Construct a Couple (20 page)

Uncertainty crosses Kirsty’s face, vanishing a second later. “It will, I’m sure. Now, let me put Jane down for her nap, and then we can have a drink and catch up. Follow me – I’ll show you where to drop your bags.”

We climb the wide staircase and walk down a corridor, sunrays streaming in from skylights above us. Upstairs is every bit as impressive and spacious as downstairs. I swear, you could fit two of Jeremy’s house into this one! My gut clenches as I remember it’s not just Jeremy’s home, it’s also Julia’s.

Kirsty gestures to the floor of an empty room, where she’s set up a double air mattress complete with a sleeping bag.

“Hope that’s okay. I haven’t had a chance to furnish all the rooms yet.” She pushes back her hair, looking absolutely zonked.

“It’s great,” I say quickly. The way my brain races at night, I probably won’t be sleeping much, anyway.

“Come on, let me show you the rest of the place.”

Heading downstairs, she points out the sunroom with French doors opening onto a large backyard; the formal dining space featuring a hideous seventies-style chandelier Kirsty jokes is a keeper; and another reception room, empty at the moment. This is clearly anyone’s dream home, but my buoyant friend seems curiously deflated.

I’m sure she’s just tired, I tell myself. It’s a lot to buy a house, move in, unpack everything . . . all by herself, while taking care of a baby.

“So how about that wine?” I ask, leaning back against the oak island in the kitchen.

“Oh God, yes.” Kirsty reaches into the giant stainless steel fridge – Lord, I’d forgotten how huge fridges are here! – and I grin, catching sight of bottle after bottle of Pinot Grigio.

 “I wanted to be prepared!” she laughs. “You know, I’ve missed you. Go get settled in, I’ll put on some music, and we can drink to our heart’s content. Just like the old days.”

Heading into the bedroom to throw on comfy clothes, I can’t help thinking how far from our wine-soaked university days this actually is. God, Kirsty and Tim
own
this house. It’s so grown-up; so permanent. Until now – even with the arrival of Jane – it always felt like we were newbies to the adult life, finding our way by trial and error. For the two of them, this is a solid stake in the ground: they have arrived. As I gaze out the window at the setting sun, I wonder if I’ll ever get to that point.

Unzipping my backpack, I remove an old T-shirt and battered track bottoms, sighing with pleasure as the soft fabric touches my skin. I thump down the stairs and over to the kitchen, where two dewy glasses of wine await on the marble counter. Oh, bliss.

 “Cheers!” Kirsty hands over my drink. “Come on, let’s spread out in the lounge.”

I flop onto a sofa, and Kirsty pops a CD into the sound system.

“Did you set it up yourself?” I ask, nodding towards the complicated-looking equipment. If I attempted that, the whole thing would be a heap of wires and spare parts right now.

Kirsty shrugs. “Yup. Took me hours. Tim usually does it, but since he wasn’t here . . .” Her voice trails off and a downcast expression settles over her face.

“When
is
he coming?” I gulp the wine, coughing as it hits the back of my throat. God, you’d think after all my earlier practice courtesy of British Airways, I’d have drinking down pat.

“His notice period still has another couple weeks, although the last time we talked, he said he might try to get away sooner. Fingers crossed!” Her tone is bright but the look in her eyes doesn’t match. “Anyway. So, what about you? No word from Jeremy?”

I shake my head. “Nothing since he sent me that text about heading to the Black Mountains. He said he’d be ‘off grid’, so I’m guessing that means his mobile doesn’t work up there. To be honest, though, I wouldn’t even know what to say if he
did
get in touch.” The familiar ice stabs my heart when I remember everything he kept from me and the distance between us.

“Look,” Kirsty says softly, “any relationship has its ups and downs. But I really believe if you both want to be together, you’ll find a way. Try not to think about it too much right now. Just relax and give yourself a break.”

I nod, swallowing hard to force back rising emotions. If only I
could
stop thinking about it.

“What do you want to do this weekend?” I ask, hoping changing the subject will help tear my thoughts away. “We’ve got three days until I need to go back.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ve been so busy unpacking and trying to settle Jane that I haven’t been able to get out much. First things first” – Kirsty throws a cheeky grin my way – “we need to hit the stores.”

