by Jo Kessel
“Hello?”
“Hello babe,” Jonah began, slightly shyly. “I know you’re probably busy but I had a spare moment and just wanted to say hey.”
In the same way that Claire had attempted to wear a fake smile for Anthony the other day, she now tried to inject levity into her tone.
“Ok then, ‘hey’.”
Her response was intended to sound like a joke, but its delivery came across as more abrupt than funny.
“How’s it going?”
Claire started tapping on the keyboard nervously.
“Busy, busy,” she said. Perhaps if Jonah thought that she was multi-tasking, she might appear less strained. Her mouth felt disconnected from her brain.
“Did you hear more news from the show?”
Claire stopped typing and tried to focus all her energy on the conversation.
“Err, no, not really, except they’re pretty sure that Mondays will be my regular slot day.”
She forced brightness into her voice, confident the result must sound so convincing that even Orlando Goodman would give her acting skills the thumbs up. Silence descended on the crackling phone line as she waited for Jonah to speak.
“Are you alright?” Jonah finally asked.
“Of course I’m alright.”
“It’s just you sound……”
“Sound what?”
“Different,” said Jonah.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’m just tired. How are things going your end?”
She needed to shift the conversation away from herself.
This time it was he who sounded distracted.
“I’m sorry Claire, something’s come up. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”
Jonah hung up. As Claire listened to the dead tone on the phone she felt like a piece of pastry which had been pummelled and rolled so thinly that stretchy holes were starting to break across its surface, ruining its perfect consistency. One of those holes was over her heart, which now felt like a big black twisting vortex. Jonah had only just come back into her life and she was doing a very good job at pushing him away again already. Was that really what she wanted? Why wouldn’t her thoughts just behave and get back into that damn box again? And if only they would, she swore she would seal it so tightly that it would survive a nuclear holocaust. Damn Jonah. Damn her. Damn bloody June 13th.
CHAPTER NINE
JONAH
Lifting the cup at a grand slam final is every professional tennis player’s dream, but Jonah doubted that kind of euphoria could have felt much different to how he’d felt over the recent weekend. The benefit of maturity is that if you’re an ass enough to not already know it, you soon learn what really matters in life. Love’s what matters. It’s having that special someone to share everything with. It’s being with someone who makes you feel whole. It’s being with someone who makes you feel omnipotent; that with them beside you, anything is possible. And for him, Claire was that person. Without her in his life, the glory of lifting the odd cup he’d won on the circuit had felt victorious, yes, but nonetheless, a shade empty. If he could have traded never losing Claire over winning a few tournaments, he would have.
After Jonah had helped Claire calm down from the TV network’s shellshock phone call, persuading her that it was an excellent opportunity which she shouldn’t turn down, he’d excused himself, saying he had to run an errand. “What errand?” Claire had asked, furrowing her forehead. Jonah loved how Claire’s face was so expressive, and her scrunched-up, confused look was his favourite. It made him want to be her cocoon, a safe place where no harm could penetrate. Yes, idiot, he thought to himself. What errand could he possibly invent? “Men’s stuff,” he’d answered lamely. It was the best he could think of on the spot, without giving the game away. He’d given strict instructions to be let back in on his return and had headed in the direction of the local high street which he’d passed in the taxi on the way there. He’d been quietly pleased with his shopping. The champagne had been easy enough to find but he’d wanted to source an equivalent for Miriam. He absolutely did not want her to feel left out from the celebrations. And happily, in the picnic section of the supermarket, he’d found a dazzling mini-bottle range of wines and bubbles. One pretty little bottle, which even had the traditional golden champagne seal, was perfect, its contents a non-alcoholic fizzy punch.
An hour later, slightly tipsy on the bubbles, Claire had asked what his plans were for the rest of the weekend. He’d explained that the following afternoon a car was picking him up to take him to Eastbourne where he would stay for the next week, to commentate on a grass tournament taking place there. After that he’d be returning to London, first for the tournament at Queens, then Wimbledon. Happily, Miriam was out of earshot at this point, playing in the garden, whacking a rusty swing-ball which had been staked into the grass near the rear fence. “Where will you stay tonight?” Claire had wanted to know. He knew where he wanted to stay but he’d not dared to vocalise it. Instead he’d let her decide. “Where works best for you?” There was Miriam to consider and, if she saw that he was staying at her Mom’s again, it might look suspicious. In the end Claire hatched a plan. Jonah’s bags were at the Dorchester and had to be retrieved. So they would all go, under the pretence that they were going there to enjoy a fancy afternoon tea to celebrate Mom’s new job. Meanwhile he could check out, get his luggage and bring it back to 77 Gladstone Road, where he’d stay another night as their house guest. Claire doubted Miriam would even notice that Jonah’s bags had materialised from nowhere.
