Now Is Our Time

by Jo Kessel

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Twelve hours later the phone rang, stirring Claire rudely from slumber. She’d been looking forward to a lie-in. 09.00. Ugh. She’d got back late and slept only fitfully. The evening’s dramas had been playing on a loop in her mind - Jonah’s voice, his touch and the dreamy moment their lips had reconnected after thirteen long years. She brusquely pulled the handset off its charger.

  “Hello,” she mumbled.

  “You dark horse.” Her mother screeched so loudly into her ear that any chance of Claire dozing off again was instantly undone. “How could you not tell me?”

  Oh, no! Her mother must somehow have found out about Jonah. She’d always told her when she was growing up that she had ‘eyes on the back of her head’ and now Claire was actually starting to believe her. Had she been outside the Dorchester, or in Hyde Park, or driving along Park Lane? Or perhaps that wasn’t it at all. Claire clapped a hand over her mouth. Paparazzi had been hanging around outside the entrance to Nobu but they hadn’t appeared even remotely interested as she and Jonah had left. It’s not as if Jonah’s star was in the ascendant any more. Who could possibly be interested in him? Or was she being naive?

  “Oh no,” Claire groaned. “Don’t tell me I’m in the papers.”

  “Papers?” her mother sounded confused. “I don’t know about any papers. But you’ve been on the TV all morning. Every fifteen minutes.”

  Every fifteen minutes? Claire sat bolt upright and scanned her room for the remote control.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re making gooseberry fool on Morning Cuppa. And oh, darling, what a mess with the fruit and the milk and the whisk……..shame, you poor thing. But I thought you looked lovely if that’s any consolation? And so did your father.”

  Ah, there was the remote, on her dressing table. Miriam must have moved it. Claire jumped out of bed to grab it, aiming it at the TV set as she pressed the ‘On’ button. She clicked to Channel 3. Damn. The end credits were rolling. She’d missed it!

  “Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

  Her tone reeked with irritation.

  “Well, I imagined you must have known about it. And why on earth you didn’t think to tell me is anybody’s guess. I’m always the last person to know about everything. Your sister’s just the same.”

  Her sister Jacqui had been living in Hong Kong for the last five years, so it was no surprise her mother knew little going on in her life.

  “It was a last minute thing which only happened yesterday. It was a screen test. There was a clue in the title. Why are they even broadcasting it?”

  “Oh, well,” said her mother, “I can answer that, actually. It wasn’t just you who they showed doing a nutrition slot, there were two other women and one rather dashing man. It’s the viewers who get to decide who they want to be the new TV Nutritionist. Apparently they can vote on You Tube.”

  “Mum,” said Claire, running downstairs to turn on her computer. “I’ll speak to you later. I’ve got to go.”

  -----------------

  Fifteen minutes later, Claire clicked ‘Play’ for the tenth time on the video of her which was posted on You Tube. It was painful to watch. No, it was tortuous. The actual segment they’d filmed had lasted about eight minutes, but what they’d put online was a quick-cut, edited version of all her worst bits. ‘Out-takes’ she thought they called it in the business. Tomatoes tumbling and splattering to the floor when she’d tried to remove some from the bowl. The milk she’d heated for the gooseberry fool over-boiling. The food processor exploding when she’d tried to puree the cooked gooseberries. She hadn’t realised how many times she’d said oops but she must have said it at least a hundred and, each time that she had, she’d done some idiotic jazz-hand gesticulation to accompany it. It had been a car crash, just like she’d known, but oh, the public humiliation! It hadn’t been for hundreds to see. So much for gooseberry fool! The only thing looking foolish was her.

  She picked up the phone and called Georgia.

  “Oh my God, did you know about this?”

  Claire hadn’t realised that she was capable of screeching louder than even her mother but it suddenly appeared she’d inherited that gene.

  “About what?” Georgia asked.

  “Are you at a computer?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Go to You Tube and type in my name together with Morning Cuppa.”

  The phone went quiet on the other end as Georgia did what she was told, and then Claire could hear the video playing over the phone line.

  “Hideous, isn’t it?” Claire screeched when she could hear it had finished.

  It went quiet on the other end again.

  “Are you still there George?”

  “Yes,” her friend replied. “But hang on a sec, just let me check something out.”

  Georgia went quiet again. And then, after a couple of minutes, she gasped loudly.

  “This is great,” said Georgia, her voice full of excitement.

  “Great?”

  Claire had always considered her friend to be intelligent but now she was seriously having doubts. How her looking a fool making gooseberry fool was ‘great’ she had no idea.

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Claire said.

  “Well,” replied Georgia, “I’ve just seen it’s a competition and you’ve had one and a half million votes so far. The next best contender only has five hundred votes. You’re way ahead. In fact, I’d say that you’re pretty much going viral.”

  “Going viral? I don’t want to go viral. I want that video taken off You Tube. I look like an idiot.”

  “The public clearly loves you.”

  Claire was getting frustrated.

