Construct a Couple (19 page)

He stares at me, awaiting an answer, but all I can do is nod. As if in slow motion, Jeremy pulls his hand from mine, then stands. I watch him leave the room, feeling numb.

We’ve definitely faced the past – with a vengeance. But instead of bringing us closer together like I’d hoped, now I’m wondering if it will only push us even further apart.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The next couple days pass in a haze of wine, wine, and, well . . . wine. Spring seems to have gone into hiding as rain slices from the grey sky, and gusting winds make any umbrella useless. It’s the perfect weather for my dark mood, and every day after work I get thoroughly soaked as I hike from Queen’s Park tube to my chilly, damp bedsit.

Rain and cold are nothing compared to the frozen patch within, the icicle jabbing me each time I remember the last conversation with Jeremy. Can we ever be the solid couple I’d once thought we were? How much can one relationship handle before it becomes a Humpty Dumpty, unable to be put back together?  I sigh, recalling the text I received from Jeremy this morning, saying he’s heading off grid to the Black Mountains for the next week or so, and he’ll call when he’s back. Already, the distance stretches between us.

Thank God for my job, I think, booting up the computer. Despite the editorial-code debacle, Helen has started singling me out to check her articles. Yesterday, she even invited me along to take notes during an interview with the Archbishop of Canterbury! Although I suffered a moment’s distraction due to his crazy-ass eyebrows (has the man never heard of tweezing?), I managed to do a pretty good job. Watching an expert in action makes it even more obvious how much I have to learn, but for once, I’m not in a hurry. I’m in the perfect place for the training I need to become a reputable reporter.

Lizzie and I are keeping our eyes peeled for Gregor’s by-line in
One World
or other papers, but so far his name hasn’t cropped up. It doesn’t seem likely anytime soon, either. Helen’s on a personal mission to ensure ‘that traitor’ can’t get another job, informing her many contacts of what he’s done. With Gregor on the industry blacklist, there’s no way
One World
could hire him, even if they had promised him a position.

 Sighing, I remember Lizzie’s words of warning about Gregor’s revenge. With every passing day, though, it seems more and more fantastical. Besides, what could he do to me now?

In the early-morning silence of the newsroom, the ring of my mobile makes me jump.

“Hello?”  

“Hey, Ser!” Kirsty’s voice shoots through the phone, and I sag with relief. Oh, thank God. I’ve tried to call her on and off the past few days, but I’ve never been able to reach her – either it’s the wrong time, or the call goes to voicemail. She’s probably been working like crazy organising their new home.

“Hey! What are you doing up? Isn’t it the middle of the night there?” I can hear Jane wailing in the background.

“Yes. Jane’s having trouble settling here, for some reason. She won’t stop crying.” Kirsty sounds exhausted, and the baby’s bawling escalates to full-on shrieking. “Only a couple more weeks until Tim arrives, thank God. What’s new with you?”

Where to start? “Just a sec.” I get to my feet and hurry down the corridor to the empty loo. Hopping up on the counter, I lean my back against the smudgy mirror.  

“Okay, well . . .” I take a deep breath and fill her in on the disastrous events of the past little while, closing with Jeremy’s revelations about Julia and the house, and his departure for the Black Mountains. My heart pangs as I say the words – I still can’t quite absorb them, or the fact that he didn’t tell me until now.

“Oh my God,” Kirsty breathes when I come to the end. Silence falls, and all I can hear is the buzz of the transatlantic line.  For once, even my verbose friend has been struck silent.

“I can’t believe he never told you he was engaged. Or that Julia owns half the house!” she says finally.

“Yeah.” My shoulders heave in a sigh.

“How do you feel about all that?” Her voice is hesitant in a very un-Kirsty-like way, as if she’s afraid her probing might open my emotional floodgates.  I want to tell her not to worry – my emotions have been cast in stone.

“Kind of . . . numb,” I respond. “I know he loves me. He and Julia, well, they’re so wrong together.” I screw up my face as an image of easy-going Jeremy paired with icy, controlled Julia comes to mind. “But everything seems weird now. Like he’s opened a trap door into a past I wasn’t aware existed.  I mean, it’s a lot to take in.”

“I can imagine. I swear, if Tim told me something like that a year into our relationship, I’d go mental!” She pauses, then asks: “Would you rather not know, though?”

