He’d tortured himself for hours with what words to use, drafting and deleting dozens of versions. In the end he’d kept it crisp and to the point, formal and professional. Perhaps too formal. He’d spent so much time on it, he could still remember the final line: Please advise if you are happy for me to proceed with the acquisition.
Cold, impersonal words to a girl – a woman – he had once believed his soulmate.
Stupid, he thought, steeling himself. Well, the least he could do was approve her request. He clicked the link button and sat back and took a sip of his coffee.
The mail icon on his desktop flashed red to indicate another incoming message. He jumped forward in his chair.
NetworkMe message: from Jennifer Wyatt-Gilbert
How are you? I hear you’re in New York. How are you getting on with Casa D’Or? I know you’ll look after her. Jen
Jim felt his body jolt, as if his heart had been wired to a defibrillator and the voltage had just been switched on. He looked at the message knowing he had to respond. There was no way he couldn’t, not when he knew she was on the other end of this invisible cyberspace line.
Just looking at the plans now. I think you’d be impressed.
Return message: I’d love to see them.
He rubbed his mouth in hesitation, then tipped back the rest of his espresso to fortify himself.
You should swing by the office.
Where are you based?
57 and Lexington. The Commodore building.
You’re round the corner!
Where are you?
Bloomingdale’s.
Is that your registered address?
I try to split my time between here and Bergdorf’s.
He pushed his shirtsleeves up, sat back in his chair and felt a broad grin creep across his face, followed by a stab of panic.
They still hadn’t lost it. The connection, the crackle. He leaned forward and began to type the words that felt natural to write.
Are you free now?
But as his forefinger pressed the send button, it was as if a cold slap of air had sobered him up.
‘Shit,’ he muttered out loud as the email was fired off into cyberspace. What was he doing? He had opened his heart once before and had it crushed like a tin can under the wheels of a lorry.
There was a minute of excruciating silence before the reassuring ping of another incoming message.
I can be there in five minutes.
Jim gulped hard, then stared at the screen, seeing his own shadowy reflection in the bright desktop blue.
The office was empty and he felt alone and vulnerable. It was a sensation that gave him a considerable amount of disquiet. Until about two minutes earlier, Jim Johnson had thought he was doing OK. On the cusp of forty, he had all his own hair and could still fit into the same 32-inch jeans he wore in his twenties. He was popular with the opposite sex; even supermodels found him attractive, if New Year’s Eve was anything to go by.
A long-forgotten quote popped into his head, something he’d perhaps heard in a school assembly or a church service: When I became a man, I put away childish things. Over the past twenty years he had certainly succeeded in that aim. He’d put to bed any silly ideas of being a rock star – he was never going to be the new Thom Yorke or John Lennon – and instead got a proper job. One that was interesting and satisfying, one that paid him a good salary and had genuine prospects and a pension, or so he liked to remind himself in the dark moments when he wondered whether he had made the right life choices.
And he’d moved on from Jennifer Wyatt, although for the longest time that had been easier said than done.
His phone rang and shook him from his thoughts. It was Brad from security.
‘Mr Johnson. There’s a visitor downstairs for you. Says you’re expecting her. Should I send her up?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice a low and anxious croak, as he braced himself to see her once again.
Chapter Six
‘Hello, Jim.’
The lift doors opened and Jennifer stepped out. She hadn’t changed a bit. Her hair still shone a glossy chestnut, but it was shorter, a long bob that sat on the shoulders of her expensively tailored coat. There were a few lines around her clear grey eyes and a tiny furrow between her brows, but she was still beautiful, the coltish good looks he remembered matured into something more elegant and spectacular. A distant, forgotten longing stirred, and instantly Jim knew it had been a bad idea emailing her.
‘Sorry, hi!’ he said enthusiastically, stepping forward. He had meant to give her a confident kiss on the cheek, but panicked at the last moment, thrusting his hand out for a weak handshake before stepping back and taking another moment to observe her. The grey coat was definitely designer, as were the high-heeled shoes, the sort that looked as if they never even hit the pavement. Typically, his one Savile Row suit, the one he had worn for his first couple of days at work, was at the dry cleaner’s. The high-street substitute he was wearing today felt cheap and unsuccessful compared to Jennifer’s highly groomed and polished look, although he might have been naked given how exposed he felt standing there before her.
‘Marion told me you were moving to New York. I was wondering if you were here yet. I saw your profile on NetworkMe . . .’
He wondered if she had looked him up on purpose; he doubted their circles crossed in any other way. The idea gave him a spike of confidence.
‘I got your letter. Well, your lawyer’s letter. The permission for Casa D’Or. Thank you, it meant a lot,’ he said crisply.
‘Connor thought I should send something official. Legal.’
‘Of course,’ said Jim, holding one hand up magnanimously.
Silence rang around the dark, empty office.
‘How are you, Jim?’ she asked, rubbing her fingers with the thumb of her other hand, twisting her rings, almost as if she were trying to get them off. She was definitely nervous. Jim wished the sight of it would give him some pleasure, but any victory felt hollow as they stood there awkwardly.
