by Jane Green
Nick smiles at me, waiting to see what I’ll say next, probably proud as punch that he can show off his new girlfriend and she can be that gorgeous. Well, fuck you, I think, smiling at him graciously as I say, “I mustn’t leave Dave alone for too long.” And with that I sweep past them, ignoring his odd look at me, and go back into the garden.
Dave’s still dancing with the other girl, and I tap him on the shoulder and grin at him as he turns, holds my hips, and moves his body perfectly in tune with mine. Over his shoulder I see Nick and Cat walk into the garden, and I throw my head back with laughter to prove I’m having a fantastic time, because Nick’s looking at me and quite frankly he can go screw himself. Or Cat. Which he probably will be doing later.
Fuck.
Why does this bother me so much? Why do I care? After all, I was the one who turned him down. This time. And I really, really don’t want a relationship right now, and even if I did, the last person I’d be interested in would be Nick. So why can’t I take my eyes off the two of them, giggling together in the corner? Why do I feel a stab of jealousy when I remember how he used to do that with me? Why is he making her laugh and not me?
I resolve that there’s only one solution to this dilemma, and that is to get drunk. Very, very drunk. I down my next sea breeze in one, much to Paul’s astonishment, and then instantly start on another one. That’s it. Much better.
Nick who?
I lose track of time, but soon the world suddenly becomes slightly hazy, and I know that I’ve probably had enough. More, and I’d run the risk of getting into bed only to have an attack of the deadly spins or, worse, throw up at the party. This is just perfect: hazy, friendly, just enough to make me happy. Who cares. I’ve got no problems other than who to dance with next.
Nick who?
Sal comes up and grabs me. “Did you see her?”
“See who?”
“Cat?”
I nod.
“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? Who would have thought it.”
“Yeah, who would have bloody thought it.” And I give Sal a drunken kiss on the cheek and go staggering off to the barbecue, not that I’m hungry, it’s just that drinking on an empty stomach is not exactly clever, and I know that if I don’t have something to eat, anything, I really won’t be very well at all.
I tear at a chicken kebab, not really tasting it, and, as I throw the stick merrily over my shoulder, I see Nick standing by himself on the other side of the garden, and when I catch his eye he starts walking over to me, so I head off in the other direction and make myself very busy flirting with a group of men I’ve never seen before, who seem more than happy to make me feel welcome.
Ha! That will show him. Nick has skulked off, presumably to find his precious Cat.
The party’s in full throttle at two in the morning, despite the neighbors’ complaints, but gradually people have started disappearing, and I haven’t seen Nick for ages and I’m slightly drunk and very tired and actually I’m now wondering how I’m going to get home.
I go inside, to the living room at the front of the house, which is pitch-black and empty and, bumping into the coffee table en route, I finally make it to the sofa and slump down.
“Fuck!”
“Fuck!” I jump back up to hear rustling, then footsteps, then the light’s switched on.
“Libby? What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? What the hell are you doing? I’m looking at Nick suspiciously as he starts to laugh, and it sobers me up instantly.
“I was just lying down for a bit. In the dark. I know you still have a soft spot for me but did you really have to leap on top of me to prove it?”
“I didn’t,” I grumble, sitting down again. “I didn’t know you were there. Anyway. Where’s Cat?”
“Gone. She’s off to some other party.”
“Why didn’t you go too?”
“Her friends are far too Notting Hill for me. You know, they’re all those bloody awful Trustafarians and I can’t stand them.”
I look at him strangely. “So how do you . . . I mean, do you find it difficult . . . well . . .”
Now it’s Nick’s turn to look at me strangely. “What? What are you talking about? Libby, you’re pissed.”
“No, no.” I shake my head to clear it. “I mean, if you don’t like her friends, well, it’s just that I can’t see her getting on with yours, you know, Moose and that lot, and, well . . .” I stumble into silence.
