9
‘Jenny, you’re going to have to breathe.’
‘How – can I – breathe – at a time – like – this?’ I gasped down the phone. I was locked in the disabled toilet at work while Isla listened to me have a panic attack from the on-call room at Mount Sinai.
‘Slow down, buddy. Deep breaths.’ I forced myself to block out the voice screaming inside my head and listened to Isla’s instead. ‘That’s it,’ she coaxed. ‘Good girl.’
I took one last deep, shuddering breath and exhaled. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m okay.’
‘Good. Now tell me what the fuck is going on.’ I brought her up to speed, leaving out the part where I threw up in the alleyway. ‘Holy fucking shit,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘I can’t believe you guys got married! That is some badass Vegas behaviour right there.’
I let out a strangled groan. ‘I can’t believe it either. I’m screwed.’
‘You are not screwed. Jackson told you he’d give you a divorce, right?’
‘Yeah, after I spend a week acting as his personal London Beefeater.’
‘Okay, so that’s a little weird, but it could be so much worse. What if he hadn’t told you, and then you’d married Christopher? You’d have had to move to Utah. Instead, you spend a week with a guy who you don’t completely hate – at least you didn’t when you guys were in that bar together – and you take him to see Big Ben or whatever, and then he goes back to America, you get a divorce, and you never see him again.’
‘What if Christopher finds out?’
‘He’s not going to find out. Men don’t just randomly start researching their fiancée’s marriage records for shits and giggles. The only way he’ll find out is if you tell him, so just don’t tell him. Simple.’
‘I’m married to a stranger, Isla. This is definitely not simple.’ I bit at a patch of skin around my cuticle until it bled. A thought struck me like a lightning bolt. ‘I’m going to be a divorcee.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Isla trilled. ‘See, before long, this will all be behind you. You might even find it funny one day!’
‘No, you’re not getting it!’ I felt my chest tighten and my throat begin to close. My tongue felt like a great slab of concrete in my mouth. ‘Isla, I’m going to be divorced.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she cautioned. ‘You are not your mother.’
But it was already in my head. It was always there, really.
‘Jenny? Are you there?’ I became suddenly aware of Isla shouting at me down the phone. ‘JENNY?’
‘I’m here,’ I said softly, but I didn’t feel like I was here at all.
‘Listen to me,’ she said sternly. ‘This is different. This isn’t a real divorce, this is—’ I could sense her casting around for the right word. ‘Admin!’ she announced triumphantly.
‘Admin,’ I murmured.
‘Exactly. You spend a week with a guy you don’t know, sign on the dotted line and then the whole thing is over. It’s basically like getting your driver’s license, only without the three-point turn.’
Could I really see it as admin? I guess it wasn’t a real marriage – according to Jackson, we hadn’t even come close to sleeping together, and Christ knows we didn’t have any of the normal trappings of a marriage, like a joint bank account or a shared home or an intimate knowledge of each other’s failings. My mind raced. ‘What am I going to tell Christopher when I’m out showing Jackson around?’
‘Make something up! Tell him you’re having a crazy week at work.’
‘He knows my hours are super regular.’
‘Then tell him a friend of yours is having some kind of personal crisis.’
‘He knows I don’t have any friends here.’
‘Tell him you have a friend visiting from back home,’ she said. She sounded exasperated, not that I could blame her. I was a little exasperated myself. ‘It’s not that far from the truth if you think about it.’
‘Jackson is not my friend.’
‘Sorry, you’re right. Tell him your accidental husband is in town, see how that goes over.’ I didn’t say anything. ‘Jenny, I know you don’t like to lie, but right now, the truth is not your friend. You’re going to have to bend it a little until this whole shitshow blows over.’
I sighed. ‘I know. I know! It’s just …’
‘I know,’ she said. Her voice was gentler now. ‘Look, I’ve got to go – they’re paging me here. It really will be okay, I promise.’
I nodded, but my reply caught in my throat.
‘Jenny? Are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ I said finally.
‘I love you. You need anything, you call me. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ I listened to the phone go dead, and sat in the cold stall for a few minutes, listening to the sound of the faucet dripping into the basin and feeling my chest tighten with dread. I forced myself to breathe again and tried to imagine Isla’s voice in my head. It will be fine, I chanted under my breath. It will be fine. But the tightness in my chest refused to loosen.
