11
The next morning, I arrived at work early thanks to last night’s shower and a mercifully quiet Northern Line, and by nine o’clock, armed with a strong cup of coffee and a biscuit stolen from the tea-point tin, I was ready to dig in to the new case files Jeremy had left on my desk. Ben wasn’t in yet, so the office was quiet, with just the dull hum of the comfort cooling system for company.
I scanned through the basics of the case. A cobbler’s in Columbia Road had burned down, gutting the shop and causing serious damage to the flat above. It was an owner-occupied building, the cobbler living upstairs and coming down each morning to work in the shop. Along with re-heeling the soles of Hackney’s hipsters and bankers, he also cut keys and repaired leather goods. He was claiming that the fire had been caused by an electrical fault, but the initial case manager had suspicions that he’d set the fire on purpose to collect the money. Cobbling wasn’t exactly a booming trade these days, and with property values being what they were in London, he was set to get a healthy pay-out. Whether he deserved that pay-out was the question I had to answer.
I clicked on the cobbler’s biography and scrolled through it. Full name: Edward Bryant. Age: 63. Pretty close to retirement age. He’d been born in Hackney, and from the looks of it, he’d lived there his whole life. He’d bought the shop forty-one years ago and had been there ever since. I checked his marital status. Widowed. Poor old Edward Bryant, all alone in his shoe shop. Still, it could be another reason to cut his losses. Maybe he had an eye on a nice place in Spain. A new life in the sun for himself.
I flicked through the photographs Mr Bryant had sent through as evidence. The extent of the damage was pretty clear – the shop had been gutted entirely, just a blackened skeleton remaining, and the flat upstairs was grayed and grimed from smoke damage. Definitely uninhabitable. Probably a tear-down.
The next set of photographs showed what the flat had looked like before and … I had to say, it wasn’t exactly a bed of roses. The shop looked musty and tattered, and the flat upstairs was locked firmly in the 1970s, down to the avocado-green bathroom suite. If he’d put it on the market before the fire, he would have got below market rate. People looking to move to Columbia Road had serious money these days, and they wanted something that was already modernized and high-spec. The laminate kitchen cabinets alone would be enough to send most of them screaming towards the nearest artisanal bakery for a soothing turmeric latte.
If he’d wanted to make serious cash, the fire made sense. Burn the place down, collect the money, rebuild and sell it to the highest bidder. Or sell the land to a hungry developer …
I drummed my fingers on the desk. I glanced through his file again. Widowed. He was widowed … I typed his wife’s name into our database and a record popped up. Mrs Victoria Bryant, died aged fifty-seven from bowel cancer, poor woman. She’d held a life insurance policy with the company for nearly thirty years, and the full pay out – a whopping £150,000 – was paid to a single benefactor. Mr Edward Bryant.
I leaned back in my chair. Well, he sure didn’t need the money. At least he shouldn’t need it. Maybe he had a gambling problem? I’d need to do more research before I could draw any concrete conclusions.
I was planning my next step when Ben slid open the cubicle door and sloped inside. He grunted at me, threw his rucksack in a corner, and slumped into his chair with a long, pained sigh. With his tufty hair and big, sad brown eyes, he was a double for Eeyore.
‘Nice to see you, too,’ I said, stifling a laugh. ‘Long night last night?’
He shook his head, morose. ‘Just went to football. I was home by ten.’
‘Then why do you look like someone’s just peed in your cornflakes?’
Another protracted sigh. ‘She’s ignoring me.’
I looked at him. He really did look awful. His eyes were red-rimmed and rheumy, and his hair disheveled. He was even wearing a pair of regular fit, medium-wash jeans – a clear sign that he was not in his right mind. ‘You just saw her yesterday morning, didn’t you?’
He threw his head back in despair. ‘I know!’ he cried. ‘God, it feels like it was ages ago. She’s probably forgotten all about me.’
‘Ben, get a grip. How can she already be ignoring you?’
‘Because,’ he said, exasperated, ‘I sent her a text on my way to football yesterday, and she still hasn’t replied.’
I shook my head. ‘Jesus, you really have lost it over her.’
He shot me a dark look. ‘I appreciate the sympathy.’
‘No! I mean, I get it. You obviously like her a lot. But … it’s only nine thirty in the morning. Give the woman a chance to have a cup of coffee before you assume she’s ditched you.’
‘She could have texted back last night!’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe she was busy.’
‘With WHO? That’s what I want to know.’ He ground his fists into his eyes. ‘Why is she doing this to me?’
I wheeled my chair over to his and put my hands on his shoulders. ‘Ben! You seriously need to calm down right now, because you are acting crazier than a box of frogs. I know you like her, and it sounds like she likes you, too. Just cut her a little slack, okay? Maybe she hasn’t texted you back yet because she doesn’t want to seem too keen.’
‘But why would she want to do that?’
I sighed. He was so young, and had so much to learn. ‘Because women are basically trained that the only way a guy will like us is if we pretend not to like them.’
His eyes widened. ‘Seriously?’
‘Of course! We spend our whole lives hearing that no man wants a woman who’s too available, that we should “treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen”. Hell, Sleeping Beauty had to be knocked unconscious before Prince Charming noticed her!’
Ben shook his head, causing an avalanche of curls to fall into his eyes. He really needed to get some product in that hen’s nest of his. ‘I would never be interested in a woman just because she didn’t seem interested in me. That’s so shallow.’
My jaw dropped. ‘Please do not tell me you just said that.’
He looked at me, eyes wide with innocence. ‘What? I wouldn’t!’
‘What about the time you went on a date with a woman and she asked what your last name was?’
His face darkened. ‘Why did she need to know? I ask you!’
‘And the time you deleted a woman’s number because she had the audacity to ask if you wanted her spare ticket to The Black Keys?’
He scowled. ‘She was practically stalking me.’
‘Ben, she wasn’t even asking you to go to the concert with her. She was just asking if you wanted to buy the ticket off her.’
‘That’s what she said,’ he grumbled. ‘Who knows what she was planning?’
‘You see?’ I hooted. ‘You’re totally put off by a woman who shows interest in you!’
He shrugged, pouting slightly. ‘Fine, maybe I do like a bit of a chase usually. But not when it comes to Lucy. I don’t want to have to chase her. I just want her to … be with me.’ He looked so sweet then, like a little boy asking Santa for his Christmas wish.