“Libby, what the fuck are you on about, all this friends stuff? Cat’s always had bloody awful friends. Apart from the old ones, that is. Some of her friends at school were completely gorgeous when they were fourteen.”
I still don’t understand, and then it slowly dawns on me. “Cat’s not your . . .”
“Sister? Yes. Why? What did you think?” And then he sees exactly what I thought and he roars with laughter. “God, Libby. You are fantastic. Cat? My girlfriend?” and he snorts with laughter again.
“Well, how was I to know?” I go on the defensive because what else can I do?
“I don’t know,” Nick splutters, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I just, well. Even if she wasn’t my sister she wouldn’t be my type.”
“No?” I resist the urge to ask him what would be his type.
“No. Look, how are you getting home? You’re not driving, are you?”
“No.”
“Thank Christ for that. If you get a cab I’ll come with you to check you get home okay, then I’ll take it on home.”
“Okay.” Actually, with a bit of a shock I realize that I’m not sure it is okay. I’m not sure that I want him to go back to his home, but maybe I’m just drunk.
Nick calls a cab, and when it arrives we hug Sal and Paul goodbye and stumble into the backseat, and I pretend to look out the window for a bit, but the only thing I’m concentrating on is keeping my breathing as normal as possible, because the fact that it’s so dark in here, so quiet, and that there is a gorgeous, sexy man sitting inches away from me, is making it very, very difficult to pretend that the only thing on my mind right now is friendship.
“Nearly there,” he says, as the cab turns from Holland Park into Ladbroke Grove, and I smile and lean my forehead against the window, and wonder how I can prolong this evening, how I can make him stay, without putting myself on the line by actually asking him.
And then we’re outside my house, and we just sit and look at each other as the cab driver taps his fingers impatiently on the wheel.
“Shit,” Nick says suddenly, slapping his palm on his forehead. “I knew there was something I forgot to tell you.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story.”
The cab driver, who’s listening, sighs, and I say, “Do you want to come in? You can always call another cab.”
“Great!” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling some money out. “I’ll get this.” And he follows me inside the door.
Nick closes the front door behind me, and stands in front of the light switch, so as I fumble to turn on the lights I don’t feel anything. Except Nick’s hand. He grabs my wrist and doesn’t say anything, and we stand in the darkness, just listening to the sound of each other’s breathing and is it my imagination or does the breathing become heavier, slower?
And then Nick takes my hand, and possibly the darkness makes it feel like it’s happening in slow motion, and he places it on his cheek, and I can’t help myself, I start stroking his cheek, and then I’m tracing his lips, unable to see anything, but knowing his face so well from memory, and then his lips are open and he’s gently sucking my finger, fingers, into his mouth.
I gasp, and Nick pulls me very gently toward him, and our mouths find each other’s in the darkness and Nick leans back against the wall, holding me tightly, kissing me slowly, sensually, until I think my legs are going to give way.
And then very gently he moves around and, holding one arm out to guide him, falls slowly on to the sofa, pulling me with him, and with
in seconds my dress is around my waist, and I am moaning softly as he gently teases me with his tongue.
And the only thing that’s going through my mind is how did I do without this for so long, how could I have ever settled for anything less?
Nick’s hand moves up my thigh, stroking, gliding, as I groan into his neck and softly bite the skin there, and I reach down for his belt buckle and listen as his belt clicks undone, and I unzip the zipper of his trousers and stroke the length of his hard-on, and he inhales sharply before kissing me again.
We move to the bedroom, and we make slow, languorous, passionate love, and as he enters me, just at that moment before he starts moving inside me, three words enter my head: I’ve come home. It’s difficult to explain, but there is something so familiar, so comfortable, so right about this moment, it suddenly feels like I am exactly where I should be, at exactly the right time, with exactly the right person.
I’m far too busy losing myself in the moment to dwell on this any further, and after we have made love, after we have murmured to each other and are lying in bed, side by side, with Nick’s arm around my shoulders, gently stroking my hair, I remember he had said he had something to tell me.
