by Fiona Harper
I nod.
‘Do we really need a piece of paper to cement what we have? It’s real enough anyway, isn’t it?’
He does have a point. I have that piece of paper with Dan and it hasn’t bestowed any magical properties on our relationship. ‘No, I suppose not … Are you saying you don’t ever want to get married?’
He looks up at the ceiling, considers my question. ‘No … and I understand you girls like to have the big day, the dress, the cake and everything. I’m just saying that there’s no rush, that’s all.’
I breathe out, relieved. ‘It’s just that the practical side of it is so much easier when children come along – ’
I stop. His eyes are wide, his expression hovering between shock and laughter. ‘I never knew you were this much of a planner, Meg,’ he says, giving me a playful nudge.
‘Well, I think I am. At least, I’m starting to be.’ Which is good, I tell myself. I can’t moan about my life not being what I want if I’m not prepared to do something about it. I take a deep breath. It feels as if my next words will send me diving head first off a cliff. ‘I want babies one day, I’ve always said that.’
He kisses me softly. ‘I know … and any babies you make will be adorable. But it’s not the right time right now, is it?’ He waves a hand to encompass our current celebrations. ‘What with the business expanding and your career really starting to take off. You know that once Carnegie has moved into that house he’s going to brag about it to all his television-producer friends, don’t you? You’ll be rushed off your feet with hot new clients.’
‘I know,’ I say. When Jude puts it that way, I can see he’s right, but it doesn’t stop that ache deep down in my soul, that painful hole that just won’t close. I’ll just have to be patient, I suppose, but I can do that. At least I know time skips by faster for me than for other people. For all I know I might be pregnant tomorrow, even if that tomorrow is hundreds of tomorrows away in real time.
‘But I get it,’ he says. ‘You’re … you … and you want the kind of things you want. And what you want from me right now is something tangible, something to show how much you mean to me.’
I feel a rush of gratitude, of love, at his words, so glad I don’t have to explain, like I do with Dan, only for it to fall on deaf ears. He kisses me again, at that tender spot at the base of my neck where he knows I like it. ‘Then we’ll just have to work something out … I’ve always said it: whatever you want, Meg.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I miss Becca. Apart from my children, she’s the person I miss most when I’m in this life, when I’m this person. It’s hard to switch our friendship off and on every time I shift paths. In my other life I’ve got used to calling her nearly every day. I want to tell her about my fantastic new career as the owner and founder of Meg Greene Designs. I want to tell her about the totally amazing house that Jude has found for us in the heart of Notting Hill – our dream house. It’s a total dump at the moment, a four-storey Georgian terrace that was turned into bedsits, but if anyone can return it to its former glory, Jude can.
I’ve pored over my Filofaxes from the last couple of years, searching for any hint of her name that might suggest a meeting or even a call, but there’s nothing. It’s as if I’ve cut her out of my life.
I’m not surprised, really. We were both really angry that day we met up in the Italian restaurant. But the me that travels through time has had other experiences with Becca since then. We’ve laughed and cried, bickered and made up countless time. Emotionally, I moved on from that angry place a long time ago.
All I can think about is that she might still be with that psycho Grant in this life too. And what if he’s not better but worse in this world? What if Becca’s tragic story could be featuring on Crimewatch five years from now?
I pick up the phone and dial her number. I don’t even know if it’s the right one. She might have moved. Someone else could pick up the phone …
But after four rings the answerphone kicks in and I hear her voice. I know what to do after the beep, her tinny voice informs me, then she laughs that soft, throaty laugh of hers before the recorded message cuts out. I’m so relieved I almost want to cry. She sounds happy.
But my joy is short-lived, because suddenly I realise this isn’t just about hearing Becca’s voice; I’ve got to leave a message. I’ve got to say something sensible, something that’ll convince her to give our friendship another chance after years of silence.
I get stage fright.