‘I’m sure she feels the same way,’ I said gently. ‘But you might have to do just a little chasing before you two can go full-on Netflix-and-takeaway.’
He gave me a withering look. ‘It’s Netflix and chill.’
I gave him a withering look right back. ‘Which one of us has been in a serious relationship before? Trust me, Netflix-and-takeaway is the more accurate description.’
‘Thanks for that searing glimpse into your personal life,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Trust me, with Lucy it’ll be all chill and very little takeaway.’
‘Go ahead,’ I said, ‘think whatever you want now. But don’t think I won’t say I told you so when she pulls out the de-elasticated sweatpants.’
His eyes filmed over with a faraway look. ‘I bet she’d look ace in sweatpants …’
I shook my head in disbelief. ‘You really are a lost cause.’
I was scribbling notes about the case on my yellow legal pad when a message flashed up on my phone. It was Jackson.
Meet me outside Westminster Abbey at 7:30 tonight. I’ve got a plan.
I groaned inwardly. Every Londoner knew what an absolute tourist clusterfuck it was around Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. The sidewalks were clogged full of people staring open-mouthed at Big Ben or unfolding enormous maps and staring at them ponderously. I’d been once, when my mom had come to visit during my first year here, but the experience had been enough to convince me not to return.
Can we meet literally anywhere else?
I hit send and heard the text whoosh off into the ether. My phone beeped straight away with his response.
Hey, this is my rodeo. 7:30 at Westminster Abbey.
I let out an involuntary cry of despair and threw my phone into my bag.
Ben glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘You all right?’
‘Fine,’ I muttered.
‘Of course you are,’ he said, sighing deeply. ‘You’re loved.’
‘Oh my God,’ I cried. ‘Stop! I told you this morning, she’ll text you when she’s ready!’
‘I might be dead by then,’ he said glumly.
It went on all day. Every time Ben’s phone chirruped – which, considering he was an active user of every form of social media available, was often – I’d hear him scrabble to grab it, followed by a long, deep sigh of despair when he realized it wasn’t Lucy. Frankly, it was a medical miracle that he hadn’t collapsed a lung with the amount of air he was forcefully exhaling.
The rest of the day passed in a blur, though not a particularly productive one. Between fielding Ben’s bouts of melancholy, and frequent ‘Knock knocks!’ from Jeremy, asking about progress on the case, I’d barely had time to take a breath before I heard the rustle and murmur of people around us shutting down for the day and asking each other about evening plans.
It was in the process of shutting my own computer off when I realized I hadn’t told Christopher that I wouldn’t be home for dinner. I was racking my brains for an excuse – work event? Spontaneous tennis match? Trip to the emergency room? – when a text flashed up on my phone. It was Christopher.
I’m out with my running club tonight so don’t wait up. xx ps can you defrost the pack of salmon in the freezer?
My body sagged with relief. Nights out with his running mates tended to be extremely boozy. I think they convinced themselves that downing pints of lager served as carb loading. Regardless, it meant he wouldn’t be home until at least midnight, at which point I’d be back from whatever crazy dinner Jackson had planned for us and safely tucked up in bed.
I sent a treacherous frowny-faced emoji as a response. Did it fill me with guilt? Yes. But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I had to meet my husband at Westminster Abbey.
The crowds were as thick as I’d expected. A horde of Italian teenagers almost pushed me into oncoming traffic, and I was very nearly impaled on a series of errant selfie sticks. I sighed and tutted my way through it all. No matter how long I lived here, I’d never get used to the crush of tourists that descended on us year-round. New York was bad enough – Times Square notably the ninth circle of hell – but at least you could avoid most of it if you wanted to. Here in London, thanks to the constant barrage of beautiful and historically significant buildings, there was no escaping. Bloomsbury, Piccadilly Circus, Regents Park, Camden Town, Borough Market: all up to their eyeballs in poncho-wearing slow-walkers. It was maddening.
As if to punctuate my point, I was about to cross Great Smith Street when I ran smack into a bunch of middle-aged Japanese men in bright-yellow rain slickers (chance of rain today: zero per cent), all of them rooted in place, heads tilted up towards the sky. I was about to shove past, when my gaze followed theirs and I stopped dead in my tracks.
The lights. My God, the lights.
The front of Westminster Abbey was a riot of luminous color. Strips of blue ran up either side of the building’s face, framing the illuminated figures of the statuettes mounted above the great doors. The muted gray stone figures of the saints were now painted in vivid purples and blues and reds, their heads ringed in glowing gold. It was breathtaking, like Christmas on steroids. The sort of vision that makes you believe in miracles.
One of the Japanese men turned to me and beamed. ‘Pretty incredible, huh?’
I nodded mutely.
I felt my phone vibrate in my bag. It was Jackson.
I’m under the column with the lady on top!
I threaded my way through the Japanese men, apologizing as I went, and dashed across Dean’s Yard and over to the column, where Jackson was holding an expensive-looking camera and looking out across the crowd.
‘Isn’t it incredible?’ he shouted as I came closer.
I couldn’t stop myself from smiling at him. ‘It’s amazing!’
We stood there for a minute, mute, and let the lights wash over us.
‘You ready?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Come on,’ he said, tugging at my arm. ‘There’s more to see.’
We pushed our way through the thronging crowds and made our way onto Westminster Bridge. The morning had kept its promise, and the evening still held a residual sweet warmth even though the sun had set. The crowds made it impossible to have a conversation, so Jackson led the way and I followed, the memory of the lights still dancing behind my eyes.
The good mood didn’t last long. We were halfway across the bridge when he stopped abruptly, sending me flying into the back of his denim jacket. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, rubbing my shoulder.
‘Will you look at this?’ he said, pointing at something across the Thames.
A passing woman lodged a sharp elbow into my ribcage. The familiar rage returned. ‘It’s too busy to stop,’ I snapped. ‘We can look on the other side.’
He shook his head. ‘You’ve got to look now.’
I sighed and stared out over the sparkling black water. ‘What am I looking at?’
‘Wait a minute. It’ll come back.’
I sighed again and folded my arms across my chest. ‘Honestly, only tourists stop here—’ And then I saw it. A brilliant green flash coming from underneath the water’s surface. ‘What is that?’
‘Just watch.’
The green glow grew more intense, more distinct, until we were both staring down at the glimmering outline of a mermaid swishing through the Thames.
‘Are – are you seeing what I’m seeing?’ I stuttered.
