I follow the two of them through to the kitchen, marvelling at the change in my friend. All of a sudden, she’s back to her old self, bubbly and full of energy.
“Hey, Tim!” God, I’m almost as glad to see him as Kirsty. She was right: something was missing. And now – I sniff the air – with the room smelling of garlic as Tim whips up his famous spaghetti sauce, it feels complete again.
“So what do you think of the house?” I ask, my stomach rumbling despite the earlier pastrami bonanza.
Tim gives the mince a quick stir, then winds an arm around his wife’s waist. “It’s fantastic. The pictures on the web don’t do it justice. And the area is beautiful, too.”
Kirsty beams over at him. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, showing up like that. You’re lucky I didn’t call the cops on you!”
“Next time, hide the key somewhere less obvious than under the doormat.” Tim bops her lightly on the shoulder.
“You know me well.” Kirsty shakes her head. “God, it’s good to have you here.”
“To fill your cupboards?” He lifts an eyebrow, grinning mischievously. “I swear, there was nothing but baby food and wine!”
Kirsty and I laugh.
“Well, at least we have the most important thing covered. The baby food!” I add, in case they think I mean the wine – which, of course, I do.
Tim peers into the bubbling pot. “Okay, dinner’s ready. You guys got back at the right time. Take a seat.” He points to the table, where shiny cutlery is laid out and candles glow.
“Our first meal together in the new house,” Kirsty says, pulling out a chair. Happiness radiates from her as we settle into our places.
Tim heaves a mountain of spaghetti onto Kirsty’s plate, slathering it with tomato sauce. “It’s good to be here. The London house was so empty without you and Jane. Quiet, for once” – he grins – “but empty.”
Kirsty reaches over and squeezes his hand. “This place wasn’t right, either. No matter what I did, it wouldn’t be a home without you.” She rolls her eyes, grinning at me. “We’re being vom-inducing, aren’t we? Tim, serve Serenity fast before she loses her appetite.”
I push back my chair, thinking their first night here as a family should belong to them. “You know what? I’m still full from lunch. I’m going to chill out upstairs for a bit.”
“Are you sure?” Kirsty asks, but I can see by their faces she and Tim want to be alone. Watching them now – so glad to be together, with an ease that comes from being with the one who knows you best – creates an intense longing that tears into me with every breath.
As I climb the stairs, the memory of an old, weather-beaten sign on the front door of my parents’ house drifts into my head. Faded grey script intertwined with red hearts spelled out ‘Home is Where the Heart Is’, a sentiment so familiar I’d hardly taken it in. Until this moment, I’d never thought about what those words actually meant. Now, I realise it’s not important who owns the physical structure or where it’s located, it’s the person you love – the bond you’ve built – that will shelter you when you need it.
My heart is with Jeremy, no matter where he is, and no matter what’s happened between us. But can the cracked foundation of our relationship be mended so it becomes our metaphorical home?
Kirsty’s right. If we want to be together, we will find a way. And despite the uncertainty of the past few weeks, I’m ready to do what I can to make us solid.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Saturday and Sunday pass in a blur of exploring Westport, visiting the Bronx Zoo where Jane goes wild for monkeys, and an Easter Egg hunt with Kirsty and I consuming all the chocolate. It’s wonderful being here, watching the family adapt to their new home as the pieces of their life fit together. I know it hasn’t come easily; that there have been many challenges along the way. That’s something I’m prepared to face now with Jeremy, knowing it’ll make us stronger.
Sighing, I remember our last Easter in Wales. The rolling hills of the Wye Valley were starting to come alive after a long wet winter, delicate tree buds unfurling with a hint of mint on bare branches. Daffodils burst through the green-speared ground, and the vibrant purple of crocuses dotted the back garden. We’d wandered for hours, plunging into stream-split crevices and climbing onto hilltops, clasping each other as the land rolled and dipped for miles. I’d even run through a field bellowing ‘The Hills Are Alive’ just like Julie Andrews until Jeremy laughingly told me I was scaring the sheep.
