This was so mortifying, though why it felt so particularly mortifying she didn’t know.
‘It doesn’t sound like it’s going to work.’
‘No.’
‘Have you got any jump-leads?’
Now that would have been sensible. Jemima had a mental picture of the shelf in the utility room where she’d left them. Why hadn’t she brought them? She always did if she was doing anything longer than the school run.
But tonight she’d been so late. That last little bit of wall in the bathroom had needed painting and it had been so tempting to finish before she went out. If she hadn’t left it so late to get ready she probably wouldn’t have tripped over the paint lid, wouldn’t have needed to grab a shower and, therefore, wouldn’t have forgotten the jump-leads. Strange how one seemingly innocuous decision could set you up for disaster.
‘Unfortunately not,’ she said, bravely climbing back out of the car. ‘Have you?’
He shook his head.
Stupid question. Why would he have jump-leads in his car? Miles Kingsley probably drove a top of the range BMW or a flashy-looking Porsche. Jemima shivered as much from embarrassment as cold. What she really needed was Miles to go away and leave her to it.
Jemima looked back down the road towards her friend’s flat. Perhaps Rachel had jump-leads? It didn’t seem likely. She wasn’t sure that Rachel knew how to open the bonnet of her car, but Alistair was the kind of man who would have jump-leads.
‘Are you going to go back inside?’ Miles asked, turning to follow her gaze.
Together they watched the bedroom curtains close. Jemima forced a smile. ‘No. I can’t face waiting for the AA to tow me home. I think I’ll just ring for a taxi on my mobile and deal with it all in the morning. The boys aren’t back until four. I’ve got plenty of time.’
It seemed like a great plan to her, but Miles didn’t look convinced. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Harrow,’ she said, turning back to look forlornly at her car. It was going to cost a lot of money to take a taxi, particularly at this time of night—even assuming she could find a driver who wanted to go that far out of central London.
‘I’ll give you a lift.’
Jemima whipped round to look at him. ‘I—I couldn’t ask you to do that.’
‘You didn’t.’ Miles nodded at Alistair and Rachel’s flat.
‘They’ve gone to bed and I can’t leave you waiting in the street for a taxi—’
‘Your mother wouldn’t like it,’ Jemima quipped, unable to resist the thought that had popped into her head.
‘You’ve got it.’ He pulled his car keys from his jacket pocket.
Jemima hesitated.
‘If I minded I wouldn’t have offered. I’m staggeringly selfish. Consider it an opportunity for me to salve my conscience for having been so rude to you.’ He started to walk back towards Alistair and Rachel’s flat.
Why was he doing this? Driving her out to Harrow had to be the last thing he wanted to do. Hell, this was so embarrassing. She wanted to curl up in a ball and howl, only that wasn’t an option.
With one last look at her Volvo, Jemima followed him back along the pavement. Perhaps she should just ring the AA? But they’d take a while to get to her and Miles would probably insist on waiting with her. So that would be equally embarrassing—and the prospect of ringing the AA for the third time in six months really didn’t appeal. They’d probably be irritated because it was palpably obvious she needed to do something about replacing the car. It was dying—and she knew it.
Jemima bit her lip and tried to decide what was the least embarrassing option open to her. In her next life, she decided, this kind of thing was not going to be allowed to happen. She was going to be effortlessly elegant, thin, possibly blonde…
‘Coming?’
‘Yes.’
Miles’s car was showroom perfect—as she’d known it would be. It was also old—very old—and she hadn’t expected that. Cars weren’t high on her list of interesting things, but for this particular model she might make an exception. It was truly a classic.
‘It’s a 1962 Bristol 407,’ Miles said, watching her. ‘Don’t say it…’
She looked up questioningly.
‘I know.’ His mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘The ultimate Boy’s Own accessory.’
Now that he said it… Jemima smiled. ‘It’s even older than my car.’
Miles opened the passenger door. ‘But greater loved.’