‘Hey,’ I say, and my voice sounds Mini Mouse-high in my ears. ‘It’s me … Meg. I mean, Maggie …’ My brain empties. ‘Anyway … I just, I just …’ Oh, God. This is going worse than I thought. What can I say? What excuse can I give?
And then it hits me. Maybe excuses aren’t what’s needed. I clear my throat. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘about the way we left things. I know it’s been a long time, but I don’t want to lose our friendship. Call me?’ I recite the home phone number written in my Filofax, then I think I’d better add something: ‘I’m still with Jude. I just thought you should know that. But we have a nice life, Becs. He’s doing really well and so am I …’ I trail off, realising that my attempt at convincing her Jude isn’t still a jerk might sound like bragging instead. ‘Anyway … I miss you. Please think about giving me a call. Bye.’
And then I hang up. It’s stupid; I almost expect the phone to jump to life the moment I put the receiver down, but it stays calm and silent in its cradle. I sigh. Well, I’ve made the first move. Now all I can do is wait.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Christmas comes and goes, and then New Year. I begin to think Jude’s forgotten our conversation about taking things to the next level, until one day I come home to find a message on the answerphone. He wants me to meet him at Green Park Underground Station at seven because he’s taking me out to dinner. Somewhere nice. I start to get excited.
Jude has a mobile, but I don’t yet. I’ve been holding out. Partly because I’ve got used not to being tied down to one, partly because as soon as I make that step I feel I’ll have crossed a threshold. I’ll no longer be firmly in the past – young, part of my own history. Life will be more similar to the one I left behind and that’s going to make me feel older.
I phone him to try and worm some more details out of him, but he’s surprisingly tight-lipped about our destination. He refuses to say any more, and I can hear the smile in his voice as he fends off my questions. He’s enjoying this, which means he’s up to something he thinks I’ll like. I wonder if Cam and Issie are over from their home in Provence, and that’s what the surprise is?
Jude’s definitely a man who likes to surprise me. His Christmas gift was a weekend in Paris. I thought we were going to spend a couple of nights with his parents until he had a cab deliver us at Waterloo, where he produced my passport from his inside pocket and we stepped onto Eurostar. I really can’t moan, can I? What woman doesn’t like big romantic gestures? It’s just … well, it’s just I’d like to be part of the decision-making process sometimes.
Without much else to go on, I choose a DVF wrap dress in petrol-blue from my wardrobe and get ready. I feel like a million dollars when I step from the flat. The dress hugs my curves but it doesn’t cling mercilessly. Even so, it’s the sort of thing I wouldn’t even have dreamt of wearing in my former life.
I don’t bother with a cab. There’s something about the buzz of London as it morphs from serious workday into night time that gives me a buzz. By the time I’m climbing the steps onto the south side of Piccadilly, I feel almost giddy.
Jude is standing there waiting for me, with a huge bunch of perfect red roses. He hands them to me, then he takes my arm and leads me down the street and to the Wolseley.
I love this building, with its grand stone arches and wrought iron outside and the elegant deco-inspired cream, gold and black interior. We’ve eaten here once before when Jude was entertaining clients, but when we are shown to our table I’m pleased to find th
at it’s set for two.
The flowers are whisked away to be kept hydrated, with the promise they will be returned to me when they leave. We order, we eat our appetisers, and Jude is infuriatingly silent on the reason for this dinner, enough to make me wonder if there’s any reason at all, but when our entrees finished, he clears his throat and looks at me in that hypnotising way he has when he’s got something big to say, the way he did on the lawn of Oaklands when he asked me to run away with him. I catch my breath and hold it.
‘I have something for you …’ He slides a plain but elegant black box across the table, topped with a large, gold, satin ribbon.
It’s too large for a ring, I tell myself, but my pulse begins to gallop anyway.
I prise the lid off, and buried in mounds of gold tissue paper I pull out … a phone. A mobile phone. Top of the range for the time. I shoot Jude a questioning look.
‘I know you’ve been thinking about it,’ he says, that smile still hiding behind his eyes. ‘So I thought I’d get you one.’