  “No they don’t. I’m getting the pity vote. They feel sorry for me. Get them to take it off. Please,” she pleaded.

  “Calm down,” Georgia laughed. “This is good news, not bad news. You’re going to get the job.”

  “I don’t want the job, I want my pride.”

  “Ok, I’ll see what I can do,” her friend reassured. “But let’s put that aside just for a couple of minutes and discuss what’s really important. Tell me about Jonah.”

  ----------------

  If a psychologist were to analyse Claire’s habit for mentally ‘putting things in a box’ to deal with later, they would probably give this trait some psychobabble label like denial. Being brutally honest with herself, she’d put most of the baggage of her divorce into a box to never open again. Yesterday she’d refused to think about Jonah until after the screen test. And right now she refused to worry about foolish videos going viral. Not properly dealing with things had become her coping mechanism ever since the horror of what they’d done nearly fourteen years ago.

  In keeping with her philosophy of denial, now was most definitely not the time for thinking about any of these matters because now the most important job in hand was to get the house ready. She’d invited Jonah round for dinner and not only did she need to decide what to cook, she needed to make the place more presentable. Not because she believed that Jonah would actually care about the mess, but for her own self-esteem. She wanted to feel proud of whom she was and where she lived and the sealed cardboard boxes scattered around her home like carelessly discarded pieces of Lego, were eyesores. Everything from every single cupboard, from clothes to crockery to toiletries, had been packed away whilst the property had been fumigated and she’d scarcely unpacked a tenth of it yet. Still wearing her pyjamas, she started in the kitchen, attacking the gaffer tape seal to one container with a penknife before slowly, bit by bit, putting plates back on shelves and returning tumblers to the glass display cabinet where they belonged.

  Recipes wafted through her head as she robotically sorted through each room replacing objects to their rightful spot. One of her passions used to be experimenting with food but, since Miriam’s arrival, she’d prioritised spending quality time with her daughter over making complicated dishes. It turned out th
at Miriam didn’t have the most sophisticated of palettes anyway and it had been a case of the simpler the better.

  She knew she would have fun creating something a bit fancier for tonight, and yet she didn’t want it to appear as if she was trying too hard either, or to slave over a stove in front of her guest. Whatever she served would ideally be prepared ahead of time. Creamy fish pie……pasta……roast chicken……….slow-cooked lamb in the oven………..barbecue?

  For the second year in a row, Britain was in the grip of a rare and uplifting heat-wave. Indeed, according to the pest exterminator, moths had become endemic in the South East as a direct result of last summers’ high temperatures. Forecasts had regularly boasted that it was hotter in London than in Rome, Barcelona and even Mumbai. The weather had been so reliably good that, last year, Claire had invested in a proper gas barbecue, rendering the ridiculous little disposable aluminium ones that she’d previously used redundant. It wasn’t cheap, but it was worth every penny. It was the first summer that she and Miriam had been without Anthony. The pleasure of eating freshly barbecued food in the garden had taken some of the sting out of the pain and given mother and daughter fresh new memories.

  With the boxes all unpacked, Claire took a shower before dressing in a pair of high-cut fraying denim shorts with a black vest t-shirt and heading out to the shops. She smiled as she allowed herself to remember the night before. “When can I see you again,” Jonah had asked as they’d walked hand in hand back to the tube station. She’d been anticipating an invite back to his room at the Dorchester but it hadn’t come. And because everything was already happening so fast, part of her was relieved. Instead he’d hugged her so tightly that she sensed he really didn’t want to let her go. When he did finally release her he’d murmured in her hair. “It’s taken me so long to find you again, please don’t make me wait too long.” Without hesitation she’d whispered back, “Tomorrow. Come to mine tomorrow.”

  They’d exchanged telephone numbers and as Claire entered the supermarket a text message buzzed through.

  I’m meant to be commentating on tennis and all I can think about is you. What time shall I come later? X

  Whilst Claire had been on a couple of blind dates since the divorce, nobody had been special enough to be invited to the house. She longed more than anything for Jonah to meet Miriam, but was concerned that it was a bit soon. For some reason she also instinctively felt that Anthony and Jonah’s paths shouldn’t yet cross either. Anthony was returning Miriam at 8 p.m. and half an hour later she would be in bed, fast asleep.

  Is 8.45pm too late?

  77 Gladstone Road

  NW3 1AS

  X

  She’d only just sent the reply and picked up a shopping basket when Georgia called. Claire answered.

  “I’m in the supermarket,” she warned, “and sometimes the phone cuts out when I move deeper inside. If it does I’ll call you back later.”

  “No problem,” said Georgia. “What are you making?”

  “I thought I’d do a barbecue - marinated meats with salads. What do you reckon?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “So,” she said, eyeing up the burgers. “Has Mary Poppins sorted out the video yet?”

  “Um, about that-

  Georgia’s apologetic starter made Claire sense trouble.

  “No bad news,” she interrupted, moving towards the chicken counter. “Please. I mean, crikey, what if Jonah saw it? I’d be mortified.”