Ben took one look at me when I got back to my desk and immediately reached for his coat. ‘Pub?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve got too much work.’ I also wasn’t sure drinking was the best solution, considering it’s what got me in this mess in the first place. Besides, how was I supposed to explain what had happened to Ben? To anyone? They’d think I’d lost it. They’d think I was crazy. My heart thudded in my chest and I felt my throat begin to close.
Breathe, I chanted to myself. Breathe.
Ben gave me one last look of concern before turning back to his computer. We typed in silence for a few minutes, though I didn’t get too far in my case notes. The cursor blinked at me accusingly. Finally, he sighed and swung his chair around towards me.
‘Whatever’s happened between you and Christopher, just try not to worry about it too much. When my sister was planning her wedding last year, she and her fiancé fell out all the time. Because of the stress and everything,’ he added with a shrug.
I swiveled my chair. ‘Why do you think I’m in a fight with Christopher?’
He looked at me, puzzled. ‘That’s who was in reception, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh.’ My mind spun. ‘Yeah.’
‘All I’m saying is that it’s probably over something stupid, that’s all. My sister once threw her fiancé out of their flat for three days because he said the bridesmaids’ dresses she’d picked out looked like old tablecloths. And then he threw her out because she told him he couldn’t ride to the church on his motorbike. Weddings are seriously mental.’
‘Ben, it’s fine, honestly.’
‘I read somewhere that weddings are the third most stressful experience a couple can go through, behind buying a house and having a baby.’ He shook his head. ‘It can really turn you into a nutter. The way I see it is—’
I sighed. ‘No offense, but you’re the last person I would take relationship advice from, considering you haven’t made it past a first date with a woman in the three years I’ve known you.’ I felt the air go out of the room, and I knew I’d really hurt him. I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye.
‘Right then,’ he said quietly. ‘Right.’ He spun back around in his chair, and I heard the typing start up again, sharp thwacks on the keys. We didn’t talk again for the rest of the afternoon.
I found Jackson leaning against the side of the building opposite, hands shoved in his pockets, staring out into the street. He waved when he saw me and headed across the road, only narrowly avoiding collision with a black cab and an irate cyclist.
‘Why’s everyone always in such a rush in this town?’ he asked as he hopped onto the sidewalk.
I shrugged. ‘It’s London. Also, word to the wise, it’s always good to look both ways before you cross the street. Or did your mother not teach you that?’
‘My mom taught me a lot of things,’ he said, grinning. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to keep track. So where are we heading?’
I’d spent the afternoon racking my brains trying to think of somewhere suitable to take him, and finally settled on that venerable British institution, Claridges. I figured it was the kind of place that would strike awe in most Americans, particularly those who hadn’t traveled much outside of the US. The checkerboard marble floors in the lobby, the heavy crystal chandeliers, the high, straight-backed chairs and similarly straight-backed waiters darting between tables. It was just what I’d imagined England would be like before I moved here. I’d brought my aunt there when she’d come to visit, and she’d spent the whole time nudging me under the table and asking if various glossy brunettes were ‘Princess Kate’. Jackson, I assumed, would be suitably impressed.
But now that I was standing in front of him, I wondered if I’d be able to sneak him past the doorman. He was wearing a beat-up denim jacket, jeans so worn the knees had all but given up, and a pair of cowboy boots. This was not a joke. The man was wearing cowboy boots. ‘Are you dressed?’ I asked finally.
He looked down. ‘This sure as hell isn’t what I look like naked.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I take it I’m not dressed the way you were hoping I’d be dressed?’
‘No! I don’t care how you dress! How you dress is none of my business at all. Whatsoever.’ I was still rattled by him invoking the specter of his naked self. ‘It’s just – the restaurant, I think it might have a dress code.’
He tilted his head and smiled at me. ‘What restaurant is that?’
‘Claridges.’
He let out a low whistle. ‘Damn! I had no idea my wife had such fancy tastes!’
I folded my arms across my chest and glared. ‘You told me to take you somewhere special!’
‘Sure, but I didn’t tell you to take me to a mausoleum full of old rich people.’
‘It’s nice there,’ I said lamely.
‘It’s so far up its own ass it hasn’t seen daylight in forty years.’
‘Fine! We won’t go there! Any suggestions on where you want to go instead?’
‘How do you feel about spicy food?’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘I hate it.’
‘I know just the place.’
I hesitated. Why should I trust him? I didn’t know him, not even one bit. For all I knew, he might chop people up and stuff them into freezers as a hobby. I might be next.
