Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Jamie might not have told me what he was planning – he might not even have known himself. But one thing was for sure: his timing couldn’t have been worse if he’d tried.
It was Thursday evening. I’d spent the past three days barely able to eat or sleep, going through the motions at work, relieved that Sam was working flat-out on a deadline that kept him in the co-working space where he spent his days until late enough in the evening that I could justify already being in bed by the time he arrived home.
I’d looked under the bed for the jeans I’d concealed there, but evidently Sam had got there first – I’d found them in the washing basket, the pockets empty and Ava’s letter nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps I’d hallucinated the whole thing.
Perhaps I truly was descending into paranoia, imagining things that weren’t there.
But when I closed my eyes, I could see that page in front of me as clearly as if it was actually there: the gold border on the paper, the faint pattern on its surface, Ava’s rounded violet writing, Sam’s name at the beginning of the first page and hers at the foot of the second.
I knew it had been real. My fears were justified, and I hadn’t even had the chance to speak to Jamie again about the situation – Rosie-Mae had relented, Trent’s wedding was back on and he’d been working flat-out with the team of wedding planners and Trent’s agent to un-cancel all the bookings that Rosie-Mae’s team had cancelled.
So I realised I was going to have to revert to plan A, confront Sam and tell him what I’d seen, and hope against hope that there was some perfectly innocent explanation for the letter after all.
Except I couldn’t imagine what such an explanation might be.
When Sam arrived home that evening, I was sitting inside the flat. The spell of roasting-hot weather had broken, and rain was coming down in sheets, darkening the evening by eight o’clock, steaming off the sun-baked pavements and thundering on the overhang of the flat above’s balcony.
After days of salads I’d been too stressed to eat, I’d made a macaroni cheese for dinner, and I was removing it from the oven, its surface golden and bubbling, when Sam walked in through the door.
Clearly, he hadn’t checked the weather forecast that morning. His T-shirt was soaked through with rain, his shorts clinging to his thighs, his nylon laptop bag dripping on the wooden floor.
‘Sheesh, I needed an ark to get home.’ He left a trail of wet footprints as he crossed the flat to greet me. ‘I’ll just change into something dry.’
‘Okay.’ I put the mac and cheese down on the counter and fetched two plates from the cupboard.
Then he paused, still dripping, and looked at me. ‘Are you okay? That migraine must surely have gone by now. Or do you need to see a doctor? You don’t look…’
I knew only too well how I didn’t look. Every mirror I passed had revealed dark shadows under my eyes, a large spot practically creating its own force field on my chin and flaky skin on my lips.
‘I’m all right,’ I said. ‘Just… you know. I’ve been kind of stressed.’
Sam peeled off his top and shorts and put them straight into the washing machine. He looked at me for a moment, shivered slightly in the cool breeze coming from the open balcony door, then said, ‘Hold on.’
Seconds later, he emerged from the bedroom again in dry clothes and put his arms around me. My rigid body relaxed as I leaned into his embrace.
Please make it be okay, I prayed silently.
‘What’s up, Georgia? You haven’t been yourself. I’m worried about you.’ His voice was gentle; I could feel the vibration of it in his chest against my cheek.
‘It’s…’ I began, then my courage failed me. ‘Shall we eat, then talk? Would you like a glass of wine?’
‘You know what, it might be a school night, but yes.’
I opened a bottle of rosé, and we perched at the kitchen counter. The smell of the macaroni cheese was enticing, but when I took a forkful, my throat closed up.
I drank some wine instead. At least there were calories in that.
‘I know you said there’s nothing for me to worry about with Ava,’ I began. ‘I trust you, Sam. I want to trust you.’
‘I hope you do,’ he said sombrely. ‘Because without that, there’s not much point, is there?’
‘No,’ I agreed. Then I forced another sip of wine down my tight throat and went on, ‘The thing is, I…’
We both heard it at the same time. The sound of footsteps on the landing outside, then a cry of alarm and a loud thump.
‘What the hell is that noise?’