I lean over and kiss him gently on the nose. “So what was it you had to tell me, then?” I whisper.
Nick opens his eyes. “Actually, there are two things.”
“And they are?”
Nick pulls his arm out from under me and sits up in bed, turning to look at me as he takes my hand. “Libby,” he says seriously, while I start to get worried. “I know you’re probably not ready to hear this, but the thing is, well . . .” He stops.
“Yes?” I prompt, not having a clue what he is going to say.
“Well, the thing is that I think I might be in love with you . . .” My mouth falls open, and he gulps before continuing. “I’m not entirely sure because I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before and it’s a bit of a new feeling for me, but it’s just that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, and I don’t know whether it was just the timing last time, that I wasn’t ready, but now I think I am, and you may not even want me, but I just had to say something, because every morning when I wake up you’re the first thing on my mind, and every night before I go to sleep you’re the last person I think of, and I have no idea what you are going to say but I wanted you to know.”
And I sit there, my heart racing at hearing these words, at hearing them from Nick, at seeing the expression in his eyes, which are glistening with emotion, and I know he means it. I know that he is in love with me, and not the way that Ed loved me, not for my potential, or because I would make a good wife, or for any of those other superficial reasons, but for me. He loves me for who I am.
And suddenly I realize that although I’ve never thought about being in love with Nick before, all the right ingredients are there. I fancy him. I like him. He’s my friend. He makes me laugh. I love being with him. And I start to feel all sort of warm and glowy, and screw the other stuff. Screw the stuff about him having no money, and living in a bedsit, and not being what I thought I wanted. I’m just going to go with this and see where it ends up. I mean, no one says I have to marry the guy, for God’s sake.
And anyway. I no longer think that marriage is the be-all and end-all. Not by a long shot. Not after Jules and Jamie, and as she put it the other day: “It’s a long hard struggle, but I think we’ll get there.” I’m not sure I’m ready for that struggle. Not yet.
“Nick,” I say, leaning down to kiss him. “No one’s ever said that to me before. If I’m being really honest, I don’t know how I feel about you yet, I think it’s still a little early for me to talk about love, but I know that I do love being with you, and I’d like to give it a shot. Just being together, I mean, and seeing where it goes.”
Relief spreads over his face.
“So,” I say curiously, after we’ve snuggled up and kissed for a few minutes. “What was the other thing?”
“Other thing?”
“You said you had two things to tell me.”
“Oh yes. That. It’s nothing major”—and he grins—“I’ve got a publishing deal!”
Jemima J
READ ON TO SAMPLE AN EXCERPT
FROM SUMMER SECRETS
PRAISE IS BLOOMING
FOR JANE GREEN’S SUMMER SECRETS
“The perfect summer read. You’ll be hooked.” —KRISTIN HANNAH
“Complete with juicy drama and characters you fall madly in love with.” —ELIN HILDERBRAND
“A gripping and powerful novel about finding the courage to make the life you want.” —EMILY GIFFIN
“Jane writes with such honesty and zing, it’s impossible to stop turning the pages.” —SOPHIE KINSELLA
One
London, 1998
For as long as I can remember, I have always had the feeling of not quite fitting in, not being the same as everyone else.
I’m certain that is why I became a writer. Even as a toddler, at nursery school, junior school, I was friendly with everyone, without ever being part of the group. Standing on the outside, watching. Always watching. I noticed everything: how a sideways glance with narrowed eyes could say so much more than words ever could; how a whisper behind a delicate hand had the ability to destroy you for the week; how an outstretched hand from the right girl, at the right time, would see your heart soar for hours, sometimes days.
I knew I was different. The older I grew, the more that difference felt like inadequacy; I wasn’t pretty enough, or thin enough, or simply enough. I couldn’t have put words to it, certainly not when I was very young, other than looking at those tiny, perfect, popular girls and wanting, so desperately, to be on the inside, to be the girl that was always picked first for sports teams, rather than the one left until last.
