The Return of Mrs. Jones

by Jessica Gilmore

  In the end she had decided on a dress that was several years old—and several inches shorter than she usually wore.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled her hands away from the skirt and tried to remember the speech she had painstakingly prepared earlier, rehearsed at length in the shower.

  ‘Thanks for coming to collect me—it’s very nice of you. I know Fliss kind of forced your hand—’ Lawrie stopped, her cheeks warm, the speech gone. ‘Actually, she forced your hand in several ways earlier, and I should have thought... If you don’t want me around—if it’s awkward, I mean—then I’ll tell her I can’t do it.’ She stumbled to a stop.

  Great—in her former life fluency had been one of her trademarks. It looked as if she had lost that along with everything else.

  ‘Fliss thinks she gets her own way, but if I didn’t want you working for us you wouldn’t be.’ The blue eyes held hers for a moment. ‘She’s right. You’ll do a good job—and, let’s face it, we are a bit desperate. Beggars can’t be choosers.’

  Charming. It wasn’t the most ringing endorsement she’d ever heard.

  ‘I just don’t want our past relationship to be an issue.’ Lawrie was aware of how pompous she sounded. She’d been trying for offhand. A smirk at the corner of his mouth confirmed she had failed.

  ‘We’re both mature adults,’ Jonas pointed out. ‘At least I am. And it’s your significant birthday we’re celebrating, so hopefully you are too. I’m sure we can work together without too much bloodshed. In fact...’ He moved away from the cottage and sauntered gracefully over the lawn towards her, a flat tissue-wrapped square in his hand. ‘Happy Birthday.’

  Lawrie stared at the proffered parcel in shock.

  ‘Take it. It won’t bite,’ he teased. ‘I promise. Think of it as a peace offering and a birthday present in one.’

  He moved closer until he was standing next to her, leaning against the balcony, looking down on the curve of beach and sea below.

  After a moment’s hesitation Lawrie took the present, taking a moment to enjoy the thrill of the unknown. It was her only present, after all.

  ‘Your gran always had the best view in the village,’ Jonas said. ‘It’s so peaceful up here.’ He shot her a glance. ‘I meant to write after she died, send a card... But I didn’t really know what to say. I’m sorry.’

  She turned the parcel round in her hands. ‘That’s okay. I think people were upset we had the funeral so far away, but she wanted to be buried next to Grandpa...’ Her voice trailed away and there was a sudden lump in her throat. It had been six months since the funeral but the pain of loss still cut deep. ‘I wish I had telephoned more, visited more.’

  ‘She was very proud of you.’

  Lawrie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Swallowing back the tears, she turned her attention to the present, wanting to change the subject.

  She slid her finger along the fold in the tissue, pulling the tape off slowly as she went, carefully opening the paper out to reveal a silk scarf the colour of the sea below. ‘It’s beautiful!’

  His voice was offhand. ‘It always used to be your favourite colour.’

  ‘It still is.’ She looked over at him, ridiculously overcome despite his casualness. He’d remembered. ‘You really didn’t need to, but thank you, Jonas.’

  ‘No problem.’ The blue eyes swept over her assessingly. ‘It matches your dress.’

  ‘I’ll go and put it on. I won’t be long.’

  Walking through the back door, Lawrie felt yet again as if she had gone back in time—as if she was once again her sixteen-year-old self, skipping in to say goodbye to Gran before heading out on a date, full of possibilities, full of life and desperately, achingly in love.

  Only there was no Gran.

  And the world no longer felt full of possibilities. She was all too aware of her limits.

  Oh, to be sixteen again, walking on the beach at night after her shift ended, unable to believe that her handsome boss had asked her if she fancied a stroll. She still remembered the electric shock that had run through her when his hand had first bumped against hers. The tightness in her stomach when his long, cool caressing fingers had encased hers. The almost unbearable anticipation drying out her throat, weakening her knees, setting every single nerve-end ablaze as she waited for him to kiss her. And, oh...! The almost unbearable sweetness when he finally, oh so slowly, lowered his mouth to hers as the waves crashed against the shore.