‘I’ll go and check.’ Sam put down his fork and hurried to the front door. I heard the click of the latch and then his voice saying uncertainly, ‘Hey, mate. Are you… oh, it’s you.’
‘These tiles are a fucking death trap. I hope you’ve got good public liability insurance.’ The voice was unmistakably Jamie’s, although his words were indistinct.
Jamie? Here? Why? He hadn’t been in the office that day – I’d barely seen him since our lunch a few days before. He was going to come up with a plan, he’d said then. But surely turning up at our flat at night couldn’t be part of it?
I hurried to the front door and stood there for a moment, aghast. Sam was helping Jamie to his feet.
He was just as wet as Sam had been, his grey suit almost black with moisture, his normally sleek hair hanging in soaked tendrils over his eyes.
His white shirt was almost transparent, and I could see the tattoo on his chest through it.
From the floor at his feet, Sam was retrieving a huge bouquet of red roses.
‘I came to see Georgia,’ Jamie slurred.
It was that – and of course the fact that he’d managed to come an absolute purler outside our front door – that made me realise he was totally plastered.
Sam was looking at him and clearly reaching the same conclusion.
‘I reckon you’d better come in, mate,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Have a strong coffee or something.’
‘I need to see Georgia.’
‘I’m right here, Jamie.’ I stepped around Sam and into his line of sight. ‘Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?’
‘Only my pride.’ Jamie peered owlishly at me. There were smears of dirt on the knees and arms of his suit, even darker patches on the darkened fabric. I’d never seen him looking less than immaculate before, and it took some adjusting to. ‘Pride comes before a fall, right?’
‘Come on.’ Sam took his arm and guided him inside.
As the door closed, I noticed one of our neighbours’ doors opening and a curious face peering out.
‘I brought champagne.’ Jamie looked around as if he expected a bottle to materialise out of thin air. ‘Champagne and roses for Georgia. But it’s not here. And these are squashed.’
He handed me the flowers. It was true – they must have broken his fall because they looked distinctly battered. Scarlet petals as well as drops of rainwater were cascading down onto our floor.
‘You must have left it somewhere,’ I said. ‘In an Uber or on the Tube.’
Jamie looked crestfallen. ‘It was Perrier-Jouet too.’
Sam appeared in the hallway with a towel. ‘Dry yourself off, then have a seat. I’ll take these and put them in water, and put the kettle on.’
I helped Jamie remove his jacket. He peeled off his sodden shirt and wrapped the towel round his shoulders – like he’s getting ready to take a seat at a basin in the hairdresser’s, I thought, resisting the urge to giggle.
But this was no laughing matter. Sam’s face when he left the room had been like thunder.
I guided Jamie through to the living room and sat him down on the sofa, putting a throw down first so his wet bum wouldn’t ruin the upholstery.
Then I went to the kitchen to find Sam.
He was pouring boiling water over instant coffee granules in a mug – no bean-to-cup espresso for Jamie, I noticed.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Sam demanded.
‘I don’t know. Honestly, Sam, I’ve got no idea. I’ll ask him, but—’
‘He’s in no fit state to tell you his own name right now. But he made his way here to see you, complete with flowers and champagne.’
‘Well, not champagne,’ I pointed out. Whichever random on the Tube had picked up Jamie’s gift to me was probably enjoying it right now. I hoped they had a reason to celebrate because I certainly didn’t.
‘As he’d no doubt say’ – Sam imitated Jamie’s accent, complete with the slurring – ‘“it’s the thought that counts”. Anyway, I expect he’ll find a way to explain himself to you. I’m off to bed.’
He turned and left the room. Quickly, I cleared up the remains of our dinner, then picked up the coffee Sam had made.
I had no idea what I was going to say to Jamie or how he would explain his bizarre appearance at our home.
No doubt this was part of whatever plan he’d concocted, only executed drunkenly and ineptly.
In any case, it had not only interrupted the talk I’d been planning to have with Sam but made him properly furious.
But when I carried the mug through to the living room, Jamie had passed out cold on the sofa, the towel (mercifully) covering his naked torso like a damp blanket.