by Leslie Wells
And so far, so good. Jack made it home every night, even if it was in the wee hours of the morning after hitting the bars with his band mates. When we were out in public together, he made it clear that he was with me. Which wasn’t all that often, to be honest, because everywhere he went turned into a hassle; people wanting autographs, photographers harassing him. He seemed to brush it off, but I hadn’t gotten used to it in the least. If we went to a restaurant, his manager Mary Jo set it up ahead of time so we could get in and out quickly. If we went to a club, we were rushed up to the VIP room where his friends would be waiting. I wasn’t complaining—admittedly the star treatment was a thrill—but it was just…different. A very different kind of life from what I’d been used to, coming from my small town in Pennsylvania and scraping by in Manhattan on my puny publishing salary.
Hearing Jack’s Cockney accent, I glanced up the aisle. Sure enough, he’d been spotted on his way back to our seats. His shades slipped halfway down his nose, he was signing autographs for a thrilled bunch of passengers as the flight attendant tried to get them all to sit down. I smiled to myself and tucked my cozy suede coat around me more snugly.
Jack had given me a bunch of new clothes for Christmas, including a fancy pair of boots and this gorgeous winter coat. Going forward, I wouldn’t have to rely on the second-hand thrift-store gear that had been the staple of my wardrobe up until now. For my part, I’d given Jack several books, a supply of guitar strings and picks, and—knowing he’d been fascinated by insects since he was a boy—a praying mantis farm. I’d hoped my less-than-extravagant presents would seem imaginative rather than paltry, so I was pleased when Jack proclaimed the mantises the best Christmas gift he’d ever received.
And out of everything he’d given me, what I valued most of all wasn’t the fancy outfits, the silky lingerie, or the delicate sapphire necklace and earrings—in fact, I’d been embarrassed by the lavish shower of presents. The most meaningful and thoughtful gift had been a signed first edition of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, one of my all-time favorites. Jack let it slip that he’d had a bookseller combing the antique shops for weeks in order to locate it. That vintage book, and the tickets to London, were the things I cherished most.
The other huge surprise was that after five days in England, we were flying to a private Caribbean island. As a Christmas gift to my mother, Jack was flying Dot there to meet us. I just hoped his own Mum’s reaction to me wouldn’t be as frigid as the famously cold British weather.
As Jack finally signed the last slip of paper and made his way back, I noted the gazes of the women, from the curvaceous flight attendants to middle-aged mommies and ponytailed teenagers. Sure, he was a celebrity, but he was also strikingly attractive, his long dark eyelashes lending an almost feminine beauty to his masculine features. Even if he hadn’t been the lead guitarist of the world-renowned band, Four to the Floor, I knew their eyes would be glued to his handsome face and lithe body.
When we had gotten back together, I had told Jack that I loved him, and he’d said that he loved me, too. Yet whenever I saw him enveloped in a palpitating wall of adoration, I felt unsure about our chances of lasting for very long.
As Jack slid past me into his window seat, I had time for one last private thought. Yes, the past month and a half has been fantastic, I reflected as he settled in beside me. I knew I was living a fantasy that his hordes of female admirers only dreamed of—but that idea was disconcerting rather than pleasing. In the back of my mind, a chorus kept repeating like a song that gets stuck in your head: What are you going to do when it’s over?
“You’re home!” Margaret Kipling threw open the front doors of the palatial manse set back in a tree-lined property. I recognized her from a picture Jack had shown me; she had dark hair with a few streaks of white, and his emphatic eyebrows. Slim and tall, she wore a rather formal print dress and pearls. Jack went up the granite steps and gave her a hug. I hung back near the limo for a moment; now that I was here, I was even more anxious than I’d been on the plane. It didn’t help that Jack had once described his mother as a “ball-buster”. And I definitely wished I had on something other than the jeans that had seemed right for the long flight.
“Maggie, meet Julia,” Jack said, gesturing between us. I approached, not sure whether she was the hugging type. Her outstretched hand gave me the answer. I shook it, noting her firm grip.
