Jemima J. (38 page)

Why does everyone else seem to have a hangover the next day, whereas I get the headache, the nausea, later on that very same evening? There’s only one thing for it, coffee, and, trying very hard to focus on everything in the kitchen, I make myself a strong black coffee, which, fifteen minutes after drinking, seems to have the desired effect and I feel a lot more sober than when I first walked in.

But where the hell is Brad? Didn’t he say he’d be home around nine? Why isn’t he here? The more I think about it, the more I start worrying that something terrible’s happened, because for all his busyness, he’s not unreliable, he wouldn’t just turn up late, not when he knows I’m waiting. Surely.

Car crash? Accident? What? Where is Brad and why isn’t he home? I check my watch again. It’s 11
P.M.
, two hours after he said he’d be home. Maybe he came home, realized I wasn’t here and went out again. He’ll be home any minute. I’ll wait up for him.

But by midnight there’s still no sign of him and now I’m starting to feel sick with worry. If I were at home I’d know what to do, but here I don’t even know what the hospitals are called, and anyway I’m probably being silly, maybe something came up.

I get into bed and watch television to try and take my mind off things, but every time I hear something, some little noise, my ears prick up and I expect to hear his key in the lock. Except I don’t. So I keep flicking, and suddenly I find myself watching a travel program, the featured destination today being London, and this huge wave of homesickness washes
_p. 286
over me as the camera pans over Big Ben, the Thames, the Houses of Parliament.

Ben works near there, near the Thames, near the South Bank. I wonder what Ben’s doing now? And that’s my very last thought before falling fast asleep.

_p. 287
I thought my hangover would be over by this morning, I thought the headache and nausea of last night was it. Jesus, was I wrong. It takes me a few seconds to orient myself, to remember where I am, why my head’s pounding, and then, when I roll over and see the other half of the bed hasn’t been slept in, I start to feel even more sick and I remember that Brad didn’t come home last night, and by the looks of things he hasn’t been home at all.

My heart starts to pound, and a wave of nausea washes over me as I shake my head, trying to clear it, to work out what is going on. And then I hear noises from the kitchen, plates clashing together, the scrape of cutlery.

I pull on a dressing gown, and, with hand to my head to protect my hangover from any more of the brutal noise from the other end of the house, I slowly make my way to the kitchen and stand quietly in the doorway, watching Brad, wondering what to do next, what to say.

He’s humming to himself as he stirs scrambled eggs on the stove, and on the counter next to him is a wooden breakfast
_p. 288
tray, immaculately laid for breakfast for one. There’s a basket of muffins, a glass of orange juice, coffee, and a vase filled with huge, dewy red roses.

What is all this about? I don’t say anything for a while. Just lean against the door frame watching him, and after a few seconds Brad turns round and jumps as he sees me.

“Hi, baby,” he says, coming over to kiss me on the lips, and I can’t do this, I can’t pretend that everything’s okay when it quite obviously isn’t. I feel as if he’s broken my trust so I turn my head away, leaving Brad to skim my cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I am so sorry about last night.”

“What happened?” Even I’m surprised at how cold my voice is. How stern. “Where were you?”

“The meeting just went on and on, and it was so late I ended up sleeping at the office.”

“Where in the office?”

“I swear,” says Brad, seeing that I don’t believe him. “I slept on the couch in the lobby. The maids couldn’t believe it when they walked in this morning.”

“Why didn’t you phone, at least let me know where you were?” It comes out like a whine and I have to remember to be more angry, less pleading.

“I knew you were going out, and by the time the meeting finished it was so late I didn’t want to worry you.”

“So you just let me think you’d been in a car crash or something?”

“Oh I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t think for a moment you’d be that worried. I figured you’d be fast asleep and by the time you woke up in the morning I’d be home.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been this selfish.” Careful, careful. I don’t really want to be angry, because this is the first time I’ve ever had a proper boyfriend, and look how gorgeous he is, and if I really do lose my temper I might scare him away, and if that happened what would happen to me?

“JJ, I’m sorry. You’re right, I was selfish, but it won’t happen again, I promise you.” Brad looks sorry, he looks like he means
_p. 289
it, and with his head hung low he looks so contrite, so like a little boy, so completely vulnerable and gorgeous, I have to forgive him. What else can I do?

I know you probably think I shouldn’t forgive him, I should make him feel guilty a bit longer, but the story is plausible enough as long as you don’t look too deeply, and I don’t want to look too deeply, I want to believe him. Despite the fact that more and more problems with this relationship seem to be emerging every day, I want to at least pretend that everything’s rosy, because look at us. We look so good together. We’re the perfect couple.

“Okay,” I say, shrugging.

“Okay?” His face lights up. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

“I suppose so.”

“God, I love you, JJ,” he says, putting his arms around me and kissing me on the nape of the neck, the one place he knows is guaranteed to send shivers shooting down my spine.

I lean into him, smelling his smell, feeling the light stubble on his face with my cheek, and slowly I allow myself to feel better. Brad circles my back lightly, moving his hand slowly down until it’s sliding in between my legs, and I can’t help the small gasp that comes out of my mouth, and then the pair of us are sliding down the wall to the kitchen floor, and soon the breakfast has been forgotten, and the only sounds emerging from the kitchen are our soft whispers and groans of pleasure.

“I do love you,” I say to him afterwards, after possibly the best sex we’ve ever had, when I’m feeling guilty at making him feel guilty, when he obviously loves me so much. “And I’m sorry for being a bitch.”

Oh Jemima, stop being such a wimp, you weren’t a bitch in the slightest. Perhaps you should have been, but more importantly you offered Brad the information that you love him, and you said it first, it wasn’t a reply to him. Do you really, Jemima? Do you really love him?