‘C’mon,’ he said, gentler this time. ‘Trust me. Please?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But I am definitely not taking your arm.’
‘Suit yourself!’ He set off at a rapid clip, and I had to hurry to keep up, the click of my sensible heels on the pavement echoing in my wake. We snaked our way through the quaint cobbled yards of Westminster School and down to the Embankment, where black cabs and Ubers and Addison Lees hurriedly sped Londoners to dinners and dates across the city.
A man in a dark suit clutching a worn briefcase shouldered me as he passed. Jackson caught me as I stumbled. ‘You all right?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘What a jackass,’ he said, shaking his head.
Sometimes, walking around this city, I felt like a moving target. Men with briefcases, scuffed white vans, pigeons … all of them seemed set on a collision course with me. And if I wasn’t dodging out of the way of someone, I was invisible. Everyone’s eyes on the Tube, staring at worn paperbacks or glowing screens, never looking at each other, never connecting. There were times when Christopher had gone away for the weekend to run across some hilly stretch of countryside, and I’d reach Sunday evening and realize I hadn’t spoken to a single soul since Friday afternoon. You could do it, in this city. You could just … melt into the background. Even when a pigeon was dive-bombing your skull.
‘It’s a left up here,’ Jackson called, steering us down a narrow alleyway.
‘How do you know your way around?’ I asked, trying to ignore the rising dread in my stomach. I could be home right now, I thought. I could be curled up on the couch watching a rerun of Gilmore Girls, waiting for Christopher to get home, rather than careening down an alleyway that reeked of piss, trying to keep up with a man who may very well be a psychopath.
Jackson threw a grin over his shoulder but didn’t answer. I scowled and doubled my pace. We rushed across Vauxhall Bridge, minnows caught in the stream of commuters, and then down into the arches below, where he stopped in front of an unpromising-looking doorway.
‘Still here!’ he announced, shooting me an excited glance.
A single flickering bulb hung above the rotten wooden door. Mounted on the wall to the left was a laminated menu featuring pictures of various ambiguous-looking brown foods. ‘What is this place?’ I asked.
‘It’s only the best curry house in London,’ he said, eyes gleaming with excitement.
‘God, Jackson! I literally just told you I don’t like spicy food!’
‘Everybody likes spicy food! It’s just that some people haven’t discovered the right spicy food. And you, my friend, are about to discover the right spicy food.’
As if that settled the matter, he opened the door with a swoop and ushered me inside.
It was a dank, dark little room, the walls stained with streaks of yellow. A ceiling fan moaned ineffectually above. There were only six tables in the place, all of them crowded together so closely that people had to synchronize their eating so as not to elbow their fellow diner in the face when lifting their forks to their mouths. Incredibly, all of the tables were full.
‘I can’t believe this,’ I grumbled.
‘Neither can I! I haven’t been here in years – it hasn’t changed a bit!’
A disgruntled-looking waiter approached us and thrust a pair of menus at us. ‘Half hour wait,’ he grunted, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the kitchen, which was hidden behind a tattered floral curtain.
I scanned the menu, but nothing looked even remotely familiar – or appetizing. ‘Are you sure you want to eat here?’ I whispered, eyes scanning the grimy laminate floor and cheap paper tablecloths. ‘It looks like it might give us food poisoning.’
‘I’ve eaten here a dozen times and have never had so much as a hiccup afterwards. Trust me, you’re going to love this place. Just give it a chance.’
I shot him a sceptical glance. ‘Fine, but if I throw up, tomorrow night’s dinner is cancelled.’
‘Not going to happen …’
‘Do we have a deal or not?’
He held out a hand. ‘Tell you what. If the food here makes you puke, you never have to see me again.’
We shook on it. For the first time in my life, I was praying for botulism.
‘So where did you tell Christopher you were tonight?’ he asked, leaning against the presumably-once-white-but-now-brown wall.
‘Work,’ I said tersely. The truth was, I’d told Christopher that I was taking Ben for a drink because he was having ‘relationship problems’, a lie that Christopher had accepted with a kindness that nearly killed me.
‘What sort of work do you do? Your office looked like a law firm or something.’
‘Insurance.’
‘Damn. You see, I knew you needed a little fun in your life.’
