Take some responsibility.
And then the anger flared up again, but it was getting weaker as the days slowly passed.
And at the same time that unwanted voice was whispering insistently, What if you could do it again? Would you ask him or would you tell him? Would you tell him you were staying and want to be with him?
Would you tell him that you love him?
*
‘Are you having a party this year?’
Jonas looked up irritably. ‘What?’
‘I asked,’ Fliss repeated equably, ‘if you want to have a birthday party again this year?’
As Jonas’s birthday coincided with the final weekend of the season—the start of autumn proper—he usually had a big party at the Boat House. A chance for the locals and the villagers to let their hair down and reclaim their home after months of incomers.
He couldn’t imagine anything worse, but the speculation if he missed a year would be unbearable.
‘I haven’t really thought about it. I suppose so.’
‘Oh, great!’ Fliss was obviously annoyed. ‘Masses of preparation for “I suppose so”. What you mean is, Thank you, Fliss, I would love to—and, yes, I will of course be leaving the grumpy expression and the grunting at home and try to enjoy myself for once in my miserable life.’
That was a little too close for comfort. ‘That’s enough,’ he snapped.
Fliss looked anxious. ‘Honestly, Jonas, you’ve been the proverbial sore-headed bear for weeks. Even I am finding you pretty difficult, and I have a much higher Jonas tolerance than most.’
Jonas swung his chair round and stared at her. ‘Oh, come on. I know I’ve been a bit short—’
‘A bit?’ she interjected.
‘Busy—’
‘A reclusive workaholic.’
‘And I don’t suffer fools gladly.’ He shot her a look as she opened her mouth and she snapped it shut. ‘There has been a lot happening, as I am sure you have noticed: new cafés, two new hotels, getting the clothes line launch ready for next year.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I work here too, remember?’
‘Well, then, life isn’t all surfing. Sometimes it is pure, hard, exhausting work.’
‘But a balance is always good. When did you last take a board out? Not since the day after Lawrie left.’
‘Don’t say her name!’
It was involuntary, and he cursed himself for revealing so much—for revealing everything. But Fliss didn’t look shocked or horrified. She looked knowing. She looked...heck...she looked sorry for him. Jonas gritted his teeth.
‘Just because L... Because her departure coincided with a busy period does not mean that my present mood has anything to do with her.’
Fliss looked apologetic. ‘But we’ve been here before,’ she reminded him. ‘That summer she left, before the third Wave Fest, you changed. You went curt and mean and nearly drove all your staff away. You worked twenty-four-seven and a year later—voilà—five more cafés and a mini-chain.’
‘And a career for you.’
‘And a career for me,’ she agreed. ‘But I bloody earned it, Jonas. And I am earning it now, acting as a buffer between you and the staff, trying to keep up with your breakneck speed, going along with the vision whilst making sure that we don’t over-expand—and that we don’t lose all our staff while we do so.’
His voice was icy. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘Well, yes, we all know what you’re doing. You’re throwing yourself into work to forget about Lawrie. After all, it worked once before. Is it working now?’
Not really. His mouth twisted. ‘She wanted me to ask her to stay.’ The words were out before he could stop them.
Fliss didn’t look surprised ‘Did you?’
Jonas stared at Fliss. ‘No,’ he said bleakly. ‘No, I told her to go.’
‘Why?’
The same question he’d asked Lawrie. The question that had swept the hope out of her eyes and left her looking broken.
He shook his head, trying to clear her stricken face from his mind. ‘Because it’s not my decision to make. If she wanted to be with me she would. I shouldn’t need to ask.’
‘Jonas, I love you, and I love her too, but you—you’re my best mate as well as my boss and I’m worried about you. So I am begging you, for everybody’s sake, win her back or get over her once and for all.’
*
Win her back. The words reverberated around Jonas’s head as he walked along the harbour wall back home—back to the house that no longer seemed so cosy, no longer a sanctuary. She had spent less than twelve hours there, yet memories of her permeated every corner, every shadow. Lying there at night he could remember how her body fitted against his, the sound of her breathing, the silky texture of her hair as he stroked it.
How could he win her back when she’d never been his to start with? He had tried marrying her, binding her close to him with legal ties, but she had left anyway.
He stopped and looked into the inky black water broken up by the reflected light from the street lamps.
If you love someone set them free. What kind of crazy thinking was that? If you loved someone you should never let them go.
Or, just possibly, you could go with them.
He had never done that. Never supported her, taken the journey with her.
He circled slowly, looked at the village that was his only home, his whole life.
It felt like a prison.
Slowly he began walking again, his brain whirring, reliving the past once again. And it wasn’t comfortable viewing. He had only visited Oxford a handful of times. The beach-bred boy had been uncomfortable with the city of dreaming spires, and he had flat out refused to go to London at all the first summer she had interned there.
Shame flooded through him. He had been her husband and he had let her down. Badly. What must it have been like for her alone, renting a room in a far-flung suburb, travelling for an hour every morning in her one good suit to work twelve hour days in a city where she knew no one? She must have been so lonely. And yet he had never visited, never surprised her by showing up unexpectedly at her door. What kind of husband did that make him?