‘I sure am. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘This is genuinely insane. Isn’t this insane?’ I looked at Jackson for confirmation that yes, what we were looking at was insane, but he was too caught up in the moment to take any notice. ‘How is this happening?’ I said finally.
‘The lights,’ he said, nodding back towards the abbey. ‘They’re everywhere tonight, all across London. I’d heard that there was going to be something in the Thames, too, but I didn’t expect it to be so …’
‘Magical.’
He looked over at me and smiled. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Magical. You hungry?’
I nodded. ‘Starving.’
‘Great. How do you feel about tacos?’
‘I feel good about tacos.’
We headed down to the South Bank, where the London Eye had been lit to look like … well, like an actual eye, complete with glowing purple iris in the center. The Royal Festival Hall had been made to look like an enormous cruise ship, with iridescent waves licking at its hull. Outside the BFI, huge stalks of green LED lights reached up to the sky, capped with brilliant petals in oranges and reds and pinks.
‘This is incredible,’ I murmured as we ducked under the illuminated frame of a flying angel.
‘It’s an incredible city,’ he said, shooting me a grin. ‘You just have to look out for it.’
The taco place was less a restaurant and more an old silver Air Streamer parked up behind the Hayward Gallery. Jackson rubbed his hands together as he looked at the menu scrawled on a chalkboard next to the service hatch. ‘You know what you want?’ he asked.
I scanned the options. ‘Maybe the chicken?’
He shook his head. ‘No way are you getting some lame chicken taco on my watch.’ He turned to the man in the stained apron waiting to take our order. ‘We’ll take two pulled pork tacos, extra jalapeños, extra crackling, extra cheese.’
I thought of how long it had been since I’d made it to the gym. ‘No cheese for me,’ I piped up.
Jackson gave me a withering look. ‘No self-respecting taco eater asks for no cheese.’ He turned back to the man in the apron. ‘Ignore her, she doesn’t know what she wants.’
Anger flared inside me. ‘Actually, I do know what I want, thank you. I’m a grown woman and I can order a goddamn taco without your help.’ The man in the apron’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I’ll have a chicken taco, please, no jalapeños, no cheese, extra lettuce and avocado.’
Jackson rolled his eyes. ‘That’s just a salad in a taco shell.’
‘Well maybe I like salad in a taco shell! Did you ever think of that?’
The aproned man’s head receded back into the Air Streamer. ‘Your tacos will be ready in five,’ he called.
Jackson and I stared at each other, our arms folded tightly across our chests, our breath coming out as steam in the cold evening air. ‘You have got some nerve,’ I fumed.
Jackson heaved out an irritated sigh. ‘Here we go … You know, what’s so wrong about me trying to feed you something delicious?’
‘Because you’re steamrolling over what I want, that’s what! I mean, look at the other night – I told you I don’t like spicy foods, and you take me to a curry house.’
‘You liked it, didn’t you?’
‘That’s beside the point! You knew I was scared of heights, and you took me to a climbing center!’
‘Which, again, you liked! I’m just trying to get you out of your comfort zone a little, that’s all.’
‘Well, maybe I don’t want to get out of my comfort zone!’ We glared at each other. ‘The point,’ I said finally, ‘is that you seem convinced that you know what’s best for me better than I do, and that’s patronizing.’
‘Well, I don’t know that you do know what’s best for you,’ he said quietly.
‘Excuse me? I am a grown woman. I have a great job, a growing pension, a degree from a very good college, and a successful, attractive fiancé, all of which I managed to achieve without your help.’
‘“Successful, attractive fiancé.” Man, the passion just pours off of you in waves, doesn’t it? How is Christopher, anyway?’
‘I told you, I don’t want to talk about Christopher.’
He tilted his head up to the sky and blew out his cheeks. ‘I didn’t come here to fight. Look, I’m sorry I was steamrolling you on the taco front. Please just accept my apology and let’s get back to having a nice time tonight.’
He looked pained, and, I had to admit, genuinely remorseful. I felt a jolt of sympathy for him. ‘Okay,’ I said reluctantly. ‘But no more ordering for me. I’m not some mail-order bride you can boss around.’
He grinned. ‘You’re right about that. If I had a whole catalog of brides to choose from, you can guarantee I wouldn’t pick one who’s as big of a pain in the behind as you are.’
I reached out and whacked him on the arm. The tension between us cleared as quickly as it had gathered, like the thunderstorms we used to have in New Jersey at the height of summer. ‘Did you take lots of photos of the lights?’ I asked, pointing at the camera swaying around his neck.
He nodded. ‘Want to see?’
He tilted the screen of the camera towards me and clicked view. A photo flashed up of a young couple, arms wrapped tightly around each other, faces tipped up, looks of absolute joy stretched across their faces. I looked up at Jackson. ‘Who are they?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘No idea.’ He clicked on the next one, this time of a man carrying his small son on his shoulders. They were both wearing identical plaid button-downs, and both of them had the same look on their broad, round faces – that same absolute, uncomplicated joy.
I took the camera from his hands and started flicking through. All of the photos were the same – people in the crowd looking up, faces beaming and awestruck and childlike in their happiness. ‘Didn’t you take any of the lights?’
‘I sure did.’ He took the camera from my hands, clicked a few times on one of the buttons, and handed it back to me. It was the little boy from the second photo, but Jackson had zoomed in so that all you could see now were his eyes. And in his eyes was a perfect reflection of the kaleidoscopic color of the lights.
‘Incredible,’ I murmured.
‘Order up!’ called the man in the stained apron. He held two tinfoil-wrapped parcels through the hatch. ‘That’ll be eight pounds.’
Jackson peeled off a ten-pound note and handed it to him. ‘Keep the change,’ he said, and then handed me my taco. ‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking his taco to mine.
I unpeeled a corner of the foil and took a bite. It was good – the chicken was juicy and blackened from the grill, the avocado creamy, and the lettuce nice and crisp – but something was missing. I turned back to the aproned man. ‘Excuse me, do you have any hot sauce?’
‘On the side,’ he said, nodding towards a condiment station set up on a little metal folding table.
‘Am I seeing things?’ Jackson asked as I shook a few drops of Mexican Devil on my taco. ‘Have I died and gone to I Told You So heaven?’
‘Shut up,’ I said in between mouthfuls. ‘I don’t want to hear another gloating word out of you.’