“I can’t believe it’s been eight months since you’ve been home. Nice that you could come too, Julia,” she added in a not-overly-excited voice. Up close, I could see where he’d gotten his deep brown eyes; hers were just as soulful, if they lacked Jack’s warmth. She had fine wrinkles at the corners, but none of the smile lines that were etched into the sides of Jack’s mouth.
“Thank you for having me.” I met her scrutinizing gaze.
“Let’s go in. I’m freezing me arse off,” Jack said, hustling me inside. The foyer had a huge antique mirror opposite a mounted elk’s head with branching antlers. “I see you’ve taken up hunting.” Jack nodded at the elk.
“Dilly’s had another go at decorating,” Maggie replied. “She says the old is new again.”
“The old is looking rather flea-bitten.” Jack fingered a branch of the elk, which up close did seem a little shopworn. A young woman in an apron rushed over to take our coats. “And who is this?” he asked, smiling at the terrified girl.
“This is Tracy from the village,” Maggie said. “She comes to us Tuesdays and Fridays. Let’s go in the parlor; we’re just having tea.”
“How are you, Tracy From the Village?” Jack asked.
“Just fine, sir,” she squeaked before scurrying down the hall.
Jack made an after-you motion and I walked behind his mother, attempting to ignore his hand tickling my butt. I tried to slap it away surreptitiously, but got caught in the act as Maggie turned to us.
“I take it you drink tea? Tracy can make some instant coffee if you’d like,” she said to me.
“Oh no, tea would be nice.” I didn’t want to stand out as the crass java-loving American.
“D’you have that nice squidgy cake you had last time?” Jack asked.
“Of course,” Maggie said. “And smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches, lemon curd, and your favorite cream puffs.”
“Good. The food on the plane was total crap.”
The house was grand in size; not quite a mansion, but definitely imposing. Before I could take much of it in, we were led into a parlor done up in a dizzying degree of chintz. A miniature Yorkie wearing a red and green sweater was quivering on the sofa next to a sleeping cat. A petite young woman with a stylish blonde shag rose from one of the chairs, a little girl clutching her skirt: Jack’s half-sister Sharon and her four-year-old daughter Emma.
“Uncle Jack!” Two brown-and-white missiles shot from a corner of the room. Jack caught the brunt of the six-year-old boy as a bulldog wheezed and snuffled beside him.
“Oliver,” Jack said after they hugged. He took his nephew by the shoulders and examined him. “I haven’t seen you in yonks. You’ve grown several inches.” Jack had once told me the newspapers thought Ollie was his “love child”, and I could see why. He was the spitting image of Jack: dark hair standing up in back of his head, sparkling brown eyes, and mischievously arched eyebrows. The bulldog waggled its rump and mouthed Jack’s pants leg. “Hello Randy, howsa boy?” He patted its neck, and a long strand of saliva spooled from its mouth.
“Jack, you’re making Randall drool,” Maggie said. She lifted the tiny Yorkie onto her lap.
“You’re glad to see me, aren’t you, boy?” Jack said, rubbing the bulldog’s blocky head. “This is Julia,” he announced to the others. The dog looked up at me, and another string of drool escaped its lips.
“She has the same effect on me.” Jack put his arm around Sharon, who went up on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek. Emma hid behind her mom’s skirt, and I understood the impulse. I was a little overwhelmed by the familial chaos; my own
family consisted of only my mother and me.
“Nice new ’do,” Jack said as he fluffed Sharon’s hair. “But who’s this big girl? What have you done with Emma?” he teased.
The child stepped forward. “I’m Emma!” she announced.
“Oh no, you’re far too big to be Emma,” Jack said as Oliver tugged on his sleeve.
“Uncle Jack! Are you going to take me driving this time?”
“Oliver. Let Jack relax a bit before you start whinging. Hello Julia, I’m Sharon. We’re so glad you could come.” His sister shook my hand and gave me a subtle once-over. I felt rumpled and smeary after the flight; I’d only had time for a quick lip gloss fix in the airport bathroom. Which Jack had mauled off in the limo during the hour’s drive to Hounslow.
“Have a seat.” Sharon indicated a large armchair next to hers. “Jack, you’re such a liar.”
Jack was standing over a low table, piling a plate high with little sandwiches, scones with jam and cream, and cakes from a tiered stand. “What do you mean?”