After our daily rambles, we’d grab a pint at a pub by the river in Tintern, then dodge Mrs Jones’s barking dog and head into the warmth of the converted barn. We’d curl up in front of the fire with a large glass of red, dinner bubbling away in the background. When darkness fell and birdsong drifted through the half-open windows, Jeremy would take my hand and pull me towards him, gradually sliding off my clothes as desire and love swirled in my stomach. Funny, the two of us never had any of those awkward, watch-out-your-knee-is-in-my-groin kind of moments. Our bodies just fit, as if we instinctively knew how to move in tandem.
I shake my head, determination flooding into me. Despite our mistakes, we do belong together. Whatever happens, I’m not going to let us crumble away. But if the past few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that you can’t direct a relationship of your own accord; it takes both people to make it work. Will Jeremy feel the same?
It’s Sunday night now – my last evening in the States – and Kirsty and Tim have dragged themselves to bed, groaning about eating too much of Tim’s giant roasted ham. I’m ready to follow when my phone rings.
Jeremy! I think, before telling myself not to be silly. He said he wouldn’t call until he’s back in London, whenever that is.
“Hello?” I answer tentatively.
“Serenity? Karen Cotter, from Pick Up Sticks.”
Karen? My brow furrows as I try to work out why she’s ringing my mobile – on Easter Sunday, no less. A flash of fear goes through me as I remember the last time she got in touch. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, dear. It’s just, I’ve been trying to reach Jeremy since Thursday, but I haven’t been able to.”
“Oh, he’s in the Black Mountains. I’m not sure if his mobile’s working.” I heave a sigh of relief that’s all she’s calling about.
“Yes, Jeremy mentioned he’d be spending time there and that he likely wouldn’t be in touch until he returned to London. Everything was so quiet at the charity, I told him to take all the time he needed. But . . .”
“But?”
“Well, the trustees want to meet first thing Tuesday morning. It’s a bit of a disaster.” Karen pauses, and I picture her shaking her head with chagrin. “A reporter rang last Thursday, wanting to interview a representative regarding the charity’s work. He said he was a colleague of yours at Seven Days, and that you’d said such great things about Pick Up Sticks, he wanted to learn more.”
Sweat pops out on my forehead, and my hands start trembling. A colleague of mine? Randomly calling up the charity? Lizzie’s warning about Gregor floats into my mind, and I grip the mobile even tighter.
“Jeremy was out of reach, of course. I’m absolutely useless at interviews, just babbling on, so I gave him another trustee’s name.”
“And?” I croak, not sure I want to hear the rest. The phone is sticky in my grasp, and I switch it to the other hand.
“Well . . .” Karen’s voice trails off, and my heart begins pounding. “Turns out the reporter wasn’t interested in the charity. Once he got on the line with the trustee, he didn’t even ask questions – just aired all sorts of dreadful accusations, claiming Jeremy misused funds to improve his own properties, and that we should investigate his business dealings with Top Class.”
Anger invades every cell, and I grit my teeth. Gregor couldn’t get back at me directly, so he had to go for my boyfriend? For a charity?
“The allegations aren’t true, of course. As treasurer, I’ve kept track of every penny, and
there’s nothing the least bit suspicious – either with Jeremy’s properties or Top Class,” Karen says. “The reporter didn’t mention his name, but do you know anyone who might want to cause trouble?”
“I can think of someone, yes. A former employee at the magazine. Don’t worry – he’s no longer working in the media.” I pace across the polished floorboards, trying to breathe. Thank God Gregor’s silly allegations won’t stick. And since Helen’s made sure the slimy weasel is blacklisted in every major news outlet, the chances of him getting anything in print are miniscule – unless it’s some rag like Rodents Today, circulation 10.
But if Karen has proof the accusations are false, why do the trustees need to meet?
“Well, whatever this person’s reasons, he’s certainly made things difficult.” A heavy sigh echoes down the line. “With recent events and Jeremy’s personal contact within Top Class, the board wants to speak to him directly and review the accounts. To put their minds at ease, you understand.”
I nod, then realise she can’t see me. “Of course,” I say, cursing Gregor in my head.
