The J M Barrie Ladies' Swimming Society

by Barbara Zitwer

  Kay sat back, looking pensive. Joey’s gaze drifted to Alex Wilder, who was sitting forward in his chair, looking – well, actually rather interested. She didn’t have time to savour this, though, because another hand went up, that of Philip Carlton, the representative from the English clients.

  “What’s the plan for the Barrie connection?” he asked.

  Joey smiled. “We’re not sure yet,” she answered honestly. “We’re definitely going to do something with it – J.M. Barrie being one of England’s most beloved authors – but until we can get in and actually evaluate the space, see what feels right … it’s all just ideas.”

  “What kind of ideas?” Alex interrupted, abruptly.

  Joey fixed him with her eyes. Was he trying to trip her up or throw her a question she could easily answer? With Alex, you could never be sure. Of course, there was also the possibility that he was not trying to do either of those things but was simply curious. Joey doubted that, though.

  “We’re entertaining a few possibilities,” she shot back confidently. “We could go the route of the Hotel Monteleone in New Orleans – you know, with rooms honouring the likes of Faulkner, Capote, and Hemingway. Or, at the other extreme, a place like Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle, which has Madeline murals painted by Ludwig Bemelmans himself…

  “Remember, Barrie didn’t own this house, he just stayed there. But it was where he wrote Peter Pan, so I propose we find a point somewhere between the two: if the research suggests that it could be successfully marketed as a destination, and if we can identify the right rooms for this, the idea would be to create a family suite and furnish it like the Darlings’ home, with a comfortable Victorian room for the grown-ups and a highly fanciful suite for children – stars, canopies, hand-painted murals relating to the story. We could do Peter Pan-themed birthday parties, for children. Or for adults, I suppose!”

  Joey paused. “The suite would be dog-friendly, of course,” she added, with a smile.

  Alex frowned. He looked genuinely baffled.

  “Well, there wouldn’t have been a story without Nana, would there?” Joey answered sweetly.

  Alex glanced around to see if everyone else understood. “Nana?” he queried sheepishly.

  “Nana was the dog,” explained Preston Kay, smiling. “She was left in charge of the children.”

  “Ah,” said Alex, slumping down a little in his seat.

  Joey had a sinking sense that she hadn’t quite satisfied the partners with these generalised responses. Suddenly she had a thought. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” she asked.

  There were puzzled nods all around. Joey dashed down to her office and retrieved from her briefcase something she had tucked into it at the last minute, for good luck: a first edition Peter Pan, with illustrations by Francis Donkin Bedford, that her mother had given her. She hurried back to the conference room.

  “This – is what I, personally, would like to honour,” she said quietly. “The spirit of this particular edition. I should say, though, Dave and I haven’t yet discussed this in detail.”

  “Go on,” Preston said.

  Joey held up the book. “I’ve loved J.M. Barrie, and especially Peter Pan, my whole life. My mother bought me this for my thirteenth birthday.” Joey handed the book to Preston. He opened it and began to examine the illustrations.

  “Lots of people have illustrated it over the years, Arthur Rackham, Al Dempster – he did the Disney characters – Michael Hague, Scott McKowen and many others. But there’s a beautiful, stark purity to Bedford’s illustrations. More than any others, they feel mystical and other-worldly to me – as though they’ve tapped into the very essence of what it feels like to be a child – the wonder, the hope, the sense of mystery and awe. Just look at this one…”

  Porter handed her back the book and she turned to an illustration of Mr. and Mrs. Darling prostrated in grief, having discovered their children missing from the bedroom. Nana, slumped on the bed with them, staring out the window at a sky full of streaking stars. The illustration was captioned, “The Birds Were Flown”. Joey handed the book around the table.

  “I love the messiness of the room,” she said. “I love the drawers hanging open and the clothes strewn around, and that sense he captures of hasty departure. And of the majesty and terror of that deep black sky over London. How immense and beautiful and terrifying it is, just outside the window. But inside, there’s Nana standing guard and it’s bright and homey – and entirely empty of what really gave it life – the children.”