It was cold, with a chill wind whistling in off the sea, but he barely felt it wrapped in his ski jacket—a jacket that had never seen snow because he rarely took time off work. He’d blamed her workaholic nature for their inability to stay together; he was just as bad. If he couldn’t survive outside of Cornwall, away from the comfort of his home seas, then was he any kind of success at all?
And if he was destined always to live alone then probably not much of a success at all.
If he had taken a chance, moved to be with Lawrie all those years ago, would they still be together now? He’d always thought that would have spelled disaster, that she would have been embarrassed by her non-professional husband and he would have struggled to find work. Jonas shook his head. He had underestimated her. Even worse, he had underestimated himself.
He looked out into the darkness, listening to the eerie voice of the wind, the crash of his beloved surf against the harbour wall. The wind blew spray up and over and he flinched as the icy drops flicked his skin, tasted salt. His beloved home. He’d always thought his heart was right here. But, if so, why did he feel so empty?
He turned his back to the sea and with a heavy heart made his way back to the cottage, alone.
*
‘Lawrie, we’re heading up to the Hamptons this weekend. My wife would love you to come. We can introduce you around.’
The older man’s expression was sincere and Lawrie felt a rush of gratitude as she shook her head.
‘Honestly, Cooper, I am fine,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve worked through every weekend since I arrived, and I think it’s time I got to know the city a little. Some other time, maybe, if you’ll ask me again?’
‘Any time,’ he assured her. ‘Have a lovely weekend.’
‘I will,’ she promised.
An
d she meant to—or to try at least. She had been here nearly a month; it was time to put down some roots. Buy an apartment of her own, get a cat—she’d never had a pet. Pets were a sign of belonging.
Then she’d get out more, make some friends, date. Okay, dating was a slightly terrifying prospect for an English girl who might have been married once and engaged twice but had never dated—especially New York style, whereby men seemed to think nothing of chatting to you in bookstores, in coffee shops, in lifts—elevators: she was a New Yorker now—and asking you out. She might have been with Hugo through most of her London life, but she was fairly sure men didn’t behave like that there. It was most disconcerting.
But if dating was what it took to make her a native of New York then date she would.
But not yet.
Pulling her long cream coat on and wrapping her cashmere scarf securely round her neck, Lawrie left the office. It seemed that the whole city was heading out this weekend, and at almost seven on a Friday night the building was eerily empty. The Friday before she had worked until after ten. The Friday before that the same. The evening stretching ahead of her seemed very long and very empty.
This is the city that never sleeps, she reminded herself. I am going to have some fun. She could shop, she thought. Go to Barneys or Saks, buy an outfit. Go for a cocktail. A small stirring of interest reared its head in her breast. Yes, shopping. How long since she had done that?
An hour later Lawrie was feeling a little bit better. A beautiful wool wrap dress and a pair of designer leather boots had helped. Maybe clothes will be my thing, she thought, admiring her reflection one more time. I’m well paid, single, and living in New York. Dressing well is a duty.
Walking through the ground floor of the store, watching the sales assistants as they got ready to close, she found her eye caught by the displays of men’s accessories. Butter-soft wallets, discreet briefcases, exquisitely cut gloves.
It wasn’t just the women who knew how to look stylish in this city.
And then she saw it. A beautiful cashmere scarf. Dark greys, velvety blacks and inky purples combined in a pattern that reminded her irresistibly of a winter’s night in Cornwall. Lawrie came to a sudden halt and, almost against her will, reached out to caress the soft wool. The feel of it filled her with a sudden yearning for wind, waves and the tang of salt. On autopilot she picked up the scarf and took it to the desk to be gift-wrapped, managing not to gasp when the assistant asked for a truly exorbitant amount of money.
It was Jonas’s birthday in just a couple of days. It would be polite to send him a gift, surely.
Lawrie stood stock still, clutching the gift box, sudden homesickness hitting her like a punch to her stomach. She needed to snap out of it. Once New York felt like home it would all be easier. A cocktail was definitely next on the list. Possibly two.
Heading out of the store, she flung her arm out as a yellow cab cruised by. ‘Taxi!’
*
Sometimes, no matter how good the intention, it was impossible to get in the right frame of mind. She was trying. But being perched on a high stool in the plush bar, reading the cocktail menu, watching the chattering, laughing clientele, was strangely distancing—as if she were in the audience of a play. She looked like them, these young, affluent, attractive people with designer clothes and salon-dried hair, but she was apart. Not just because she was on her own, but because she knew that all this was a charade....
Take away the dress and the heels, the artfully done make-up and the professionally glossy hair, and who was she? Lawrie Bennett, daughter of a teen mum, stepdaughter, granddaughter, young bride, divorcee. All those links and yet she was completely, utterly alone. She could disappear here and now and nobody would know until the office opened again on Monday morning.
Lawrie smiled to herself with bitter humour, imagining their shock if she wasn’t at her desk by seven-thirty, skinny latte in hand, freshly showered after a half-hour session in the gym.
