by Sarah Rayner
“Mm.” His voice was small, disappointed, but resigned. “I kind of thought you’d say that.”
Again she sighed. “I guess maybe it’s because I’m a perfectionist, like you said. But that’s the way I am and try as I may, I can’t change it. I wouldn’t be being true to myself.” She fought back the tears, struggling to express what she meant, yet be kind. “That’s the irony—it might be one of the reasons you love me but … I don’t know. Perhaps we’re too different in that way. Your ambivalence, your pragmatism … I understand it, but living like that, it was killing me, all that compromise. And I ended up putting all my idealism into the wrong stuff—stupid things, shallow things—an immaculate house, the perfect bloody soufflé … I’m sorry, but I’ve fought so hard to get it back … who I really am. It’s not that I don’t still love you, it’s that I can’t love you like I used to—or at least be with you—not in the same way, not anymore.”
At that moment the referee blew the final whistle and the boys came running off the pitch. Nathan charged over to his parents, pleased as punch with his performance, happily unaware of the significance of their conversation. He bounced along between them, and they made their way back across the recreation ground.
When they reached the car park, Jamie headed for his vehicle as if to drive straight up to London.
“Hey.” Maggie touched his shoulder as he turned to go. “Why don’t you come back with us for a bit? Have some tea and biscuits?” This was her white flag; her way of saying he was still a part of her life with Nathan, regardless of whether the two of them remained husband and wife.
“Really?”
“Of course,” said Maggie. “You’d like to have tea with Daddy, wouldn’t you, Nathan?”
45
Chloë got out of the yellow cab and checked her watch.
Damn. She was early. It was only twenty to eight, and she was meeting Adrienne Sugarman at Nobu on the hour. She took a peek through the double doors of the famous restaurant. Every table was packed, but the bar was empty. It was in the center of the room and she’d be conspicuous, especially as she hadn’t brought anything to read.
To kill time she strolled a couple of blocks down Hudson Street. Soaring ahead of her against the clear sky of the late June evening was the new World Trade development; on the corner was a tavern, Puffy’s. Small to the point of poky, it was seedy in comparison with the impressive bamboo chic of Nobu, but a great deal less intimidating—several people were sitting at the bar.
Chloë pushed open the door and squeezed herself in at the counter.
“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender.
“A margarita. On the rocks. No salt.” That’ll help my meeting go with a swing, she thought.
As the bartender prepared her cocktail, the guy sitting next to her caught her eye. “Are you English?”
“Yeah.”
“Been here long?”
“About two months.”
“Not on vacation, then?”
“No.” Chloë wasn’t really in the mood to talk.
He leaned forward and smiled. “So you’re here a while?”
“As long as it takes,” said Chloë, and thought, to get over a broken heart. She was silent for a moment, contemplating how hard it was to be so far from home. She missed Rob and her friends and family, but at least Facebook allowed her to stay in touch with them on a regular basis, and Rob instant messaged her often to chat online. No, the person she really missed was James. She’d stuck to her resolve and had not been in touch with him, and it was getting easier as time passed, just as Rob kept assuring her it would be, but it was testing her newfound self-control to the max. She knew this was for the best, yet it was often when other men chatted her up that she missed James most keenly—they never seemed as special as he was, somehow.
“Huh?” The guy next to her interrupted her thoughts, sounding puzzled.
She realized her responses—or lack of them—must appear odd, so explained, “I’ve come for work.”
“What kind of work?”
“To launch a magazine.”
“Really?” He appeared genuinely interested. “Cool.”
There was nothing like flattery to bring Chloë out of an introverted mood. She beamed proudly. “I’m meeting my new business partner at Nobu in a few minutes. She’s bringing some potential advertisers.”
“Nice,” said the guy. “Hey, I’m Peter.” He held out his hand.
As she shook it, noting his firm grip, she took him in properly for the first time. She judged he was a few years older than she was, and his clothes suggested that he wasn’t short of a dollar or two. Indeed, he was pretty nice-looking in an Italian-who-likes-the-good-life kind of way.
Peter continued, “And these are my friends—Ben, Brad.” Two men leaned around the counter and shook Chloë’s hand in turn. They were decidedly leaner and scruffier than Peter. One looked like a dissolute rock star, while the other—if his paint-splattered hair was anything to go by—must have been an artist of some kind. Yet all three had one thing in common.
They were gorgeous.
At once she felt better still. “I’m Chloë.” She grinned.
Then, for a split second, she wondered what it would be like to have sex with them all. Simultaneously. Better than the boys in the gym back home, that was for sure. Though maybe they were gay. This was New York. And before she could stop herself, she said, “So, are you straight, or what?”
Peter, the Italian-looking one, laughed. “Now, there’s a direct to-the-point kinda girl. Far as I know to date, yeah, we are.”
She smiled wryly. “Married?”
Each shook his head.
Wonders will never cease, thought Chloë.