So that’s what they’d done. The finger sandwiches and scones with clotted cream and jam had gone down a treat and Miriam had been so tired from the days’ antics that she’d gone to bed shortly after their return, her belly full on sausage rolls and chocolate éclairs. She’d even demanded that Jonah give her a goodnight kiss, which had made his heart swell with emotion.
Once they’d been certain that she was fast asleep they’d tiptoed up to Claire’s bedroom to baptise her sleigh bed. Thanks to the mattress’s imperial proportions, his feet hadn’t hung off the end of it like they had in the spare room but, more importantly, it had been one of the most exquisite nights of his life. If he’d thought it had been amazing with Claire before, wow, well this felt even better. “Marks out of ten?” Claire had asked afterwards. It wasn’t a serious question, but was one that held significance for them. Back when they’d been together, whenever they’d spent a special weekend away or done something new, she’d often asked him to rate the experience by giving marks out of ten. She could never pin him down though. His stock answer was always “it’s all good and I refuse to compare.” And that’s exactly how he’d responded this time, his standard reply making her poke his side with a chuckle as she lay with her head on his chest after they’d made love. But actually, if she’d have persisted, he’d have given her a different answer this time. He’d have told her that he couldn’t rate the evening, not because he didn’t want to compare but because his score was off the scale. Giving it a ten wouldn’t have done the evening justice.
Which is why as he now stood outside the commentary booth in Eastbourne, pressing the red handset icon on his mobile to end the call to Claire, he was dumbfounded. She’d sounded so strained and odd. Not like Claire at all. None of it made sense. Here he was, having had the best weekend of his life and here she was sounding every inch like she was getting cold feet. Her voice had been tight as elastic stretched to its limit, just waiting to ping. He remembered that tightness only too well. Claire did a terrible job at masking her true emotions. He’d always been able to read her like a book, much to her annoyance. There was only one time she’d taken him by surprise. One time, and he didn’t want to remember it. There was only one time her voice had sounded like it just had, as if her voice box had been cut in half and all resonance swiped from it, her words thin and monotone to the ear. And that was the conversation, the conversation that had sparked the beginning of the end.
He leaned
back against the wall, running his fingers through the salt and pepper on his temples, his brain working overtime as he tried to figure what to do. He was stuck. He was stuck in Eastbourne for work and the only reason he’d been able to call Claire in the first place was because rain had just interrupted play, leaving the three commentators who’d been holed inside the cramped booth happy to stretch their legs. He moved, heading away from the shelter to the outside courts to assess the situation. It hadn’t rained for weeks in the UK apparently, and whilst this rain had come as a surprise, it shouldn’t have. It was long overdue and par for the course when it came to tennis tournaments in Britain. He looked to the sky. Far from looking like it might brighten up, the clouds were mushrooming and blackening towards the horizon in all directions. The rain was beginning to pelt at a sixty degree angle. The weather forecast had been dicey at best. It had been a miracle that play had even started in the first place and from the report they’d been handed in the booth, the meteorologists predicted that the rain would last throughout the day without any let-up.
He checked his wristwatch. 11.40 a.m. Eastbourne was a good two hours’ drive from London. If he got into a car now, he could be there by 2 p.m. A little voice in his head was persuading him that allowing Claire to stew in this mood was a very bad idea. Whatever was troubling her needed to be resolved sooner rather than later before it had a chance to fester. Yet dare he ask if he could be dismissed for the afternoon? He’d only just got this job. He liked this job. Perhaps he was being melodramatic about things and misreading Claire’s voice. Dare he? Could he? Should he?
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1.50 p.m. Jonah knocked on Claire’s door. Each of the three loud knocks he gave it hammered home the fact that it was too late to back out of this now. If he’d misread the situation or his presence was ill-advised, too bad. He could hear footsteps coming down the stairs. One of the many concerns he’d pondered as his demon taxi driver had driven away from the coast towards the countryside, taking the bends on its narrow lanes as if he was Lewis Hamilton, was that Claire might not even be there. By the time they’d hit the motorway any doubts he had were futile. They’d gone too far to turn back. But hey, now he knew that, for better or for worse, she was at least in the house. A chain unlatched and the door opened. When Claire saw that it was him she sprung back in surprise, clasping a hand over her chest. She looked beautiful, but she also looked drawn, dark circles around her eyes a giveaway that she had been crying.
“I thought you were in Eastbourne?” she said.
“Well, surprise,” he smiled, trying to make light of the situation. He’d not realised until after he’d done it that as the word ‘surprise’ had left his mouth, his arms had involuntarily performed Claire’s jazz-hand gesticulation.
She stood aside, motioning that he should enter. She eyed him up curiously, tilting her head as she shut the door behind him. Her voice was tight and even her body looked tight, as if she believed that if she crossed her arms any closer to her diaphragm she might be able to make herself disappear altogether. Hell, she looked like she wanted to disappear. Perhaps this was a bad idea. No, it couldn’t be a bad idea. This was Claire, and something was clearly wrong which needed to be righted.
