by Fiore, Rosie
‘What’s our next meeting after this?’ she asked on the train back to the city.
‘We’re seeing the lawyers at two, to talk about transAtlantic legal issues.’
‘I need a few hours to catch up on things,’ Jo said. ‘I’ll meet you there.’
She had her camera in her bag, and she took a long walk down to the Hudson River, snapping things that caught her eye. She ended up gazing up at the Brooklyn Bridge. Something was bothering her – something other than Lee. She took out her phone, and ignoring the cost, she dialled Richard.
‘Jo!’ he said, surprised, but clearly pleased to hear from her. ‘How’s it all going?’
‘A bit like The Wizard of Oz, but I think I’m still caught in the tornado.’
‘Ah, Verity Ellis’s reputation does precede her. She is something of a force of nature. What’s she been showing you?’
Jo ran through a brief outline of the things she’d seen and the people she’d met. When she finished, Richard said, ‘Goodness me, she really does seem to be trying to woo you.’
‘She seems to see the move to the US as a foregone conclusion. She keeps talking in terms of “when”, not “if”.’
‘Loads of people would be beside themselves to have this opportunity … The States is an enormous, lucrative market, and Verity Ellis knows more about breaking into it than anyone.’
‘But …?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Come on, Richard. I’ve been working with you for long enough to spot the “but” in your tone of voice.’
‘There’s no “but”.’ There was a short silence. ‘But—’
Jo burst out laughing. ‘I knew it!’
‘All I would say is this: go with your gut. I’ve checked out Verity’s proposals six ways, and you’d retain plenty of creative control, and we’d stand to make loads of money. It looks like a win–win. But you have to be happy. You have to feel this is the right thing for you.’ He laughed softly. ‘Listen to me – I’m going soft in my old age. “Go with your gut.” They’d kick my arse in the City for saying something like that.’
‘Thank you, Richard,’ she said. ‘If I ever needed proof that you were absolutely the right person to partner with, I just had it.’
The meetings that afternoon were successful, and when the last lawyer had left, Verity turned to Jo.
‘It wouldn’t be a trip to the Big Apple if I didn’t take you to The View,’ she said.
‘The View?’
‘You’ll see.’
The View, it transpired, was a revolving restaurant, forty-eight floors above Times Square. If she was in New York, she was going to have the full experience, thought Jo, so she ordered a Cosmopolitan at the bar. She knew it was tacky, but she gave her camera to Verity to take pictures of her sitting on the bar stool sipping her drink, with the breathtaking view over her shoulder.
They were shown to a table, and looked out at the low rays of sun bouncing off the glass canyons below them.
‘I love this city,’ said Verity, sipping her drink. ‘Anything is possible here. Absolutely anything. And Jo … it’s yours.’
‘What is?’
‘The city. You can take it. Now we’ve looked at the competition, the set-up costs, the possible premises, I think Jungletown US will be a winner. I feel it in my water, and I’m never wrong. Take a look at those streets, baby, because you’re about to own them.’
Jo looked. She imagined being the woman who bought her coffee at Starbucks each day and walked to her office in her trainers with her Louboutins in her bag. She imagined a flagship store in the East Village and new shops springing up all the way across the States. She imagined Zach and Imi in matching duffel coats boarding a yellow school bus and shouting, ‘Bye, Mom!’
Verity had gone quiet, so Jo started describing her photography project. To be honest, because she didn’t really know what she had been trying to do, she wasn’t able to articulate it very well, but she kept talking. The changing vista and the bar turning, albeit slowly, made the Cosmopolitan do the work of three drinks and she soon felt quite giggly. She was a lightweight. A few years of pregnancy and breastfeeding, followed by a few more years of frequently broken nights, meant she usually drank very little, and felt the effects very quickly.
Verity, on the other hand, who was drinking whisky on the rocks, seemed very sober. Jo remembered from their night out clubbing that Verity seemed to have an enormous capacity for alcohol, without showing any ill effects. She was vaguely conscious that she was talking much more than Verity was. Jet lag, overstimulation and exhaustion were combining to make her drop her guard.
‘So, Verity,’ she said searchingly, ‘are you happy? I mean, really happy?’
Verity regarded her coolly. ‘Is this the part where we have a big heart-to-heart?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ stuttered Jo. ‘I just, you know, wanted to know. You’ve made some difficult choices, and achieved amazingly. But it must have come at a price.’
‘Must it?’
‘Of course. You can’t have everything. No one can.’
‘I think I have everything,’ said Verity. ‘I love my work, and I have as much money as I need for the things I enjoy.’
‘But …’
‘But what? I don’t have a husband and two lovely kids and a cute suburban semi and fulfilment?’
‘That’s not what I meant. But there is more to life than work …’
‘There is,’ said Verity, and Jo could see she was getting a little irritated. ‘I’m just not sure why you assume I don’t have it. As it happens, I am married. I’ve been with the same person for ten years, and a couple of years ago, when they changed the law in New York State, she became my wife. We have a great house that we renovated ourselves, we have dogs we adore, loads of good friends, and we’re godparents to my brother’s kids, whom we see most weekends. We sail, we belong to a book club, we throw parties. Does it sound to you like I don’t have it all? And before you jump to conclusions, it’s not because I’m gay and childless. I can take you out now and introduce you to fifty successful, married women with children who are at the top of their professions in this city.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jo shamefacedly. She suddenly didn’t feel quite so drunk after all.
