Construct a Couple (7 page)

Jeremy shrugs on his coat. “Karen’s birthday? That’s not coming up, is it?”

“Um, yes, I think she’s turning the big six-five.” What am I saying? I’ve no idea how old Karen is, or if it’s anywhere near her birthday. Imagine if Jeremy rocks up next week with a giant ‘Happy 65
^th
!’ card in his hands.

 “Anyway, no, it’s not that.” He swings open the door. “Come on, you must be starving.”

Starving is an understatement – I’m positively ravenous. As if on cue, my empty tummy lets out a rumble. “Where are we going?”

“A place in Primrose Hill we haven’t been to yet. It opened a couple months ago with rave reviews.” Jeremy takes my hand as we walk to his Prius.

“What? It’s been open that long and we still haven’t been there?” I put on a mock-horrified expression. Primrose Hill, just a little way from the charity’s office on Mornington Crescent, is one of our favourite parts of London. In fact – a smile creeps onto my face at the memory – it’s where we first said the L-word, a few months after we started dating. We’d huffed and puffed our way up the steep incline, and just as I’d turned to take in the London skyline, Jeremy had swept me into his arms and told me he loved me. Sounds like a scene from
Love Actually
, I know. But it
did
feel like a Hollywood movie, and as I echoed the words, I honestly couldn’t recall being happier.

Well, except for the time he made me those homemade Jaffas.

Anyway, before Jeremy started working all hours of the day and night, I’d often meet him at our favourite bench at the crest of the incline, as rush-hour came to a close and the city settled in for the evening. We’d watch the BT Tower blinking and the pods of the London Eye turning, then head down the hill and over to the row of restaurants lining the nearby street. God, we haven’t been there for ages.

We climb into the roomy car and I lean back, satisfaction washing over me. Whatever Jeremy’s news, it looks like it was a good day for both of us.  For a split second, I long to share my small accomplishment at work. That would involve bringing up Julia, though, and I’m not going to risk spoiling tonight by dragging her into it. For now, I just want to enjoy being with the man I love.

Giant raindrops splatter on the window as Jeremy navigates his way to Camden Town, parking past the Chalk Farm tube station. Although it’s still light, dark clouds have wrapped the city in a gauzy blanket of grey.

He grimaces at the pouring rain. “What are the chances of you having an umbrella?”

“What do you think?” I grin. One of the first bits of advice Jeremy gave me about living in London was to never,
ever
leave the house without an umbrella. I’d laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. No city’s weather could change that quickly, right?

Wrong. I’d learned the hard way when I’d gone to meet Kirsty at Regent’s Park in the bright summer sun. Thirty minutes later, the skies had opened, and both Kirsty and I got drenched to the skin. Bad day not to wear a bra is all I can say.

Ever since, I’ve tried to carry an umbrella everywhere. However, I’ve discovered a unique talent for losing each and every brolly I touch. The longest I kept one is about a month; the shortest, an hour – I bought it at the tube station and left it on the train. Oh well, at least I’m keeping London’s economy buoyant, one umbrella at a time.

Jeremy shakes his head, then reaches into the glove compartment and hands me his own. Aw! The perfect gentleman.

“Ready?” he asks, swinging open the car door. The sound of rain hitting the pavement assaults us, and the smell of wet asphalt drifts in. “One, two,
three
!”

I heave open my door, pop up the umbrella, and rush through the falling drops behind him. Jeremy grabs my arm as I approach and pulls me under the cheery awning of the restaurant, both of us soaking. His chest heaves and sweat glistens on his brow. We stand still for a minute until the rasp of his breath quietens, and my heart does a little flip with worry.  It will be fine, I tell myself. With his big news, hopefully he’ll be able to take it easy again.

Inside the tiny restaurant, it’s like we’ve been transported to another country – a country with sun, filled with happy, chattering people. Narrow tables painted in bright reds and blues fill the small space, and the walls are covered with photos of oceans and vineyards. Waiters dressed in cobalt-blue shirts dart through the room, calling to each other in a language that sounds like Italian. It’s a little piece of Rome, right here in rainy London.

“This is great!” I say as a waiter ushers us to a table in the corner. Jeremy orders a bottle of wine, then scoots around to my side and pulls out my chair. You don’t get that kind of service from men in the States, let me tell you.

