4. Carly
Chapter 4
Carly
I t’s been two days since Suze hit me with the bombshell that Jack is back and I still haven’t summoned the courage to go up to the second floor and find out if it’s true.
I remember the last time I saw him. He was wearing faded jeans and a dark-green jumper, his wavy brown hair a bit too long, but I didn’t mind that because it suited him and made me yearn to reach across and push it slowly away from his beautiful deep-brown eyes. There was an uncharacteristic frown crinkling his forehead too, as he tried to take in what had happened. He’d just found out, as they all had, that the company he worked for was in serious trouble and he wasn’t needed anymore. There was no real option for him but to pack up and head back home to Norfolk. He hadn’t taken on a flat of his own, knowing all along that his time in London was limited. A lease, a deposit, all that rent payable up front. It didn’t seem worth it, he’d said. The hassle, the cost, not just for a few months. And, besides, he was a farm boy, used to roughing it. There had been a few weeks in a cheap B & B hotel, then Rosie’s Syd had helped out and let him sleep on the tatty old lumpy sofa in the even tattier flat Syd would be giving up in the next few months anyway, so he could move in with Rosie as soon as they were married. So, all in all, there wasn’t a lot for Jack to sort out, not many possessions to pack, before he left.
We met in the pub that last evening, a whole gang of us. Most of them all worked at the same place as Jack, but there were a few other halves there too. There was an air of gloom, all of them moaning about the company closing, the loss of their jobs, with no real answer but to drown their sorrows. Syd was one of them, which is how Rosie had got herself included in the group. We were close back then, Rosie and me, before she had the babies to occupy her time, and I was between boyfriends, so it wasn’t unusual for her to let me tag along. I remember how she just sat there that night with her worried face on. Syd losing his job just as they were about to get married did not bode well, but it meant she was all wrapped up in her own thoughts, not watching me, utterly oblivious to any connection that had been building between Jack and me, or to the way I was feeling knowing I was about to lose him.
We ate something tasteless that has made no impression on my memory at all, the men downing beers, the girls sharing too many bottles of wine. ‘Might as well, while we can still afford it,’ someone said, which just made the whole nightmare seem suddenly more real.
I sat as close to Jack as I could, my hand itching to wrap itself around his, my mind desperately telling me I should do something, anything, to make him stay, but it wasn’t going to happen. We had had that one night, just a couple of weeks before, when we’d all gone straight to the pub after work, drunk too much, giggled and hugged outside on the pavement, and, when the others had all said their goodnights and wandered away, we’d walked by ourselves, Jack and I, our fingers entwined, through the dark streets and then along the riverbank, the lights twinkling on the water, stopping every now and then to gaze at each other beneath a lamp-post. That one time, when we had clung to each other and his lips, cold and still tasting of beer, had met mine, when we had come so close to taking things further that I had felt I was going to burst with love for him. But it hadn’t happened. Honour, duty, I don’t really know what it was that made him pull away, hold me at arm’s length, remind me he was engaged, tell me how sorry he was…
But there had been tears in his eyes. Tears just as real as mine. He cared. I know he did. But there was nothing I could do.
We had carried on for a couple of weeks after that, still part of the same crowd, neither of us mentioning what we had so almost done, acting as if it had never been, not knowing what to say, and so saying nothing. I didn’t know how long I could do it, keep my distance, keep on pretending. And then, without warning, it was over. The job, the future, the possibilities of this thing between us that had never even started. He would be gone in days. Back to where he had come from and had always intended to return to. And to a wedding he couldn’t miss. His wedding.
There had been a last hug goodbye, a pulling back as his fingers slipped between mine for the last time and then out again, everyone crowding around, talking, crying, hugging too. And then Syd and Rosie had come to reclaim me so we could travel home together, and Jack had walked away, quickly and alone, into the dark, and I had never seen him nor heard from him again.
I stand in the small kitchen area now, my mind not on work at all, my memories as stirred up as my coffee, the spoon banging against the sides of the mug as I try to decide what to do. If he’s here, I have to see him. I have to know why he’s back, how long for, how being in the same building and likely to bump into him at any time is going to make me feel. But what I really need to know, of course, is how he feels. Does he still think of me? Does he even remember me? Does he know I’m working here too, just two floors down, and still as in love with him as ever I was? Of course he doesn’t. How could he?
And what about her? This Molly woman? She’ll be his wife now, assuming he went through with it. A part of me hopes beyond all hope that he didn’t, that she’s not here in London with him, or that the marriage has failed and he’s free again. Or that she’s been relegated to some kind of madwoman hidden in the attic and we can all pretend she doesn’t exist. That’s what comes of reading Jane Eyre so many times. My head is full of brooding heroes and lovelorn governesses and the eternal search for happy endings. Reader, I married him . I wish!
I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, put my mug down by the sink and steel myself to face him. Because it has to be done.
I grab a pile of papers from my desk. Invoices, receipts, I don’t know what. Anything to make it look as if I have a reason to go up there, to make it look like I’m just doing my job. I walk straight to the lifts, feeling more than a bit wobbly, press the button and wait.
I peer down at myself. My plain work trousers, my ordinary everyday shoes. Will I do? Is this the me I want him to see? I should have gone to the Ladies first, checked my hair and lipstick in the mirror, straightened my necklace and the collar on my oh-so-boring blouse. I still can, I suppose, only the lift’s here and someone else has hopped in, is holding the door for me to follow, asking me which floor…
I travel up in silence, practising holding my stomach in, while also, strangely, holding my breath as well, to the point that I feel almost dizzy as I step out on the second floor.
I see him straight away. He’s standing, stretching, at a desk by the window. What I can see of his back, above the partition, is half turned away from me as he looks out through the glass, a pen in his hand, a phone held to his ear.
Jack. It’s him all right. No mistake. He looks the same as I remember him. Even with only a part of his face visible, I can see he’s just as good-looking as ever, just as gorgeous as Suze has declared him to be, although his hair has been cut much shorter and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in quite so smart a suit. Just seeing him from a distance is scaring the hell out of me. I think about waiting for him to finish his call and then going over to his desk, trying to be all nonchalant, just saying hello, but I know I can’t. Not here, not in front of all these people. I don’t think I can trust myself not to say something stupid, do something stupid. I need time to get used to this, to think properly, to prepare. I need a plan. And so I turn away, as quickly as I can, and get straight back into the lift, still waiting with its doors open behind me. And I do exactly what Jack did the last time we were thrown together. I bottle it, and walk away.