  It had been Lawrie’s first kiss and for five years she hadn’t thought she would ever kiss anyone else.

  I haven’t thought about that in years. She pushed the memory of vivid, haunting dreams filled with waves, passion and familiar blue eyes firmly to one side.

  She glanced up at the wall, where a framed photo hung. A much younger Lawrie looked out from it, her hair whipped by the wind and framing her face in a dark, tangled cloud, laughing, her eyes squinting against the sun. Jonas had taken it twelve years ago, on her eighteenth birthday—their wedding day.

  It was all such a long time ago. Who would have thought then that they would end up like this? Apart, near-strangers, exchanging polite remarks and stiff smiles. If she’d known what lay ahead would she have made the same choices...the same mistakes?

  Lawrie shook her head wildly, trying to clear the questions from her mind. She couldn’t allow this temporary setback to derail her, to make her question her choices, her past. It was time to face her future—and if the plan had gone awry...well, she would tweak it.

  But first her birthday. She needed—she deserved some fun. Maybe she could relax—just a little, just for a short while. Maybe Lawrie Bennett was allowed to let go for just one evening.

  *

  It was one of Jonas’s favourite things, watching the Boat House being transformed from a family-friendly, light and airy café to an intimate bar. It was more than the deepening dusk outside the dramatic picture windows, more than the tea lights on the tables, more than the bottles of beer and wine replacing the skinny lattes, the tapas in place of cream teas.

  It was the way the atmosphere changed. Grew heavier, darker. Full of infinite possibilities.

  Tonight was the monthly Open Mic Night—a tradition carried through from the earliest days. Before he’d held a bar licence he used to invite friends over to the café after-hours to jam; he’d always fancied himself as a pretty mean guitarist. Once he’d licensed the premises it had become more of an organised event, yet still with a laid-back, spontaneous feel.

  Folk violinists rattling out notes at an impossible speed, grungy rock wannabes, slow and sweet soul singers—there were no exclusions. If you had an instrument and you wanted to play, you could sign up. There was a magic about Open Mic Night, even after all these years. The room might be full of regulars but there were usually one or two surprises.

  And yet tonight he was wound tight, the tension straining across his shoulders and neck. Even the familiar feel of the sharp strings under his fingertips, the crowded tables, the appreciative applause, the melding and blending of notes and beats and voices couldn’t relax him.

  His eyes, his focus, were pulled to the small table in the corner where Lawrie perched, toying with a glass of champagne, her head resting on her hand, her eyes dreamy as she listened. The dim lighting softened her; she looked like his teen bride again, her dark hair loose, curling against her shoulders, her huge grey eyes fixed unseeingly on the stage.

  On him.

  A reluctant tug of desire pulled deep down. It was definitely the memories, the nostalgia, he told himself grimly. Why was she back? Why had Lawrie Bennett, the girl who put her work, her career, her plans before everything and everyone, given up her job and moved back?

  And why did she look so scared and vulnerable?

  It was none of his business—she was none of his business. She had made that clear a long time ago. Whatever trouble Lawrie was in she could handle it herself. She always had.

  Resolutely he tore his gaze away, focussed on the room as a
whole, plastering on a smile as the song ended and the room erupted into applause. Jonas exchanged an amused look with his fellow musicians as they took an ironic bow before vacating the stage for the next musicians—a local sixth form experimental rock band whose main influences seemed to be a jarring mixture of eighties New Romanticism and Death Metal.

  Maybe he was getting old, Jonas thought as he made his way back to the bar. It just sounded like noise to him.

  *

  ‘I should be getting home.’ Lawrie got to her feet and began automatically to gather the glasses and bottles. Just like old times. She stilled her hands, looking around to see if anybody had noticed.

  ‘Don’t be silly—the night is just beginning,’ Fliss said in surprise.

