’s no wonder you’ve got Velcro trainers as she’s not here to tie your FUCKING LACES.’
‘The shouting doesn’t help,’ Will says.
‘Of course, it helps; you IDIOT,’ I say.
I throw my hands in the air in exasperation. I sit there staring at him, as the dust spirals and turns in the sunlight and the realisation sets in that he’s abandoning me in America. I get up and walk out of the room.
Without saying another word to each other, we leave Monterey and continue up Highway 101. As we drive, it’s all sunshine, sunglasses and silence. The plan had been to head up to the university town of Santa Cruz and see its boardwalk and 1920s big dipper roller coaster.
I put Tom Waits on and allow him to do all the talking. I love Tom Waits. He isn’t, however, your go-to for a classic sing-a-long road trip playlist. You have to be in the mood for him, and, at that moment, I was. So instead of being able to drown my sorrows in whiskey at the wheel, Tom Waits does his best for me from Closing Time through to Grapefruit Moon. The hum of the engine, the clip of the tyres on the road and a gravelly voiced singer is our soundtrack.
We hit Santa Cruz and head for the Victorian bed and breakfast where we have a room. Painted a sky blue, it’s a big classic Californian clapperboard house. We check in and head