by Rebecca Done
She attempted a smile but it didn’t come as easily as it once might have. ‘I need to finish off these fishcakes.’
‘Hmm. I wondered what the smell was.’ He wrinkled his nose, then shrugged and wandered over to the fridge. ‘Any wine?’ He stuck his head into it optimistically, like he was half hoping it might turn out to have a false back leading to a magical world of lonely supermodels, Carlsberg on tap and a rolling cull on poor people.
‘Sorry,’ she told him. ‘Only Amontillado sherry.’
‘Does it contain alcohol?’
She paused. ‘Yes, Zak. It’s sherry.’
‘That’ll do then.’ He followed her gaze to the cupboard on the right of the cooker hood, opened it and extracted the sherry bottle. He removed the half-screw half-cork with his teeth and spat it into the sink before throwing back his head and taking a long, hard glug like he was drinking orange juice straight from the carton. ‘Oh, baby,’ he declared as he eventually came up for air, and she wasn’t sure if he meant her or the sherry.
‘So, Jess,’ he said then, lowering his head to meet her eye. ‘This is no good. How come we haven’t seen each other for two weeks?’
Jess pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and resumed shaping. The mixture itself was simple – just salt cod, potato and a touch of white bread – but the magic came in the hot sauce accompaniment. Moulding the little patties, sticky and damp against her fingertips like potter’s clay, should have been a therapeutic and creative process, but this particular client was insistent on everything being uniform. A long-time sufferer of OCD, he had recently sent a meal back at Burnham Manor because it wasn’t arranged with quite the right level of symmetry on the plate. And that was after he’d called in advance to request it.
‘You know why,’ she said mildly. There’d been back-to-back work commitments on both sides – Jess was moving into her busiest time of year, and Zak had cancelled on her last week when a colleague asked to swap shifts. This had disappointed her more than it might usually have done, because at that point, she’d already made her decision.
She had to – had to – end it.
She’d realized too late that Zak needed to be with a girl who wanted everything he had to offer. He was simply one of those guys who was all about the package – for the right girl an unbelievable catch, exceptional enough on paper even to cancel out the worst of his faults. To a different girl, perhaps, Zak’s good looks and passion, amusing anecdotes and undoubted charisma would probably make it matter less that he was quick-tempered, possessive, and apparently above keeping things casual yet with a version of commitment that could loosely be described as setting out his position and refusing to budge.
It was funny, in a way, because Jess was beginning to realize that the girl Zak really wanted was probably a lot like Octavia – a woman whose territory was more mews house than marsh, who cared about postcodes, who craved cars with added horsepower and credit cards with no spending limit. Who would kill for a pair of designer shoes, even if they were two sizes too small. The reality, Jess knew, was that Zak had probably been happy with Octavia, right up until the moment he’d discovered her with his brother at the theatre, wobbling away on top of a cistern.
His natural reaction to all the operatic unsavouriness, of course, had been to seek out Octavia’s opposite, so that he might have a chance at least of avoiding an encore. And he had been the antithesis of Jess’s usual type too. When they’d eventually stumbled upon each other, they both believed this strategy to have led them to a rare find – a gem to be joyfully plucked from the muddy aftermath of a divorce or series of disastrous dates. But in fact, she realized now, all that had just been the novelty of newness, which had carried them as far as their one-year anniversary before dumping them rather unceremoniously straight back in the mud they had come from.
Perhaps if Jess had moved to London when he’d first suggested it she might have discovered all this sooner, but the distance had enabled her to conveniently dip out of reality several times a month. It wasn’t even to do with Will, in the end. It really was all about Zak.
Jess turned a fistful of fishcake mix over between her palms, rolling it into a ball before flattening it gently with the heel of her hand against a peppered mound of organic white flour. And although it went against every one of her principles, she knew she would now have to crack out the pastry cutter. Just the idea of it made her wince. She took a deep breath, shook some flour over it and bore down on her lovely, irregular fishcake. The act of popping it from the cutter was like making a child colour inside the lines, she thought. Takes all the beauty out of it.