‘Good, fine,’ he said quickly. Recovered, he wanted to tell her, searching around for the lines he’d rehearsed all those years ago, the words he would say to her if they ever met again, the things he’d written in the letters that never got sent.
‘So, the plans,’ she said more brightly. ‘I can’t wait to see them.’
‘Actually, I’ve got a confession to make.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘My architect has just taken them. But he can’t be far. I can call him, get him to come back . . .’
‘Don’t do that. You’re just going to have to describe them to me yourself.’
‘It’s going to be awesome,’ replied Jim, running his hand through his dark hair.
‘Awesome? You’ve acclimatised already.’
They both gave a little laugh – she still had that beautiful laugh – and Jim felt some of the tension dissolve.
‘This is an impressive building,’ she said finally. ‘I bet you have the corner office too.’
‘I do, actually. I’ve only been here a week, so it’s still a novelty. I’d show you round, but there’s not much to see.’
‘Not in the dark.’
‘I know.’ He smiled awkwardly, realising that the only light on the entire floor came from his desk lamp. ‘Everyone’s gone home.’
She didn’t say anything for a few moments.
‘Well, if you’re closing up for the night, we could go for a quick drink. I saw a bar on the corner . . .’
Jim knew the place she meant. A hole in the wall, not her sort of thing at all, but he knew it was better than staying here.
‘A drink. Why not?’
Jim grabbed his coat and followed Jennifer back to the elevator before she had a chance to change her mind. The Greek chorus in his head was going mad. ‘Don’t!’ it sang theatrically, but he forced himself to ignore it.
The walk to the bar was short and brisk: New York in March was still shockingly cold, the
wind cutting through his London coat with ease. They made a little small talk. He commiserated about her father’s death. She admitted that it had been tough, even though they only saw each other a handful of times a year.
It was a typical sports bar, dark except for the glow of a TV above the pool table. The faint scent of beer made it smell sour.
‘You know, I should apologise,’ said Jim as they found a booth and gave the waitress their order.
‘What for?’ she asked, slipping off her coat.
‘The letter I sent you about Casa D’Or. It was a bit formal.’
‘I was just as bad.’ She smiled sadly.
‘Yes, you were.’
‘It was business.’
‘Yes, it was,’ said Jim, determined to keep his poise.
The waitress returned with their drinks: a bottle of beer for Jim and a glass of white wine for Jennifer.
‘I’ve stayed in a couple of Omari hotels before,’ she said finally. ‘I had no idea you worked for them. What happened to wanting to be a musician?’
‘That was never going to happen. Besides, I like what I do now.’
‘Which is what?’
‘I buy and develop properties for the Omari group. Not quite pushed through to the board yet, but I’m getting there,’ he said, sitting straighter in his seat.
‘How long have you been doing that?’
‘Fifteen years. I put in a couple of years at J. P. Morgan first. Joined Omari just as Simon Desai was looking to expand his Indian hotels into a global chain.’
‘You were in banking?’ she said, raising one eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ he said defensively.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘What?’ he asked quickly.
She smiled slowly and looked down at the table. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think that’s the way you’d go.’
‘Where did you think I’d go?’ he said. Her last words to him were ringing in his head as if they’d been spoken yesterday: Just go back to England, Jim. It was an instant dampener on his mood. When he thought about how she’d ended their relationship, he felt as sick and mugged as he had done twenty years earlier.
He’d been willing to give up everything for Jennifer Wyatt – his family, his friends, his life in England – but when it came to the crunch, she had only ever been having fun, playing with his emotions. For weeks afterwards he’d tortured himself with thoughts of what might have happened if Sylvia Wyatt hadn’t died that night, but the truth was that Jennifer had already made her decision. She’d picked money and prospects over whatever it was Jim Johnson could or could not offer.
He’d returned to England, summer had faded into autumn, and although he’d felt wretched, he had returned to UCL for his final year, swearing off women, the Students’ Union, anything remotely resembling fun. He had found a strange and reassuring solace in work, and nine months later, in possession of a high 2:1 degree, all that hurt, yearning and rejection morphed into pure ambition. He won an entry-level position at one of the City’s top banks, and was never going to be rebuffed again.
‘I travel the world, I get to stay in fantastic hotels, play golf, go skiing, try out minibars – all in the name of work,’ he said expansively as he traced her expression for any sign of guilt or regret.
‘It’s worked out well for you,’ she said softly.
‘So far, so good,’ he said, swirling the beer around the bottle. ‘What about you?’ he added, looking at her more directly.
She gave a gentle laugh.
‘What?’ said Jim kindly.
‘Nothing,’ she said with a wave of her hand. ‘It’s just a forty thing. Wondering what I’ve done with my life, what I’m going to do with my life . . .’
Jim wanted to tell her that from this angle it looked as if she had done pretty well for herself. Of course he’d Googled the address that Marion Wyatt had given him, Street Viewed it in fact. He had worked in property long enough to recognise twenty million dollars’ worth of real estate when he saw it.