‘I actually really enjoy my profession,’ I snapped. I knew I was being rude, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Yes, this mess was my fault, but it was his, too, and he wasn’t helping matters by making us spend time together. I was damned if I was going to let that time be pleasant.
‘Well, good for you.’ He paused, clearly waiting for me to ask what he did, but I just stood there, arms folded across my chest, and scowled. Jackson scratched the back of his neck. ‘So,’ he said finally, ‘I guess you’re wondering how I found you.’
‘Not really.’ I was desperate to know.
‘Well, it took a little sleuthing on my part, I’ll tell you. I had your name from the marriage certificate’ – I flinched at the mention of it – ‘so I started out by just Googling you. Turns out there are a lot of Jenny Sparrows out there!’ he chuckled.
I stayed silent.
‘So then I started thinking about the things you’d told me about yourself. I remembered you’d said you were from New Jersey—’
‘I did?’ This was not a fact I readily volunteered normally.
‘Yeah, you told me all about growing up on the shore. You even did your accent for me.’
I wondered if this would be an ideal moment to cause a distraction. Shout ‘Fire!’ maybe, or pretend to have a stroke. Anything to get me out of there.
‘… So I had New Jersey, and I had that you lived in London – you did your British accent for me too, by the way – and that narrowed it down to two. Then I saw the photo on your Facebook profile and I knew I had the right girl. I always remember a face,’ he said, nodding to himself approvingly.
‘Why?’
He tilted his head quizzically. ‘Why what?’
‘Why go to all the trouble to find me?’
He shrugged. ‘Seemed only right to find my wife.’
It was a fair point. ‘Yeah, but … why now? Why not straight away? Or a year from now? Or when you met a woman you actually wanted to marry for real?’
The waiter appeared. ‘You want drinks while you wait?’ he barked. We ordered a couple of beers and watched him storm off. He came back with two bottles of ice-cold beer. The caps were still on.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, gesturing towards my beer. ‘Could you open this?’
A look of disgust crossed the waiter’s face. ‘It’s twist off!’ he shouted.
‘Give me that,’ Jackson muttered. I passed him my bottle and he covered the top with the edge of his T-shirt and eased the cap off. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’ I took a long slug of beer and spilled some down my shirt in the process. I cursed, dabbing at the stain.
‘Look, I get it,’ he sighed. ‘You’re pissed that I showed up like this, but I didn’t know what else to do. I thought a phone call would be a little weird – “Hey, it’s me! Your husband!” – and after your little stunt in the hotel room …’
‘Stunt! What stunt?’
‘You left when I was in the goddamn shower! And don’t tell me you don’t remember that, either, because while I know you were drunk the night before, I’m damn sure you’d have been sober by the morning.’
I took another sip, more carefully this time. ‘I freaked out.’
‘I’ll bet, but that still doesn’t give you the excuse to just run away like that. I didn’t come here to give you grief. The reason I waited until now to find you is I knew you might not be thrilled to hear from me, so I thought it’d be better to do it in person.’
‘And you just happened to be in London …’ I said, eyeing him suspiciously.
‘I told you, I’m here for work.’ He saw the look on my face and threw his hands in the air. His beer burped out a little foam. ‘Scouts’ honor!’
‘Whatever,’ I muttered moodily. Something about the guy brought out the thirteen-year-old in me.
Forty-five minutes later, a table freed up and we were pushed into chairs before the detritus of the previous diners had been cleared away. ‘Do you know what you want?’ the waiter barked as he crumpled up the dirty tablecloth and set out a fresh one.
I looked down at the menu uncertainly. ‘Uh … do you have anything plain? Some grilled chicken or something?’
Jackson snatched the menu out of my hands. ‘Ignore her. We’ll have two of the specials, and two more Kingfishers, please.’
The waiter wordlessly collected the menus and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘What’s the special?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘You mean you don’t know what we’re about to eat? Jackson, it could be anything! It could be – I don’t know …’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘What? What could it be?’
‘I don’t know. Something gross.’
‘Trust me, it won’t be gross. I might not know what it is, but I know it’ll be delicious.’
‘Do you always live like this?’ I asked.
‘Like what?’
‘Like all …’ I waved my hands around in the air. ‘Crazy?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You think I’m crazy?’
‘Well, let’s look at the evidence, shall we? You married a stranger in Las Vegas—’
‘So did you!’
‘And then you turned up at her place of work unannounced and forced her to eat an unidentified curry with you.’ I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back in the chair. ‘I’d call that pretty crazy, wouldn’t you?’