  Joey paused, fighting back a sudden fit of nerves. She really had no idea where she was going with these thoughts. But the partners were nodding seriously, evidently interested in the illustration. She had to bring this around somehow.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she admitted.

  Alex looked up, smugly. He was just waiting for her to fail. Joey could see it.

  “It’s just that when I think of Stanway House, and all it’s seen and been through in all these centuries, the monks chanting, hundred of years of the rhythms of the seasons, babies being born into that house, people marrying in the great room, people getting old and dying right there, to be buried practically within sight of the house, well, it all seems so mysterious, the way the house holds and contains all that life and yet outlives it, so to speak. It’s bigger and older than any of us and it will endure long after we’re gone. That’s the spirit we have to hold on to, that spirit of Stanway being a kind of Neverland. A place apart, other-worldly, casting a spell of feeling and memory and a kind of happiness that so often disappears with childhood.”

  Joey let out a sigh. She was gushing, she knew. Why did she always have to ruin big moments like this? She sat down resignedly as the book was handed around the table and back to her.

  Richardson, the English agent, coughed and sat up. Everyone looked at him, expectant. “Thank you, Joey,” he said. “That was one of the most interesting presentations I have ever sat through. What you said about Barrie was very thoughtful.”

  Joey glanced around the table – everyone nodding, smiling. She couldn’t believe it. “Thank you,” she stammered.

  The meeting was over.

  In the hallway, Alex patted Joey on the back. “Well done, seriously well done.”

  “What were you doing in there? You’re not on the project, are you?” asked Joey. She felt a rush of anxiety. It was difficult to be in such close proximity to her ex.

  “No. Just curious.”

  “About what? How I’d do?”

  Alex flashed his best movie star smile and Joey tried to ignore the twinkling blue eyes that had once so irrevocably hooked her in. “Can I take you to lunch? Bemelmans Bar? For old time’s sake?”

  “No, thanks,” Joey said, then turned and headed back to her office.

  She locked the door behind her and lay down on the leather sofa that lined the back wall. The encounter with Alex had punctured her euphoria like a needle in a balloon, left her feeling anxious, confused and… embarrassed. That was the worst of it. Joey was so ashamed of where her relationship with Alex had taken her. With his expert assistance, she had turned herself into a walking cliché, a girl married to her job who had slept with her boss.

  Even now, months after they had split up, she hated running into him, working just down the hall from him. Somehow, though, she knew, she was going to have to get over it. She wasn’t leaving the Apex Group and neither was he.

  Two hours later, Joey was jolted awake by a loud knock. She glanced at her watch – had she really been asleep for that long? Running her fingers through her hair, she opened the door. Antoine stood before her, brandishing an envelope.

  “Jesus Joey, sleeping on the job?”

  “Very funny,” she responded. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve just had Preston on the phone, and I’m afraid to say, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “P-lease,” said Joey, “not more!”

  “Well, if you’ve had
enough…” Antoine turned on his heel: “I’ll get onto the airline and cancel the flight.”

  “Give me a break, Antoine – what are you going on about?”

  “You, sweetie, are going to England!” he practically sang. He marched her over to her chair, and sat her down.

  “Don’t tease me, Antoine… I can’t take it.”

  “Joey, you were brilliant! I was so proud of you. The English agent loved you. The Tower – the monks – Nana, Neverland – it was all just great. Dave’s off work indefinitely and Alex is planning his wedding. Oh, sorry. Sore subject. The partners were unanimous – there’s no one more passionate and qualified than you. And they’re right. Congratulations! You knocked ’em dead!”

  Joey felt tears rising to her eyes. “Really?”

  “Really!”

  “I’m actually going to run the project?”

  “Yes, and you deserve it! You’re leaving on New Year’s Eve.”