‘Just hang on one second,’ he said. ‘Here, take a bite.’ He held out his taco, and I grudgingly pulled a little bit off the end with my fingers and stuck it in my mouth. It was infuriatingly delicious, way better than my chicken taco (which did indeed look like just a salad in a taco shell compared to his, even with the Mexican Devil’s help). I tried to mask my enjoyment as I swallowed. ‘So? What do you think?’ There was a triumphant glint in his eye. Dammit. I’d been outed.
‘It’s not bad,’ I shrugged. ‘A little greasy.’
The man in the apron leaned his head out of the window. ‘Did you just call my tacos greasy?’ He looked very angry.
‘No!’ I demurred. ‘Of course not! They’re delicious!’
‘You’re damn right they are,’ he huffed, before turning to clean down his grill.
Jackson smirked at me. ‘You really do know how to make friends, don’t you?’
‘Just call me Miss Congeniality.’ I polished off the rest of my taco, crumpled up the foil, and tossed it in the bin. ‘Well, dinner’s finished. So what’s next?’
He licked the last of the hot sauce off his fingers and winked. ‘What comes after all good meals?’ he asked. ‘Dessert!’
We hailed a taxi at Waterloo and hurtled our way through Covent Garden. The theatres hadn’t yet emptied, so the streets were fairly quiet, peopled with the occasional strolling couple or group of colleagues making their way back to the Tube after a post-work session in the pub. I stared out the window at the passing shops, each one lit up like a stage and filled with mannequins striking poses in shorts and flimsy dresses.
Summer would be here before I knew it, and by the end of it, I’d be married. I tried to picture myself walking down the aisle in a long white gown, clutching a bouquet and beaming at a waiting Christopher, but my mind couldn’t quite make it real. I’d envisioned marrying him for so long, but now that it was close, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it. It was as if I was stuck in a state of suspended wedding animation. Maybe I’d waited too long. Dwelled on it too much. And now we were so behind with our plans … I would get on it tomorrow, I promised myself.
The cab sped up through Seven Dials, around the little roundabout filled with people standing outside bars, smoking cigarettes in their shirtsleeves, and pretending they weren’t cold. I looked over at Jackson, who was also staring out of the window, lost in thought. ‘Where are we going again?’ I asked, though he hadn’t told me in the first place.
He started at the sound of my voice. He really had been zoning out. He recovered himself quickly and shot me a wink. ‘Cool your jets,’ he said. ‘We’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’
We pulled up to a café on Frith Street. There was a green awning stretched across the front, under which sat a line of small metal tables and chairs. A clock jutted out from the side of the building, the name of the place – Bar Italia – picked out in neon lights above it, and on the street in front, a row of candy-colored Vespas sat patiently awaiting their riders. It looked like a café you’d find down a backstreet in Rome, or in a Fellini film. Definitely not in the middle of London.
‘What is this place?’ I asked.
‘It does the best macchiato in the city,’ Jackson said, opening the door and ushering me in, ‘and a tiramisu that will make you go weak at the knees.’
The inside of the café matched the exterior – all 1950s Italian charm. The room was long and narrow, with tables packed closely against one side. The walls were covered with framed photographs and newspaper clippings and mementos from the old country. Above us, a huge Italian flag hung across the length of the ceiling. The main event, though, was the long marble bar, at the end of which an enormous red Gaggia hissed and banged and whizzed as the white-shirted bartenders made endless perfect espressos.
One of them looked up at us and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Inside or out?’
‘Out,’ Jackson said, before looking over at me nervously. ‘I mean, if outside’s okay with you …’
‘Sure.’ I appreciated that he’d finally asked for my opinion, but after the taco incident I was starting to suspect that he really did know better than me when it came to these things.
The bartender pouted artfully and thrust a pair of laminated menus at us.
‘We don’t need those,’ I said, pushing them back across the bar. ‘We’ll have two macchiatos and a tiramisu to share.’
‘Make that two tiramisu,’ Jackson added. ‘Trust me, you won’t want to share.’
The bartender nodded towards the tables outside. ‘Sit. I’ll bring to you when ready,’ he said.
We nabbed the last available table and sat down with happy sighs, tucking our bags by our feet. Jackson raised an eyebrow at me. ‘You don’t need to look at the menu, huh?’
I shrugged. ‘You said the tiramisu was good.’
‘And now you’re taking my word all of the sudden?’
‘Don’t get a big head about it.’
All of the chairs were arranged so that they looked out on the street, so we sat side by side in silence and watched the parade of people stream past. The light festival had bled into Soho, and above us huge illuminated clouds seemed to float between the Georgian terraces. Even though it was a Wednesday night, the streets were thronged with people tumbling out of restaurants after a boozy meal, or huddled against the side of pubs, smoking cigarettes and clutching pints in plastic glasses.
It was too cold for it, really – back in New York, you’d never find people desperate to stand outside in fifty-degree weather – but Londoners took any dry, non-frigid night as an invitation, and the light festival had brought even more people out than usual. Couples and groups of friends wandered past, fingers entwined, gazing up at the brightly lit clouds, and smiling as though they couldn’t believe their luck.
In the distance, we heard the beat of drums and the faint chime of bells, and as it grew closer we saw that it was a band of Hare Krishnas, heads closely shaved, dressed in bright shades of orange and white, dancing up Old Compton Street and chanting at the top of their lungs. A few passers-by joined in with them, clapping their hands and stomping their feet as their friends took photos with their phones. Suddenly, out of one of the pubs charged a man dressed in an enormous Bart Simpson costume, complete with inflatable skateboard, who took his place at the head of the parade. His friends appeared in the doorway of the pub and shouted encouragement, and soon the Hare Krishnas had gathered around him, arms thrown around Bart’s plush shoulders, and they made their way singing and dancing up through to Shaftesbury Avenue.
I glanced over at Jackson’s face and saw a look of pure delight etched across it. He turned to me and shook his head. ‘Only in London,’ he said.
‘What do you think that guy was doing in a Bart Simpson costume?’
He shrugged. ‘Bachelor party, I guess. You know how nuts the Brits go for those things. I once went to one—’ he stopped himself. ‘Nah, never mind.’
‘What were you going to say?’ I prompted.
He shook his head. ‘It’s not for polite company.’
I hooted with laughter. ‘I am hardly polite company. C’mon, tell me! I promise I won’t judge.’