‘Where’s the gratitude? The respect? I travel all the way across the ocean to stop you from becoming a polygamist, and then, out of the kindness of my own heart, I take you for what will soon be the best meal of your life.’ He shook his head. ‘Some people are just never satisfied.’
‘Ha ha,’ I deadpanned. ‘I’m serious, though. Are you usually this … this …’
He gave me a bemused smile. ‘Charming? Handsome? Debonair?’
‘Chaotic?’
He considered this for a second. ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being spontaneous.’
‘Well, I do. The one time I decided to be spontaneous, I ended up married to you.’
He leaned across the table and pushed his hair out of his eyes with his hand. ‘Are you telling me that you’ve never done anything else spontaneous in your life? Ever?’
I shrugged. ‘I like to have a plan.’ I didn’t mention the 87-step laminated life plan currently sitting neatly in the pocket of my bag. ‘Plans are good.’
He waved the thought away. ‘Plans are boring! How are you supposed to experience anything new if you’re always sticking to a plan?’
‘Uh, plan for it?’
He shook his head. ‘I mean something really new. Something completely unexpected. Doesn’t that idea excite you at all?’
‘Like I said, the last time I did something off-plan, I married you, and that doesn’t excite me in the least. The opposite, in fact.’
He clutched at his heart. ‘Ouch.’
‘Planning is absolutely the way forward,’ I said firmly.
‘Yeah, well, not all plans work out the way they’re supposed to,’ he said quietly. He stared down at the table, a faraway look on his face. All at once, the energy drained from him.
I reached across the table and lightly tapped his hand. ‘Are you okay?’
Before he could answer, the waiter appeared with two steaming plates in his hands. He threw them on the table in front of us and stalked away.
Jackson’s face lit up and he rubbed his hands together. Whatever strange mood had overcome him a minute ago cleared instantly. ‘I hope you’re ready to have your mind blown.’
I gazed down at the mound of brown, lumpen meat sitting in front of me and felt my stomach try to flee the building. I picked up my fork and gave an exploratory prod, but what I found underneath – more brown, lumpen meat – wasn’t particularly reassuring. I looked at him doubtfully. ‘You’re absolutely, one-hundred-per-cent sure this isn’t going to kill me?’
He was already shoveling it in faster than I’d previously thought possible. ‘Dig in!’ he said through a dangerously full mouth. I briefly reminded myself of the steps involved in the Heimlich maneuver. I had a feeling I might be called upon to act before the meal was finished.
I speared a small fleck onto my fork and lifted it to my mouth. The smell was … actually not revolting. In fact, it smelled pretty good. I opened my mouth and took a bite. Immediately, my eyes started to water. The heat was intense, but there was more to it than that. There was sweetness, too, and richness, and tenderness from where the meat had been cooked to the point that it almost melted.
‘Oh my God,’ I muttered.
Jackson looked up at me, beaming. His mouth was ringed with reddish oil, and there was a splodge of sauce on the front of his shirt. ‘Good, huh?’
I nodded and took another bite, bigger this time. My upper lip began to sweat. The heat worked its way through me, warming me through to my skin. Before I knew it, I was wiping up the last of the sauce with a hunk of peshwari nan and wondering if it would be impolite to ask for a separate jug of it for dipping.
Jackson was watching me from across the table, a huge, messy grin stretched across his face. ‘You liked it?’
I sat back in my chair and sighed. ‘That,’ I said, ‘was maybe the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.’
‘And the spice? It wasn’t too much?’
I shook my head. ‘It was genuinely fantastic.’
He clapped his hands together and hooted. ‘I knew it! You see, everybody likes spicy food! It’s just some people haven’t eaten it right yet.’
I gave him a begrudging smile. ‘You were right. I’m a convert.’
‘I’ll say you are. I thought you were going to pick up that plate and lick it at one point.’
I picked up the paper napkin and tried to mop the grease off my chin as delicately as possible. ‘So how do you know about this place?’
‘I lived here a while back.’
‘You lived here? In London?’ My head spun.
The waiter deposited another two cold, tall bottles of beer on the table and Jackson picked his up, tilted it in my direction, and took a long pull. ‘That’s right.’
‘If you lived here, why the hell did you tell me you needed me to play tour guide?’
He shrugged. ‘I thought it would be fun.’