They said nothing else for a few more moments, the only sound Ani’s voice, sublime against the silence of the room. Eventually Jess moved the fishcake carefully to one side and scooped her next handful of mixture from the bowl, at which Zak jumped impatiently off the counter, still clutching the sherry bottle by its neck like he’d been swigging from it since noon.
‘Right, come on. Can’t you leave that until the morning?’
‘Er, no?’
‘Okay,’ he said, oddly agreeable. ‘I’m going to come back later and pick you up.’
She hesitated. ‘Where are we going?’
‘The beach house. I want to stare at you over dinner.’
He couldn’t be more different to Will, the man who had waited seventeen years to present her with a necklace because he was worried about appearing cheesy. Zak, on the other hand, lived for cheese. He was probably planning champagne and candlelight. He was probably planning oysters. Hell – he was probably planning lobster.
She agreed to meet him later for one reason: she was going to finish it. Tonight she was going to end it with her charming practitioner of emergency medicine, once and for all.
‘I hope you’re hungry. I fancied lobster.’
Kicking off her flip-flops, Jess stepped on to the icy polished stone of Zak’s vast hallway. The space smelt of vanilla oil and musk – a comforting, homely scent that was slightly at odds with the person she knew Zak to be. There were flowers too, and mood lighting, which made Jess feel a bit like she’d wandered barefoot into a five-star boutique hotel or exclusive wedding venue. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a butler step out coolly from behind the coat stand to offer her a glass of something chilled. Or maybe complimentary slippers.
‘Oysters to start,’ Zak added.
Of course.
The beach house was inverted, which meant the bedrooms were downstairs and the living space was on top. It was better that way, he’d told her before, if you had a view.
She followed him up the stairs, conscious that her bare feet, still warm from the heat of the day, might be leaving an inelegant trail of damp patches behind her as she walked.
The exterior of the house, perched just behind the sand dunes overlooking the beach, was what architects would hail a triumph and locals would call an eyesore. A combination of steel and glass, its design was all very self-storage warehouse, the only nod to its stunning coastal location an occasional window mimicking a porthole – hardly enough to appease the neighbours. But the interior was easier to like, with its clean lines, muted palettes and plush textures. The ceilings were low, and the place felt surprisingly cosy where she’d initially expected draughts, sharp edges and acres of cold, hard flooring.
Upstairs, the vast open-plan living space was designed to dazzle. The far wall, which was made entirely of glass, came on hinges, and Zak had opened it up to reveal an oak-decked balcony boasting a dramatic vista over the North Norfolk coastline. Tonight, the view was even enhanced by a blood-red sunset, complete with the sound of the sea gently pulsing as it worked the shoreline below. The setting couldn’t have been more perfect if Zak had ordered it in.
He was dressed smartly for the occasion in a sharp grey shirt – sleeves folded carefully to the elbows – and pressed black trousers, though his feet were bare. The table on the balcony was laid for dinner, an elaborate display of crystal and white linen, red roses
, a candelabra and champagne on ice.
Jess hesitated, wondering if she should just tell him now and get it over with; but before she could say anything, he was murmuring, ‘Take a pew, beautiful,’ and pulling out an oversized cushioned rattan chair in shades of cream and chocolate that would have been far better suited to a beach club cabana in Marbella. It was big enough for two, really, and as she sat, she instinctively tucked up her feet underneath her.
The view was stunning. Wisps of cloud were strewn across the sunset like they’d been scattered deftly over it by hand, and the sea had turned flamingo-pink.
Zak flicked the remote on the sound system. It took her a couple of moments to place the music, elegant trumpet jazz, and she felt him watching for her reaction.
‘Christian Scott?’ she guessed.
‘I remember you saying you liked him,’ he replied smoothly. Removing the champagne bottle from the chiller, he popped the cork, dripping fat beads of condensation on to the tablecloth as he filled their glasses.
