Construct a Couple (5 page)

 “Hey, Ser,” Tim says, jiggling Jane. “You two take your time and catch up. I’ll put Jane down and make us all something to eat. Sound good?”

Kirsty nods, pushing back her caramel curls. “Perfect. Thanks, hon.” She liberates the bottle of wine from my arms. “Give me a sec and I’ll crack this open.”

Plonking down on a leather sofa in the lounge, I can’t help thinking how in tune Kirsty and Tim are, and what a great team they make. They had a bit of a tough time when Kirsty discovered she was pregnant; to say she was shocked is an understatement. They got through it, though, and now they’re stronger than ever. I love that they both take care of the baby, and Tim is a fabulous dad, despite his full-time job at an investment bank in the City. Kirsty’s cut her hours to part-time, and she seems to have struck the perfect balance between motherhood and career woman – not that I’d expect anything less from my super-efficient friend.

“So,” she says brightly, handing me a brimming glass of wine. “Good timing. I’ve been dying to talk to you! I had to keep quiet until we knew for sure, though.”

“Talk to me? About what?” Kirsty can’t be pregnant again, can she? I try to surreptitiously eye her midsection, but she’s wearing her favourite University of Maine T-shirt with all the shape of a potato sack.  Are she and Tim finally having a wedding reception? They got married in a registry office last year, just the two of them. Ever since, Kirsty’s been promising me she’ll throw a party to celebrate. Once they had Jane, though, they seem to have forgotten. Reception aside, the poor baby hasn’t even been christened yet.

Maybe that’s what this is about! My mind fills with visions of angelic Jane resplendent in a lacy white gown, with Kirsty and Tim smiling beatifically. Oh, Jeremy and I could be godparents! Kirsty thinks it’s morbid to ask people to take your kids if you die, but we’d be perfect. Well, Jeremy would be perfect.  I can’t keep a bamboo stick alive.

Hmm. I wonder if Jeremy even wants kids? We’ve never talked about it. He’d make an amazing dad, I know that much. Jane adores him, always giggling and blowing cute baby bubbles when he’s around.

“Well . . .” Kirsty scoots her back against the armrest so she’s facing me. “We’re moving home! Not to Maine, but to the States.”

My mouth drops open.
What?
Kirsty and Tim are leaving London?

“But . . . why?” I manage to force out, past the lump in my throat. Kirsty can’t leave London! I stare at my friend, trying to picture the city without her – trying to picture
me
without her. She’s always been by my side, a steadying force, with practical advice I rely on. Sure, I’ve got a solid life here now, but . . .

“A lot of reasons, really,” Kirsty answers. “Tim scored an amazing job at an investment bank in Manhattan. With the economy being what it is and our jobs so unstable, it was too good to pass up. This new firm is in excellent shape, unlike lots of others.”

“What about
your
job?” I can’t help asking. Tim may have found a secure position in the detritus of today’s market. For a part-timer, though, I can’t imagine it will be easy.

“I’m not in a rush. I’ll see what’s available when I’m there,” Kirsty says, sipping her wine. “We love London, but with Jane and being so far from our family, it seems right to move back.”

I nod, but I feel like someone’s clunked me over the head as I struggle to take it all in.

“I’m going to miss you so much.” I know she’ll only be a telephone call away, but still.

“I’ll miss you too, Ser.” Kirsty’s face sinks into a serious expression, then she shakes her head and smiles. “But hey, there’s this modern invention called an airplane! And once the house is squared away, I expect
many
visits from you and Jeremy.”

“You’d better believe it! We’ll come so much you’ll be sick of us.” I grin through the tears filling my eyes. “So how long do I have you?” I pray it’s for a few months yet. You can’t do a transatlantic move in less time, even if you are as organised as my friend.

“Well, Tim’s stuck here for the next two months, working out his notice period,” Kirsty responds. “I’m going to pack as much as I can and head Stateside with Jane to look at houses once I’ve scheduled appointments. If I find something we like, I might stay on and settle in before Tim comes.”

I shake my head, trying to let it sink in. “What about your furniture and stuff? That’s going to take ages to ship, right? You and Jane can’t camp out in an empty house.” I cross my fingers she hasn’t thought of that.

Kirsty shrugs. “The furniture will cost more to ship than it would to buy new stuff. Tim’s going to put it on eBay or something.”