When adolescence hit, I became the friend the boys all wanted to talk to, to confide in, to find out how they could possibly make my best friend, Olivia, interested in them.
I was such a good friend, even though I fell head over heels for every last one of them. Adam Barrett afforded me two months’ worth of daydreams about how he would realize, as we were sitting on the floor in my bedroom, the Police playing on my record player in the background, that Olivia was not the answer to his dreams after all; he would suddenly notice the silkiness of my hair (always far silkier in my daydreams), the green of my eyes, the fullness of my mouth, as he woke up to the fact that I was so spectacularly beautiful (which I wasn’t), how had he not noticed that before?
After Adam Barrett it was Danny Curran, then Rob Palliser, and of course, Ian Owens. None of my daydreams came true, and at fourteen I finally discovered a great way of easing the pain of all those unfulfilled dreams, those unfulfilled longings, those misplaced hopes.
Gary Scott was having a party at his house. It was a sleepover, the boys sleeping on one side of the giant loft, the girls on the other. Everyone was ridiculously excited, this being the first mixed sleepover. Looking back, I can’t quite believe the parents allowed it, given the raging hormones of fourteen- and fifteen-year-old teenagers, but I suppose they thought we were good kids, or that they had it under control.
The parents were there, of course. They were having a small gathering of their own; the laughter of the grown-ups and the clinking of their glasses made its way over to us, at the back of the garden with a record player and a trestle table stocked with popcorn, plastic cups, and lemonade.
Ian Owens was my crush at the time. He had become my very good friend, naturally, in a bid to get close to Olivia, who was, on that night, standing under the tree with Paul Johnson, her head cocked to one side, her sheaf of newly highlighted blond hair hanging like a curtain of gold over her right shoulder, looking up at Paul with those spectacular blue eyes. Everyone in that garden knew it was only a matter of time before he kissed her.
Ian was devastated. I was sitting on the grass talking to him quietly, reassuring him, praying that I might be second choice, praying that h
e might lean his head toward mine, might brush my lips gently with his, spend the rest of the night holding me tightly in his arms.
“I took this,” he said, gesturing to his side, where a bottle of vodka was nestling under his thigh.
“What? What do you mean, you took it? From where?”
“I found it in the garage. Don’t worry, there’s tons more. No one will notice. Want to?” He nodded his head in the shade of the trees, to a private corner where we wouldn’t be seen.
Of course I wanted to. I would have done anything to keep Ian Owens by my side a little longer, to give him more time to change his mind about Olivia and fall in love with me.
I got up, brushing the pine needles from my jeans, aware that there was a damp patch from the grass. I was in my new 501s. Olivia and I bought them together and went back to her house to shrink them in the bath. Hers were tiny, and looked amazing when we were done, drain-piping down her legs. Mine flapped around my ankles like sails in the wind. I had a small waist but great big thighs, so I had to get a big size to fit, which meant they had to be clinched in at the waist with a tight belt and were huge all the way down.
I never looked the way I wanted to look in clothes. I had a new plaid shirt from Camden Market that I really liked, and had smudged black kohl underneath my eyes. Peering from beneath my new fringe—I had cut it two days ago—my eyes looked smoky and sultry, the green sparkling through the kohl. I liked the way I looked, which wasn’t something that happened often.
Maybe tonight was going to be a first for me. Maybe Ian would like the way I looked too.
I followed him into the small copse of trees at the end of the garden, as he brought the bottle out and took the first swig, grimacing as he sputtered, then spat it all out.
“Christ, that’s disgusting.” He passed the bottle to me.
Of course I didn’t want to do it. Watching the look on his face, how could I ever have wanted to taste something so vile, but how could I back down? I gingerly took the bottle, swigged it back, felt the burning going down my throat, then swigged it back twice more.