  “Well,” Georgia started, “I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “Bad.”

  Claire always believed in getting the worst over and done with.

  “Ok, you signed a release form, and that release form gives them permission to broadcast anything they filmed with you. So there’s really nothing you or I or the hottest lawyer in town can do. Did you not read the form before you signed?”

  Georgia was sounding ominously like Anthony. That was exactly the sort of question he would have asked Claire in this situation. One of his mantras was ‘don’t sign anything without reading it through properly first.’ Claire had known this, but the release form was three A4 pieces of paper long and packed with small print. The researcher who’d handed her the pen had reassured that it was no big deal, just a formality. And so Claire put her signature on the dotted line.

  “Tell me this isn’t happening,” said Claire. “Tell me there’s something we can do?”

  Georgia bypassed her question.

  “Do you want the good news now?” she asked instead.

  “It better be very good,” Claire sighed.

  “Have you not been on the computer since we last spoke?”

  “No, because unlike the majority of the population, it would appear that my world does not revolve around a screen. I had other, more pressing things to tend to.”

  “Well, you should be happy with what I’m about to tell you. Or at least see the funny side. Trust me. Most people would be green with envy at the situation you’re now in. You’re clearly hitting the spot with the public. I was exaggerating when I told you that the video had gone viral this morning, but now it really has. They’re even watching in America. Do you know how many votes you’ve now had? You could be gastronomy’s answer to Susan Boyle. Hell, you might give Charlie Bit My Finger a run for its money. You’ve had t-

  The phone cut off.

  ----------------

  Happy: it’s such a simple word, and yet its very state can be so elusive. Georgia thought her new viral status should be making her ‘happy’. And Jonah had asked her an innocuous enough question last night which had hinged on just that. “Were you happy with Anthony?” Back at home, as Claire cut three lemons in half and squeezed the juice into a bowl, she thought about how she’d answered his question. She’d paused for longer than she ought to have done, her brain whirring overtime, trying to work out the ‘right’, or at least the ‘honest’ answer. In the end her reply had been feebly noncommittal. “I guess,” is what she’d said.

  But now, as she added olive oil, rosemary and finely chopped garlic to the lemon juice and stirred the mixture, she forced her mind to linger on the question of happiness. Had she and Anthony ever been truly happy? She thought they had, certainly at the beginning. She’d been intrigued by him and his exotic mixed race genes. His dark, chocolate skin had been as far removed aesthetically from Jonah as she could possibly get, which had helped prevent comparisons from being made. Although it hadn’t escaped her notice that both Jonah and Anthony shared one pivotal personality trait. Their competitive streaks were both off the radar and she’d wondered whether her attraction to men who were driven by winning said more about her than about them. She didn’t feel as if she had a competitive bone in her body – she was very British in that respect. It’s not the winning that matters, it’s the taking part. Jonah had laughed in her face at that phrase. “That’s utter bullshit,” he’d retorted. Perhaps on some subconscious level, however, she needed to be with someone who was more driven than her, a yin to her yang. That didn’t seem to make sense though, when what she thought she wanted was an easy, non-confrontational life.

  She’d thrown herself into a relationship with Anthony, trying desperately to move on from the past, but after the initial honeymoon period and birth of Miriam, the cracks had started to show. Something had been missing, something which possibly had never even been there in the first place, but she’d not wanted to admit to this. And her dissatisfaction with their marriage had turned her into someone she hadn’t recognised. Someone snappy, impatient and intolerant – whatever Anthony did, he didn’t do right in her eyes. He wasn’t impulsive enough, he wasn’t romantic enough, he wasn’t thankful enough. He worked too hard and it felt as if he was never there for them, both emotionally and physically. In the end she didn’t have the energy or desire to wallpaper over the cracks. It had felt easier and preferable to let it go, for everybody’s sakes. They were definitely not each others’ soul mates and it
had been clear that Anthony felt the same way. He’d allegedly found his ‘real’ soul mate just a few measly months after they had separated and they’d had a baby straight away. Even though she hadn’t wanted to be with him any more, receiving the news had felt like a ball being thwacked into her stomach at 150 mph.

  Claire carefully spooned her freshly prepared marinade onto the chicken thighs and burgers she’d bought earlier. She believed in soul mates, and she also knew, hand on heart, that Anthony had never been the one. And the reason she knew was because she’d already found hers. Now that he’d come back into her life, she couldn’t quite fathom why she had let him go in the first place. Somehow it had all made more sense at the time.

  She smiled to herself as she popped the tray of marinating meats into the fridge, remembering the heady, tingling sensation she’d felt all over as she’d tasted Jonah’s warm lips on hers last night. It had felt comfortingly familiar and yet excitingly new. Her skin still prickled as she closed her eyes, remembering his touch, his voice, his breath on her neck. The anticipation was almost too much. He’d be here in an hour and a half and the butterfly flutters in her stomach were betraying her calm exterior.