He hesitated for a minute before leaning towards me conspiratorially. ‘Let’s just say that it ended with a guy straddling one of the lions in Trafalgar Square.’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘So what? People do that all the time.’
‘Ah,’ he said, eyes twinkling, ‘but do they do it at ten a.m. on a Sunday morning, naked as the day they were born, off their heads on ketamine?’
‘I see your point. God, I genuinely can’t imagine anything worse. I’d rather stick my tongue in a toaster than subject myself to anything like that.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘So no bachelorette party before your big day with Christopher?’
‘What, and be forced to drink pink drinks out of penis straws while a bunch of women who can barely stand each other play pin-the-cock-on-the-naked-guy? No thank you.’
‘You know, men are meant to come with those. They aren’t supposed to be pinned on.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s like pin the tail on the donkey, only—’
He let out a belly laugh. ‘I was just pulling your leg! I’ll be damned if you aren’t the most literal woman I have ever met.’ I wasn’t entirely sure, but I didn’t think he meant that as a compliment. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘What about your folks?’ he asked.
I looked over at him. ‘What about them?’
‘I don’t know – are they married?’
I shook my head. ‘Divorced,’ I said curtly. This was not a conversational path I wanted to venture down. There were too many ghosts hiding in the woods.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘How old were you?’
‘Eleven. Is this table wobbly?’ I jiggled the edge and the legs scraped on the pavement. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I said, digging around in my purse. I pulled out a bunch of napkins and dived under the table, wedging them under one of the legs. I surfaced hoping he’d forget all about the whole divorce thing. ‘There,’ I said, giving the table another shake. ‘Perfect.’
‘Nice work, MacGyver,’ he said, nodding approvingly. ‘So you were saying about your parents?’
I ducked back under the table. ‘I think this chair is uneven, too,’ I muttered.
He grabbed me by the elbow and hauled me back up. ‘The chair’s fine.’
We sat there in silence for several minutes, the noise from the crowd washing over us. Finally, I opened my mouth, and something surprising came out. ‘My mom got sick after my dad left.’
He looked at me. ‘Man, that’s tough. Was it serious?’
My heart thudded in my chest and, to my horror, I felt myself well up. The day of the flying ants came flooding back. It was like I was living it all over again. The wail of the ambulance. The hushed voices of the doctors. The neighbors lining the lawns, straining to get a closer look while pretending to mind their own business. The fear I’d felt. The shame.
Jackson didn’t say anything. He just reached over, patted my hand, and turned back towards the street. He wasn’t going to push me on it. He was going to leave it be.
My heart ached from the kindness of it.
A waiter appeared and silently deposited two perfectly-poured macchiatos, and a pair of plates threatening to shatter beneath the weight of two enormous slabs of tiramisu. He tucked the bill discreetly under Jackson’s plate and left without a word.
I took a few deep breaths to recover, and slowly the dark thoughts edged offstage. That’s how it was – they were never gone completely, but I could hide them from plain sight. I forced a smile on my face. ‘Just so we’re clear,’ I said, picking up the delicate little espresso cup and raising it towards him, ‘I’m getting the bill.’
‘Afraid not,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It goes against my chivalric code.’
‘Didn’t you hear? Chivalry’s dead.’ I took a sip. The coffee was smooth and creamy and ever so slightly bitter. Delicious.
‘Not in Texas it isn’t.’
I tucked a fork into the tiramisu and pushed it through the layers of sponge and mascarpone. I lifted the fork to my lips, closed my eyes and savored the taste. Jackson was right again – their tiramisu was enough to make you weak at the knees. And tight at the waistband, if I was right about the amount of cream involved. I would definitely, absolutely, go to the gym tomorrow, I vowed as I took another bite.
‘You okay over there?’ I looked up to see Jackson watching me eat, a smile playing on his lips. ‘You don’t seem to like that tiramisu one bit.’
I scraped the final morsel of cream from the plate with the side of my fork and licked it off. ‘It was disgusting,’ I agreed.
He finished the last of his coffee and put a few notes on the table. ‘Come on,’ he said, scraping back his chair. ‘Time for a nightcap.’
‘I really shouldn’t …’ I began, but I knew it was pointless. I’d lost all control over the evening. For once, though, the thought of being out of control didn’t terrify me.
We wound our way through the streets, dodging tipsy revelers as they weaved down the sidewalk, and ended up in front of an unpromising-looking blue door that led to an even less-appealing stairwell. ‘What is this place?’ I asked as we trudged down the steps.
‘You haven’t lived until you’ve been to Trish’s,’ he called over his shoulder.
A burly man met us at the foot of the stairs. ‘You two members?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Of course we are,’ Jackson said.
The burly man eyed us suspiciously. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.’
‘C’mon, buddy. I’m sure you remember me,’ Jackson said, risking life and limb by giving the guy a playful pat on the shoulder. I readied myself to run.
He was not buying it. ‘Where’s your membership card?’
Jackson grinned widely. ‘C’mon, don’t tell me you don’t remember me!’
I was about to tug on Jackson’s arm and suggest we cut our losses and head to All Bar One when, incredibly, the burly man returned Jackson’s smile. ‘Sorry to give you hassle, mate,’ he said, ushering us in. ‘My memory’s been playing up. Can’t remember shit these days.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jackson said, giving him another playful tap. ‘It happens to the best of us.’
‘Do you really know that guy?’ I whispered as we hurried past.
Jackson shook his head. ‘Never seen him before in my life.’
We pushed through a red velvet curtain and found ourselves in what appeared to be my uncle’s rec room from 1987. The place was lit more brightly than Wembley, and my feet stuck stubbornly to the tacky linoleum floor. A few scattered tables were filled with brawny Italian men arguing over the Serie A match playing on the flat screen tacked up to one of the walls, while over by the bar, a middle-aged woman wearing a Karen Millen skirt suit was arguing with the bartender over the amount of Jack in her Jack and Coke. ‘I can’t even taste it!’ she slurred, while a younger, nervous-looking co-worker tugged at her arm. A wizened old man played a mournful tune on a fiddle in the corner.
I turned to Jackson, eyes wide. ‘This place is nuts.’
He looked at me uncertainly. ‘Do you hate it? We can go if you do.’
‘It’s like we’re in Superman’s Bizarro World Soho,’ I said, gazing around in wonder. Where were the exposed brick walls? The tattooed struggling actor asking if we wanted to try the Bergamot small batch gin? The pouty fourteen-year-old taking photographs of her mac-and-cheese-stuffed lobster?