“The stores?” I raise an eyebrow. All I’ve seen around here is street after street of houses. If there are stores, somehow I can’t imagine my stylish friend rushing out to buy a pair of pedal-pushers and a lacy white blouse, or whatever’s
en vogue
with suburban moms these days.

“Yup. Manhattan, baby!” Kirsty lifts her glass in the air, eyes sparkling in anticipation. “Bloomingdale’s . . . Saks . . . Barneys . . . you get the picture. God, it’s been ages since I’ve had a good shop! I think that’s what I need to settle back into the States: a dose of pure capitalism.”

Although I can’t believe Kirsty hasn’t shopped for weeks (she is to shopping what Joan Collins is to Botox), it’s the first time I’ve seen her animated since I landed. And maybe this is what I need, too (not shopping, I’m worse than hopeless): somewhere new to explore; something to take my mind off Jeremy.

 “Okay.” Despite all the confusion churning inside, a tiny thread of excitement works its way into me. New York! City of cupcakes, bagels, yummy hot dogs (yes, it
is
possible) – why can I only think of food?

“To New York,” I say, raising my glass to clink with Kirsty’s.

If anything can distract me from the mess back in London, it’s got to be Manhattan.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I lift my head from the air mattress the next morning, momentarily confused as my brain tries to figure out where I am. Then my wine fog clears: I’m in Westport, miles from London, on the other side of the ocean. Squinting through the parted curtains, a brilliant blue sky hits my eyes. Yup, definitely not in London.

My mouth stretches in a yawn, and I sit up gingerly. Between drinking almost all the wine in the house (a bottle and a half each, at least) and Jane’s endless crying, I didn’t get much sleep. How the hell has Kirsty been dealing with this on her own? No wonder she was swilling back the alcohol last night like she’d been in the Sahara for a year.

Downstairs, I hear Kirsty and Jane moving around in the kitchen, Kirsty’s impatient tone pleading with Jane to sit still. Yikes – I’ve never heard my friend talk like that. It really is a good thing I’m here to provide some respite from just her and the baby.

I head to the bathroom, nearly collapsing in gratitude as I spot a powerful, state-of-the-art shower nozzle. Yes! Fittings in London leave a lot to be desired, and the ‘shower’ in my bedsit is a medieval-looking handheld affair barely releasing a trickle.

Climbing gratefully into the steam, the hot water washes away my hangover as movie images of New York flash through my head: The Empire State Building, Fifth Avenue, Times Square . . . To be honest, though, all I want is to walk the streets and absorb the feeling of the city, just like I did when I first moved to London. For me, the true spirit of a metropolis lies in those tucked-away shops and neighbourhoods tourists rarely visit, not the great hulking icons.

It was Jeremy who showed me that, I think now, scrubbing my hair with Kirsty’s shampoo. Sadness pangs inside as I remember our first outing to Borough Market, and how excited he was to show me around. Since then, we must have travelled to every corner of London, from Epping Forest in the east to Hampton Court Palace in the west. Tears mix with the water trickling down my cheeks, and I push the memories from my head.

Back in my room, I pull on jeans and my trusty black polo neck (it never needs ironing, and black is chic, right?), then pad down the heavy wooden stairs.

“Morning!” I say, taking in Jane’s tear-streaked face and her mother’s frustrated one. Kirsty’s crouched in front of the high chair, trying to spoon a mushy mixture into the baby’s mouth. The two of them look more like General Custard’s Last Stand than mom and daughter.

“Morning. Good sleep?” Kirsty shoots me a tight smile. “Sorry if Jane kept you up.”

“I didn’t even hear her,” I fib. “Want me to try?” I gesture towards the tiny spoon in Kirsty’s hand. I’ve no idea how to feed a baby beyond the airplane method, but they obviously need a break from each other.

“Could you? That would be fantastic. I’ll grab a quick shower, change, and get Jane ready. And then we’re outta here! Watch out, Manhattan.” A glimmer of excitement pushes its way through the tired mask of her face, and she races up the stairs.

“Okay.” I turn to Jane, noting with chagrin she’s already pushed out her last mouthful of food so it’s covering her chin like a veggie-based beard. Not that I blame her – those mashed-up peas smell foul, although they’d go down a treat in Britain. I’ve never understood the attraction of the bright green, mushy peas accompanying the traditional Sunday roast. Yorkshire puddings, on the other hand . . . my stomach moans with hunger as I picture their buttery goodness.

