The Return of Mrs. Jones

by Jessica Gilmore

  He stood statue-still, not reacting to the kiss. ‘Bye.’

  She paused for a split second but she had no idea what she was waiting for—why she had a sudden leaden feeling in the pit of her stomach. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the bags and, with a last smile in Jonas’s direction, turned and walked away towards the sliding glass doors.

  ‘Lawrie?’

  She stopped, turned, unexpected and unwanted hope flaring up inside her.

  ‘I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll go and visit my parents if you email your mother.’

  The familiar panic welled up. ‘I don’t have her email address.’

  ‘I can forward it to you.’

  ‘Oh.’ She searched for another excuse.

  ‘Scared?’ His voice was low, understanding, comforting.

  ‘A little.’ Not that she wanted to admit to fear—not to him. ‘I don’t know, Jonas. I feel safer with her not in my life.’

  ‘I know.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It’s just one step. It doesn’t have to be more.’

  Just one email. It sounded like such a small gesture and yet it felt so huge.

  ‘One step,’ she echoed. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you here in four days.’

  And he was gone.

  *

  Five hours later Lawrie was ensconced in a comfortable reclining seat, her laptop already plugged in on the table in front of her, her privacy screen blocking out the rest of the world.

  Wriggling down into her seat, Lawrie squared her shoulders against the plump supporting cushions. She loved business class! The firm’s willingness to pay for it boded well.

  Ostensibly her ultra-comfortable journey should ensure she arrived in New York both well rested and prepared, but although her research on the firm was open on the laptop she had barely glanced at it.

  Instead she had spent an hour composing an email to her mother. Lawrie reread the few short lines again and sighed. For goodness’ sake, how hard could it be? She was aiming for polite, possibly even slightly conciliatory, but she had to admit the tone was off. The words sounded snooty, accusatory, hurt.

  Exasperated, she deleted the lot and typed a few stiff sentences as if she were addressing a stranger.

  She supposed she was. Would she even recognise her mother if she sat next to her? Her early teens were so long ago. Had it hurt her mother, leaving her only daughter in Trengarth? Never seeing her again?

  Did she ever wonder if she had done the right thing? Regret her past?

  She wondered how Jonas was doing with his parents—if his efforts were any more successful than her own.

  She shook herself irritably. For goodness’ sake! She was supposed to be preparing for her interview. This was it—her big chance.

  So why did she feel so empty?

  Lawrie slid a little further into the plush seat and looked out of the small window at the wispy white clouds drifting lazily past. What was wrong with her? Surely she hadn’t let a blue eyed surfer derail her the way he had done twelve years ago?

  Hot shame flushed through her body. She couldn’t—wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of her past. Because let’s face it, she thought, ambitious little Lawrie Bennett wanted many things. She had planned her whole life through, and getting married the year she left school, before she’d received her A-level results, going to university as an eighteen-year-old bride had not been part of that plan.

  Yet she had still said yes.

  Lawrie pulled a piece of hair down and twizzled it around her finger. That moment—the utter joy that had suffused her whole being the second he’d asked her. Had she felt like that since? Not when she’d graduated with a first, not when she’d got hired at a top City firm.

  And certainly not when Hugo had proposed.

  She shook herself irritably, tucking the strand of hair back into her ponytail. Joy? ‘For goodness’ sake, grow up,’ she muttered aloud. She was in business class, flying to be interviewed for the job of her dreams, and—what? It wasn’t enough?

  It was everything.

  She had to remember that. Everything.

  *

  Jonas pulled over and typed the address into his phone, but he knew long before the icon loaded that he was in the right place. Looking around the tree-lined lane, he saw a row of identikit 1930s detached houses, all painted a uniform white, every garden perfectly manicured, every drive guarded by large iron gates, every car a sleek saloon. There wasn’t a plastic slide or football goal to be seen.

  The quiet, still road was crying out for bikes to be pedalled along it, the wide pavements for chalk and hopscotch. But there was no one to be seen.