“Since we haven’t been to Primrose Hill for a while, I thought it would be the perfect location to share my good news,” he says, settling into his place.

“Okay, enough. You have to tell me now.” I’m practically squirming on my seat.

“All right. I’m dying to, anyway.” Jeremy reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Well, things have been difficult financially at the charity.”  

 “Difficult?” I tilt my head, trying to understand. I’m not surprised this has to do with Pick Up Sticks, but what does he mean, ‘difficult financially’? Although we don’t talk about it, I know Jeremy has quite a bit of money from selling his half of the property business. With all that, how could the charity have been in trouble?

“I won’t bore you with the details, but we had a lot of projects underway, relying on a regular corporate donor to cover the costs. The company went bankrupt before we received the donation, and our trustees wanted to ensure we could pay the expenses we’d already incurred. They can be financially liable for the charity’s debts.”

“Wow.” No wonder Jeremy was so stressed. I know how much he cares about Pick Up Sticks, and the loss of a major donor – one on whom they needed to cover costs – would definitely hit hard.

“Everything is fine now, thank goodness.” Jeremy leans back, a relaxed smile on his face. “A major corporation came through with a sizeable donation that will let us start paying down the debt from the projects we were working on, and even look at starting new ones.” He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe it.”

“That’s fantastic!” I breathe a sigh of relief the story has a happy ending. I can’t begin to imagine otherwise.

“I know I’ve been a bit, well . . . preoccupied lately,” Jeremy says. “I didn’t want you to worry. You had a lot on your plate already, what with the new job and everything. And to be honest, the last thing I felt like doing at home was rehashing the whole situation. You’re sort of a safe haven, you know?” His cheeks flush, but he doesn’t look away. “Everything feels right when I’m with you.”

I smile into his green eyes, understanding exactly what he means.

 “Anyway.” Jeremy takes my other hand. “Enough about me. Tell me about you! Are you settling in okay at the magazine?”

“It’s great,” I say, keeping Julia tucked away in the corner of my mind. Maybe Jeremy has the right idea. Why stir things up if there’s no need? I’m hardly going to invite Her Royal Bitchiness into our safe haven.

The waiter pops the cork on a bottle of red, pouring crimson liquid into our glasses. Jeremy orders a seafood linguini (that’s my English translation; I’m not even going to try to murder the Italian), and I plump for a yummy risotto, smacking my lips in hunger as I picture moist rice and savoury sauce. 

Lifting his drink in the air, Jeremy’s eyes sparkle in the soft candlelight. “Cheers.”

“To the charity!” I clink my glass against his.

He smiles. “To you.”

Warmth spreads inside as I sip the velvety wine. After all the recent stress, it feels like my boyfriend has finally returned to me. We chat and laugh as we munch our way through the meal, and finally, I sit back in the chair and pat my belly.

“I can’t eat another bite.”  Not that there’s anything left! Thank God I wore my stretchy trousers, otherwise I’d resort to undoing the top button. I have a heavy, contented feeling that comes from consuming too much starchy goodness.

“Me, neither.” Jeremy pushes away his plate, and I’m surprised to see he’s barely made a dent.

“Maybe you’d prefer pasta balls?” I joke. Thank goodness everything’s on track again, so he can take care of himself.  He’d better, I think grimly, or I’ll tie him down and make him rest. A tiny spear of annoyance jabs my gut that he should stop testing his limits, then the familiar guilt at last year’s events sweeps over me. I didn’t force Jeremy to have the operation that went so wrong, but I played a role in encouraging him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you know,” he says. “Fancy dessert?”

My eyes bulge. “Dessert? You must be joking. I can hardly move!”

 “I was kind of hoping you could.” Jeremy gestures to the window behind me. “Because it’s turning out to be a beautiful evening.”

“What?” I swivel, stunned to see the heavy clouds have cleared, leaving a soft blue sky tinged with pink as darkness falls. Streetlight glints off rain-washed streets and the moon is a slender crescent. It’s as if the city has taken a shower, returning fresh and ready to play.

We pay the bill, then shrug on our still-damp jackets and head into the street. Jeremy grabs my hand, and we wander past the row of cafés and up the incline towards Primrose Hill.