“Oh.” My heart drops. “Any idea where you want to live?” I try to envision the family in their American-style life, complete with giant yards featuring leafy trees and – luxury of luxuries! – built-in closets. I’ve never been to New York, even though it’s relatively close to Maine. Mom and Dad aren’t keen on ‘the pinnacle of commercialism’, as they call it, preferring the countryside where I grew up. To them, travelling means camping in the neighbouring farmer’s fields, although in recent years they’ve broadened their horizons to include meditation retreats.

“Well . . .” Kirsty pads to a cabinet, unfurling a blow-up map of the New York metropolitan area and surrounding suburbs. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about Westport. Tim can commute into Manhattan easily from there.” She stabs her finger at a town far from the city, and my eyebrows rise in surprise. Somehow, I never pictured my friend as a suburbs kind of gal.

“Looks really nice,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Kirst, are you sure you’re going to be able to look at houses, take care of Jane, and set up everything on your own?” I don’t want to sound negative, but God knows if I tried to do all that, I’d have a nervous breakdown. Plus . . . maybe Kirsty will realise it
is
a bit much for one person, and decide to stay here until Tim’s notice period is over.

“Not a big deal.” She shrugs, twisting her hair into a bun. “I’ll line up as many appointments as I can, book us into a hotel, and once we find something, it’s just a matter of hard-core online shopping. I’m sure we’ll be fine. It’s not like we won’t see Tim – his new company promised to cover any relocation costs, including flights back and forth until we’re moved for good.

 “Anyway, enough of all this.” Kirsty waves a hand as if travelling across the ocean and finding a new house single-handedly is child’s play. “Tell me about your job! Have you met Helen Goodall?”

Excitement spreads through me as I think of the story on my desk. “Not yet, but I’m fact-checking an article of hers right now.”

“Wow, cool!” Kirsty lifts the dewy bottle of wine, sloshing more into my glass. “Let me check Tim’s put Jane down okay, and then I want all the behind-the-scenes details of a day in the life at
Seven Days
!”

 “Sure.” Somehow, though, I get the feeling she’s not dying to hear about sniffy colleagues, poke-happy plastic chairs, or the fascinating stain on the beige cubical divider in front of me. Funny, everyone thinks working in the newsroom of the country’s biggest Sunday magazine is filled with heart-stopping excitement – and maybe it is, for big reporters like Helen. But situations are what you make of them, Mom always says, and you’d better believe I’m going to make the most of Fact Check Row to learn everything I can and show my initiative, starting tomorrow.

I watch Kirsty disappear up the stairs, still trying to absorb the news she’s moving to the States. She and Tim never mentioned leaving, and somehow I thought things would stay in this happy place, status quo. Now, my vision of the future has shifted; a vision that doesn’t include the person I’ve leaned on for so many years. I feel strangely off-kilter in my new, Kirsty-free world, as if a piece of my life’s foundation has slid out of place.

It’s just a surprise, I tell myself, forcing a smile as Kirsty comes back in. A bit of time, and I’ll be all right. She might not be on my doorstep any longer – well, Jeremy’s doorstep – but proximity doesn’t make a friendship. It’s the foundation you’ve built; your shared history. Goodness knows we have enough of that.

I take a deep breath, raising my drink in the air. “Here’s to best friends, no matter where they are.”

Kirsty grins, clinking her glass against mine. “Cheers!”

CHAPTER FOUR

By the time I march into the newsroom the next morning, I’ve conveniently manage to push aside the fact my best friend is moving. I oohed and awed at the photos of potential properties Kirsty showed me last night, all the while pretending they were for someone else. And when she texted me the Westport link to check out, I filed it away in my ‘read later’ folder, a black hole containing hundreds of spam messages from a company promoting ‘seksy Ruskie boytoys’.

Of course I’ll do everything I can to help her – I’ve even offered to come over and pack (which unsurprisingly, given my haphazard method of throwing whatever’s within reach into the nearest box, she hasn’t taken me up on). But if Kirsty does leave London for good soon, I want to enjoy our final moments here, not fill every hour with ‘this is the last time’ thoughts.

Right now, I have other things to focus on. Things like Helen’s article! Shame I couldn’t share my news with Jeremy. When I popped by after leaving Kirsty’s, he was sound asleep. After all his exhaustion of the past little while, I was hardly going to wake him.

Carefully positioning myself on the plastic chair, I wrinkle my nose at the noxious odour rising from Gregor’s mug. He doesn’t seem bothered, but given the man’s nasal issues, a skunk could let ‘er rip without him taking notice. As if reading my mind, he releases a giant sniff, glaring over like I’ve interrupted his private time. 