Despite everything she felt a bubble of laughter start somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Being with Miles was an exhilarating experience, Jemima thought as his Bristol 407 pulled away from the kerb. Before the boys, before Russell…before life had robbed her of optimism…she might have been tempted by him. It felt exciting being with someone like him, as though anything could happen and probably would.
She smiled in the darkness. Even before the boys, Miles would never have been seriously interested in a woman like her. Or even un-seriously, since that appeared to be all he did. He was the kind of man Verity dated. They’d look great together…
But even Verity hoped she’d meet someone one day who’d be able to see beneath the beautiful veneer and love her. Just her. It was strange that Miles was so adamant he’d never marry. Most people hoped that one day they might find someone to share their life with. Didn’t they? Jemima glanced across at his handsome profile. It was unusual not to want to find a soul mate. Didn’t he feel a need to be loved and share his life with someone?
‘Why are you so negative towards marriage?’ she asked suddenly.
He turned his head to look at her, before refocusing on the road. ‘Did it show? I was making a special effort to be positive.’
Jemima laughed. ‘I know. I heard the instruction, remember. I’m “brittle”.’
She felt his smile. ‘And are you?’ He glanced across at her.
Yes. No. No one ever asked her that outright. She’d spoken without thinking and she didn’t know how to answer him. She was just ‘poor Jemima’. The lame duck that everyone had to rally around. ‘You tell me.’
‘Evasion,’ he said softly, his eyes still on the road.
Jemima took a sharp intake of breath. Was she ‘brittle’? Surely she was stronger than that? She was holding it together, doing really well under the circumstances. She sighed. ‘I think I’m walking wounded.’
He looked at her and smiled and, all of a sudden, it didn’t seem to matter any more what people were saying and thinking about her. The air in the confines of the small car seemed rarefied and she felt light-headed.
Jemima looked down at her hands, white against the dark linen of her dress. She wasn’t good at this one-to-one with an attractive man. She didn’t understand how the game went.
And he was attractive, that small voice whispered. Very. She’d known that since her first morning at Kingsley and Bressington. Miles Kingsley was scarily sexy—and way, way out of her league. She sighed and gave a tentative smile. ‘I’m trying to support Rachel…but I just can’t summon up any enthusiasm for confetti and white ribbon. It doesn’t seem particularly relevant to anything any more.’
Miles looked across with another smile. It was perfect. Warm, but not pitying. It was like a shot of whisky—supremely comforting.
‘I feel guilty, though,’ she continued, hurriedly looking away. ‘Rachel was my bridesmaid and she put in more effort than I’m doing. We spent hours poring over magazines. We even made an ideas scrapbook. How sad was that?’
She heard his smile rather than saw it. It was in his voice. ‘Rachel must have known you were going to find it difficult when she asked you to be her bridesmaid.’
‘I suppose.’
‘In fact, are you a bridesmaid?’ Miles looked at her. ‘Do you return to virginal status after a divorce or do you become a matron of honour?’
Jemima felt another laugh well up inside her. ‘That’s your problem. You’ve got to do the speech.’
‘Thanks for that!’
She slipped her foot out of her flat pump and rubbed the back of her right heel with her toes. ‘It’s probably better to make me a “bridesmaid” since Russell’s going to be at the wedding.’
‘Your ex?’
She nodded. ‘It’s bad enough I’m still using his name. We’ve been divorced just over a year and were separated for eighteen months before that.’
‘So why do you?’ he asked, his hands moving easily on the steering wheel.
‘It seemed simpler to have the same name as my boys. You know, less confusing at the school gate.’
He nodded his understanding, but she wasn’t sure whether he thought it a good enough reason. She wasn’t sure whether it was either. ‘Anyway, Alistair and Rachel asked if I’d mind if they asked him. Rachel’s known him since university…’ Jemima drew a breath. ‘So he’s coming…with Stefanie.’
‘Couldn’t you have said you did mind?’