“I’m not sure.” What’s worse, the heavy drag of the unknown, or the blinding harshness of the truth? Then I remember the agony of the past couple weeks as I struggled to understand Jeremy’s silence.  “I’d rather know.”

“Yeah, me too.” I picture Kirsty nodding, twisting a curl around her finger. God, I wish she was here now. “So why didn’t he tell you sooner?”

“Just said he didn’t want to look like more of a loser.” I shake my head – as if I’d ever think that. “And he wanted to forget the past. I guess I can understand. I wasn’t comfortable bringing up Julia, either, and what I had to say wasn’t nearly as big as his. And that, really, is the problem. If we can’t talk to each other . . .” My voice trails off.

“Maybe it’s a good thing you have some space,” Kirsty says. “Just to give you time to adjust; to reset. It worked for Tim and me.”

We’re both silent for a minute and I ponder her words, remembering how her surprise pregnancy shocked her so much, she needed a breather from her relationship.

“Why don’t you come for the Easter weekend? Tim was supposed to fly out for a few days, but there’s a problem with one of his accounts. He needs to deal with that.” Kirsty’s normally cheery voice sounds glum. “You can fly Thursday night and head back Monday. I’ve been so busy unpacking and getting things organised, I haven’t had a chance to meet anyone here. It’d be great to see a friendly face, and it sounds like you could do with a getaway.”

“Well . . .” I tap my fingers on the porcelain sink. “As much as I’d love to, it’s just . . .” There’s no way I can spare money for a ticket at the moment. Living on my meagre fact-checking salary, I barely have enough cash for Jaffas.

“Look, don’t worry about the flight,” Kirsty says quickly. “I invited you, so it’s only fair I cover it.” Her voice rings with a desperation I haven’t heard before.

I must admit, the chance to escape couldn’t be more appealing – knocking around the city without Jeremy is downright depressing. Friday and Monday are holidays here, so a short trip is doable.  And as much as I don’t want Kirsty to pay for me, I’m dying to see her.

“Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll pay you back later, I promise.”

Kirsty lets out a whoop, and Jane’s crying intensifies. “I can’t wait!” I hear her rummaging around, then she says: “Hang on a sec. I’ll give you my credit card number so you can book the flight.”

I push off the counter and thread my way between the cubicles back to my desk. Lizzie greets me with a nod, and I grab a pen and notepad, scrawling down the string of numbers Kirsty reads off.  

I bite my lip, thinking how expensive this flight will be. It’s only days away now.  “Are you sure, Kirsty? This is going to cost a fortune.”

“At this stage, I really couldn’t care,” she answers. “It’s strange being here on my own, you know? Just book it, give me the details, and Jane and I will meet you at the airport.”

“Okay,” I say, the beginnings of a grin lifting my lips. “I’ll see you soon! Get the wine ready.” I click off the phone, happy I won’t be hanging around London over Easter on my own.

Maybe Kirsty’s right. Maybe time apart will help Jeremy and me reset; figure out a way forward.

There’s definitely no going back.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The roar of the plane’s engines fills my ears, and I look out the narrow window as the sprawl of Heathrow Airport flashes by. A heady feeling sweeps over me, and before I know it, I’m gazing down at the metropolis, watching miniature cars on motorways and the higgledy-piggledy rooftops all jumbled up.

It’s my first time on a plane since coming to London two years ago. Funny, when I landed, the city seemed full of potential, like anything could happen. The flight attendants practically had to tether me to the seat, I was that excited. I couldn’t wait to get started on my new life in the bustling capital, confident it would be everything and more than I’d dreamed.

I shake my head, thinking back on the past couple years. ‘Anything’ certainly has happened – from disastrous jobs to meeting the man I love. Uncertainty clutches me again, and I wonder if somehow, Jeremy and I will break free from our habits of secrecy and find a way to trust each other. Right now, whenever I think of our relationship, a frozen pond exists where a puddle of warmth used to be. As clouds swamp the city and we rise higher, I close my eyes and lean back, trying to leave behind my own thoughts, too.

Seven hours and several mini-bottles of wine later (hey, British Airways serves them free!), the plane touches down at John F Kennedy airport. My eyeballs are like sandpaper, and my tongue is so furry it needs defleecing. How on earth do all those celebs leave transatlantic flights looking as if they’ve just been to the spa? I feel like I’ve been dragged backwards through the unglamorous machine. Ugh, I think, catching sight of my pale face and wonky hair in the glass reflection of the wall in passport control. I look like it, too.

