Summer in the City

by Robyn Sisman

  Suze wasn’t listening. So this was the woman Lloyd wanted to marry. Betsy was pretty, she had to admit—small and irritatingly slender, with a high, pale forehead that set off her dark hair and eyes, and a dainty little doll’s nose about half the size of Suze’s own. There was a helpless air about her, which men probably loved. Jealousy rose in her throat. She grabbed the frying pan from Betsy’s hand. “I’ll put this away,” she said brusquely. “Then I’ll call you a taxi.”

  Betsy’s startled face told her how rude she sounded. “I’m sorry,” Suze said ruefully. “I’m a bit tired from the traveling. Can I get you a drink?”

  Betsy hesitated, as if this were a crucial decision. “Oh, why not? I’m worn out. Nothing too strong, though.” She flicked her skirt under her bottom and sat herself neatly on one of Suze’s straight-backed chairs.

  On her way to the kitchen, Suze peeked into the other rooms. They all looked the same as ever, but somehow better, fresher . . . cleaner. The bedroom curtains were truly scarlet again; there was a new mat in the bathroom; the kitchen looked friendly and welcoming, its open window-sill crowded with luxuriantly blooming geraniums. She frowned dubiously at the frying pan in her hand: presumably it was hers; she seemed to remember a blackened, mottled affair. She stored it in the usual cupboard. Here, too, mighty Ajax had been at work. Homemaking must be Betsy’s big talent: not necessarily a bad one, Suze conceded. An object she had never seen before gleamed on the kitchen counter: her brand-new microwave oven, boon to the single woman. Suze opened the door curiously, then closed it again. Once she’d stopped despising the thing, it might turn out to be rather useful.

  Back in the sitting room she handed Betsy a weak spritzer and sat down on the sofa, cupping her glass of wine. Lloyd must be halfway to the airport now. Misery seeped into her veins.

  “So why did you come home early?” asked Betsy.

  Suze opened her mouth. Absolutely nothing came out. Didn’t Betsy know about her dinner with Lloyd? If not, where had Lloyd told her he was going tonight? Suze felt a hot blush spread across her face, as the seconds ticked by. God, this was embarrassing! Suddenly she thought of an inspired way out.

  “It was the keys—yes, that’s right, the keys. You see, yesterday when Lloyd and I were, um, having a business discussion on the phone, we suddenly realized we wouldn’t be able to get into our own flats. Ha ha ha.” She gave a manic laugh. “So we thought, why not meet for a drink? And a little something to eat. And swap keys. You know, before his plane left.” Suze tried to look casual. “Didn’t he mention it?”

  “No.”

  “You should have joined us.” Suze’s cheeks ached from jaunty smiling.

  “Should I?”

  “Except it would have been boring for you. Work stuff, you know. Boring, boring, boring.” Suze threw out one arm in an extravagant gesture and knocked her wineglass off the table. It flew halfway across the room and fell to the floor with a forlorn tinkle. Suze gave a sob of dismay and went over to kneel uncomfortably on the hard floor, picking up pieces and dropping them into the wastebasket. Suddenly she felt utterly despairing. I love him. She bent her head, trying not to cry. Her chest ached with the effort.

  Behind her back she heard Betsy say, in a low, wondering voice, “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

  Suze turned. She could feel the tears, wet on her eyelashes. She didn’t care who saw them. “Tell me what?” She sniffed.

  “Isn’t that typical?” Betsy murmured to herself, shaking her head and smiling. Then, more softly, “Isn’t that nice?”

  Suze stood up. “What?” she asked painfully. “What didn’t he tell me?”

  Betsy’s eyes traveled slowly to her face. She examined Suze as if coming to a decision. “Lloyd and I broke up.”

  “Broke up?” Suze faltered. It seemed her heart had stopped beating.

  “We’re not getting married.”

  “Not . . .?” Suze repeated.

  “I guess we finally realized we wanted different things.” Betsy was silent for a while, looking sad. “And lately,” she continued, “I’ve had the feeling he was thinking about someone else.” Her eyes darted inquiringly to Suze’s.

  Suze blinked with shock. Her heart was beating after all. “No,” she said firmly. “Honestly, Betsy, no.”

  “I knew right from the beginning there was something about you,” Betsy sighed. “Suze this, Suze that. I could hear it in his voice when he talked with you on the phone. He even told you that awful hardware-store joke he thinks is so funny.”

  Suze didn’t know what to say. She began pacing up and down the room, squirming under Betsy’s scrutiny.

  “Then you helped him with his work. I don’t understand how exactly, but I could see he thought you were wonderful.”