  Jonas sighed. What was he doing here? How many times could a guy set himself up for disappointment? He wouldn’t be welcome. Even if his parents liked surprises his unheralded appearance wasn’t going to bring them any joy.

  But he had made a deal. And he might not know much about Lawrie Bennett any more, but he did know that there was something lost at the heart of her.

  That desperate need to fit in, to be in control. To follow the plan...

  He’d tried to fill that void once. Maybe someone in New York could, if she could just let go of her fears. And if he could do that much for his ex-wife—well, maybe their marriage wouldn’t have been such a disaster after all.

  A sharp pain twisted inside him at the thought of her with someone else but he ignored it. One of them deserved to be happy; one of them should be. And himself? Well... He smiled wryly. There were moments. Moments when a deal went well, when a chord was played right, when he looked around at a café full of content customers, when a wave was perfect.

  Those moments were gold. He didn’t ask for more. He wasn’t sure he was capable of more.

  Sighing, Jonas looked down at the icon on his phone, busily flashing away, signalling a road just to the left. He was pretty sure the next few moments were going to be anything but gold. But he’d promised.

  And he always kept his word.

  *

  Why did his parents favour cups that were so damn small? And chairs that were so damn uncomfortable? And wallpaper that was so very, very busy? And, really, would it hurt them to smile?

  The silence stretched on, neither side willing to break it. Side? That, thought Jonas, was a very apt word. Somehow—so long ago he had no idea when or why—they had become entrenched on opposite sides of a chasm so huge Jonas didn’t think there was any way across it at all.

  ‘So...’ he said slowly. Speaking first felt like giving in, but after all he had intruded on them. ‘I was just passing...’

  ‘Where from?’

  Did he just imagine that his mother sounded suspicious? Although, to be fair, he hadn’t been ‘just passing’ in four years—not since the day he had told them that he had bought their beloved hotel.

  ‘I was dropping Lawrie off at the airport.’

  ‘Lawrie? You’re back together?’

  Now that emotion he could identify. It was hope. Even his father had looked up from his teacup, sudden interest in his face. Lawrie was the only thing he’d ever done that they’d approved of—and they hadn’t been at all surprised when she’d left him.

  ‘She’s working for me this summer. Just a temporary thing before she moves to New York. And, no, we’re not back together.’ It wasn’t a lie. Whatever was going on, they weren’t back together.

  ‘Oh.’

  The disappointment in his mother’s voice was as clear as it was expected. Jonas looked around, desperate for something to catch his eye—another conversation-starter. A spectacularly hideous vase, some anaemic watercolours... But something was lacking—had always been lacking. And it wasn’t a simple matter of wildly differing tastes.

  ‘Why don’t you have any photos?’ he asked abruptly.

  The room was completely devoid of anything personal. Other people’s parents displayed their family pictures as proudly as trophies: bald, red-faced babies, gap-toothed schoolchildren, self-conscious teens in unflattering
uniforms.

  The silence that filled the room was suddenly different, charged with an emotion that Jonas couldn’t identify.

  His mother flushed, opened her mouth and shut it again.

  ‘Dad?’

  Jonas stared at his father, who was desperately trying to avoid his eye, looking into the depths of the ridiculously tiny teacup as if it held the answer to the secret of life itself.

  ‘Dad,’ he repeated.

  The anger he had repressed for so long—the anger he’d told himself he didn’t feel, the anger that was now boiling inside him—was threatening to erupt. He swallowed it back, tried to sound calm, not to let them know that he felt anything.

  ‘I know I’m not the son you wanted, but—really? Not even one photo?’

  ‘Leave it, Jonas,’ his father said loudly, putting his cup down so decidedly it was a miracle the thin china didn’t break in two.

  ‘Why?’ he persisted.

  He would not leave it. For so many years he had endured their disapproval and their silence, their refusal to engage with him. He’d listened to their instructions, to their plans for his life—and then he’d gone ahead and done what he wanted anyway. But suddenly he couldn’t leave it—didn’t want to walk away.