“Even with all the evidence to the contrary, it won’t look good if Jeremy’s absent. The charity’s future is already rather uncertain, and the last thing we need is more problems.” She pauses. “If Jeremy can make it, I should prepare him for what he’ll be facing. Do you have any idea where he’s staying in the Black Mountains?”
“No,” I respond glumly. In fact, I’m not even sure where the Black Mountains are! Sounds like something from Narnia.
“Do tell me if you hear from him, all right?” Karen asks.
“Definitely.” Although we haven’t spoken for days. “And you’ll keep trying to reach him?”
“Yes. I’ve been calling his mobile every hour, just on the off chance he answers. I’ve left so many messages, his voicemail is full.”
“I’ll text and try ringing, as well.” I’m itching now to hang up and start typing a message.
We promise to keep each other posted, and say goodbye. With lightening speed, I fire off a text to Jeremy asking him to get in touch with Karen, saying he’s needed in London on Tuesday. Then I hit ‘call’, praying he picks up. As expected, though, it clicks through to voicemail – and the message box is jammed.
Slumping on the sofa, I press my cold hands to hot cheeks. I’d gladly wring Gregor’s spindly neck right now if I could. Leaking stories is one thing, but picking on a charity? I type out another message to Jeremy as resolve pumps through me. I’ll text until my fingers are bloodied stumps – Gregor’s not getting away with this!
But by the time we leave Westport for my flight Monday evening, I still haven’t reached Jeremy. Judging by Karen’s radio silence, she hasn’t either. My fingers aren’t quite bloodied stumps, but I’ve sent so many texts my mobile provider put a temporary bar on my phone, thinking it was stolen. When I explained I’m just desperate to reach my boyfriend, I could almost see the guy on the other end rolling his eyes and mouthing ‘psycho’. Well, yes, I wanted to say. I will go psycho if Gregor’s plan works.
“Here we are.” Kirsty’s face is downcast as we pull up to Departures. “Please come back and see us soon.”
I touch my friend’s arm, thinking how strange it is, returning to London without her. “Don’t worry – that’s a given.” I cross my fingers that next time Jeremy will be by my side.
We climb from the car as Tim gets my bag from the trunk.
“Let me know how it goes with Jeremy, okay?” Kirsty throws an arm around me.
“I will.” I’ve been so focused on reaching him for Tuesday’s meeting I’ve barely had a chance to ponder how we might work things out.
I squeeze Kirsty a final time, hug Tim, and cuddle Jane. God, I’m going to miss them.
“Call when you get home,” Kirsty says, lifting Jane’s chubby hand in a wave. As I enter the bustling airport, I turn back to see the three of them standing together, a solid unit in the flow of passengers streaming into the terminal.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Please return your tables and chairs to the upright position in preparation for landing . . .”
I crack open an eye at the flight attendant’s droning voice, wondering if they’re trained to deliver the perfect nasal intonation. The word ‘nasal’ brings unpleasant thoughts of Gregor to mind, and my heart throbs with hope there’ll be a text from Jeremy or Karen when I land. Maybe, just maybe, Karen has been able to reach him.
I’ve been so jittery this whole flight even free wine couldn’t induce my usual drank-too-much drowsy state. I’d hoped to grab a few winks, since once we land I’ll need to head home, change, and go straight to work at Seven Days. But every time I closed my eyes, all I could think of was Jeremy.
I lean against the window as the plane traces the winding Thames, gliding above the London Eye, St James’s Park – oh, there’s Buckingham Palace! – then over Hyde Park, where I spot the Serpentine. London has given me so many memories, both good and bad. But most of all, it’s given me Jeremy. I can’t wait to touch the ground again, as if by reconnecting with the soil, I’ll be closer to the man I love. Gulping, I think of the obstacles ahead, hoping he wants to overcome them, too.
As the wheels bump onto the runway and we taxi to the terminal, I switch on my mobile and stare at the screen, eagerly awaiting a text informing me Jeremy’s in town. But the phone stays sullenly silent, and my heart sinks.