‘Is that a good thing, or …’
I nodded enthusiastically. ‘A good thing. A very good thing.’
Jackson looked as if I’d just given him a gold star. ‘Phew! What would you like to drink?’
I looked over at the bar, which appeared to stock solely Moretti or whisky. ‘Jack and Coke for me, please,’ I said. My eye snagged on a tall brown bottle tucked high up on the back bar. ‘Wait! I changed my mind. I’d like a Frangelico, please.’
He pulled a face. ‘I thought only little old ladies drank that stuff.’
‘Yeah, little old ladies with great taste. On ice, please!’
I stood back and observed the room, while Jackson sidled up to the bar. I would never in a million years have known this place existed. It definitely wasn’t somewhere Christopher and I would have ended up on our own. He had a general phobia of bouncers, and I tended to be too intimidated to approach them.
I didn’t use to be like that, though. There was a time in my life (between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one) when I would march to the front of any nightclub line, show the bouncer my cousin’s expired driver’s license, hitch up my pleather miniskirt and sail through the front door. And another (between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-four) when a Saturday night would begin at midnight, with Isla and me sailing over the Manhattan Bridge in a yellow taxi, the lights of the city twinkling just for us. We used to play this game where we’d compete to see who got the most phone numbers. Isla always won, but that wasn’t the point.
The point was that, back then, everything was expendable. Time. Sleep. Brain cells. Men. None of it mattered. Especially since I knew that it would just be for a finite amount of time, before I was called back to reality and forced to concentrate on more serious things. And then, just like that, the crazy nights out were packed up and pushed out of sight, like Christmas decorations in January. Only they weren’t ever meant to be seen again.
Jackson returned clutching a bottle of beer in one hand and a glass filled to the brim with a sticky-looking caramel-colored liquid. ‘Bottoms up,’ he said, handing the glass to me, and we clinked and sipped as we gaped around the room.
‘Honestly,’ I said, shaking my head in disbelief, ‘I have never seen a more random group of people gathered in one room before.’
‘I know,’ Jackson agreed. ‘And all of them look like they’re about to brawl, SummerSlam style.’
He was right. Everywhere we looked, people were making terrible choices. The thin man with the glasses glaring murderously at a man twice his size, insisting he spilled his drink: terrible choice. The Jack Daniel’s-loving skirt-suit wearer now running a hand up her nervous co-worker’s thigh: terrible choice. Even the surly bartender – questionably sober – was making a terrible choice by hitting on the bouncer’s girlfriend.
‘Must be the Jack Daniel’s,’ I said, taking another sip.
‘Or the Frangelico. How is it, anyway?’
‘Honestly? Sort of disgusting. But in a good way.’
‘How can something be disgusting in a good way?’
‘You know the way that cotton candy, or marshmallow fluff, when eaten in huge quantities, can be both delicious and disgusting? Like that.’
He laughed. ‘Thanks for clarifying.’ He looked around and shook his head. ‘My dad would love this kind of place.’
‘He would?’
‘Oh, sure. The man loves a dive bar. A genuine connoisseur. Whenever I’m home, he takes me to this place called Bucky’s he’s been going to since he could sneak a drink. You should see it – I swear you can smell the asbestos in the pipes. Bucky’s a real son of a bitch, too – never gives you a free drink, never smiles, never gives you the right change.’
‘Sounds awful.’
He grinned. ‘Oh, it is. But awful in a good way.’ We exchanged a glance and laughed.
A man in a waistcoat and suit jacket, bow tie loosened around his throat, appeared in the doorway and silently made his way to a dark corner of the room, where a grand piano had been unceremoniously shoved. ‘Do you think he’s going to play?’ I whispered.
Before Jackson had the chance to answer, the man sat down at the piano, cracked his knuckles with a flourish, and started banging out the opening bars to ‘New York, New York’.
‘I guess he’s a Sinatra fan,’ Jackson said with a wink. ‘So tell me, how did you end up in London? Don’t tell me it was just because good old Christopher lives here.’
I opened my mouth to protest, but was immediately drowned out by a rich baritone crooning about spreading the news. We looked back at the dark piano corner and found that both a microphone stand and a classically trained singer had appeared.
‘What in the—’ I looked at Jackson, goggle-eyed. ‘Did you know about this?’
He attempted a casual shrug, but couldn’t suppress the smirk. ‘Now that you ask, I seem to remember that actors from the West End sometimes come here after their curtain call, and sometimes turn this place into open mic night …’
We stood in awed silence as, one after another, people got up to the microphone and knocked it out of the park. The regulars barely even glanced up, and each performance was greeted with a smattering of applause and the occasional half-hearted whistle. Except for Jackson and me, of course. By the end of one woman’s performance of ‘All That Jazz’, my feet ached from stomping them and Jackson’s face looked like it was about to split down the seams under the pressure of his smile.
After a rousing final chorus of ‘Something Stupid’, Jackson excused himself and slipped off to the bathroom. When he reappeared, he had an odd look on his face, and kept tapping his foot anxiously against the back of the bar. ‘You feeling okay?’ I asked.
‘Me? Sure, I’m fine.’ He attempted a smooth smile, but I could hear the ice rattling in his glass as he held it to his lips.
I peered at him more closely. ‘Seriously, you look a little—’
A deep voice boomed across the room. ‘Is there a Miss Sparrow in the house?’
I spun on my heel and found the pianist leaning over the microphone, shielding his eyes from the light as he scanned the room. Fear gripped my ribcage and squeezed. I turned back to Jackson, eyes wide. ‘What does he want?’
Jackson winked. ‘I think he wants you to get up there and sing us a song, sweetheart.’
The bottom dropped out of my stomach and I wondered briefly if I’d be seeing that tiramisu again very soon. ‘What do you mean, he wants me to sing?’
Jackson couldn’t keep the grin off his face now. ‘You told me that night in Vegas that you’d always wanted to sing with a band. Well,’ he said, gesturing towards the pianist, now sighing impatiently into the microphone, ‘now’s your chance.’
‘But—’
‘I know it’s not exactly a band,’ he said, taking me by the elbow and steering me towards the microphone, ‘but I figured a piano was better than nothing.’
‘But – but—’
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ he whispered as he delivered me to the pianist. ‘You’re going to knock them dead. This good man here is already cued up with your song. Isn’t that right?’