  He wanted answers.

  ‘I appreciate that I don’t live my life the way you want me to, that I didn’t make the most of the opportunities you gave me, and I admit that failing my exams at sixteen wasn’t the smartest move.’

  He tried a smile but got nothing back. His father was still trembling with some repressed emotion; his mother was pale, still as stone.

  ‘But,’ he carried on, determined that this time they would hear him, this time he would have his say, ‘I have an MBA, I have a successful business, I own a house, I’m a good boss, I give to charity.’ Despite himself, despite his best intentions, his voice cracked. ‘I just don’t know why I have never been good enough for you.’

  There. It was said.

  The silence rippled round the room.

  His mother got to her feet, so pale her carefully applied make-up stood out stark against her skin. ‘I can’t do this, Jonas,’ she said.

  He stared at her in astonishment. Were those tears in her eyes?

  ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t.’ She laid one, shaky hand on his shoulder for an infinitesimal second and then was gone, rushing out of the room.

  What the hell...? He’d expected indifference, or anger, or some lecture about what a waste of space he had always been, but this tension strung as tight as a quivering bow was unexpected. It was terrifying. Whatever was going on here was bigger than the fall-out of some adolescent rebellion.

  Jonas glared at his father, torn between utter confusion and sudden fear. ‘Dad? What is going on? I think I deserve the truth, don’t you?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS HORRENDOUSLY hot, and the airport was overcrowded as families, couples, grandparents waited anxiously, pressing close to the gate, necks craning for the first glimpse of a loved one.

  Some had even brought signs—handwritten, decorated. Jonas looked over at the young man barely out of his teens, standing at the very end, as close as he could get to the gate without crossing the yellow line. He had love hearts all over his sign. The poor sap.

  He even had flowers, Jonas noted. A bouquet so big it almost obscured the sign.

  Whereas it was all Jonas had been able to do to turn up at all. He was still processing the afternoon he had spent with his parents. He wasn’t sure he could share it with anyone, and Lawrie was bound to ask.

  After all they had a deal.

  ‘Hey.’

  He hadn’t even seen her come through the gate. ‘Hey, yourself. Good trip?’

  She beamed. ‘The best. They’re a really exciting firm, with some great projects, so fingers crossed they liked me.’

  ‘I bet they loved you.’ He took her bag from her and led the way out of the airport to the short-stay car park. Suddenly, despite everything, the day seemed brighter, the clouds drifting away. It was too nice to be shut away in an office—even his office.

  ‘Are you exhausted?’ he asked.

  Lawrie shook her head. ‘I might have had a red-eye flight, but I was spoiled enough to spend it tucked up in business class. I feel fresh as a daisy! I swear those seats are comfier than my bed.’

  ‘I was thinking a picnic,’ he said. ‘There’s a nice farmshop about twenty minutes away where we could grab some supplies. Unless you want to get back?’

  Lawrie looked down at herself and pulled a face, although Jonas thought she looked immaculate, in dark skinny jeans that clung to her legs in a way he definitely approved of.

  ‘I need a shower at some point in the next few hours,’ she said. ‘No matter how air-conditioned the airport and plane are, I still land feeling completely grubby. But fresh air sounds good, and I guess I could eat. My business class freshly cooked breakfast seems a long time ago now.’

  ‘Nice subtle reminder of your exalted status.’ Jonas nodded approvingly. ‘You’ll need to up the stakes when you get to New York, though, I believe lawyers on the Upper East Side only travel by private jet.’

  ‘Ha-ha.’ Lawrie stuck her tongue out at him as they reached the car and he opened the door for her before stowing her cases in the boot.

  ‘Your post is on your seat,’ he called over. ‘I knew you would want to look through it before you relaxed properly.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she called back.

  Closing the door, he saw she was already engrossed, flipping through the pile and sorting the mail into order. She was up to date with her emails too, he knew. Lawrie wouldn’t allow a little thing like the Atlantic Ocean to stand between her and her work.