‘This isn’t some nineties romcom, Jo, where the woman has to choose between her job and her family. There’s a world of difference between what you can have, and what you want to have.’
Verity took a massive gulp of her drink. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so harsh.’
‘You weren’t harsh,’ said Jo. ‘Just truthful.’
‘Was it easier when you could pretend I was a hard-boiled, ball-breaking businesswoman with an empty and meaningless existence?’
‘Was what easier?’
‘Making the decision not to bring Jungletown to the States.’
As Jo opened her mouth to protest, she realised she had made the decision. She’d made it standing by the Brooklyn Bridge talking to Richard. She’d made it when she realised that taking pictures for Lee was more exciting than going to a meeting with lawyers.
‘It’s not a no,’ said Jo. ‘It’s a not yet. The timing isn’t right for me and my family, and it’s not the right time for the brand. I think Jungletown has to do some growing up as a company before we go international.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I’m glad we went through this process. It’s been great spending time with you, and I’ve learned a lot. It’s still hands down the best children’s clothing retail idea I’ve come across. If you change your mind about starting up here and want to just sell a franchise, give me a call.’
Jo nodded. Verity was being very magnanimous, and she had no doubt that as soon as she was on the plane, Verity would try to proceed with her own version of Jungletown. Jo made a note to ring Richard first thing to make sure their brand, their designs and their name were locked down and trademarked. She had no doubt that if Verity got her way, the US stores would be highly
commercial, with mass-produced clothing and children’s entertainers controlling the action. Jungletown’s charm was in the higgledy-piggledy way it was run – part mad magical interior, part Holly’s lively designs and Mel’s quirky personality, part Jo herself. And that was what she wanted to preserve. That, and to go home to Zach and Imi and Lee.
She wished Verity goodbye and made her way back to her hotel. She downloaded all the pictures from her camera on to her laptop, and spent three hours cropping and adjusting them and deleting some that were no good. When she had twenty shots she liked, she opened some free blogging software, created a page and started to type.
My love,
A while ago, you asked me for help, and I was too busy to listen. I’m sorry I let you down. I know I can’t fix that, but I wanted you to know I am there for you, in any way you need me.
I want to give you the gift of inspiration. I walked the streets of this incredible city, and because I missed you so much, I tried to see it with your eyes. I hope something in here lights a little spark in you. I’ll be home in less than forty-eight hours, and I hope that together we can fan that spark into life.
I love you,
Jo
She uploaded the pictures one by one, captioning them where they needed explanation, letting some of them speak for themselves. By the time she finished and looked at the time, it was 2 a.m. Lee would just be getting up with the kids, probably sitting on the sofa watching a cartoon with Zach while Imi sprawled on his lap and drank her milk. She wished with all her heart she was on that sofa too. She took out her mobile and texted a web address to him – www.lovelettertolee.com.
She closed down her laptop, rang reception and booked a wake-up call and crawled into bed. She was cold, her body ached from sitting still for so long and she was very, very tired. She had just dozed off when her phone rang. She answered it sleepily.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey, you.’ Lee’s voice sounded raw and hoarse.
‘You okay?’
‘What? Yeah.’
‘It sounds very quiet in the background.’
‘I’m out in the garden. Mum and Dad are inside, giving the kids breakfast, and they’re going to take them to the soft-play centre.’
‘That’s brave of them.’
‘Well, I begged them to. I’m paying.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I got your love letter.’
‘Oh.’
‘Jo … it’s the most beautiful thing … I think the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever made for me. But I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you.’
‘Oh, my love, I’m the one who should be saying that. I’ve been the most self-obsessed, selfish cow for the last few months, and I’ve let you down, time after time—’
‘Jo,’ said Lee, and she thought she could hear him crying. ‘I need to tell you something.’
She listened while he told her about Miranda. He didn’t try to justify his actions, or put any of the blame on her. He just baldly, honestly, told her how he had let a playground friendship get out of hand to satisfy his ego, knowing that Miranda was vulnerable, lonely and grieving. When he told her about the kiss, Jo felt ill. So ill that she thought she might actually have to drop the phone and run to the bathroom to vomit. After a while, she realised he had stopped talking.
‘Jo?’ he said, obviously terrified of the silence from her end of the line.
‘You know, it’s funny – when you rang, it reminded me of the last time we spoke on the phone when I was staying in a hotel. Do you remember?’
‘The night we said we loved each other. I’ll never forget it.’
‘Wow. How times change.’
‘I still love you, Jo. I love you a thousand times more than I did that night, and I loved you a lot then.’
‘Those are good words, but they’re just words.’
‘They’re not just words.’
‘Last night, you loved me so much you kissed another woman while our children were asleep in the next room.’
‘I’m sorry. I will be sorry every day for the rest of my life. Please. Just come home.’