The pianist nodded solemnly and returned to his seat at the piano.
I was wild-eyed with fear now. What had I told him was my song? ‘My song? What song?’ My brain sped through the likely suspects. God, please don’t let it be a Beyoncé number. I’d never be able to hit the high notes.
The pianist tapped out the opening bars to ‘The Man Who Got Away’. ‘Good luck,’ Jackson whispered in my ear, and then he placed the microphone in my hand and disappeared into the crowd.
It felt like a dream, as if I was watching it happen to me from the other side of the room. I opened my mouth on the cue, and there it was, my voice, clear and high, and, if not good, at least not terrible. I closed my eyes and let the moment take me. The words came to me without thought, ingrained in my mind from hearing them so many times over the years. It was muscle memory, really. Pure and simple. No different from the hundreds of times I’d sung that song in the shower or in the kitchen or in my head as I pushed past angry fellow commuters. But at the end, when I’d sung my last note and the first wave of applause washed over me, I opened my eyes and realized, no, this wasn’t like every other time. This was a singular moment, and it was perfect.
I placed the microphone back in the stand with shaky hands and made my way across the floor to where Jackson was waiting, arms open and drinks waiting. People patted me on the back as I passed, and murmured the occasional nice word. I knew I wasn’t half the singer most of the people in there were, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was how I’d felt when I was up there.
‘I can’t believe you did that to me!’ I shouted as I ran up to Jackson. I tried to sound outraged, but I couldn’t wipe the enormous grin off my face.
‘Yeah,’ he said, placing a shot of tequila in my hand, ‘you really seemed like you were hating it up there. C’mon,’ he said, raising his shot glass in salute, ‘bottoms up.’ I sunk it in one as he watched, astonished but impressed. ‘You didn’t even ask for salt and lime!’
I tried to shrug casually through the burn racing down my esophagus. ‘Your turn,’ I crowed, nodding to the still-full shot glass in his hand.
He tipped it towards me in salute before sinking it in one neat swallow. ‘Christ,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I hate tequila.’
‘Me too.’
‘You know,’ he said, putting his empty upside-down on the bar and signalling the bartender for a couple of beers, ‘you were pretty good up there.’
‘I was?’
‘In fact,’ he said, brushing the hair away from my face, ‘you were amazing.’
I froze as his fingertips grazed my neck. ‘How did you know?’
‘How did I know what? That you wanted to sing? I told you, you told me that night in Vegas.’
‘No,’ I said, catching his arm. ‘About the song. How did you know that was my song?’
He smiled. ‘You told me that, too.’
‘I did? But—’
‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘You told me you didn’t tell anyone that it’s your song.’
I was silent for a minute. ‘It’s my mother’s favorite. On Sundays, if she was having a …’ I hesitated, unsure of how much to say. He nodded his encouragement. ‘If she was having a good day, she’d make a big batch of popcorn and we’d cuddle up on the couch and watch old movies. A Star is Born was one of our favorites. Every time Judy Garland would get up to that piano and start to sing, she’d squeeze me and say, “That’s my song,” and then we’d sing it together. And then I guess it became my song, too.’ I looked up and saw that his eyes had filled with kindness and … yes. Understanding. I could feel it then, the words building inside me, pushing up my throat and easing my mouth open. I don’t know why, but something inside me wanted to tell him. ‘I took care of her for a long time,’ I said quietly.
He reached out and placed his hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘That must have been tough.’
I nodded. ‘I should still be taking care of her. I send money every month, but my aunt, she does most of the work now. Sometimes I think …’ I trailed off. I could see my mother’s face then, as clearly as if she were standing in front of me. The look in her eyes when she would sing that song, the way her smile never quite made its way up to her eyes.
Jackson bent down and cupped my face in his hand. ‘You’re a good daughter,’ he said quietly. ‘Your mother knows how much you love her.’
I felt a knot deep inside me ease. I waited for him to say more, but he stayed silent, just kept the steady pressure of his hand on my shoulder, and I felt almost weak with gratitude.
Jackson watched me closely. The adrenaline from earlier had worn off and had left me feeling brittle and tired. He put an arm around me and started guiding me towards the stairs without waiting for an answer. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get you home. It’s a school night, after all.’
I nodded and let him lead me up the steps and back onto the Soho streets. It was the height of the witching hour now, and the scene was shaping up to look like something out of the zombie apocalypse. People staggered stiff-legged down the pavement, veering wildly to avoid passing bikes and taxis and lampposts. A woman in a red mini-dress and high red heels was singing a Rhianna song at the top of her lungs while her friends clapped along. A guy in his twenties wearing a shiny suit and sporting an elaborate quiff (Foxtons, almost certainly) was leaning against the side of a Pret A Manger, retching like a cat with a hairball.
Jackson raised his hand to flag a passing taxi. The night was over, and rightly so – like he’d said, it was a school night, and I had to be up early for work the next day. I couldn’t bring myself to look at my phone to check what the time was – I just knew that it was later than I’d thought. But something inside me, some treacherous, unhelpful little nugget buried deep in my chest, was disappointed. I didn’t want it to end, not yet. It had been too much fun.
‘Well,’ he said, as he opened the taxi door, ‘I guess this is goodnight.’
‘Do you want a lift? I could drop you off at your hotel …’
He waved the offer away. ‘I think I’ll walk for a little while. It’s not too far from here.’
‘You sure do love your walks.’
He nodded and gazed wistfully out over the Soho carnage. ‘Best way to remember this city is to walk it.’
‘At this rate, you’ll be Samuel goddamn Johnson by the end of this week.’ I looked at him for a minute, uncertain of what to do next after a night like we’d just had. Should we shake hands? Were we on hugging terms now? In the end, I sidestepped him and hurled myself lengthwise into the taxi. ‘Okay,’ I called, straightening myself up in the seat. ‘Well. Bye.’
He leaned into the taxi and laughed. ‘You’re not too good at this whole human interaction thing, are you?’
‘I’m a little rusty,’ I admitted.
He stepped halfway into the cab and bent down to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Goodnight. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. I’ll call you tomorrow with a plan.’ He shut the door behind him and I felt the taxi jerk into motion as it sped off down the street.
I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. He was checking his phone, lifting it to his ear … the penny dropped with a thud. Of course he wasn’t just going for a walk. He was probably going to meet someone. He’d lived here before, he probably knew loads of people. I wondered, idly, if any of them were particularly pretty.