‘Thank you,’ I stammer, and I try to smile back. My confusion gets the better of me. ‘I don’t understand …’
He looks down at the tablecloth for a moment. Hang on, I think. Is Jude … nervous? My heart pounds even harder.
‘I want you to know that I haven’t forgotten the conversation we had before Christmas,’ he says, raising his gaze to meet mine. I see honesty in his eyes, and love. ‘I’ve been thinking very hard about what to do about it.’
I nod, unable to say anything in case I break the spell. This wouldn’t be beyond Jude when it comes to surprises, to double bluff me, making me think one thing is the gift, when he’s actually got another up his sleeve. I watch his hands to see if he’s reaching for anything else, something like a small velvet box, but he doesn’t move.
‘That’s a company mobile,’ he says softly.
I stare at the phone in my hands. It’s not a ring and he didn’t even buy it with his own money? I look back up at him, confused. ‘You want me to work for you?’
‘No … I want us to work together.’
I see him willing me to understand, but I’m just not getting it. I shake my head from side to side, tiny little movements that don’t even make my hair bounce. ‘I’m not doing a very good job of this, am I?’ he says. ‘Maybe because I’m scared you’re going to say no …’
‘No, to what?’ I whisper.
He pushes the box and phone aside, takes my hands. ‘I want us to be partners …’
I nod. That, I get. The phone, not so much.
‘Business partners,’ he continues. ‘Meg, I want you to join me at the helm of Hansen International. We’ll change it to Hansen and Greene, if you like. It’s got a nice ring to it, sounds really upmarket.’
‘But I don’t know anything about selling houses,’ I say. ‘Only what I’ve picked up from you.’
‘You’ve worked on so many of the houses we sell anyway …’ He’s right about that. I’ve discovered his rich clients would much rather tell their high-end estate agent to ‘get someone in’ when they want things done than bother with organising it themselves. ‘It makes sense to bring Meg Greene Designs in-house, don’t you think? Staging houses, offering a bespoke design service to every client? I think we’ll make a killing!’
I think we will too. It’s a fabulous idea.
‘So, will you?’ His eyes search mine. I have a feeling he’ll be crushed if I say no.
Maybe it’s my crappy other life I have to blame, but I can’t help looking for the catch. I know how much this means to Jude, that his firm means everything to him. In his eyes this is probably more significant than giving me an engagement ring. Yet I can’t seem to quell the little voice in my head that’s asking if he’d be quite so keen if my little company was just limping along instead of being the hot new thing in town.
Is this what I want for my fledgling business? I don’t know. But I do know that I love Jude completely, that I’d do anything to connect more fully with him. I imagine us ten years from now – a power couple, running our successful business that’s a byword for style and quality. We’ll have moved to a pretty commuter village, somewhere like Shoreham or Eynsford, where we’ll convert an old chapel and fill it with kids.
‘Yes,’ I say, my face breaking into a smile. ‘I’d love to be your partner.’
He grins back at me, overjoyed. Then, in lieu of sliding a ring on my finger, he shows me how to use my new phone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Things move swiftly after that. I become a director of Hansen & Greene. It’s not lost on me that we wouldn’t have needed to change the name if Jude had given me a ring instead of something that has a ring, but I’m trying not to focus on that.
I wanted a dynamic man, didn’t I? And that’s what I’ve got. I can’t really complain, can’t ask him to be something he’s not, and he’s never said ‘never’. I really need to learn to enjoy what I have. I’m starting to realise that’s a flaw of mine.
A month ticks by, and then another. Before I know it we’re in January again and I’m another year older. I flip back to my life with Dan, just once, and only for one day. Billy was walking … talking … I hadn’t even had enough time to work out all the new things he could do before I was snatched back again. I feel the roots holding me to this life with Jude are stronger, not so elastic any more.