Indignation bubbled up from my ribcage. ‘You thought it would be fun?’ I pushed back from the table and tossed my napkin next to my plate. ‘You’re nuts.’ A hysterical laugh escaped. ‘You’re nuts!’
‘Hang on a minute …’
Everyone in the restaurant was staring at us now, but I didn’t care. ‘No! You’re a crazy person, and I refuse to spend any more time with a crazy person, even if we are married.’ There was the clatter of a knife dropping, and I turned to see a man sitting dumbfounded next to us, his fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide. ‘Oh, eat your food,’ I hissed.
‘Jenny, will you calm down for a second?’ Jackson was hovering a couple of inches off his seat. He had the look of a man who’d got too close to a grizzly bear and was trying not to get mauled. ‘Please?’
I lowered myself reluctantly back into my seat. ‘You have three minutes to explain, and then I’m out of here.’
He plucked sheepishly at his napkin. ‘I don’t like being on my own in this town.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘You’re going to have to do better than that, buddy.’
‘I’ve got some bad memories here,’ he shrugged. ‘I like to have company to distract me. I love London, but it can be a lonely place.’
I felt a twinge of sympathy. I knew the feeling all too well. ‘So I’m the distraction?’
That grin of his reappeared. ‘Well, you are my wife …’
‘Oh God,’ I groaned. ‘How long ago did you live here?’
He paused to consider this. ‘Nearly ten years ago now. I came over when I was twenty-four.’
‘How come?’
Jackson started peeling the label off his bottle of beer in long, clean strips as I drank from mine. ‘A girl.’
‘You moved to London for a girl?’
He shrugged. ‘I was young and in love.’
‘And I’m guessing she’s the reason for the bad memories. Did she break your heart?’
‘Something like that.’ He folded his arms, and I could tell he wasn’t going to say any more about it. ‘What about you? How long have you lived here?’
‘About three years.’ Saying the words aloud made my heart sink.
‘Three years in London, and the only restaurant you know is Claridges?’
‘I know other restaurants!’ I cried indignantly.
‘I’m sure you’re a walking, talking Time Out guide.’ He nodded towards my almost-empty beer. ‘You want another of those?’
I hesitated. It was a week night, and I’d already had three bottles. A fourth would mean a foggy head the next day, and I had that early meeting …
I looked up and saw that Jackson was already signaling the waiter to bring us another round.
‘So how do you like it here?’ he asked.
‘Where, Vauxhall? I’m not much of clubber, so …’
‘Not Vauxhall specifically. London in general.’
‘Oh.’ A series of words popped into my head. Lonely. Isolated. Overwhelmed. I forced a smile. ‘It’s okay, I guess.’
‘Only okay?’
How could I explain how small the city made me feel without seeming totally pathetic? And why would I want to tell him, anyway? I shrugged. ‘I guess I haven’t explored all that much of it.’
‘Why’s that?’
I took another sip of beer to stall for time. ‘Well, Christopher and I both work, and on the weekends he’s got his training, so we tend to just stay around home—’
‘What’s he training for?’
‘Triathlons, marathons … that kind of thing.’
Jackson sat back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. ‘I’m impressed. Not much of an exercise man myself.’
I eyed the sliver of soft stomach where his T-shirt had ridden up. ‘You don’t say.’
‘Nah, I can’t be doing with all that stuff. Life’s too short.’
‘Especially when you don’t exercise.’
He let out a laugh then, a huge, growling guffaw, and I jumped in my seat. ‘You’re funny,’ he said. ‘I remember that from our night in Vegas.’
I groaned. ‘Please, can we not talk about that night?’
‘Suit yourself. You were funny as hell, though.’
I was mortified to find myself blushing, and moved swiftly to change the subject. ‘So how come you left London? Something happen with the girl?’
The same faraway look stole across his face. ‘You could say that. That’s not why I left, though.’
‘Then why did you? You obviously like it here.’
He shrugged. ‘Like I said. Plans change.’ He emptied the rest of his beer and banged it down on the table. It was pretty clear that the subject was now closed.
I decided to change tack. ‘You haven’t told me what kind of work you’re in.’
‘I’m a camera man.’
‘As in lights, action …’
He nodded. ‘You got it.’
‘That’s so cool! What sort of stuff do you work on?’
‘All sorts, I guess. Television, feature films, a few documentaries. Last March I was in Fallujah doing a film for Vice about the aftermath of the war in Afghanistan.’