  Suze tried to hide the huge, foolish smile stretching her face. “It was no big deal. I just didn’t like the way the New York office was treating him.”

  Betsy continued as if Suze had not spoken. “I have to admit, I got pretty jealous.”

  “But I didn’t even meet him until tonight!”

  “Oh, I’m not saying we broke up because of you. It would have happened some time—better now than after we’d gotten married. But what about tonight? Why didn’t Lloyd tell me he was meeting you, unless he felt there was something between you two?”

  “But there isn’t! Lloyd is very nice, of course. I like him. But there’s nothing—I mean, we didn’t—” Suze faced Betsy. “It was a purely platonic business meeting.”

  “Really?” Betsy folded her arms and gave Suze an appraising stare. “Then how come you’re wearing his jacket?”

  There was a moment of absolute stillness. Suze looked down. Then she put her hands to her chest. Betsy was right. She was wearing Lloyd’s jacket.

  “I was cold,” she explained. Betsy’s eyebrows soared.

  The two women looked at one another. Betsy’s eyes were wistful, but not hostile.

  Suze started patting the pockets. “What about his money? And his ticket?”

  “Lloyd hates carrying things in his jacket. It’s one of his funny little ways.”

  At that moment, Suze felt something in a side pocket. She drew it out and held it up. It was the set of keys she had handed Lloyd at dinner—the keys to his New York apartment.

  “Uh-oh,” said Betsy. “The doorman gets very grouchy if anyone wakes him up in the middle of the night.”

  The same thought occurred to them simultaneously. Both consulted their watches with identical, synchronized flicks of the wrist, as if they had been practicing for weeks.

  “Isn’t there a cab rank around the corner?” Betsy mused.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “He’s worth it.”

  Suze felt herself inflating like a hot-air balloon, expanding with joy, high with impossible hope.

  “Meow,” said Chester.

  Suze jumped. She had forgotten all about him. Now what? She couldn’t possibly leave an adorable baby kitten alone in a strange flat.

  Suze looked at Betsy. Betsy looked at Suze: it was clear that she understood the situation perfectly. A resigned expression settled on her face. “I’ll take care of the cat,” she enunciated in flat, martyred tones.

  “Will you really?” Suze beamed.

  Betsy sneezed. “Just go.” She closed her eyes.

  “But how will—? What if—? Aren’t you off on holiday tomorrow with your mum?”

  Betsy looked coy. “There’s been a change of plan. ‘Mum’ ”—Betsy mouthed the word experimentally—“has decided to spend the week at a health farm. I’m going to Italy.” Her face was transformed by a shy, glowing smile. “There’s this Italian count I met at the hotel. He’s—” Betsy broke off. “Get going,” she ordered. “It’s a chance in a million, but you might just catch him.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Gate 26. Only two more to go. Lloyd checked his watch: eleven fifty-five. He should be hurrying. The passage stretched before him like a tunnel, as far as he could see.
A succession of advertisement panels lit the route into the gray, flickering distance. The people mover bore him slowly, inexorably forward along its black path. He didn’t even have to exert himself to walk.

  Gate 27. Now the passage was almost deserted; anonymous murmurings eddied back and forth. Outside, he could hear the roar of aircraft engines.

  Gate 28. This was it. Lloyd stepped off the people mover. He could see that the waiting room was empty. He turned toward it at a leaden, sleepwalker’s pace; he couldn’t bring himself to run. As he approached, a familiar copyline caught his eye: “Passion—it’s the only way.” Lloyd gave a mocking, inward sneer. The photograph showed a young couple in a hammock on a tropical beach. The image was seductive, the mood upbeat, the message optimistic. How crass, he thought, how falsely persuasive. Airplanes weren’t fun; travel was not romantic. There was no happily ever after. He thought of all the fantasies he had purveyed for other people. Buy this, do that and your life will be wonderful. But real life didn’t come pretty and slickly packaged. Real life was cruel. Real life showed you the most desirable woman in the world, then snatched her away.

  A uniformed woman awaited him, smiling but impatient. “Mr. Rockwell? You’re just in time. We’re closing the flight now. May I see your boarding pass?”

  Lloyd fumbled in his bag. He found the pass and gave it to the woman. She tore off the stub and handed it back. “Enjoy your flight to New York.”

  Lloyd passed through the entrance and onto the pontoon that led to the plane. His heavy steps bounced on the springy flooring.

  The fact was, he didn’t know Suze. It was impossible to fall in love with someone after one meeting. He’d been indulging in pure fantasy.

