Chapter Ten #2
I feel a breathless mixture of outrage and exhilaration. It’s as though we’re playing tennis. Or dancing.
“You do not know me better than anyone else!” I retort in the most scathing tones I can muster.
“I know you won’t end up with Connor Martin.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.” He’s starting to laugh.
“No, you don’t! If you want to know, I’ll probably end up marrying Connor!”
“Marry Connor?” says Jack, as though this were the funniest joke he’s ever heard.
“Yes! Why not? He’s tall, and he’s handsome, and he’s kind, and he’s very…He’s…” I’m floundering slightly. “And anyway, this is my personal life! You’re my boss, and you only met me last week, and frankly this is none of your business!”
Jack’s laughter vanishes, and he looks as though I’ve slapped him.
For a few moments he says nothing. Then he takes a step back and releases the lift button.
“You’re right,” he says. The teasing edge has vanished from his voice.
“Your personal life is none of my business. I overstepped the mark…and I apologize.”
I feel a spasm of dismay. “I…I didn’t mean—”
“No. You’re right.” He stares at the floor for a few moments, then looks up. “So, I leave for the States tomorrow. It’s been a very pleasant stay, and I’d like to thank you for all your help. Will I see you at the drinks party tonight?”
“I…I don’t know,” I say.
The atmosphere has disintegrated.
This is awful. I’m standing, clenching the folders more and more tightly. Jack’s face is impassive. I want to say something, I want to put it back to the way it was before, all easy and joking. But I can’t find the words.
We reach the ninth floor, and the doors open.
“I think I can manage these from here,” Jack says. “I really only asked you along for the company.”
Awkwardly, I transfer the folders to his arms.
“Well, Emma,” he says in the same formal voice, “in case I don’t see you later on…it was nice knowing you.” He meets my eyes, and a glimmer of his old, warm expression returns. “I really mean that.”
“You, too.”
I don’t want him to go. I feel like suggesting a quick drink. I feel like clinging on to his hand and saying, “Don’t leave.” I don’t want this to be the end.
God, what’s wrong with me?
“Have a good journey,” I manage as he shakes my hand. Then he turns on his heel and walks off down the corridor.
I open my mouth to call after him—but what would I say? By tomorrow morning he’ll be on a plane back to his life. And I’ll be left here in mine.
—
I feel leaden for the rest of the day. Everyone else is talking about going out for a drink tonight, but I leave work half an hour early.
I go straight home to an empty flat—Lissy’s doing a case in Birmingham and Jemima’s probably having a French manicure or something.
I make myself some hot chocolate, and am sitting on the sofa, lost in my own thoughts, when Connor lets himself into the flat.
I look up as he walks into the room, and immediately I know something’s different. Not with him. He hasn’t changed a bit.
But I have. I’ve changed.
“Hi,” he says, and kisses me lightly on the head. “Shall we go?”
“Go?”
“To look at the flat on Edith Road! Oh, and my mother’s given us a housewarming present. It was delivered to work.”
He hands me a cardboard box, and I pull out a glass teapot.
“You can keep the tea leaves separate from the water. Mum says it really does make a better cup of tea—”
“Connor…” I hear myself saying. “I can’t do this.”
“It’s quite easy. You just have to lift the—”
“No.” I shut my eyes, trying to gather some courage. At last I open them again. “I can’t do this. I can’t move in with you.”
“What?” Connor’s face kind of freezes. “Has something happened?”
“Yes. No.” I swallow. “I’ve been having doubts for a while. About us. And recently they’ve…they’ve been confirmed. If we carry on, I’ll be a hypocrite. It’s not fair to either of us.”
“What? Emma, are you saying you want to…to…”
“I want to break up,” I say, my eyes fixed on the carpet.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking!” I say in sudden anguish. This is harder than I was expecting. Connor looks so totally crushed. Although what was I expecting? That he’d say, “Hmm, yes, good idea”?
“But…this is ridiculous! It’s ridiculous!” Connor’s pacing around the room like an agitated lion. Suddenly he looks at me.
“It’s that plane journey.”
“What?” Every cell in my body jumps. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been different ever since that plane ride down from Scotland!”
“No, I haven’t!”
“You have! You’ve been edgy; you’ve been tense….” Connor squats down in front of me and takes my hands. “Emma, I think maybe you’re still suffering some kind of trauma. You could have counseling….”
“Connor, I don’t need counseling!” I jerk my hands away. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe that plane ride did…” I swallow. “…affect me. Maybe it brought my life into perspective and made me realize a few things. And one of the things I’ve realized is, we aren’t right for each other.”
Slowly Connor sinks down onto the carpet, bewildered. “But things have been great! We’ve been having lots of sex—”
“I know.”
“Is there someone else?”
“No!” I say sharply. “Of course there’s no one else!” My thoughts swirl in uncertain circles. Why can’t he stop quizzing me?
“This isn’t you talking!” says Connor suddenly. “It’s just the mood you’re in. I’ll run you a nice, hot bath, light some scented candles…”
“Connor, please!” I exclaim. “No more scented candles! You have to listen to me. And you have to believe me.” I look straight into his eyes. “I want to break up.”
“I don’t believe you!” he says, shaking his head. “I know you, Emma! You’re not that kind of person! You wouldn’t just throw away something like that! You wouldn’t—”
He stops in shock as, with no warning, I hurl the glass teapot to the floor.
Stunned, we both watch it bounce on the floorboards.
“It was supposed to break,” I explain after a pause. “And that was going to signify that yes, I would throw something away, if I knew it wasn’t right for me.”
“I think it has broken,” says Connor, picking it up and examining it. “At least, there’s a hairline crack.”
“There you go.”
“We could still use it—”
“No. We couldn’t.”
“We could get some Sellotape—”
“But it would never work properly. It just…wouldn’t work.”
“I see,” says Connor after a pause.
And I think, finally, he does.
“Well…I’ll be off, then,” he says at last. “I’ll phone the flat people and tell them that we’re…” He stops and takes a deep breath. “You’ll want your keys back, too.”
“Thanks,” I say in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine. “Can we keep it quiet from everyone at work?” I add. “Just for the moment.”
“Of course,” he says gruffly. “I won’t say anything.”
He’s halfway out the door when suddenly he turns back, reaching in his pocket. “Emma…here are the tickets for the jazz festival. You have them.”
“What?” I stare at them in horror. “No! Connor, you have them! They’re yours!”
“You have them. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to hearing the Dennisson Quartet.” He pushes the brightly colored tickets roughly into my hand, together with the keys of the flat, and closes my fingers over them.
“I…I…” I swallow. “Connor…I just…I don’t know what to say…”
“We’ll always have jazz,” says Connor in a choked-up voice, and closes the door behind him.