Inside the park, it smells undeniably of spring – damp earth, wet leaves, and the aroma of blossoming trees. I take a deep breath, remembering the scent of my parents’ back-yard in Maine, and how we’d fling off our shoes and race barefoot across the lawn on the first tender stalks. Here in London, the grass stays green pretty much all year round and walking barefoot isn’t for the faint of heart (or foot), but the sense of growth, newness, and better things to come remains.

Moving slowly, we work our way up the hill to our bench. Jeremy lowers himself onto it, and I sink down beside him.

“I’ll never get tired of this view,” he says when he’s caught his breath.

 I lay my head on his shoulder as the whole of the city spreads out before me. The BT Tower flashes red, and lights from the London Eye twinkle as it swoops through the air. Hope and love rush into me, and I can’t help smiling.

Tonight, everything feels right. The charity will be okay; I’ve managed to pump up an article sure to impress Jonas and Helen . . . and isn’t it sweet I’m Jeremy’s safe haven? I totally get why he didn’t want to talk about his problems at work. It’s why I’m not keen on mentioning Julia, either.

I swear, the key to a good relationship should be knowing when to keep your mouth shut. I bet lots of marriages would be saved if people stopped griping to each other and just enjoyed their time together.

In fact, I think as I breathe in Jeremy’s heady scent, that’s exactly what we’ll do. Forget the outside world and all its troubles, and focus on what works: our relationship . . . our love.

It can’t be too hard, can it?

CHAPTER FIVE

My face stretches in a giant grin as I tube into work Thursday morning – in my post-sex glow, even dodging nail clippings from the girl beside me is mildly entertaining. My cheeks tinge red as I recall Jeremy’s eyes staring down and the solid weight of his body on mine, and another thrill of desire hits me. Given the energy expended in bed last night, I guess I shouldn’t be too concerned about his health!

He
did
still look exhausted this morning, though, barely opening his eyes as I crept around getting ready for work. That’s to be expected after everything he’s been through in the past few weeks, I guess. A little R&R and perhaps some more sexual healing (Dad’s favourite song, ergh), and Jeremy will be his old self in no time.

In fact, he’s so keen to get back to normal we’ve even made plans to meet up with Kirsty and Tim tonight at our local pub, The Prince Regent. It’s been ages since we’ve all been out together, and with Kirsty taking off soon . . . Sighing, I tell myself not to think about that. I just want to enjoy the time we have left.

Post-sex glow aside, it’s impossible not to be excited this morning: there’s only one more client to ring, and then I can present Jonas with my additional research! My smile widens as I trot through the quiet newsroom and over to Fact Check Row.

 “You need to finish that feature by five today,” Gregor says as I approach. “Shouldn’t be a problem, right? We’ve certainly given you plenty of time – you won’t have that luxury after this week.”

His burst my bubble and I turn to face him reluctantly. God, does the man ever leave? Clad in the same beige ensemble he’s worn every day since I started, he’s gripping the usual steaming mug of foul-smelling coffee. I wrinkle my nose as he sets it down within breathing distance.

Nodding in response, I flip through my notebook with all the quotes from yesterday, flagging up ones that will work best for the article. I roll my eyes as the project managers praise Top Class for its efficiency, dedication to the job, and low costs. Perfect Julia, of course.

A shot of jealousy goes through me, and I can’t help wondering if Jeremy ever compares the two of us. I mean, she’s gorgeous: tall, blonde . . . beautiful in an icy Scandinavian way, not to mention a successful businesswoman everyone’s raving about.  On the other hand, I still fit into Zara kids’ clothing, my hair is the colour of wet sand, and while I might be on the way up, I’m a lowly fact-checker. Jeremy and Julia – their names sound horrendously cute – were together for almost two years, while I’ve still got to beat that. Sure, Julia cheated on him, but. . . . well, my past isn’t glorious, either.

I gulp, remembering my disastrous stint last year as an undercover reporter for Beauty Bits, a website run by
The Daily Planet
, Britain’s biggest tabloid. I’d been working as a cosmetic surgery receptionist at the time, pitching articles to anything with ink. When Jeremy walked in requesting a full-body makeover, I’d known right away I had a stellar story: a heartbroken man willing to go to such lengths to meet the woman of his dreams. The tabloid editor had jumped at the idea, requesting I go undercover to gain ‘intimate access’ to Jeremy. Unfortunately, everything came crashing down when Jeremy’s first operation resulted in a stroke . . . and he discovered I was the one writing the column.