  Chapter 3

  She would have to call Sarah. But not quite yet. First, she had to figure out why the thought of seeing her oldest friend in the world aroused such mixed feelings. Joey padded over to the stack of mail on her kitchen table and opened the envelope that had arrived from London ten days ago.

  Glitter fell all over the floor. Joey sighed in annoyance, remembering that she had already cleaned up one shower of glitter when she had opened the envelope first time round. Kids could make a mess from three thousand miles away.

  The handmade card was inscribed “To Auntie Joey” and signed by Sarah’s children, with varying degrees of wobbliness, Matilda, Zoë, Timmy and Christopher. Joey had never met these children, which she felt a little guilty about, and she found it more than a little strange that they would refer to her as “Auntie”. She wouldn’t know them if she passed them on the street!

  She opened the card and reread the yearly letter, this one about Matilda’s award for riding, Timmy’s tadpoles that had turned into frogs in the bowl on the dining room table… Joey tried to concentrate, she really did, tried to imagine the mini-Sarahs and mini-Henrys in their Liberty prints and riding jackets, but she couldn’t. And she couldn’t help feeling irritated. Did Joey send Sarah holiday letters filled with news of people she and Henry had never met?

  She stood up abruptly, walked over to the fridge and poured herself some wine. Flopping down into the chair by the front window, she realised she had two choices.

  She could go to England and not even tell Sarah she was coming. That would probably be easiest, because if they saw each other, they were going to have to talk about what had happened in the past ten or twelve years, how Joey had missed their wedding, how Sarah had promised, year after year, to spend some real time in New York and had never managed to cross the Atlantic, not even when Joey’s mother died.

  On the other hand, they had grown up like sisters, she and Sarah, lived together both in college and afterward. At one time, Joey could not have imagined that they wouldn’t always be close. No, you could share your present and future with any number of friends, Joey thought, sipping her wine. But in her life, there was only one friend who truly and deeply shared her past.

  Joey picked up the phone. At the sound of Sarah’s familiar warm voice, years of strain seemed to fade away.

  “I can’t think of a better Christmas present,” Sarah enthused. Joey could detect a hint of English in her old friend’s accent. “You must come and stay with us en route. The children will be so excited – they’ve begun to wonder whether Auntie Joey actually exists!”

  Ten minutes later, the plan had been made. Joey would spend a day or two in London with Henry, Sarah and the children before heading out to the Cotswolds.

  The Christmas season had always been quiet for Joey, even when she was little. She had plenty of good holiday memories – going with her parents down to Coney Island every New Year’s Day to watch the members of the Polar Bear Club make their annual plunge into the icy Atlantic, ice-skating with Sarah at Rockefeller Center during school vacation. But these days she tended to see Christmas as a period to be got through. For four or five years after her father’s wedding, she had gone to Florida to spend ten days at the end of the year with him and Amy – until they had all come to the conclusion that it would be better if Joey waited and came in March. It made little sense to travel when rates were at their highest and half of America was trying to get somewhere in a hurry. And March was a great time to escape New York for a week.

  This year, Joey was going to be far too busy preparing for her trip to feel the weight of the days. One thing she wasn’t going to miss, though, was her own private tradition – a long run in Central Park on Christmas morning.

  The day dawned crisp and clear, and as soon as she finished her coffee, she got into her running clothes and prepared to make the trip to the Jackie Onassis Reservoir, just a few blocks from her apartment. This run was her present to herself. She loved how deserted it always was on Christmas morning, loved having it virtually to herself as all over the neighbourhood, kids were opening presents. She especially loved running here at dawn, looking into the water and seeing the New York skyline glistening in the rising sun.

  Joey let Tink off her leash and they both bounded up the small hill to the path round the reservoir. It had been four years ago this Christmas that Joey had found Tink at the reservoir. It had started out as a usual run, the Park virtually empty. It seemed that no one but Joey had the discipline to run on Christmas morning. So, she had rounded the 1.4 mile track five times before she spotted something strange, something she knew didn’t belong lying dangerously close to the water: an abandoned red backpack. She stooped. Something in it moved! Adrenaline shot through her veins as she thought she heard a little whimper coming from the bag.