It didn’t have to be like this. She could do anything, grab a flight, go anywhere. Be impulsive. Of course the last time she was impulsive she had ended up kissing Jonas Jones, and look where that had got her.
Well, it had got her some pretty amazing sex. It had got her fun and laughter and time spent with a man who understood and accepted her.
Maybe being impulsive wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Looking up, she caught the bartender’s eye and beckoned her over. No, she wouldn’t have one of the more obvious cocktails.
‘A gin gimlet, please,’ she ordered. She wasn’t entirely sure what a gin gimlet was, but it made her think of intrepid bohemian flappers, drinking gin on safari, quite possibly in the middle of a thrilling adventure.
When was she going to have her thrilling adventure?
She took a sip and grimaced, but the second sip was strangely refreshing and led quite naturally to a third. She leant back and looked round. Opposite her was another lone drinker—a woman. Perfect hair, discreetly expensive clothes, sipping a cocktail while she typed busily on her laptop. It was hard to tell but she looked ten years older than Lawrie—although this was New York. She probably had an excellent surgeon.
As Lawrie watched her the woman looked up from her laptop and stared out at the laughing throng. An expression of such desolation, such loneliness, such sadness swept over her face that Lawrie quickly averted her eyes, embarrassed to be looking at such unvarnished pain. When she looked back the woman looked calm again, blank, coolly professional.
That could be me, Lawrie thought. That could be me in ten years if the dates and the cat and the making an effort don’t work. If I keep doing nothing but working I could make partner, be respected, be admired—and find myself drinking alone every Friday night, watching the happiness but being apart from it. Just like I am today.
Panic caught her chest and for one horribly long second she couldn’t breathe. The rush in her ears was drowning out the chatter and the laughter; her heart was swelling and aching. Was this what she wanted? Was this what she was working towards? Dinner for one and a taxi home?
Was this living?
She pulled out a crumpled note and put it on the table with shaking fingers, downed the rest of the cocktail—a drink that no longer seemed reckless and fun but tart and bitter—grabbed her bags and hurried out of the bar.
She managed to flag a taxi straight away and, after giving the driver her address, sat back, staring out of the window as the city changed. Shoppers and workers were making way for the partygoers, the theatregoers, the young and the beautiful, the wealthy and the stylish. The atmosphere had subtly changed to one of excitement, anticipation. It was Friday night and the city was truly waking up.
When was she going to wake up?
Almost panicking, Lawrie pulled her phone from her pocket and brought up her emails. Selecting an address, she began to type, jabbing at the keys in her anxiety to get it written and sent. She had to make a decision. She had to make a change. She had just seen her future, sitting across from her, and it hadn’t been a pretty sight.
The clothes, the cocktails, the success. None of it mattered if she was this empty inside.
And she was empty. Without Jonas she had nothing.
It had only taken her nine years to work that out.
*
He was just relieved it was over. Spending the first Sunday lunch with his parents for twelve years had been challenging. The fact it was his birthday hadn’t made it any easier.
But it had been the right thing to do. They had even smiled a couple of times.
It was odd, but it was the first time they’d ever had a celebratory dinner with just the three of them. Before, every holiday, Easter, Christmas, birthday had been spent in the hotel dining room, publicly celebrating with the hotel guests. Their whole family life played out in a public arena.
No wonder Jonas liked to be alone. He couldn’t wait to get home, to relax.
But there was a party waiting for him at the Boat House, whe
ther he wanted it or not.
It was a beautiful autumn night, although a definite chill in the air heralded the change of seasons. A perfect night for a stroll. If he parked the car back at his house he could walk along the harbour, clear his head, think about his plans one more time.
The streets leading from the harbour were narrow, twisting, but navigating them was second nature to him. On autopilot he reversed his car into a parking space and thankfully unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, taking a deep breath of the cold sea air.
He stood still for a moment, gazing down the hill at the sea, lit only by the moon and stars. It was his favourite view. It made him feel alive, grounded.
He would miss it.
For one moment he stood indecisively. Home was so close. A glass of his favourite single malt, music, a good book... But he had promised Fliss.
He took a few steps down the hill, coming to a standstill as a car swung round the bend. Automatically Jonas pressed himself against the rough stone wall. Not every driver was as careful as he. The headlights were blindingly bright, sweeping up the hill as the car drew to a stop outside his house.
Who on earth could be visiting him at this hour?
A figure got out and shut the door, standing still as the car revved up and watching it drive away. A slim, graceful figure, a bag over one shoulder, another in her hand, shoulder-length hair silhouetted against the street lamp on the corner.
His heart sped up as the figure crossed to his door. And stood there.
*
‘Lawrie?’
Rich as Cornish cream, deep as the Cornish sea.
She jumped. ‘Happy Birthday.’
‘You came all this way to wish me a Happy Birthday?’
‘No, actually I came to bring you a present. I left it too late to post it, so here...’
She held out the box she had kept on her knee for the six-hour flight. ‘Open it.’
‘Out here?’
She shrugged, her eyes drinking him in as he stood lit up by the street light.
The Return of Mrs. Jones Page 16