Lying on that floor, feeling the muscles in his back, for the
_p. 290
first time Jemima starts to believe that she might love him, that everything may well work out after all.

“I’m taking the day off today,” says Brad, as he goes in to take his shower. “I want to spend the whole day with you, with no interruptions.” He kisses my shoulder blade as I walk past him, naked, to the bedroom, with, and you’ll be very glad to hear this, no inhibitions whatsoever.

“Really? The whole day?”

“Really,” he says, turning away. “I thought we could have lunch, maybe go blading later. Whatever you’d like.”

“I’d love that. I don’t mind where we go, as long as I’m with you. The only thing I have to do is get started on the column I was telling you about. Maybe we could go star-spotting? I’ve got to work out exactly what I’m going to write about.”

“Celebrity gossip is the last thing you should be worrying about in this town,” Brad says with a smile. “All you have to do is pick up a copy of
Daily Variety
and the
Hollywood Reporter
and you’ve got everything you need.”

“Well.” I’m doubtful. “Maybe if we got back in the afternoon I could do some work later on.”

“Good,” he says, closing the bathroom door. “That sounds perfect. I’m just going to take a shower. Won’t be long.”

The phone rings as I’m lying dreamily on the bed, going over every inch of Brad’s body in my mind. I don’t normally pick up the phone here, it still feels a bit strange, answering the phone in a house that isn’t yours, but Brad’s in the shower, and there seems little point in letting the machine pick up. It might be important.

All I hear is a long groan then, “JJ, it’s me, Lauren. Just tell me, are you feeling as disgusting as me?”

I laugh. “No, not even a fraction as disgusting as you. You had far more than me to drink, remember?”

Lauren groans again. “I wish I
could
remember. I can’t remember a bloody thing. How did we get home?”

I tell her about our ride home in the taxi, about her leaning
_p. 291
out of the window and singing old Abba songs at the top of her voice, about her very nearly throwing up in the backseat.

“I really disgraced myself didn’t I?” she says.

“Absolutely!”

“Really?” Lauren’s voice picks up. “Tell me, tell me. Did I give out my phone number to any gorgeous men?”

“Actually, you did. You screamed it from one side of the restaurant to the other for the bartender, but I think every man in the place was writing it down.”

“Oh my God! It’s coming back to me. The bartender, I remember the bartender! Was he as handsome as I think he was?”

“You are a complete nightmare!” I laugh. “Yes, he was as handsome as you remember. You scored better than me.”

“You weren’t out to score. You’ve got the gorgeous Brad. So was he tucked up in bed wondering what you were up to?”

“No, he wasn’t.” I don’t know whether to tell Lauren or not, because I’ve got a sneaky feeling I know what she’d say, which would, in fact, probably be the same thing Geraldine would say. In other words, they’d both tell me to be careful, not to accept things at face value, not to believe him, and, stupid as this may sound, I don’t want to hear this right now, I want to believe everything’s fine, that he was telling the truth.

I listen to check the water’s still running, Brad’s in the shower so he won’t be able to hear, and then I tell a tiny white lie. “He wasn’t in when I got back, his meeting ran on, but he came home when I was in bed.” Not quite a lie, I just omitted the fact that it happened to be this morning.

“Hmm,” says Lauren. “How late was he?”

“Not very. Everything’s fine. I’m not worried so why should you be?”

“Okay. If everything’s fine with you then it’s fine with me. So what are you up to today? How about lunch?”

“I can’t today, Brad’s taken the day off work and we’re going out.”

_p. 292
“Sounds like a guilty man to me.” Now that’s exactly what I didn’t want to hear.

“Sounds like a man in love to me,” I say with a false ring of confidence, hoping to convince her, hoping to convince myself.

“Well, have a good day,” says Lauren. “Don’t worry about me, all by myself.”

“Come with!” I say, trying to sound as if I mean it, because even though I think Lauren’s fantastic, I’m so looking forward to spending a whole day with Brad, just the two of us, on our own, I don’t mean it at all. “I’d love you to come with and Brad won’t mind, he’d love to meet you!” Which isn’t exactly true, because Brad has shown surprisingly little interest in what I do or who I meet when I’m not with him.

“Yes,” says Lauren, with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Because I really love playing third wheel.”

“You wouldn’t be.” Even I can hear that I don’t sound sincere. “Brad and I aren’t like that.”

“Brad and I. There you go. That’s a sure sign if ever there was one.”

“So you’re not coming?” I think I’ve just about managed to hide the relief.

“Nope. But thanks, JJ, it’s really nice of you to ask me.”

“Will you be okay? What are you going to do?”

“I might catch a movie this afternoon. Oh, hang on, my call waiting’s going.”

I sit on the phone and wait. And wait. And wait. I hate this, I hate people who leave you hanging on the line for hours. Just as I’m about to put the phone down Lauren comes back.

“JJ? Oh my God! I’m so sorry, but that was him! He called!”

“Who?”

“Bill! The bartender!”

“And?”

“And I now have plans for today. We’re meeting for lunch.”

“Just behave yourself,” I laugh. “We don’t want you getting into trouble.”

_p. 293
“I will. Behave, that is. I don’t plan on getting into trouble just yet.”

We both laugh and say goodbye as Brad walks out of the bathroom.

“Who was that?”

“Lauren.”

“Who’s Lauren?” Typical. That’s how much attention Brad has been paying to my life.

“Brad!” I hit him playfully. “You know exactly who Lauren is. She’s my new friend, the one I met at the Broadway Deli, the one I was out with last night.”

“I totally forgot you went out with her last night. Where did you go?” Brad’s toweling his hair as he talks.

“We went to that new restaurant on Main Street.”

Brad stops toweling for a second then starts again, but slower, more thoughtfully. “Which restaurant?” he asks, his voice sounding slightly strained.