However, twenty-four precious hours with my son awakens the yearning I’d wrapped up in gold tissue paper, packed away in the box that stupid mobile phone came in. I’m getting close to thirty now. I try not to think about it, but sometimes I wonder if I can actually feel my eggs slowly deteriorating.
Jude has never mentioned that conversation again. Not that I think he’s avoiding it. I just don’t think it’s on his radar. I’m kind of scared of asking in case he buys me something else, like a briefcase.
We’re showing a house to new client today. Jude asked me to come along because he says I’m good at painting a picture of how a property could be. The richer our clients get, the poorer their imaginations. Probably because they just don’t need to use them any more. You don’t need to dream when you’ve already got more than you could ever want, do you?
We dress smartly and, even if I do say so myself, we do scrub up pretty well. I’m not a great beauty. I’d always considered myself quite ordinary, but I’ve discovered how having the time and the budget to really look after myself makes the most of what nature gave me. I’m feeling pretty confident as we turn up at a three-story townhouse in West Brompton.
This house is a bit like the one we’ve just finished renovating for ourselves, in that it’s a bit of a disaster. The previous owner was elderly, had inherited it in her youth and had lived there on her own, slowly letting it deteriorate. When she moved into a nursing home it had stood empty for a good few years and in that time there was considerable damage from not only a leaky roof but also a small fire. It could be amazing, though. And through my secret knowledge of the future, I know it’ll be a fantastic investment. You could spend a million or two now and get ten times that back in a couple of decades.
We meet the prospective buyer, Jasmine, outside and she’s not quite what I expected. She’s maybe five years older than Jude and me but instead of Armani, she’s wearing cargo trousers, a vest top and a biker jacket. She looks like a slightly older and slightly more weathered member of All Saints. Ethnic beads are wound round both wrists and an Indian scarf is twisted around her tousled, dirty-blonde hair as a headband. She isn’t wearing a trace of make-up.
‘Hi,’ Jude says, smiling his most charming smile, which he always uses on clients. I jokingly call it his ‘money’ smile. He reaches out and shakes hands with Jasmine, who seems slightly perturbed at the gesture, as if she’s not used to it, but she joins in enthusiastically all the same. When she’s finished with Jude, she turns to me and does the same, grinning all the time.
‘So happy to meet you two,’ she says, looking from one to the other of us. ‘I’
ve heard great things about you from my chum Caroline.’
‘Caroline Palmerston?’ I ask. We sold her a flat round the corner in Drayton Gardens last year, a crash pad for her family to use when they were up in town. She was very insistent I filled it with acres of lilac damask and very expensive French antiques. I can’t imagine her being ‘chums’ with Jasmine.
Jasmine, however, nods. ‘We were at Benenden together. Top girl.’
‘Well, we’re very glad to have Caroline’s recommendation,’ Jude says smoothly. I can tell he’s about to steer her inside the house. He’s not really one for chit-chat when it comes to business. ‘Shall we take a look?’ he says and leads the way.
The house does not look good at the moment. While the rooms have gorgeous high ceilings, it smells mouldy and damp and the entire kitchen has been ripped out and all that is left is the soot stains. We’re horrified to discover that a three-foot section of the top-floor bathroom ceiling has fallen in since we were last here and the claw-footed tub – the room’s one redeeming feature – is now filled with bits of wood, plaster dust and insulation. To make up for this I chatter on about the amazing potential. Jasmine doesn’t say much, just nods occasionally. I have no idea what she’s thinking.
It transpires she’s a photographer, the kind that has exhibitions in galleries, the kind that wins awards. I get the impression from her sparse conversation there is family money that has allowed her to follow her passion around the world and that still supplements her current income. She’s a relaxed, earthy sort, who doesn’t give a flying fart what other people think about her. I find I rather like her. She’s a breath of fresh air. Even though she travels eleven months of the year, she wants a home in London, because she’s ready to settle down. Jude and I exchange a look when she says this, confident Jasmine’s definition of settling down might just as be as unique as her dress sense.