She nodded. She had mentioned it, she remembered now, on the very first night she’d met him at that wedding reception in Holkham, when she’d been drunkenly and ungraciously criticizing the playlist for being a bit too heavy on the Billy Joel. By the time she’d started reeling off a list of her own favourite musicians, she could have sworn he’d zoned out – so she was surprised to discover now that, actually, he’d been listening to every word.
He raised his glass then, and waited for her to do the same. ‘To us,’ he suggested.
She hesitated, but he went ahead and chinked her glass anyway, so she let it slide and they both drank. The champagne was dry and creamy, a pale shimmering gold, and it made a beautiful buzz as it settled softly in her stomach.
She could feel Zak’s gaze trained steadily upon her. A slight breeze tickled the hair at her face and she brushed it back.
‘You’re looking very brown,’ he observed. ‘It suits you.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. She wanted to make a comment about his nose seeming better now, but she thought she could detect on it the very faintest traces of concealer, which she suspected he might get defensive about.
‘I love your dress too. You look stunning.’
Jess had deliberately chosen a dress she thought might not be to Zak’s taste – a wispy creation of loud, clashing colours in a particularly bold geometry. It was long enough, thankfully, to cover the large brown smudge that remained on her thigh – the blueprint of a faded bruise which she now suspected might never fully disappear; a mark, like the scar across her palm, that would always remind her of Will. She enjoyed the way the dress set off her tan but it was the sort of outfit that would normally make Zak wince, in the way that most people winced at girls with their knickers on show falling out of nightclubs.
Not knowing quite how to begin what she wanted to say, she looked down at her hands, gripping the cold stem of the champagne flute. ‘Look, Zak, all of this … the music and the champagne and –’
‘You don’t like it?’ he said with a smile, as if this was inconceivable.
‘Well,’ she said carefully, ‘it’s just that lately I’ve been thinking that –’
‘I want us to start again, baby,’ he said quickly, cutting her off. ‘I want you to come and live with me in London. Vena vivir conmigo.’
‘Zak.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘We’ve been through this.’
He leaned forward, setting his drink down on the table. The flames from the candelabra were reflected like fireflies against his glass and in his eyes. ‘Then let’s go through it again. I’m serious, Jess. I’m sick of you being here and me being there, all this to-ing and fro-ing.’
The to-ing and fro-ing didn’t just apply to their geographical locations, she thought. Was he forgetting their frequent bickering, their fundamental differences, their general inability to make it through a weekend without falling out in some way?
She looked away from him and out across the sea, taking another sip of champagne to buy herself some time, the bubbles gently rushing her bloodstream. The strength was running out of the sun and into the water, streaking it pink and orange like someone had swilled paintbrushes in it.
Zak misinterpreted her silence then in a way that only he could. ‘It doesn’t make sense for me to move to Norfolk, Jess. It never did.’
Jess concluded silently that he was definitely right about that.
‘Debbie told me she’s selling your house. So you’re going to have to find somewhere else to live anyway. This is the perfect opportunity to make a fresh start.’
Bloody Debbie.
For the past few days, Jess had been attempting to put all her worries about the enforced relocation to the back of her mind, finding gin, Portishead and fashioning small effigies of Debbie from tin foil before crushing them with her thumb to be quite soothing.
‘Look, my job is here,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve worked really hard to build up my client list. I couldn’t just move to London, even if I wanted to. And really, Zak, that’s the point, because the thing is –’
He smiled condescendingly, raising a hand. ‘Jess, don’t get me wrong, but this is Norfolk. A great weekend bolthole but hardly a booming economy.’
‘I think we’ve touched on this before, Zak, but generally it’s the weekend boltholes that obliterate local economies in the first place. Just a thought.’