‘Forty is the new twenty-five. Look at me, moving to New York.’
‘You were always going to be brilliant,’ she said, not taking her eyes off his.
‘And so are you. You have a degree from Wellesley, you’re super-connected, and you’re one of the smartest people I know, not to mention having the best taste on the whole of the East Coast.’
‘I should hire you as my PR.’
‘No, I should hire you.’ He realised he was only half joking, and a knowing dart passed between them.
‘And how is Connor?’
He watched her flush. She had such pale skin, any colour in her cheeks was obvious.
‘He’s good.’
‘Still in finance?’
‘Property, funnily enough. Maybe you two should get together.’
Jim didn’t say anything. He’d always disliked Connor Gilbert, and not just because he had been Jennifer’s boyfriend. He was arrogant and cocky, seemed to imagine himself at the centre of the universe – that appeared to be the standard personality type in Georgian society circles back then – but there was something else about Connor he didn’t like, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
‘How long have you been married now?’
She pressed her hands together. ‘Eighteen years.’
‘In New York that’s sort of like a golden anniversary, isn’t it?’
‘You’re thinking of Hollywood.’
‘What about kids? I bet you’ve got a whole brood of them.’
Jennifer finished off her wine, which he noticed she’d drunk very quickly.
‘No. But I have a dog,’ she said more playfully.
Jim detected a hint of sadness in her casual remark and decided not to pursue it. He’d once sat next to a former girlfriend at a dinner party and over the cheese and quince course she had shared the horrors of her IVF experiences with him, presumably from the comfort of her position as a mother of three children, perhaps to make him feel a little bit guilty that she had wasted eighteen months of her early thirties trying to get him to commit before she had finally moved on and married an accountant called Colin.
‘I don’t even have dogs,’ he grinned, trying to lighten the mood.
She glanced down at his left hand. ‘So is there a Mrs Jim Johnson?’
‘Apparently I’m married to my job.’
‘Did you come over with anyone?’
‘An excellent relocation service.’
‘A girlfriend, partner?’ She was definitely fishing for personal information.
‘I’m single, actually. There was someone, recently. It didn’t work out. So if you know anyone . . .’ He laughed a little too enthusiastically.
‘Yes, I do know someone,’ she said quickly. ‘I should set you up . . .’
‘I was joking.’
She pulled her phone from her bag and studied the screen.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. But I should probably go.’
‘We’ve just sat down.’
‘You were on your way home,’ she said, waving her hand. He liked her nail polish. Dark pink. Sexy, but not obviously so. He’d always liked that about her. ‘I’ll get the bill,’ she added with more conviction.
Jim felt a wave of panic. He didn’t want her to go. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many questions he wanted to ask, but once she stood up and walked out of the bar, there was a strong chance he would never see her again. After all, they’d discussed Casa D’Or, and in a city of ten million people, what were the chances of them bumping into each other?
‘So who is she?’ he said, groping around the silence.
‘Who?’
‘The friend you were going to set me up with.’
‘She’s called Sarah. British. Works at Whizzfeed, the website.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘You mean is she hot?’ smiled Jennifer, looking at him from under her long lashes.
‘I’m nothing if not p
redictable,’ he laughed, knowing it was both a terrible and yet brilliant idea. If he was to date Jennifer’s friend, there would be parties, double dates, invitations to the Hamptons; he’d be with another woman, sure, but he’d also be with her.
Yes, he had to push on with this idea, as ridiculous as it sounded.
‘You’ll like her,’ said Jennifer, after a moment. ‘She’s fun. Give me your number and I’ll set it up,’ she added as she left a twenty-dollar bill on a silver platter.
He followed her out, up the iron steps back on to the street. A few spots of rain fell from the sky, and she pulled her collar up around her neck. Soon she would be home. Connor would be waiting. He imagined a couple of little yappy dogs jumping up at the door as she came in.
‘Where do you live?’ she asked, giving him a slow, rueful smile.
‘I’ve got a flat in the West Village.’
‘A flat?’
‘OK, apartment. In fact, back home we’d call it a bedsit. I’d heard Manhattan houses were small, but there is literally about a foot either side of my bed.’
‘I’m heading the other way . . .’
‘Let me call you a cab,’ he said, stepping into the street and raising his arm to call a taxi to a stop.
She turned to face him, pulling her coat a little tighter across her chest. Jim couldn’t help noticing how the soft grey of the wool was exactly the same shade as her eyes. And in that moment, he was blind to everything else around him.
‘It’s been really good to see you, Jim,’ she said softly as she opened the door and climbed in. ‘We should do it again.’
‘We could meet for breakfast or something,’ he said, wondering if she had been feeling any of the emotions he’d been experiencing over the last hour.
‘Breakfast?’ she said wryly.
‘Power breakfast. Isn’t that what New Yorkers do?’
‘Maybe back in the eighties,’ she laughed as the taxi door slammed shut.
The House on Sunset Lake Page 5