‘Where to?’ The taxi driver’s voice shook me out of my thoughts.
‘Oh. Um. Tufnell Park, please.’ I leaned back in the seat and let the night wash over me. I felt as if I’d seen a whole new London, one I hadn’t even known existed. What had I been doing these past three years? I couldn’t blame Christopher for it, either. My first six months in London, he’d bombarded me with links to gigs and theatre events and hot new bars, but I always said no. I’d rather stay in, I told him. But really, I just wanted to hide. Going out like that was in the past for me. Now that I was settled down, that meant home-cooked meals and cosy duvets and smug nights in watching Saturday-night television.
Stop it, I chastized myself. I was being ridiculous. Jackson pours one decent macchiato down my throat and thrusts a microphone in my hand and suddenly I’m Virginia goddamn Woolf, yearning for a room of my own. Anyway, didn’t I have enough excitement on my plate at the minute, what with the possibility of polygamy winking at me in my future?
Still, I couldn’t believe I’d told him about my song. And I definitely couldn’t believe I’d got up in front of a room full of strangers and belted it out like that! It suddenly occurred to me that I’d checked something off my list that night. Number 13: Sing with a band. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t clocked it right away. Usually, checking things off my list was my main motivator. But it had just slipped my mind.
What was it about Jackson that made me behave so … unlike myself? All the years carefully building order to protect myself from chaos, and he comes along and suddenly my whole life is careening out of control. I could feel myself slipping. Maybe this was the moment when the great fissure inside me would appear, and I would finally fall through.
The familiar panic had started to return. Get a grip, Jenny, I scolded myself. Deep breaths.
I pulled out my phone and pressed the home button, the screen lighting up in my hand. Oh God. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. And not only that, but I had missed calls – a whole ream of them. And all of them bore the same smiling face in a little circle next to the number.
Christopher.
I tried to ease the door gently into the lock behind me, but it still clanged like a klaxon. Jesus Christ. There was no way I was getting away with this.
‘Jenny? Is that you?’
‘Hello!’ I trilled. My voice sounded thick in my ears. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late!’
Christopher charged into the hallway, eyes bloodshot. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been going mad!’
My mind raced. Think, Jenny, think! ‘I – I was out with Ben!’ The look on Christopher’s face suggested that this was not the correct answer. ‘He’s been having women troubles again.’ Women troubles. Oh God. I’d just insinuated that Ben had his period.
‘I don’t see why Ben needs your help sorting out his “women troubles” until two o’clock in the morning.’
‘Well, he’s been having a rough time … this girl he likes hasn’t texted back …’ I faded out listlessly. ‘I thought you were out tonight.’
‘Jonno’s wife went into labour, so we canceled at the last minute. Anyway, what does that have to do with anything? I’m out with my friends, so you run off with Ben for the evening? Is that it?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘I never liked the look of that Ben bloke. Too – too shiny! He’s like a bloody Christmas bauble!’ He clenched his fist on the word ‘bauble’.
‘Christopher, please.’ I gently rubbed the top of his arm, as though he was a spooked colt and not my fiancé. ‘You’re overreacting. There’s nothing going on between Ben and me.’ Even saying the words made me feel slightly nauseated. ‘Honestly, he just wanted a woman’s opinion about it all, and time got away from us, and …’ I sighed ‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone, and I’m sorry I worried you, okay? But I don’t think I should be raked over the coals for having a night out with my friend.’
Christopher’s face dropped. ‘Oh God. I’m being a pillock, aren’t I? I’m acting like some kind of ’roided up bro who smashes beer cans against his forehead.’ He pulled me towards him and I buried my head in his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re never out in the evenings, and when I couldn’t get through to you, I immediately thought the worst and—’ I felt his ribcage shudder as the breath went out of him.
‘You don’t have to apologize,’ I mumbled. ‘It’s okay.’ I was hit with a wave of guilt so thick I thought I might stumble over. Here he was – lovely, perfect Christopher – apologizing to me when I’d just lied to his face. Again.
‘Come on,’ I said, gently lifting my head from his chest, ‘let’s go to bed.’ I reached out and took his hand as we walked to the bedroom. I looked around the flat – the framed print in the hallway we’d picked out together, the dove-gray throw pillows that his mother had given us plumped on the sofa, the little geranium-scented tea lights I’d bought in a multi-pack from Sainsbury’s – and thought, what the hell am I doing? This is my life – here, in this place. Not in some skeezy Soho bar or sipping espressos on a sidewalk with a relative stranger.
‘I’m just going to brush my teeth,’ I said. I slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I stared at my face in the cabinet mirror. My eye make-up had smudged and my mascara had flaked, and beneath it all, my eyes looked haunted. ‘What am I doing?’ I whispered to my reflection, but for once, I didn’t have an answer.
I rested my forehead on the cool glass and watched my breath make a foggy circle below.
I couldn’t take another risk like tonight – I just couldn’t. I’d call Jackson tomorrow and tell him that I couldn’t see him for dinner. Now that I knew him a little better, I could see he was a decent guy – he wouldn’t punish me for trying to keep my relationship together. Maybe he’d forget the whole week-of-entertaining-him thing entirely. I remembered him checking his phone. He didn’t need me to entertain him, anyway.
I splashed my face with cold water and dried it with one of the plush little red towels I’d bought from TK Maxx. You see? I’m the sort of person who buys plush little face towels from TK Maxx. I was not the sort of person who went gallivanting around town with another man behind her fiancé’s back, even if that man was her husband.
No, tomorrow it would be over. It had to be. I could always sue him for a divorce if he kicked up a fuss. We hadn’t slept together anyway, so we could probably get one of those fake divorces that Catholic people get sometimes. An annulment. Maybe I could do that without Jackson’s approval. I’d look into it tomorrow.
I turned out the light and climbed into bed next to Christopher. He turned to face me in the half-light. ‘Goodnight,’ he said, pecking me on the mouth. ‘Sorry again for being a knob.’
‘You weren’t a knob.’
‘I was.’ There was a pause. ‘I thought you were going to brush your teeth.’
In the middle of my existential crisis, I’d neglected my oral hygiene. ‘I forgot. It’s late.’
‘I know. Goodnight,’ he said again, and this time he kissed me on the cheek.
I lay back on my pillow and stared up at the swirls on the ceiling. ‘Goodnight,’ I said softly. ‘Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’