He smiled serenely, completely unfazed, like he had in mind some complex fiscal theory to completely disprove her argument that she would never be able to grasp. ‘Look, you keep saying your work is what’s keeping you here.’ He shrugged, like it couldn’t be simpler. ‘Fine, you’ve got clients, but your profit margin’s an embarrassment, frankly. Move in with me, I’ll get you into NW3 and you’ll triple your turnover in the space of a week.’
‘Don’t talk in postcodes, Zak. Please. It means nothing to people outside of London and it’s really annoying.’ She took a brief swig from her glass and tried to calm down.
Why was he getting to her so much? Why am I even having this argument?
‘Okay,’ he said, with a slow smile like her anger was somehow, inexplicably, charming him, ‘I’ll get you into the best neighbourhood in London and you’ll make a fucking fortune. Does that mean something?’
A long time ago, it might have done. She might once have been able to picture herself catering private parties for crowds of Magic Circle lawyers in houses with chandeliers for lampshades and five floors instead of two. It might once have excited her to think about wiping clean all her bills, about waltzing into Starbucks for a Venti and not having to pay for it with a fistful of coppers, about spoiling her nieces with fabulous birthday presents. But so much had changed since then, and she knew now that Zak’s little postcode-based fantasy couldn’t have mattered to her less.
‘Well,’ she said, looking down at her champagne as Christian Scott’s trumpet called out to her in hot, breathy blasts from the living room, ‘I think you’re asking me for all the wrong reasons. You’re asking me because I’m about to be made homeless. And probably because you shared a long car journey with my sister two weeks ago and she put the idea into your head.’
‘Bullshit,’ he said straight away. ‘I’m asking you because I love you. Estoy enamorado de ti.’
Jess replaced the urge to speak with another sip of champagne. He had said it to her before, but never like this, facing her almost-sober across a table without the crutch of being able to disguise what he’d just said with sex or the final drink of a long bender. She stared at him and felt strangely crushed, disappointed, like he’d taken significant words and squeezed all the meaning out of them. Because she didn’t believe that he did love her, not really. Zak was a man who fell in love with concepts, with the idea of himself as the star of his own complicated TV drama. That was how he was able to detach himself so easily from the daily horrors he witnessed in the A & E department of a London hospital – because other people were simply the supporting cast, the cameos, the women-wit
h-prams. He, Zak, was the star of the show, and if it suited the screenplay on this particular warm night in June to tell her he loved her, then fuck it – why the hell not?
Dusk was looming. The sea continued to gently move, expanding then collapsing like the motion of deep breathing as it began to fall asleep.
‘You know, your sister is of the opinion that you’re madly in love with me,’ Zak said then, which was his way of prompting Jess to confirm it. ‘She told me that.’
Jess blinked. ‘Zak, this is going to sound harsh, but Debbie has her own little agenda in life. Always has done. She’s probably imagining that if I move in with you, it’ll somehow make her richer by association.’
‘Financially?’
‘No, spiritually … yes, of course financially. Debbie is obsessed with money.’
A soft breeze picked up then, travelling in quick gasps across the balcony and making the skin on her arms tighten slightly.
‘We could have an amazing life together, you and me, Jess. If you want I could take a break from medicine. I’ve been thinking of doing that anyway. Christ – you wouldn’t even have to work, if you didn’t want to.’
It made her angry, almost, that after all this time, he still didn’t know her at all. You’ve got me all wrong. That’s not what I want from life.
‘And you’d bring Smudge, of course. He’d like the roof terrace, don’t you think?’
‘No, he could never live in a city,’ Jess mumbled. ‘He’s a border collie, not a shih-tzu.’
Zak frowned. ‘What’s the difference?’
She stared at him. ‘Did you just say, “What’s the difference”?’
‘Er, yeah. Let’s just say I feel about dogs the way you feel about high heels.’ He slugged back more champagne and met her eye. ‘I can take them or leave them.’
She swallowed and looked down. ‘Okay, Zak.’
‘Is that, Okay, Zak, I’ll move in with you?’
‘No,’ she said firmly, to avoid any further confusion.