  A good reason to make sure she had the afternoon off. And it would probably do him good too. He’d barely left his desk these last two days. Sometimes hard work was the only way to cope.

  He slid into his seat and looked over at her. She was staring at an envelope, her cheeks pale. He recognised it: a thick, expensive cream envelope with the name of her old firm stamped on the back. It was probably her P45 or something.

  It didn’t explain the pallor in her cheeks, though.

  ‘Everything okay?’ He turned the key and felt the engine purr into life.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Law?’

  She looked across, a dazed expression on her face. ‘Hmm? Yes, I’m fine.’

  But she didn’t sound convincing.

  ‘Are you going to open that?’ He nodded towards the envelope. She was turning it over and over, as if she could read the contents through touch alone.

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s probably some HR stuff.’

  But she looked anxious as she tore the envelope open, pulling out a handwritten letter with another slip of paper clipped to the outside. It looked like a cheque.

  ‘What on earth...?’

  ‘Redundancy?’ he suggested.

  She shook her head. ‘That will get paid with my last month’s salary, and not until my notice is completely served,’ she said, unfolding the letter and slipping the cheque out. Her eyes widened. ‘My goodness—how many noughts?’ Then, her voice seemed strangled with what sounded suspiciously like tears. ‘It’s from Hugo.’

  The ex.

  Jealousy, ugly and hot, seared through him. What was he doing writing to her? Sending her cheques?

  Grimly he set his eyes on the road ahead, concentrating on the exit from the airport, trying to give Lawrie the space she needed as she fought for control.

  ‘It’s for my share of the house,’ she said after a while, her voice a little croaky. ‘He didn’t have to. I mean, yes, I contributed to the bills, of course—paid for decorating and stuff. But it was his house. Legally I’m not entitled to anything. My name wasn’t on the mortgage.’

  Was she regretting leaving him? A man who made such generous gestures? Thoughtful? ‘Will you accept?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Yes,’ sh
e said finally. ‘My pride tells me to shred it and return it to him, but he’s right. If I hadn’t moved in with him I’d have bought my own place, made money on that. This cheque is enough for a reasonable deposit so I can buy in New York, or wherever I end up. I’d be a fool to turn it down. And I guess morally I do deserve it.’

  She was silent again as she read the rest of the letter, all her attention on the closely written lines until an exclamation burst out, her voice high with shock ‘He’s getting married! In September. His fiancée is pregnant so they’re rushing it through.’

  Indignation replaced the jealousy.

  ‘He has a fiancée? A pregnant fiancée? How on earth did he manage that? You’ve only been apart a couple of weeks! Unless he was cheating on you?’

  The colour in her cheeks gave him the answer.

  Jonas whistled softly. ‘What a bastard!’

  Lawrie didn’t answer for a bit, turning the letter over to read it again. ‘No. He isn’t—not really.’

  It was odd, listening to her defend another man. A man she had lived with.

  ‘Okay, that’s not entirely true. He behaved horribly, but I think it was my fault—at least partly.’ She whispered the last part, tears choking her voice again.

  Jonas’s first instinct was to pull over, to pull her into his arms and comfort her. But one look at her rigid face as she fought for control dissuaded him. She was so private, so secretive, he instinctively knew she’d clam up if he offered sympathy.

  He kept his voice impersonal. ‘Your fault how? Because you left?’

  ‘Because I didn’t love him. Not in the way he deserved to be loved. I see that now.’ She looked away, out of the window, and when she spoke again her voice was level. Composed. ‘I wasn’t entirely honest with you. It was just too humiliating. I didn’t leave Hugo. I didn’t change the plan. It was changed for me the day I found him with someone else. If it had been up to me I’d still be there, working towards making partner, putting off planning my wedding, engaged to someone I couldn’t admit I didn’t love.’

  ‘He didn’t deserve you.’ Jonas knew that absolutely. If he had he would have been faithful.