“Hey, there!” I lift a hand as I spot Kirsty and Jane at Arrivals, my heart filling up at their familiar faces. After all the upheaval of the past few weeks, it’s so good to see them.

Kirsty catches sight of me, her eyes lighting up. Juggling a crying Jane in her arms, she whispers something in the baby’s ear and points towards me, but Jane continues wailing. Yikes, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so upset – her face is flushed and tears streak down chubby cheeks. Where’s that Prozac when you need it? Kirsty doesn’t look great, either: dark circles ring her eyes and her complexion is wan.

“Hey there!” I envelop my friend in a giant hug, then drop a kiss on Jane’s fuzzy head. God, she’s grown just in the time they’ve been away!

“Welcome home,” Kirsty says, slinging an arm around my shoulder.

Home? I laugh, listening to the excited babble of voices around me –
American
accented voices! For the first time in two years, I’m not going to be different. I won’t be laughed at for calling trousers ‘pants’, or for making the huge mistake of saying ‘fanny pack’ – let’s just say ‘fanny’ means something else in the UK. It’s weird being back, as if I’ve been dropped into an alternate universe, where everything is uber-familiar yet strange at the same time. I wonder how Kirsty’s settling in?

“It’s so good to see you!” I say to my friend. “God, it seems like ages.”

Kirsty opens the door of a Ford Focus, strapping Jane into her baby seat.

“Rental,” she says, grimacing at the hideous snot-green colour of the car. “Until Tim gets here, and we can go car-hunting.” She starts the engine, expertly manoeuvring through the maze of airport roads. “You know, I was worried I’d forgotten how to drive. That’s one thing about being back: you realise the importance of a car. No-one walks here!”

I nod, thinking that’s what I love about London. Everything is pretty much on your doorstep, and you don’t need wheels . . . which is lucky, since finding a parking space can be a full-contact sport. I once saw a fist-fight between two middle-aged men in business suits when one dared to pull into a spot before the other.

“I can’t wait to check out your new digs,” I say, turning to smile at Kirsty. Knowing my spreadsheet-dependant friend, I’m sure it’s perfect.

As the car hurtles through the suburbs to Westport, we chat about the house, the area, and the schools.  But instead of excitement at her new life, Kirsty’s voice is curiously flat. I make a mental note to probe more later. Right now, I’m busy being overwhelmed by the neat streets we’re driving through, lined with spacious homes and perfectly manicured lawns – even though the grass isn’t green yet! It’s like Wisteria Lane. No, better.

“Here we are.” Kirsty eases into a paved driveway, and my mouth falls open as a gleaming white gabled building with black shutters and a wraparound porch looms before us. In the front yard, two giant trees stretch their limbs as if sheltering the structure, and small shrubs dot well-tended gardens. It’s a beautiful, old-school house – the kind of home that, as a young girl, you automatically picture raising a family in.

I glance sidelong at my friend, trying to envision her inside this grown-up abode, so different from the funky townhouse back in London.

“It’s gorgeous,” I say as we climb from the car. Shivering, I pull my thin coat around me. I’d forgotten spring can take so much longer to arrive here than in London. Traces of dirty snow still cover the yard in places.

“Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, etcetera etcetera,” Kirsty rattles off as she hands me Jane, then gathers baby paraphernalia from the back seat. Sensing she’s not in her mother’s arms, Jane revs up to wail.

“Home sweet home,” Kirsty says in a strange tone as she unlocks the door. My eyes widen as I take in the open, gleaming kitchen to the left and the wide expanse of the lounge to the right, with floorboards so polished I can see the furniture’s reflection. Colourful prints hang in perfect symmetry on the living room walls, and the whole thing is like something from a magazine.

“You’ve done an amazing job here,” I say loudly, competing with Jane’s lusty cries. I think that kid’s lungs have expanded along with the rest of her!

Kirsty shrugs, taking the baby and bouncing her to quiet the wails. “I really wanted to get started on making this place feel familiar.”

I gaze around the ordered room. “So
is
it starting to feel familiar?” Despite all the furniture, my voice still echoes.