“But….you…but…..” she stuttered, “I don’t understand, how come you are here?”
Jonah paused, searching for the right words.
“Claire, I know something’s wrong.”
A pensive look fell across her face. She was desperately trying to hold tears at bay.
“Do you want a drink?” she whispered, heading for the kitchen.
“Water would be good, thank you,” he replied, following her.
She reached up to the cupboard over the sink, took out two glasses, ran her finger under the cold tap and when satisfied that the temperature was right she filled them up. She handed one to him and then hovered, uncertain where to put herself.
“I’m tired,” she sighed, her shoulders slumping, “I need to sit.”
She led the way into the lounge where she tucked a leg underneath her as she sat down in the far corner of the sofa, still nursing her glass. Jonah sat beside her and was grateful that at least she didn’t flinch at his proximity. He sensed that, in the state she was in, she didn’t want anything or anyone coming too close. But her alienation also felt like it was part of the problem, like a piece of her was closed to him.
“What is it babe, tell me,” he spoke quietly, his words a caress which hung in the air.
A single tear slid down her cheek, just as it had before they’d kissed outside Kensington Palace. That time he’d wiped it away. He was about to do the same again, but she got there first, swiping it with the back of her hand. She cleared her throat and opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, but stopped. He knew for sure that she loved him, but was this all just too much, too soon? She looked traumatised.
“Is it me, is it something I’ve done?” he asked.
She closed her eyes and shook her head defiantly no, but after a few seconds her shake turned into a nod.
“Do you know what today is?” she whispered. Tears broke free from her closed eyes and this time she didn’t even try to brush them away.
Where was this going? What had he done? Today was Monday, but he feared that wasn’t really what she was getting at. He shook his head in response, but because her eyes were sealed she didn’t even see. She planted the palms of her hands protectively over her lower abdomen. It was a tiny, imperceptible movement. Perhaps she didn’t even know that she had done it, but it told him everything. It was his turn to close his eyes. He sighed, his exhalation a long, audible hiss. Now he knew.
“It’s the anniversary of the most awful day of my life,” she whispered, “June 13th.”
They both opened their eyes simultaneously and her watery gaze showed thirteen years of hurt that she’d stored up. It pained him to see her agony. He reached for her hand and she allowed him to interlock his fingers tightly with hers. For this he was thankful.
“Do you blame me?” he whispered.
She nodded, tears now freely flowing. Perhaps if enough of them came they could wash the pain away.
“Sometimes I do blame you,” she started, “but only because it’s easier to. Mostly I blame myself. I wish I’d been stronger. I wish I’d not listened to you. We could have made it work. Couldn’t we?”
Her eyes locked with his, questioning his, but no matter how much she might want to, she couldn’t turn back the clock now. Much as he might want to, he didn’t possess that power either. When she’d told him that she was pregnant all those years ago, he’d reacted badly. His career was on the rise and he was finally climbing up the rankings. Having a baby would have interfered with that and he hadn’t felt ready. Hell, they’d both admitted they weren’t ready, even Claire. They were young and certainly from his point of view, there was still so much he’d wanted to achieve before committing himself to fatherhood. He hadn’t forced her to have an abortion, but he had made his position clear. If he’d have given her the green light, would she have cancelled the termination? They could never know for sure.
He’d tried to forget the hateful day that they’d visited that clinic. It wasn’t one of their finest hours and there had been a point in the proceedings when the word ‘stop’ had entered his head - but frozen on his tongue. Half of him had expected Claire to blurt the word out instead and he wouldn’t have fought it. Only she’d not known that. And if he’d have been able to predict that that day would mark the beginning of the end for them then who knows what he’d have done.
“We probably could have made it work,” Jonah agreed, “but imagining things differently can’t change the past. If it makes you feel better, I do regret it.”
“Do you really?” Claire’s voice was so quiet he could barely hear her.
“Yes, especially since Martha was born.”
His response seemed to please Claire, allowing her to relax a little. Perhaps it was a relief to learn th
at at the very least he had shared the same burden and pain over the years. And it was true. He had always wondered about the child that could have been. It wasn’t a thought that consumed his consciousness, but it did flit through his mind from time to time.
“I never speak about it,” Claire admitted, “and sometimes I think I should have seen someone about it, a therapist or something. There’s a lot of blame and resentment stored in here.”
She took her free hand and placed it over her heart, her lower lip trembling. Jonah stilled her lip with his finger and then scooped her into his arms, hugging her tightly. She came across as so strong most of the time but this reminded him of her very sensitive, fragile side. He was pleased they were having this conversation. At least it gave them a chance to work through it
“I’m so, so sorry Claire,” he whispered into her hair. “And I can’t change the past, but we can take from it and move on. And concentrate on the future. That’s what really matters now.”