There’s still time, I tell myself. It’s only six in the morning, and the meeting can’t start before nine, right? It’s the first day back after Easter holidays – it makes sense he’d come home today. In fact, he’s probably on the motorway this very second! And even if worse comes to worse, Karen does have proof those allegations are false.
But despite my pep talk, I know deep down Karen’s right: if Jeremy’s not at the meeting, it doesn’t send a good message. And with all the other problems . . . I shake my head, crossing my fingers for the best.
Back at my dusty bedsit, I peel off my rumpled clothes and climb into the shower. After the pristine marble-tiled affair at Kirsty’s, my bathroom’s stained ceiling and cracked porcelain seem even more noticeable. Grabbing the handheld nozzle, I sluice rust-scented water over my body as quickly as possible. Then I unearth a clean pair of trousers from the back of the wardrobe, throw on another sweater, grab my handbag, and I’m out the door. What’s set in motion stays in motion, and I have a feeling if I stop moving, I might not start up again until tomorrow.
At Seven Days, I settle onto my cracked plastic chair and pull up today’s articles. There’s double the amount of text to check because of yesterday’s holiday, but burying my head in work is just what I need to kill time until Pick Up Sticks opens and I can talk to Karen.
Finally, the clock hits nine, and I hurriedly punch in the charity’s phone number.
“It’s Serenity,” I say when Karen answers.
“Oh, dear, I’ll have to call you back. The meeting is about to start.”
“With Jeremy?” I hold my breath he’s made it.
But the silence on the other end tells me everything I didn’t want to know. “I’m afraid not.”
“Oh,” I croak, as anxiety fills me. “What do you think will happen? The board can’t make any decisions without him, right?”
“Yes, actually, we can. The charity’s constitution states we only need quorum to pass a motion.” Voices echo in the background, and Karen’s muffled voice says she’ll be right there. “I’ve got to go. Talk soon.”
She clicks off, and I swivel in my squeaky chair as my mind tumbles through what to do next. Without Jeremy’s presence, though, I draw a blank.
“Hey!” Lizzie’s friendly face grins over the top of her crimson maxi dress as she plonks onto her seat. God, her cheeks are practically glowing with colour. “Good Easter weekend? It was mental at the market. Christ, just in time,” she whispers as Jonas’s bulk approaches.
“We’ve got twice as much to get through today,” he says,
with no preamble. “Both Beauty and Art. I’ll need them by five.”
Lizzie rolls her eyes at me as he walks away, then boots up her computer and gets stuck in. Try as I might to focus on the latest in self-tanning sunscreen (irony, anyone?), the words swim before me on the monitor. Forget turning orange: every bit of brain matter is focused on the meeting a few miles north of here.
Finally, when the clock reaches eleven and I can bear it no longer, I dial Pick Up Sticks’ number for the second time this morning.
“Karen!” My heart pumps as I await the news. “How did it go?”
“Well, not great,” she responds in a solemn tone. “Of course I was able to show our accounts are solid beyond any doubt. But the charity’s had so many troubles – coupled with Jeremy’s absence – the board wants to meet again next Monday with a strategy for moving forward. Or . . .”
“Or what?” I ask, bracing myself for her answer.
“Well, unless Jeremy develops a reasonable plan of action to cover operating costs, the other trustees seem to feel Pick Up Sticks has run its course.” Karen sounds glum. “My goodness, I wish we knew how to get in touch with that man.”
“Me, too.” I sigh, picturing Jeremy’s face when he returns to London to find the trustees are thinking of shutting down the charity. And what if he doesn’t come back until it’s too late?
I sit up straight as resolve washes over me. No matter the distance between us, Jeremy needs me now, even if he doesn’t know it. I think of Kirsty and Tim, and Kirsty’s happiness when Tim turned up out of the blue; the fact that the two of them can count on each other.
This is my chance to show Jeremy he can rely on me, by starting a plan to save Pick Up Sticks. Six days remain until the next trustee meeting, and a lot can happen in six days, Jeremy or not.
“Karen, can I meet you in the office around five-thirty?” I’ve no idea where to begin, but as treasurer, she’ll be able to tell me the financial target to aim for.
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