  Lawrie looked pointedly at the people heading for the door, at the musicians packing away their instruments, at vaguely familiar faces patting Jonas on the back with murmurs about babysitters, getting up for work and school runs. Since when had most of his friends had babysitters and office hours to contend with? The surf-mad mates of his youth had matured into fathers, husbands and workers. The night might feel like a step back in time, but everything had changed.

  ‘This is the fun bit,’ Fliss said, grabbing a tray filled with lurid-coloured drinks from the bar and handing a neon blue one to Lawrie. ‘We get to hog the stage. What do you want to start with?’

  Several pairs of eyes turned expectantly to Lawrie and she swallowed, her mouth dry. She took a sip of the cocktail, grimacing at the sweet yet almost medicinal taste. ‘You go ahead without me. I don’t really sing.’

  ‘Of course you sing! You always used to.’

  ‘That was a long time ago. Honestly, Fliss, I’d rather not.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘I thought all lawyers sang,’ Jonas interceded.

  Lawrie shot him a grateful glance. Fliss was evidently not going to let the point go.

  ‘Didn’t you have a karaoke bar under your office?’

  ‘Sadly I didn’t work with Ally McBeal.’ Lawrie shook her head, but she was smiling now. ‘The only singing I have done for years is in the shower. I’d really rather listen.’

  ‘You heard her. And she is the birthday girl.’

  ‘Which is why she shouldn’t be sitting there alone,’ Fliss argued. She turned to Lawrie pleadingly. ‘Just do some backing vocals, then. Hum along. This is the fun part of the night—no more enduring schoolboy experiments or prog rock guitar solos. Thank goodness we limit each act to fifteen minutes or I reckon he would still be living out his Pink Floyd fantasies right now. There’s only us here.’

  Lawrie hesitated. It had been such a long time—part of the life she had done her best to pack away and forget about. Small intimate venues, guitars and set lists had no place in the ordered world she had chosen. Could she even hold a tune any more? Pick up the rhythm?

  Once they had been a well-oiled machine—Fliss’s voice, rich, emotive and powerful, trained for the West End career she had dreamed of, filling the room, and Lawrie’s softer vocals, which shouldn’t really have registered at all. And then there had been Jonas. Always there, keeping time. There’d been times when she had got lost in the music, blindly following where he led.

  The thought of returning there was terrifying. Lawrie shivered, goosebumps rippling up her bare arms, and yet she acknowledged that it was exciting too. On this night of memory and nostalgia, this moment out of time.

  And how lost could she get if she stuck closely to backing vocals? Stayed near Fliss, away from Jonas and that unreadable expression on his face? Did he wish she would just leave? Stay? Or did he simply not care?

  Not that there was any reason for him to care. She had made sure of that.

  She took another sip of her cocktail, noticing with some astonishment that the glass was nearly empty. She should be thinking about Hugo, Lawrie told herself. Mourning him, remembering their relationship so very recently and brutally ended—not mooning over her teenage mistakes. If she was going to work here, survive here, she couldn’t allow her past to intimidate her.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, putting the now empty glass down on the table and reaching for another of Fliss’s concoctions—this time a sickly green. ‘Backing vocals only. Let’s do it.’

  *

  She was seated on the other side of the stage, angled towards the tables, so that all he could see was the fall of her hair, the curve of her cheek.Not that he was attracted to her—he knew her too well. Even after all this time. It was just that she seemed a little lost, a little vulnerable...

  And there had been a time when Jonas Jones had been a sucker for dark-haired, big-eyed, vulnerable types.

  He’d learned his lesson the hard way, but a man didn’t want to take too many chances—not on a night filled with ghosts. He looked around, half expecting to see the creamy painted wooden slats of the old boathouse, the rough floorboards, the mismatched tables. But a twinge in his fingers brought him back to the present, reminding him that he was no longer nineteen and that, although thirty-two was certainly not old, he was too old to be playing all night on a work night.

  His mouth twitched wryly. Once a work night had meant nothing. His hobbies and his job had blended into one perfect hedonistic existence: the bar, the music, the surf. He didn’t know what had infuriated his parents more. How successful his beach shack had quickly become or how effortless he had made it look.