I scrape the mess from Jane’s wobbling chin, pulling ridiculous faces to keep her entertained as I load up with another glump of food.

“Here we go!” I zoom the spoon into the baby’s open mouth before she even has a chance to react. She blinks at me in surprise, swallows, then I repeat the whole process until the jar is empty.

A few minutes later, Kirsty reappears, damp hair pulled into a braid, and wearing her usual full make-up. Her motto is ‘never leave the house without cosmetics’, and I can vouch for her commitment. At university, whenever some joker yanked the fire alarm in the middle of the night, she always paused to put on make-up first.

“Wow!” Kirsty stares at the empty bottle of baby food. “You’re a natural. I might have to keep you around a little longer.”

 “Beginner’s luck,” I respond, leaning back against the gleaming table. It must be, since I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.

Kirsty scoops up Jane from the high chair, her expression grim again as the baby starts fussing. “Let me get this one dressed and we’ll be good to go. There’s some instant coffee on the counter. I’m afraid that’s all I have for breakfast at the moment, but we can grab a bite once we’re in the city.”

I nod as she heads up the stairs, glancing at the large red clock on the wall. After eight here, and just past one in the UK. Before I can stop it, an image floats into my mind of Jeremy at the old Aga in the converted barn, stirring his special French-onion soup while melting massive blocks of cheese. I can almost smell the homely scent of the mixture as it fills the lofty space; see the smile on his face when he asks if I want more cheese (duh, yes!). A desire to be with him right now – to feel his warm arms around me – sweeps over me, and tears prick my eyes.

I shake my head to clear the memory, as if my brain’s an Etch A Sketch. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of the lingering emotion tugging at my heart.

A few hours later, Kirsty and I manoeuvre Jane’s stroller off the train and weave our way through the iconic Grand Central Station – every bit as gorgeous as I’d imagined. High ceilings make the building feel roomy despite the hundreds of people pushing past us, and I glance up to see a huge American flag. A man with a briefcase swears as he crashes into me, but even that doesn’t evoke my usual grimace. I’m in the Big Apple!

Beside me, Kirsty’s grinning while Jane burbles away gleefully.

“Where to first?” I ask.

Kirsty pulls up the sleeve of her crimson coat, glancing at her watch. Although she’s slept less than me, she still manages to look funky and cool.

“Well, it’s almost ten-thirty. Why don’t we head over to Fifth Avenue, take a stroll up and down the street” – she waggles her eyebrows, and I realise ‘stroll’ actually means shopping – “and then we can grab some lunch and decide what to do for the afternoon. Sound good?”

I nod. “Sounds great.” Right now, I just want to get out and see the city.

When we’re standing on the sidewalk, New York doesn’t let me down. Buildings tower over me, spearing the clear blue sky. The air is soft and spring-like, and even though it’s Good Friday, people scurry around us as if they’re on speed. The manic energy is worlds away from London’s restraint.

“Now
this
is what I was missing!” Kirsty says, gulping pollution-scented air. “Come on, let’s get browsing.”

For the next few hours, Jane snoozes miraculously in her stroller as Kirsty and I wander in and out of stores, marvelling at the bright floral patterns and eighties fluorescents clogging the windows.

Although I’d rather pluck my overgrown eyebrows than spend more than an hour shopping, there’s something pleasantly mind-numbing about scanning shapes and sizes, accompanied by Kirsty’s running commentary on how I need a wardrobe upgrade. Sporting a hundred-dollar silk shirt like the one she’s pointing at won’t fix my relationship, though. Nor will the super-skinny coral jeans that make my legs resemble two stuffed sausages. I know it’s spring and all, but whoever invented pink jeans needs their head examined.

I sigh, fingering a teal-blue wraparound dress. How could I have thought things were so easy? Roll the carpet over any relationship imperfections, and everything will be fine. Find a killer story, and that mega-promotion is around the corner. Now, I realise working hard at something – and facing up to inevitable bumps along the way – is the only sure-fire route to success. Shame it took the events of the past few weeks to reach that conclusion.

Kirsty turns to face me. “I’m starving. Ready to eat?”

“Yup.” I’m running on last night’s wine fumes, and if I don’t get some solid carbs down my throat, I’m going to collapse in an alcoholic puddle. 

Leaving behind the overpriced merchandise, we scan the busy street.