 “Hiya!” Lizzie plops down beside me, her hair scraped back in a Croydon facelift (the ponytail is fastened so tightly, it pulls the scalp, too). Today, she’s wearing a lacy skirt, leggings, and a form-fitting yellow cardigan with funky pearl buttons.  Funny, I’d never imagined someone with her vibrant personality sticking it out here for two years – not that she makes a habit of spending more time in the newsroom than required. She swoops in, puts her head down, and works hard, then leaves at five on the dot.

“Has The Whale been by yet?” she whispers, getting out her pen and notepad.

“Please don’t call him that,” Gregor hisses, eyes still glued to his monitor.

“The Whale?” I ask, brow furrowed. Who the hell is The Whale?

“You know. Jonas.” Lizzie glances around as if his mammalian bulk will emerge from the dingy newsroom corners.

Gregor heaves a long-suffering sigh. “How many times must I tell you, the Biblical reference is to Jonah, not Jonas! And you call yourself a fact checker. You’re sullying the profession.” He sniffs, and Lizzie and I start giggling.

Serious journalists do not
giggle
, I remind myself, straightening my spine. I’m on an important mission today: getting a quote from the Top Class CEO, and maybe even talking to a few clients.  I call up the company’s website on my computer, clicking on the ‘Corporate Team’ link.

Leaning forward, I squint at the small type. Who the hell designed this site? The narrow black font is stylish but fiendishly difficult to read. Looks like the CEO’s first name is Julia – super cool it’s a female – and the surname is . . . Adams?

Julia Adams?
My mouth drops open as I stare at the letters on the screen. That name is branded on my brain, smouldering every time I think of it. As far as I’m concerned, Julia Adams out-Satans Satan, and if I could wish for one superpower, it’d be to banish her from the face of the earth. Already my insides are curdling with anger.

Relax, I tell myself. It might not be the same person; there must be hundreds of Julia Adamses living in London. Clicking onto the name, I hold my breath as a photo pops up of a beautiful blonde with sculpted cheekbones. Clad in a severely tailored pinstripe trouser suit and standing with hands on hips, she looks every inch the capable CEO of a successful company; a person whose confident expression says she could conquer the world with one hand tied behind her back.

Gritting my teeth, I stare into the icy blue eyes of the woman who cheated on my boyfriend with his best friend and business partner, practically forcing him to give up half the company he worked hard to build.

This is the woman who damaged Jeremy’s self-confidence so badly, he resorted to surgery.

The CEO of Top Class Construction is none other than Julia, Jeremy’s ex-girlfriend.

The lick of anger inside becomes a bonfire as I take in her smiling image. God, how unfair Jeremy’s working like mad at a charity while her company rakes in the dough.

Looking at the photo makes me want to kill someone, so I navigate back to the company’s home page, breathing through my nose to ‘oxygenate’ the brain, like Mom told me to do when ‘negativity threatens to overwhelm me’. After a few intakes of Gregor’s B.O., though, I’m feeling more negative than ever.

Okay. Well. I’m a professional, right? I can’t let my emotions get in the way. I need a quote from the CEO, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do, regardless of what a ho she is. An image of Jeremy’s sad, downtrodden face that first day I met him – right after David and Julia married – comes into my head, and my fists clench. God, I’d love to slaughter that woman for the number she did on my boyfriend.

But Julia won’t stop me advancing here, I think, as I dial the PR department. It just sucks that helping my career means giving a plug to her company, too.

“Hello, Tanya speaking, Top Class public relations,” a voice chirrups through the phone.

“Hi, I’m calling from
Seven Days
,” I say smoothly, admiring my professional tone. I
do
sound like Barbara Walters! “We’re running a story on Top Class Construction this Sunday, and we need a quote from Julia Adams for the piece.” Gregor’s penetrating stare bores into me, but I refuse to meet his eyes.

“Oh, fantastic, yes, I’m sure she’d love to speak with you,” the PR responds, as if I’ve offered her a winning lottery ticket. “We were wondering if you were going to call, actually, after we’d sent your magazine the press kit for the article. Julia asked me to patch you through straightaway if you did get in touch. Let me make sure she’s at her desk. She’s a very busy lady!” The PR releases a tinkling laugh, and I roll my eyes. Yeah, I bet she is. Busy bonking everything that moves. “I’ll put you on hold for a moment while I check.”