  But in those days it had been effortless.

  It wasn’t that easy any more. Would his parents be proud or smug if they knew how many of the things he loved he had given up for success? Or would they still think it was not enough.

  Maudlin thoughts. A definite sign that it was late, or that he’d allowed Fliss to make the cocktails again.

  Time to wrap things up.

  Only Fliss had started another song, carefully picking out the tune on her guitar. The breath caught in his throat. His heart was a painful lump blocking its passage.

  Not this song. Not this night. Not on what could have been, should have been, their twelfth wedding anniversary.

  There was only so much nostalgia a man could take.

  And then Lawrie picked up the tune and he was plunged into a whole other level of memory. Her voice wasn’t the strongest—nothing in comparison to Fliss’s—yet it had a true, wistful quality that tore at him, hooked him in, wringing truth out of the plaintive words.

  Despite it all Jonas found himself playing the harmony, his hands surely and smoothly finding the right notes. They hadn’t forgotten. He still knew—still felt every note, every beat, every word. How long was it since he had played this song? Not since Lawrie had left. Not even in the last desperate year of their marriage as he had watched her retreat further and further away, her eyes, her focus, firmly fixed on the gleaming spires of Oxford.

  Suddenly simple folk tunes hadn’t been her thing at all.

  Yet she still knew all the words.

  *

  It was as if her whole body thrummed with the music. Her blood, her heartbeat, the pulses at her neck and her wrists. Long after the guitars had been packed away, the last few glasses cleared, the final lurid cocktail poured away—no one had felt able to risk the neon orange, not at past one in the morning—the beat still possessed her.

  How had she managed to spend the last nine years without music? Had they even had music in the house? Music to listen to simply for the thrill it evoked deep down inside? There had been a stylish digital radio permanently tuned in to Radio Four, occasionally switched to Classic FM when they entertained. And Lawrie had attended concerts for corporate purposes—just as she had been to countless sporting events, black tie galas, charity auctions.

  After a while they all blended together.

  There was so much she had expunged from her life. Colour, impulsiveness, walking along a beach at dusk with the wind blowing salt-tinged tendrils of hair into her face. Enjoying the here and now.

  She might have chosen a controlled, sleek, beige, stone and black
existence. It didn’t mean that she hadn’t occasionally hungered after something a little more vibrant. But vibrancy had a price she hadn’t been prepared to pay.

  In the end control was worth it. It allowed you to plan, to achieve.

  But, damn, the music had felt good. The right here, right now felt good. Even those ridiculously bright cocktails had been—well, not good, exactly but surprisingly palatable. Maybe coming back wasn’t such a terrible thing after all.

  ‘How are you getting back?’

  Lawrie jumped, every sense suddenly on high alert. She didn’t want to look Jonas in the eyes in case he read the conflicting emotions there. There had been a time when he’d been able to read her all too easily.

  ‘I was planning to walk,’ she said.

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Unless there are suddenly bloodthirsty smugglers patrolling the dark streets of Trengarth I think I’ll manage the mile home okay.’

  ‘There’s no lighting on your gran’s road. I’d better walk you back.’

  Lawrie opened her mouth to refuse—then shut it again, unsure what to say. Whether to make a joke out of it, point out that after negotiating London streets for the past few years she thought she could manage a few twisty Cornish lanes. Whether to just say thank you.

  Jonas took her silence for acquiescence and strode off towards the door. Lawrie stood indecisively, torn between a childish need to stand her ground, insist she was fine, and a sudden hankering for company—any company—on the walk back up the steep hill.

  She had been all too alone these last weeks.

  Without thought, almost impulsively, she followed him.

  The night was warm, despite the breeze that blew in from the sea and the lack of cloud, and lit up by stars shining so brightly Lawrie could only stand and stare, her neck tilted back almost to the point of pain as she tried to take in the vast expanse of constellation-strewn night sky.