by Robyn Sisman
Suzie was looking curiously at her. “I remember him all right. He gave me some flowers—absolutely gorgeous. Said he didn’t need them anymore. Then he left.”
Freya stared at her bleakly, not wanting to believe it.
“Tall, blond guy,” Suzie added. “Handsome.”
“Did you see which way he went?” Freya demanded, looking from one to the other. “Did he saying anything? When did he leave? How did he look?”
“He went maybe twenty minutes ago,” Suzie answered. “He looked pretty low.”
Freya gave a sigh of defeat. “Okay. Thanks.” She turned away.
She walked back past the bar and pushed her way outside. The queue was still there. Instinctively she swung away from the lights and laughter, and walked alone down the dark street, head down, hands pushed into her pockets.
Jack had come, and she’d missed him. How could she ever explain? Sorry, Jack, I forgot. I was at a Singles evening. She’d rejected him before. He would think that she’d done it again, deliberately—that she didn’t care. Jack was a proud man. He’d given her one last chance, and she’d blown it.
Her own cruel words taunted her. She’d called Jack useless, pathetic, too spineless to commit to anything. But he had kept his promise. He had waited for her for almost two hours, conspicuously alone in a fashionable restaurant. He’d bought her flowers. She was the one who had doubted. This time she had disappointed him as bitterly as he had once disappointed her.
Freya gave a despairing sob. She didn’t even know how to contact him. He could be anywhere—anywhere!—in this teeming city. She’d lost him, maybe for good.
Freya blinked, then blinked again. Something was bothering her at the extreme edge of her vision, an intermittent, flickering light. She turned her head. Across the street was a fluorescent sign. North by Nrthwest, she read. The second o had slipped and was dangling by a cable, spitting sparks. Freya stared. It was a cinema. North by Northwest was one of Jack’s favorite films.
Before she knew it she had stepped off the curb and was walking across the street. The place looked like an old fleapit, probably on the last lap of its lease before demolition. A ticket lady—Chinese, maybe, or Korean—sat in a glass booth, watching a small portable TV and eating popcorn.
Freya bent her head to the narrow slot. “Excuse me, has anyone bought a ticket in the last half hour or so? A man?”
The lady stared at her with bored eyes and chewed her popcorn. “You want ticket?”
“Okay.” Freya took out her wallet and handed over a bill. What was she doing?
“Movie almost finished,” the woman said, sliding Freya’s ticket across.
Freya ignored her. She crossed the dingy foyer, drawn by the music—panicky violins and the bang of drums.
She pushed through the doors and stopped, blinded in the sudden dark. On-screen, Cary Grant was clinging to a rock-face with one hand; the other gripped the hand of a blond woman dangling in space, about to fall toward pine trees far, far below.
Freya scanned the audience as her eyes adjusted to the dark. There were perhaps a dozen figures scattered through the rows. None of them was Jack.
The agonized face of the blond woman filled the screen. “I can’t make it!” she cried, raising despairing eyes to Cary Grant.
“Yes, you can. Come on.”
“I’m tired. . . .”
Freya turned to go. She felt desolate. It had been stupid to think she could find her way to Jack, just because she loved him.
Wait a minute! There was a figure right over the other side, his legs propped on the seat in front. It was Jack. He was wearing those cute college-boy glasses. Freya felt her heart would burst. She hurried around the walkway behind the seats and down the far aisle.
On-screen the couple were now in each other’s arms on the upper bunk of a train compartment. The woman was wearing white pajamas. “This is silly,” she laughed.
“I know. I’m sentimental.”
Freya reached the row where Jack was sitting, one seat in from the end. He hadn’t noticed her yet. His face was unguarded, his expression wistful. Freya melted with tenderness. She began to tremble.
But when she spoke, her voice was light, almost teasing. “Is this seat taken?”
Jack looked up. His face flooded with astonishment and delight. He reached for her hand, holding it as if he would never let go, and flipped down the seat to draw her close. His eyes smiled into hers. “I’ve been saving it for you,” he said.
About the Author
© Jerry Bauer
ROBYN SISMAN was born in Los Angeles and grew up in various parts of the United States and Europe. After a spell teaching in Ethiopia, she settled in London and worked in publishing. The author of Perfect Strangers, a London Sunday Times bestseller, she is a full-time writer and currently lives in Somerset, near Bath.
More praise for Just Friends
“A sparky, well-written take on why men and women can never be just good friends.”
—Marie Claire
“The gorgeous and witty characters live Sex and the City, and the plot has enough amusing twists and turns to be believable and delightful.”
—Booklist
“With a dash of British humor and an adroit insight into family relationships and what really makes love work, Sisman’s latest offering has what it takes.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Finely observed characters, vivid set pieces, and laugh-aloud wit.”
—Mail on Sunday
“A genuinely funny read.”
—Company
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2000 by Robyn Sisman
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in slightly different form in Great Britain by Penguin Books Ltd. in 2000.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2002091642
eISBN 0-345-45488-X
v1.0
About this Title
This eBook was created using ReaderWorks™ Publisher Preview, produced by OverDrive, Inc.
For more information on ReaderWorks, visit us on the Web at "www.readerworks.com"