She took a generous gulp of margarita.
What the heck?
Perhaps she was just beginning to get over James, after all.
46
“I suppose it’s time to say good-bye,” said Maggie, checking her watch. She looked around the room. With its view over Guildford glistening in the summer sun, it seemed less shabby to her than it had the previous autumn, more comforting, homely. It was a retreat she would miss, just as she would miss Jamie and their house in Shere. But she was ready to leave it behind all the same. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve been brilliant, a great help.”
“Do feel free to stay in touch,” said Nina, “let me know how things are going. I’d like that.”
“Oh, I will.” Maggie nodded, knowing she would, in the same way she would stay in touch with Georgie; even if she only ever sent a Christmas card. She was good that way, loyal. “It’s a bit far to come every week, now that Nathan and I are moving closer to London again.”
“I quite understand.”
“And I feel we’re moving on in other ways, too, so I ought to draw a line under this whole affair, try to put it behind us.”
Now it was Nina’s turn to nod. Her jewelry rattled accordingly. “Good luck.” She got to her feet and held out her hand. “I hope it all goes well for you.”
“Thank you.” Maggie shook her hand. It seemed strange, such a formal gesture, after everything she’d shared with this woman over the last few months. So, impulsively, she reached forward instead, and gave Nina a swift hug around her broad shoulders. “Thank you,” she said again and turned and left the room.
Back in her car she rummaged in her handbag for her mobile. She checked her messages. There was one from the Observer, giving her the go-ahead on an idea she’d put to them that morning. That was a fast response—they must have liked it. There was one from Jean—very excited Maggie was going to be living closer to her again, and offering to lend a hand with packing. And there was one from Jamie, asking if he could have Nathan on Saturday instead of Sunday and take him to a game. He wondered if it was possible for Nathan to spend the night with him. Now that he was renting his own apartment this was a viable option.
Maggie hit Call back.
“About Sat
urday,” she said when he answered, “that’s fine. In fact, it’s helpful. I fancied doing something myself so that makes it easier.”
“Great! I’ll look forward to it.”
She hung up without getting drawn into a long chat but before starting the engine, decided to make one last call. “Hi—it’s Mags. Can you talk?”
“Sure.”
She felt a bit funny, flustered even. “I—er—you said you wanted to see me this weekend? Maybe go away somewhere?”
“Yes?” Alex sounded hopeful, and a little nervous too.
“Well, it’s fine. Only for one night, that’s all I can manage. But I’ve decided I’d like to. Come with you, I mean.”
“I’m so pleased. I’ll look online, see if I can book us in somewhere special. Anywhere you’ve a hankering to go?”
“Surprise me,” she said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A big thank-you to family, and especially my mum, not just for her direct advice about this novel but also for her support over the years.
I also wish to thank Rachel Leyshon for helping to develop the idea in the first place and for her editorial expertise; my publisher at Orion, Jane Wood; and my agent, Vivien Green, who believed in this from the off; plus Donna Brodie from the fabulous Writers’ Room in New York.
My friends Debbie Fagan, Margaret Heffernan, Jenny Lingrell, Julie Miller, Paula Morris, and Michele Teboul deserve special mention, as do my very own “Robs,” Bill Graber, John Scott, Patrick Fitzgerald, and Karl Miller. And as for the J/J-like guys I’ve known in my time, well, have a margarita on me.
I’d also like to add thanks to my UK editor, Francesca Main, who helped hone this revised version; my U.S. editor, Sara Goodman; photographer Madelyn Mulvaney and designer Jonathan Roberts for their work on the new cover; Pauline Amaya-Torres for helping with typo-spotting; and my other half, Tom, for being nothing like this novel’s James.
ALSO BY SARAH RAYNER
The Two Week Wait
One Moment, One Morning
Getting Even
PRAISE FOR THE OTHER HALF
“A wickedly funny ménage à trois.”
—Cosmopolitan magazine (UK)
“Compulsive enough to have you walking into lampposts.”
—Company magazine (UK)
“An all-too-likely tale of marriage and infidelity.”
—Express
About the Author
SARAH RAYNER was born in London. She is the author of the international bestseller One Moment, One Morning and its follow-up, The Two Week Wait. Sarah has worked in fashion, magazines, and advertising—experiences she drew upon for The Other Half—but she now writes fiction full-time from her home in Brighton, which she shares with her husband and stepson. Visit her at www.thecreativepumpkin.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE OTHER HALF. Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Rayner. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Elsie Lyons
Cover photograph by Christoph Wilhelm/Imagebrief.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rayner, Sarah.
The other half / Sarah Rayner. — First U.S. Edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-04210-1 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-250-04559-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-03472-4 (e-book)
I. Title.
PR6118.A57O88 2014
823'.92—dc23
2013046241
A different version of this title was published in the United Kingdom by Orion in 2001.
First Edition: April 2014
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