“You said Julia was six-foot and blonde, with lots of piercings.”
“That was the other Julia I was seeing.” Jack added one more cream puff to the pile and sat in a chair next to his mother. “Why do you insist on these tiny plates?” he complained. Oliver stood by his side, breathlessly narrating his recent soccer match.
“—and then I almost got the ball, but this stonking big duffer kicked me in the shin—”
“You’re small, like I was at your age. But you’ll grow like a weed when you’re about fourteen,” Jack said to him. “Where’s the old sod?” he asked Sharon. I knew he didn’t care for her husband.
“Duncan’s off to a barrister’s conference in Horncastle.” Sharon frowned as she poured for me.
“Good riddance.” Jack blew on his tea.
“Now, Jack,” Maggie admonished. “How do you like the way Dilly did the parlor? Emma, leave the cat alone,” she said to her granddaughter, who was pulling its tail.
“I’ve never been too fond of chintz,” Jack said, cramming half a tart into his mouth. “Mmm, scrummy.” He fed the other half to Randall, who waddled over to me, masticating.
“You know tarts give him wind,” Maggie said.
“Here, pussy,” Emma was saying. Oliver made a grab for the cat, which hid under my chair.
“Do you have a pussy?” Oliver looked up at me.
“She has a very nice one. What?” Jack said innocently when I gave him a look.
“You’re gonna take me driving, aren’t you Uncle Jack?” Oliver insisted.
“Jack tells me you’re just out of university. What did you read?” Maggie asked, stroking the trembling Yorkie in her lap.
I placed my teacup in its saucer and tried to surreptitiously nudge Randall away as he sniffed my leg. “Oh, a little of everything. Virginia Woolf, Faulkner…” Randall gave my ankle a tentative lick.
“She means what did you major in.” Jack took a slurp of tea. “That’s what Julia and I have in common; our deep abiding interest in English literature.” He grinned and licked a smear of lemon curd off the corner of his mouth. “And now she’s a book editor, always swotting away at the manuscripts. What’s this?” He scooped up the Yorkie with one hand and held it high so we could see the lettering on its sweater: I AM the grandchild!
“That was an early Christmas gift from me,” Sharon said as Jack dumped the dog back onto Maggie’s lap.
“Does your company publish Barbara Cartland? She’s very popular over here,” Maggie asked.
“No, we don’t have that many big fiction authors. My boss would like to acquire some more.” I was distracted by the bulldog’s lavish ankle-licking. Suddenly it reared up, front paws grasping my knee.
“Randy, get down! You see where he gets his name,” Jack said as the bulldog began enthusiastically humping my leg. “Just shove him away. Now, who’s ready for presents?”
“Me! Me!” Oliver screamed. Sharon grabbed Randy’s collar and dragged him off my leg, making him choke up the tart in the process.
“No, me!” Emma cried, jumping up.
“I may have one or two things for you both,” Jack said, getting up from his seat. “Let me just crack a window first.”
“I told you those tarts gave him wind,” Maggie said.
An hour later, wrapping paper was strewn from one end of the room to the other. Oliver and Jack were on the floor putting together a complicated racecar track, and Emma had opened her 48-piece china tea set to feed her six new dolls. Sharon had begun by weakly protesting all the gifts, but in the end she gave up as Jack brought out one box after another from the limo’s “boot,” as he called it. Maggie modeled the elegant floor-length coat he’d had shipped to her, and Sharon thanked Jack for its double, which she’d left back home in Surrey.
The women unwrapped sweaters and scarves from Jack and exclaimed politely over my gifts of candles and potpourri. Sharon gave me a lovely bottle of perfume. I pushed Randy off my leg for the third time and took the package Maggie handed me. Inside the box was a large leering nutcracker with a wild tuft of red hair.
“Thank you! This will be so…useful,” I said, opening and shutting its jaws.
“I recognize that; it’s what Dilly gave you last Christmas,” Sharon said accusingly.
“It is no such thing,” Maggie said haughtily. “Anyway, I have three of them already.”
Sharon rolled her eyes at me. “Mum can’t help herself; she always passes along the gifts. At least it wasn’t a water pick.”