‘That sounds … terrifying.’ The waiter plonked two fresh beers down on the table, and this time I unscrewed my own cap. It gave way beneath my palm with a satisfying hiss.
Jackson nodded and took a long pull from his beer. ‘It was, at times. At one point, our convoy came under sniper fire.’ Suddenly my work at the insurance agency seemed a lot less exciting.
My eyes widened. ‘What happened?’
He laughed again. I was starting to notice how often he laughed, and how easily. ‘We got the hell out of there as fast as we could. I got some great footage, though.’
‘How could you remember to film when that was happening? Weren’t you scared?’
‘Sure I was. I was scared shitless. But it’s part of the job. You can’t let yourself get rattled and forget why you’re there.’
I shook my head in disbelief. I couldn’t imagine being so unperturbable. ‘Where else have you been?’
‘You name it, I’ve probably been there. I’m on the road pretty much all the time – have been for the best part of a decade.’
The thought of him living out of a suitcase, spending his life in airplanes and anonymous hotel rooms, filled me with sadness. ‘Aren’t you lonely?’
He grinned wickedly. ‘There’s plenty of company on a shoot, I promise you.’
‘Oh God,’ I groaned. ‘I really don’t want to hear about that.’
‘Sorry, am I making you jealous, sweetheart?’
I resisted the urge to reach across the table and punch him. ‘In your dreams.’ In a matter of minutes, we’d devolved into twelve-year-olds. ‘So, how often do you get to go back home? Where is home, anyway?’
‘Technically, it’s still in Texas. I’ve got a little house in New Deal, right near my parents. But really, it’s just a glorified mailbox. I get back there probably once every couple of months, and even then it’s usually only for a couple of days, though I’ll be there for a stretch after I leave here.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know how you do that.’ Not having a routine, no security, not knowing where I’d be from one day to the next … well, it was enough to give me night terrors. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s what my last nightmare was about. All of them were about that, really.
He shrugged. ‘I prefer it that way. I don’t like being in one place too long. Gives you too long to think.’ I was about to ask what he was so keen to avoid thinking about when a funny look came over his face. He leaned over the table towards me. ‘C’mere,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a little bit of sauce on your—’ He reached out and wiped the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
His touch was like an electric current shooting through me. Every nerve in my body was suddenly singing.
I flinched and pulled away. Our eyes met, and we stared at each other for a minute, some wordless charge connecting us. I raised my hand to my face and touched the place where his thumb had been.
‘Did you get it?’ I said finally.
‘What?’ he asked softly.
‘The sauce,’ I said. ‘Did you get it?’
‘Oh.’ He sat back in the chair and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Yeah, I got it.’
‘Good. Should we get the bill? It’s getting late, and I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow …’
‘Sure, sure. Of course.’ He raised his hand and signaled to the waiter.
We didn’t speak again until we left the restaurant. The warmth had gone out of the evening, and a sharp breeze blew through the night, cutting through my thin leather jacket.
‘So,’ he said, rocking back on his heels.
‘Where are you going now? Back to your hotel?’
‘Nah, I think I might take a walk. I like walking around cities at night, when it’s quiet.’
I nodded. ‘Well, my Tube station’s just over there, so—’
‘I can walk you to the Tube if you want—’
‘I’m fine,’ I said quickly. ‘You go enjoy your walk. Thanks again for dinner. It really was delicious.’
‘Well, I’m just happy I could introduce you to this place. Maybe you can take Christopher here sometime.’
I tried to picture luring Christopher into a cramped Indian restaurant under Vauxhall Bridge. ‘Maybe,’ I said doubtfully. The wind picked up and I hugged my arms to my chest.
‘See you tomorrow?’ I knew it wasn’t really a question, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. I realized he was worried I’d say no.
I looked up at him. His blond curls had been blown around by the wind and were sticking up at haphazard angles from his head. There was a boyishness to his features in the dim half-light. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I can book somewhere …’
‘No way,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I think tonight has proven that I’m the better plan-maker out of the two of us. And there was no puking, either, which means our deal still stands.’
I smiled. ‘I know when I’m beaten.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. Give me your number – I’ll text you the plan tomorrow.’ I read out my digits and he tapped them into his phone. ‘You get home safe, okay?’
‘You too,’ I said. ‘Enjoy your walk.’
He smiled and raised a hand as he walked away. I could hear his footsteps fading behind me as I made my way to the Tube.