She gave a hard laugh. ‘I could, but then Russell would have known I was uncomfortable about him being there…and I couldn’t have that. In fact, everyone would have known I’d said I minded and then they’d have felt sorry for me.’ She turned to look at him. ‘I’ve had enough of that. I must have heard every possible connotation of “poor Jemima” going.’
‘It’s a tough deal to be bringing up two children on your own.’
‘Russell helps. He’s really good.’ A familiar sense of gloom spread through her body. She hated the way everyone said that. What was so good about walking out on your family? ‘And he’s great with the boys. Spends as much time with them as he can.’
It was me he left. That small voice bit into her self-esteem. Russell had enjoyed everything about his life—but her. She wasn’t about to tell Miles that. She hadn’t told anyone how…destroyed she felt by that. The person who had promised to love her until she died had taken a sledgehammer and smashed her to smithereens. How did you stick yourself back together after that?
‘It’s not the same though, is it?’ Miles indicated to move lanes. ‘The ultimate responsibility is yours. I imagine it’s the same difference as running a company and being employed by one. The emotional investment is completely different.’
Put like that her sense of crushing responsibility seemed entirely reasonable. She turned slightly in her chair. ‘So, what’s your excuse? Why are you so lacking in enthusiasm about marriage? You didn’t say.’
Miles glanced across at her. ‘I’ve got no problem with the ideal; it’s just I don’t believe it’s achievable. Two people in a monogamous relationship which lasts fifty years plus…?’ He shook his head.
‘People have done it.’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’ He smiled. ‘People change. Circumstances certainly do. Apart from anything else, we all live a great deal longer now and I’m not convinced it’s possible to find one person who will be a perfect fit for an entire lifetime.’
Jemima thought for a moment. What he said sounded plausible—but bleak. Did he really believe that? It sounded like something Hermione Kingsley might say in one of her strident columns. ‘Maybe not “perfect”, not all the time…but don’t you think it’s possible to evolve together? If you value what you have enough…’ That was what she believed.
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler to accept that one person might be right for a period of your life, and then someone quite different for a different period?’
No. It was such a cold and isolated way of living. She couldn’t accept that. Jemima frowned. ‘What about children? Don’t you believe they do better with stability?’
‘Ah.’
She looked at him curiously.
‘Now you’ve found the rub to my argument. In many ways I had a great childhood. Materially privileged, great schools…’ Miles broke off and glanced across at her. ‘You’re going to need to start directing me on where I should be going.’
‘Oh.’ Jemima thrust her foot back in her shoe. ‘Straight on here. Take the third exit at the next roundabout. We’re nearly there.’
Miles glanced across at her and his eyes crinkled. ‘The trouble with my argument is that I know I wasn’t very interested in my mother’s principles as a child.’ He focused back on the road. ‘It was all fine, no doubt, but I desperately wanted to have a dad. Of course, in my case, it was all a little extreme.’
‘A little,’ Jemima agreed, wondering how difficult it had been for him to have grown up with a mother who was so public about the circumstances of his unconventional conception.
He paused while he negotiated the roundabout. ‘I wonder… If I’d been conceived in a more usual way…’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t think I’d have been remotely concerned about my parents’ marital happiness. I think I’d have simply been happy to have someone on hand to play cricket with and produce on Parents Day.’
Jemima felt a rumble of laughter. ‘That does rather blow your life plan out of the water.’
‘Only if I have children.’ His eyes flicked across at her. ‘It’s not my intention. I like things exactly as they are. Why change it?’
No children. Ever. Miles might be right in his assessment of the realities of modern day living, but she preferred to believe it was possible to spend a lifetime loving one person. Hope in the face of experience. ‘It’s the third turning on the right.’
‘This one?’
‘That’s it,’ she said, and a few seconds later, ‘The one with the burgundy door.’
They pulled up outside and Jemima felt conscious of the peeling paintwork and the generally unkempt appearance. ‘Thanks. I appreciate you bringing me home,’ she said awkwardly.