  Without a second thought, Joey clambered over the fence. Someone had abandoned a baby. It was wriggling as Joey knelt down.

  “What the heck?”

  A cry emanated from the bag and goosebumps ran up Joey’s arm. She grappled with the zipper and rope that bound it and, with a final tug, ripped the bag apart and freed its prisoner.

  It was not a baby. It was Tink, tiny, wet and altogether alone in the world. Worse than alone! Someone had tried to drown her! She was only a couple of days old, Joey later learned, but she was alive and healthy and quite possibly the sweetest creature Joey had ever seen. She took her home that day, gave her a bath, wrapped her in warm towels and for the next week fed her with an eye-dropper, then later a bottle. It wasn’t easy. Joey had never had a dog before and didn’t know the first thing about the care and training of a puppy. None of that mattered, however. They were devoted to each other from that day on.

  Mr. Singh, Tink’s vet, squeezed them in on the 27th.

  “She’s up-to-date on her all vaccinations,” he said. “I’ll just give you some sedatives to help keep her calm on the flight.”

  “She’ll be OK, won’t she?” Joey asked.

  “Of course she will,” Mr. Singh replied in his calm, velvety voice. “She may be a little drowsy for a while, but that’ll soon wear off.”

  “Okaaaay. But won’t it be cold back there in the hold? It sounds like torture to me.”

  “No no, don’t worry – it’s pressurised, just like the cabin. It can be a little lonely, and the noise can be stressful. I wouldn’t recommend it for old or sick animals, but Tink’s young and healthy. She’ll be fine.”

  “Fine?”

  He nodded.

  “And she won’t have to be quarantined? You’re sure about that.”

  “I’m sure,” he replied. “Now stop fussing, and go and enjoy it.”

  As the days wore on, Joey debated trying to see some of the people she hadn’t seen in a while, though she suspected that most people would be out of town or booked solid with holiday commitments. A call from her would come out of the blue, and though friends might be glad to try to squeeze in a drink with her or invite her along to liven up a dreaded family or work party, Joey felt herself holding back
. Thinking about this as she tried to fall asleep one night, she realised that two things lay behind her reluctance to pick up the phone.

  The first was Alex Wilder. He had been obsessed with keeping their relationship quiet, which meant that they never went out with other couples, never met any of Joey’s friends for a drink, never had people over for dinner or went to friends’ apartments or country houses. Now that he wasn’t in her life any more, Joey realised that she’d let a lot of her friendships go. She could think of five or six women she’d either grown up with or known since NYU from whom she had just drifted away.

  What had she been thinking? How could she have let this happen? It really wasn’t like her, and yet she had done it, weekend after weekend, so she could give all her time and attention to that heel! She had played by his rules from Day One until the bitter end. She would never make that mistake again.

  Secondly there was work. Joey knew she was capable of making the most of the opportunity she had been given, but she still had to be prepared. It was going to take all her focus and concentration to pull off what she was expected to do in the next few weeks. She had to keep things simple for now and knock herself out doing the best job she could on Stanway House. But when she came back to New York, she would have to make some changes.

  Chapter 4

  What looked like two hundred people were waiting to clear security at the airport. Another great New Year’s Eve, Joey thought ruefully, scanning the sea of travellers: screaming babies, kissing lovers, elderly tourists and family groups of more nationalities than she could count.

  It had been a while since she’d travelled internationally and the extent of the security measures came as a surprise. She wanted to be safe, for goodness sake, but was all this really necessary: all the unpacking and disrobing and scanning and X-raying? And what would they do about Tink? Would she have to take her out of her crate and let them search that? Joey didn’t have enough hands to manage everything she was going to be required to do.