‘I can’t talk to you any more now,’ said Jo. ‘I have to sleep. Bye.’ And she cut off the call. She wasn’t lying. The urge to sleep overcame her like a powerful sedative and she curled into a ball under the quilt and closed her eyes. It wasn’t until the 11 a.m. wake-up call roused her that she saw her pillow was wet and she had been crying in her sleep.
She was leaving on an evening flight, landing in London early the following morning. She spent the day wandering the streets. She took no photographs, but she bought gifts for the kids and for Holly and Mel. Then, on impulse, she walked into the Christian Louboutin store on Madison Avenue and maxed out her credit card on a pair of insanely spectacular sky-high heels. She might not be getting New York, but she could still have the shoes.
She spent a lot of the flight staring at the blackness outside the aeroplane window and trying to wrestle a fraction of armrest from the garlic-scented obese American who snored beside her. It wasn’t the ideal environment in which to think through potentially life-altering events, and in the end she gave up and dozed. What would she do when she came through the arrivals gate and saw Lee? She didn’t know. All she knew was that if he brought her flowers, she was going to tell him where to stick them, one by one. Sideways.
She disembarked and made her way through to the arrivals hall. As soon as she came through the doors, she was almost knocked flying by the Zach whirlwind. He jumped into her arms and started talking so quickly she could barely hear a word. He was trying to get all his news out at once, and she laughed and kissed his chubby cheeks, breathing in the smell of his hair and skin like a drug. Lee was standing back, holding Imi on his hip. Jo struggled over, still holding Zach and dragging her case.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi.’
She couldn’t work out who looked more apprehensive – Lee, who was staring at her face, trying to read her expression, or Imi, who seemed overwhelmed with shyness and wouldn’t look at her at all. She dropped the handle of her case and stepped closer, so she could gather up Imi with her other arm. She hugged both her children as if her life depended on it, then turned to Lee.
‘Let’s go home,’ she said.
They barely spoke on the drive back to Hendon. Zach had a million things to say, and he and Imi sang ‘Incy Wincy Spider’ (or an approximation thereof) about twenty times, so the lack of conversation wasn’t awkward. When they got home, Jo opened her suitcase and let the children pull everything out of it in search of presents. She’d hidden small things inside socks, under jumpers and folded flat in the various compartments of her suitcase. By the end of it, the living room was strewn with her underwear, but Zach and Imi were ecstatic.
They all had something to eat, and it was soon clear that both kids were exhausted. Jo took them both upstairs and put them either side of her on the big bed. Within minutes, they were both asleep. She slipped from between them and went back downstairs. Lee was sitting at the table, his iPad in front of him.
‘I know we have a lot to talk about,’ he said, ‘but I wanted to show you something. It’s my response to your love letter.’ He looked wretched, and his eyes were full of tears. ‘Please, Jo, will you look at it?’
She nodded reluctantly. ‘Okay,’ she said, sitting down at the table.
Lee passed her the iPad. ‘Open this,’ he said, pointing to an icon on the screen.
Jo tapped on the icon and it opened a blog page, not unlike the one she had sent to Lee. It contained a series of images. The first was the title page of a book – a children’s book. In quirky, scribbled script across the top were the words The Adventures of Flo and Jack and Pimmy. Below the title, there was a drawing of a little girl, with poker-straight yellow-blonde hair (it looked as if Lee had drawn the hair using a bright yellow highlighter pen), a turned-up nose and a fiercely determined expression. There was something very familiar about her, an
d with a start, Jo realised she was looking at herself. Lee had re-imagined her as a feisty cartoon six-year-old. The little girl, Flo, was holding a toy lion with a crazy, curly mane and a mischievous expression. At her feet sat a white Persian kitten, her paws tidily together, with wide, bright green eyes. The lion and kitten, Jack and Pimmy, were clearly meant to be Zach and Imi. The drawing style was cartoonish and free, using strong black lines and occasional vivid flashes of colour, like Flo’s hair and Pimmy’s eyes. The background was a photograph, which Lee had faded and made transparent. She recognised it as a shot of the front of their house, with the twin lemon trees in pots that flanked their front door. The style made the idea of the book clear – little Flo lived a vivid imaginary life, and the real world faded into the background when she went on adventures with her trusty sidekicks.
She clicked on to the next page.
‘Today, Flo is a cowgirl.’ Flo was standing, legs apart and hands on her hips. She was wearing a cowboy hat that was too small for her, and Jo recognised it as one from Zach’s toy box. She thought it had originally belonged to a teddy bear. Flo was also wearing a red-and-white checked gingham dress, which was a remarkably accurate rendition of the dress Jo had worn all those years before in the first performance project she had done with Lee. The background was the outside of a bar, and Lee had hand-drawn a sign that hung jauntily on it. The sign said ‘Saloon’, but Jo recognised the bar as the Rosie, their student local.
The next page said, ‘Then she is a fairy.’ This time Lee had drawn Flo in a sparkly white dress, wearing ballet shoes, with small gossamer wings (although the wings were clearly secured with rather frayed elastic). The faded backdrop was Sadler’s Wells, and she knew he was drawing her that night at the theatre, just before they had declared their love. Jack the lion and Pimmy the kitten were in the audience, applauding wildly.