‘It’s no problem.’
All at once she felt as if she was seventeen again, coming home after a date. Jemima bent to pick up her handbag, not quite sure what she should do now. It felt awkward. Should she ask him in for coffee? Or not? What was the correct thing to do when your friend’s best man was also your temporary boss?
But he had gone out of his way and driven her home…
And he could always say no… Probably would.
Take a deep breath and ask him.
It was just coffee.
In the end she took it in a rush. ‘Do you want a coffee before you drive back?’
Chapter Four
IT WASN’T as though asking Miles in for coffee would turn this evening into any kind of a romantic interlude. It was nothing more than common courtesy.
Jemima gritted her teeth and waited for his answer—the inevitable no. Of course, he’d say no. It was a long way back into central London—assuming, of course, Miles lived in central London. He might not. He might live somewhere closer, like Pinner or Ruislip…
‘Coffee would be great.’
Jemima’s eyes widened in shock. ‘R-right.’ Coffee was easy. She could do coffee.
‘It’s not as though I’ve anywhere I need to be.’ Miles smiled and her stomach flipped over like a pancake. Whoever his mystery sperm donor had been, he’d donated some seriously good genes to the pot.
His smile made her forget she was the mother of two boys, forget that her Victorian semi needed a new roof, forget that her bedroom had a scary damp patch in the corner by the window. All these things seemed to vaporise and she was left with a breathless excitement.
‘That’s not what you told Rachel,’ she managed.
‘Implied,’ Miles corrected. ‘Like you, there’s only so much confetti and white ribbon I can stomach. Once you’d made your break for freedom it seemed sensible to follow on behind you. Good job, too, since it’s given me the opportunity to play Sir Galahad.’
Jemima felt for the door handle.
‘Hang on. I’ll help you out,’ he said, climbing out his side and walking round.
Jemima couldn’t remember the last time a man had opened a car door for her. Miles made it seem such a natural, contemporary thing to do. ‘Thanks,’ she said as he shut the passenger door.
‘It’s a shame to have to go back in to tow
n tomorrow, though. It’s going to take up most of your Sunday.’
She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Miles’s eyes narrowed astutely, but he didn’t say anything. Jemima wondered what he was thinking. He couldn’t possibly understand how lonely she felt on the weekends her boys were with Russell. It was like an ache. She was always wondering where they were, what they were doing. The days stretched out endlessly and, despite the hundred and one jobs she had to do, she found she was listless.
Jemima glanced up at the peeling paintwork on the front door and wished she’d done something about that on one of her ‘weekends’. ‘It’s a work in progress,’ she cautioned.
‘What?’
‘The h-house,’ she clarified, searching for her keys. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’
‘You’re renovating it, aren’t you?’
‘Well, that was the plan,’ she agreed, fitting the key into the lock. ‘Progress is a bit slow.’ That was a bit of an understatement. If it wasn’t for the generosity of her family, it would have all but ground to a halt.
‘I imagine it’s difficult with children around,’ Miles said neutrally.
Jemima glanced across at him in the dark. It was difficult with the children around, but there was so much more to it than that. More even than the lack of money. It was surprisingly difficult without someone to bounce ideas off. Every decision seemed momentous. Even choosing tiles for the bathroom.
She knew, of course, that against the wider context of world poverty and social injustice how she decorated her bathroom didn’t rate as anything more than a dot. Nevertheless it felt important.
The door opened on to the original Minton tiled floor and Jemima stepped inside.
‘The floor’s great,’ Miles observed. ‘You were lucky to find a place where it’s in such good condition.’
‘I know. It’s one of the reasons we bought it. That and the fact there’s a good primary school at the end of the road,’ she added.
‘We?’
‘Russell and I. He was really great about us having the house when he left,’ Jemima said with determined cheerfulness. ‘He didn’t want the boys to have to move. You know, Ben was settled in school and Sam had only just had his bedroom decorated…’
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