“Nonsense. It only looks like the one Dilly gave me. Anyway, Julia, I’m sure you want to wash up and unpack. I’ll show you to your room. Tracy will have brought up your bags.”
“I’ll show her the way.” Jack jumped up and grabbed my hand. “What time’s supper? We’re going to relax for a bit.”
Maggie narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure Julia would like to rest after such a long flight. I’ve put her in Caroline’s old room,” she said pointedly. “And your room is made up for you.”
“We’ll just have a quick kip,” Jack said. He pulled me into the hallway toward the big staircase.
“Did you just tell her we’re going to have sex?” I whispered as I followed him up the carpeted steps.
“Well, we are, aren’t we? Don’t you fancy a bit of a hump?” Jack grinned. “Nah, a kip is a nap. You didn’t know that from your extensive reading?”
“I’m not familiar with some of these expressions,” I muttered as we reached the second floor. “Caroline was the girlfriend in your mid-twenties, right?” I felt a surprisingly sharp stab of jealousy. He’d showed me her picture once when he’d gotten out an old box of photos; she was thin, blonde, and rich. “How long did you say you went out with her?”
“I dunno, several years. It was never ‘her’ room; she only stayed here a couple of Christmases. Mum was just impressed because her Dad was an Earl or something.”
Jack led me down a long hallway with hunter-green walls, hung with dark paintings. I made a mental note to check them out later. He stopped at the third door and pushed it open. “Ah, she’s put you in Old Squeaky,” he said as we entered the room. My bag was on the floor next to a large chest of drawers with an age-spotted mirror, a fireplace, two armchairs, and a settee.
“This is really nice,” I said, glancing around.
“Take a good look, because you aren’t staying here,” Jack said.
“But your mother!” I was horrified at the thought of antagonizing Maggie.
“I’ll handle her. This is bullshit; she knows we’re living together.” Jack took off his boots and leaped onto the bed.
“What are you doing?” Jack began jumping, the bed emanating loud creaks and squeaks. He leaped higher, his hair flying. The bed juddered like it was about to break in two. “Stop—you’re wrecking it!” I cried.
“Now for the encore.” Jack knelt facing the headboard and began slamming it rhythmically against the wall. He banged it one last time and
gave a loud, drawn-out groan.
My cheeks were burning. “How am I going to face them now?”
“Serves her right. C’mon, my room’s the best one in the house.”
“I hope you had a good kip,” Maggie said, eyeing me when we came downstairs a few hours later. To my horror, a hot blush crept up my face.
“Oh, it was fantastic,” Jack said with a wolfish grin. “One of the best ever.”
Dinner, which they called “supper,” was poached eggs, mashed potatoes with sausages, and toast. Apparently it was the custom to eat a large meal in the middle of the day—their dinner—and then have a big formal tea at four, followed by a light meal around eight p.m. I was starving, since I’d been too nervous to eat any of the previous spread. While I devoured my eggs, Oliver ran in circles around the table. Every time he passed Emma, he yanked her hair, making her shriek.
“Ollie, sit next to me,” Jack finally said. “Reminds me of m’self when I was that age,” he added fondly. I noticed Sharon’s exhausted expression and wondered how she managed. From what I’d gathered, her husband wasn’t around much. Emma was just as rambunctious, complaining all the while that she hated bangers and mash.
“It’s your uncle’s favorite supper,” Maggie said reprovingly. When she turned to pass the butter, Emma stuck out her tongue.
“Ahh, I’ve missed home cooking,” Jack said as he served himself seconds. “Too bad I only know how to make breakfast.”
“You don’t cook, Julia?” Maggie gave me a pointed look.
“I never really learned,” I said, chagrinned at having to explain. If Jack wanted a domestic diva, he was with the wrong girl. I hadn’t been aware that it was high on his checklist. “I was in grad school up until a year and a half ago, living on cafeteria food. And now I’m spending long hours in the office.”
“Never too late to learn,” Maggie said. “I’ll jot down my recipe for Yorkshire pudding before you leave; I’ve known Jack to eat three helpings. And treacle sponge, and shepherd’s pie—even a simpleton could make that. I stuff the pie with minced lamb and mashed potatoes.”