Chapter Sixteen
STUART, TEN YEARS EARLIER
Hello, Jessamine,” I say. Then I look down at the dog. “Hello, Hugo.” I wave the bottle of champagne at them both. “Merry Christmas!”
Jessamine’s face is doughy with drink and lack of fresh air. She looks behind me and then around. “What are you doing here? How did you know where I live?”
“You told me.”
“I did not tell you.”
“Well, you as good as told me. I worked it out. Anyway.” I wave the champagne bottle again, and beam at her.
“I mean…” She looks behind herself again. “We’re just watching TV.”
“Oh,” I say. “Anything good?”
“No. Not really.” Her eyes dip to the champagne and I can see the machinations, the idea that she now has a legitimate reason to drink in the middle of the day. “Come in, just, excuse the… it’s… messy.”
The house is indeed messy. It looks as though someone got halfway through moving out or moving in and then abandoned the project.
Boxes. Lots of boxes. Lots of plastic storage units.
But also antique furniture, beautiful antique furniture, the type that is so unfashionable now.
Ornate credenzas, bow-fronted chests of drawers, crystal chandeliers, chinoiserie coffee tables.
I know about furniture. My dad was a cabinet-maker.
“Beautiful house,” I say, brushing my feet on the doormat. And it is beautiful, but it is also strangely cold and unwelcoming. There’s something in the atmosphere that makes me feel on edge, as if I should be ready to make my escape at any moment.
I follow her into the kitchen. It’s old-fashioned: pale green Formica-covered units with cream plastic handles, a pockmarked terra-cotta floor, frilly gingham half-curtains at the window, pots and pans hanging from a wooden pulley.
Jessamine selects vintage-style champagne coupes from a shelf, tiny, as if they belong to a doll’s tea party.
I watch her moving around, the urgency of it, the tight silence.
I can hear the TV on somewhere else in the house.
Hugo sits in the doorway and watches her. Then he turns his head and watches me.
“Here, boy,” I say, crouching down on my haunches and offering my fingers to him. “Here, boy.”
He comes slowly, and I scratch him under his chin; he backs away slightly but then inches closer again. I cup his head in my hands and kiss his crown, and I know that we are friends.
Jessamine places the tiny coupes of champagne on the kitchen table and pulls out a vinyl-covered chair. I follow suit. The champagne isn’t chilled. I hate champagne at the best of times, and even more so when it’s not cold. But I need to drink it, so I do.
“Cheers,” I say, lifting my glass toward her.
“Cheers,” she says, lifting hers in return.
“How was your Christmas?”
“The usual. He’s off in Istanbul. I’m stuck here.”
“He?” I ask. “You mean, the married man?”
“Yes. Him. He’s just landed in Istanbul. Another mini-break. With her.”
“His wife?”
“Yes. His wife. His wife who is twenty years older than me and thirty pounds heavier.”
I flinch.
“Sorry. I’m a bitch. Whatever. I just don’t understand it.”
“She’s his children’s mother.”
“I’m his daughter’s mother!”
“Yes, but to keep you, he’d have to sacrifice everything. And maybe…” I take a small breath in. “Maybe she’s easier than you?”
“Ha!” She reacts loudly. “Easier? Are you actually mad? The woman is a nightmare.”
“What sort of nightmare?”
“Demanding. Spoiled. Stupid.”
“Stupid? And you know this how?”
“Because he told me.”
I sigh. “That’s what men do,” I say. “They tell you the current woman is substandard, to suggest that you’re superior, when often the current woman is not substandard, merely not you; not the fresh meat.
For what it’s worth I think it’s quite nice that he’s found his way back to his wife.
I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear. But it’s true.”
She grunts.
“You know,” I say, “that you can control the way you feel about this? This isn’t his story, it’s yours?”
“That’s bollocks.” Her tiny glass is empty, and she pours herself another one. “He’s the one in control. Always has been, always will be. Because he is the one with my heart.”
A layer of tears springs to her eyes as she says these words, the first suggestion of warmth I’ve seen in this woman.
“Well, take it back then. It’s yours. Go on your own mini-breaks. Stop drinking. You have options.”
“Fucking hell,” she says under her breath. “You’ve got a lot to say for yourself. I don’t even know you.”
“Yes, you do. You do know me. And I know you.”
“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re just a man in the pub.”
“And now I’m a man in your house.”
She runs her finger over the rim of her glass and narrows her eyes at me. “Yes,” she says. “And what’s that all about?”
I lean away from her, eyeing her appraisingly. “I have no fucking idea what I’m doing in your house, to be honest. But I knew you’d let me in.”
“Should I be scared of you?”
“No.” I shake my head and smile. “You most definitely should not be scared of me. I’m not here to hurt you; I’m here to help you.”
I pick up the bottle of champagne, top her up and then myself. I keep my gaze on her the whole time. She looks twitchy, but she also has a flush of something on her cheeks. It could be the champagne, but it could also be excitement.
“Show me a picture,” I say. “Of this man. This remarkable man who has taken your heart to Istanbul.”
She looks at me sideways. Then she picks up her phone and scrolls through, with an air of slight impatience. “Hm,” she says, “no. Not that one. This one…”
She turns the phone. There’s a vague-looking man in a gray shirt and jeans, limp white hair combed to one side, trendy glasses, a pained smile.
“Jesus. How old is he?”
“Sixty.”
“Sixty! You’re losing your shit over a sixty-year-old!”
“Well, he wasn’t always sixty, was he? He was in his late forties when I met him.”
“So you were…?”
“Eighteen. He was my boss when I was temping.”
“Ha, yeah. Of course.” I smile and lean in toward her.
“You’ve been dragged down the wrong road, Jessamine.
Imagine,” I say, “how different everything would be now if that dirty old bastard hadn’t persuaded fresh-faced little eighteen-year-old you that he was a good idea, that fucking around with a married man was going to somehow improve your life. ”
I see a shiver of discomfort run through her. Then she shakes her head. “What’s going on here?” she says. “What’s your deal?”
“No deal. Just had a great Christmas at my brother’s place, lots of people, lots of fun… kept thinking about you.”
One of her fine eyebrows shoots up her forehead. “What the fuck,” she mutters, but I see it again, that flush, a sudden rush of something through her system.
“Not necessarily in that way,” I counter. “I mean, just thinking about you being alone down here in the last house at the end of the world, with your mum and your kid. I wanted to see you. Make sure you were OK. That’s all.”
She shrugs again and tries to look as if that’s exactly what she thought I meant. I feel bad for her, so I smile, a sly, flirty smile. “I might also have thought a bit about how pretty you are.”
“Ha!” Her response is so loud it makes me jump. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says.
“Why?” I say. “Why is that ridiculous? Doesn’t he ever tell you you’re pretty?”
“No,” she says sniffily. “Because I’m not.”
I pull my chair roughly across the terra-cotta floor and it squeaks horribly.
I reach her side of the table, and I stare at her.
“You,” I say, “are pretty.” I stare a bit longer, enjoying the array of mixed emotions passing across her face.
Then I push myself back again. “Listen,” I say.
“If I’m making you feel uncomfortable, I’ll leave.
I have no interest in making you feel weird, I promise. Just say, and I’ll be on my way.”
“No,” she says, her eyes suddenly dark and urgent and on me—fully. “No. Don’t go. Please… just… stay.”