  Her chest hurt. Hair was flopping in her face. She had taken off her ridiculous high heels at the entrance of the terminal and was now racing and skidding across the floor in her stockinged feet, trying to check the departures information screen as she ran. A red light was winking next to the New York flight, indicating takeoff in five minutes.

  Suze headed for the nearest airline desk, bent to put her shoes back on and strode to the head of the queue. “Emergency!” She made her voice bossy and posh. “Urgent message from Ten Downing Street. Let me through.” The crowd drew back, impressed.

  “Rockwell,” she told the official. “Lloyd Rockwell. Has he checked in?”

  He eyed her skeptically. She raised her chin. Slowly, methodically, he consulted his records. “Yes, he has. May I ask—?”

  “It’s imperative that I speak with him. I have an urgent message. Top priority. Can I go through to the gate?”

  “Quite impossible, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s very important. I, er, I have security clearance.”

  “Might I see your identification?”

  Suze’s confident front crumbled. “Please,” she begged.

  His eyes moved indifferently beyond her. “Next?”

  Tears gathered in her eyes; she brushed them away. She wasn’t giving up. Suze turned around, scanning the terminal. “INFORMATION,” said a sign. She dashed toward it. She would page him. He would hear her message and he would think . . . Never mind what he would think. She was beyond embarrassment.

  She thought of his blue eyes, his warm voice, the energy that had crackled between them. Afterward he could leave, if he still wanted to. First, she wanted to tell him that she loved him.

  Lloyd rounded the final curve of the pontoon. There before him was the open aircraft door. A flight attendant stood in its metal jaws. On her breast pocket was a bright red heart.

  Lloyd stopped.

  What was it Jay had once said? Love. It’s the only thing. Of course you could fall in love, just like that. No one promised it would be easy.

  So what was he doing?

  Jay was right.

  He had to go back.

  “I’m sorry,” he shouted. “Go without me!”

  Then he turned on his heel and ran back along the springy corridor, through the gate, past the bemused flight attendant, into the waiting room and out into the passage beyond. Here he settled in a steady, uninhibited lope, his misery and his tension dropping away with every step. The dam burst. Emotion flooded his body, warm and welcome and cleansing, foaming through his veins.

  Passengers coming in the other direction glanced at him in alarm and moved to clear his path. Lloyd laughed aloud. He didn’t care what they thought. He didn’t care what anyone thought. He felt powerful, invincible, unstoppable, free. For once, he knew he was doing the right thing.

  Suze’s expressive face floated before him. Of course he knew her! He had slept in her bed. He had helped her cook dinner. He had listened to her cry. He knew she tore the tops off cereal boxes; he knew which was her underwear drawer; he knew she liked bright colors, Frank Lloyd Wright, canned tomato soup and Simply Red. Well, no one was perfect.

  He burst out of the passage and sprinted back the way he’d come, through the almost empty shopping mall. Ahead of him now were the baggage X-ray machines. He made for the metal-detector archway; beyond was Passport Control and the public concourse. He was almost there.

  Suddenly something blocked his vision. He felt a thump in the chest. A large, bland-looking official was barring his way. “Now then, young man, what’s the hurry?”

  Lloyd stopped, panting and bemused. His eyes scanned the terminal as he cast about for an explanation. Then the miracle happened.

  On the other side of the passport desk, pacing back and forth, looking furious, was Suze. Lloyd’s mouth dropped open; he must be hallucinating. As if aware of his gaze, she looked up and saw him. They stared at each other in shocked delight. Then she grinned and reached into her jacket—his jacket—and pulled out something which she dangled high in the air: his keys.

  The official repeated his question.

  “I forgot something,” Lloyd replied, gazing over the man’s shoulder into Suze’s eyes.

  “It must be very important, sir.”

  She was lit up like a Christmas tree. She was fizzing like a firework. And it was all for him. Lloyd smiled.

  “It is.”

  Acknowledgments

  I welcome this opportunity to thank the many people who facilitated the writing of this novel by providing practical help and information; flaws that remain are my own: Mark Baker, Carole Blake, Richard Ehrlich, Deanna Filippo, Tamara Glenny, Lizzie Grubman, Nadine Johnson, Esther Kaposi, George and Marjorie Misiewicz, Christina Oxenberg, Lucy Sisman, Francisca von Walderdorff, Tamie Watters and Jane Wentworth.

  Special thanks go to Louise Moore, my editor, for her unfailing loyalty, optimism and professionalism.

  My greatest debt, as always, is to my husband Adam, whose generosity of heart and mind is beyond measure.