CHAPTER SEVEN
Ten days until Christmas
Tonight, Jake is taking me to two historic Covent Garden pubs. First, the Lamb and Flag, and after, The Cross Keys. Two stops hardly count as a pub crawl, but that’s what we’re calling it for our fourth Advent date.
I still haven’t gotten over my ruined cashmere sweater, but one thing my wardrobe is prepared for is a night of lots of sitting and lots of eating.
I wear high-waisted wide-leg jeans with plenty of give, and a slouchy indigo sweater.
I pull my hair into a side braid, add a bit of mascara to the tips of my lashes and a swipe of matte berry lipstick, and I’m ready.
The Lamb and Flag is just a few minutes’ walk from the piazza, nestled at the back of a narrow side street. There’s a short line at the door, but Jake takes my hand and politely maneuvers us through since we have a reservation.
It’s a gentle touch, fingers against fingers, palms barely touching.
The skin-to-skin contact itself isn’t what sets my pulse to racing, though—it’s how casually and confidently he took my hand in his.
Like it’s a natural thing we’ve always done and will always do.
I feel flushed, heavy-limbed, loose-jointed.
Inside, the atmosphere is dim and decidedly Victorian.
We’re seated in a small windowless alcove behind the bar, at one of two wooden booths adjacent to a small fireplace.
We order drinks—cider for Jake, white wine for me—and fresh sourdough with Guinness butter as a starter.
The first nibble actually makes me moan out loud.
Jake pauses with his cider halfway to his mouth, a brow boosted high.
Then he closes his eyes and drains a third of the glass in one go.
It makes me feel sexy and powerful, and it sets a simmer deep in my belly.
We order our meals—a steak and ale pie for me, roasted sea bass for Jake. I assume this is the night we’ll finally dive beneath the surface in our conversation, but he opens with a relatively safe but unsatisfying topic—my job.
“I’m an investigative journalist,” I say. “My undergrad was environmental science, and I went on to get a graduate degree in environmental journalism once I realized the only thing I loved more than being out in nature was writing about it and sharing it with others.”
Our meals arrive, and we eat while we talk.
I tell Jake about The Juniper, and how my boss told me that the sarcasm bleeding into my work undermined my credibility.
How it was beneath me. Oscar Wilde allegedly said sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, which—fair.
But once you’ve poured your heart and soul and intellect into a losing battle for so long, you inevitably start running on the fumes of cynicism instead of the fiery fuel of ambition and hope, you know?
So, to the late Mr. Wilde and my erstwhile boss, I say: Hand me a shovel, boys, because I’m probably going to go lower.
Jake runs his thumb along the condensation on the outside of his glass. “I guess the fact that you’re on a month-long break from work means it’s not going well?”
“Well, I was fired, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Really. I’ve written more in the past few months than I did for the last year at The Juniper, and I’ve sold some of it freelance. The money is terrible, but being able to write what I want, how I want? Priceless.”
“I envy you, actually. A chance to start over is a gift, even when it doesn’t seem like it at first.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” I say.
“Just feeling a bit stuck at the moment. Can’t quite see my way out yet.”
“Well, then. I highly recommend getting fired. The technique is pretty straightforward. Lean heavily into your own moral convictions, harness your anger about how broken the system is, then blatantly disregard the advice and disciplinary warnings given to you by your superiors.” I take a sip of wine and make a little pop noise with my mouth after I swallow. “Done.”
“I like your style,” Jake says.
“Will you tell me more about what you do?”
He drags his bottom lip through his teeth, and we watch each other for a long beat.
“I’m a lawyer.” He says it like an apology. Wryly, he adds, “But I’m in recovery.”
“I thought you worked for a nonprofit?” I say.
Jake sits back. He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “I never said I worked for a nonprofit. I said I do nonprofit work.”
“Ah. Spoken like a true lawyer.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Fair.” And then he just … shuts down.
“Where did you just go?” The Jake across the table from me right now isn’t the Jake I’ve gotten to know over the last few days.
This Jake is tightly wound and withholding.
I see it in the set of his jaw, the tiniest narrowing of his eyes, the way he folds and unfolds his napkin on his lap.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to get to know you, Jake. ”
“Am I talking to Evie right now, or a journalist?”
I study him for a moment, nibbling the inside of my cheek. “Kind of an odd question.”
“Sorry.” Jake’s quiet chuckle is more air than sound.
He passes a hand over his hair, then he clutches the back of his neck.
“Ah … I do mostly community work, policy advocacy. Pollution disputes, historical preservation, that sort of thing. Some environmental work, too. I care about a lot of the same things you do. Most of the same things, actually. Maybe we were meant to meet.”
When the server comes by, I ask for a takeaway box for what’s left of my steak and ale pie.
“What are you doing?” Jake chuckles.
I look down at the bit of pie left on my plate. There are barely three bites left, but I’m not leaving here without it. “I don’t want to live in a world where I don’t have this to look forward to. I’m going to make this last until I leave London.”
“Just enjoy it now, Evie. You can get another one.”
“Can I, though? Maybe for the next few weeks. Then I have to go back to New York, a place tragically devoid of steak and ale pies.”
* * *
The Cross Keys is simultaneously the most British and the most Christmassy place I’ve seen since arriving in London.
Its facade is eclectic and ornate, with low arches at the entryway and a crest of two cherubs holding keys overhead.
Inside, it’s small, with glossy wooden walls packed tight with paintings and memorabilia.
The copper pots and vintage brass instruments that hang from the ceiling reflect the light from festive bulbs, amplifying the sparkle in every direction.
We get two pints of Guinness at the bar. Jake steps away a moment before I do, and once his back is turned, the bartender says, “Ever had a proper Guinness before, love?”
I glance around to make sure he’s talking to me. “I’ve had Guinness in the US.”
“I reckon that will spoil you, then.” He glances at my chest. “You won’t want to go back.”
I have to laugh. “I’ll take my chances.”
From across the room, Jake watches me with a vague smile as I approach. “Making friends?”
The place is packed. Red leather seating runs the length of the room.
We manage to snag a spot in the corner, where the cushioned banquette makes an L shape around a tiny table.
I slide in first, and Jake’s legs are so long, his knees nestle against mine.
It’s the same as when he took my hand earlier this evening.
Automatic. And neither of us moves away.
“So … who do you have waiting for you back in New York?” Jake says.
I raise a brow and say, “Bold of you to assume I have anyone else.” I try to deliver it like a self-deprecating joke, but Jake watches me with those hooded hazel eyes. And I’m seen.
“Had someone else, then?” he says.
I swallow hard. It’s a valid question, but looking back on my relationship with Calvin means I have to revisit the person I was when I was with him.
“His name was Calvin. He was a first officer on an airline. Driven, smart, a little intense. I thought he was everything. For a long time, it was good. Or at least, I thought it was.”
Jake scans my face like he’s trying to figure out where my fractures are, and how they might fit back together. Finally, he says, “Was it actually good? Or just good enough?”
“It was easy, I think? I was happy with him for two years. Secure happy. Like, the thank god I never have to brave the dating pool again sort of happy.”
It sounds so pathetic, saying these things out loud. I think most people focus on the anger or sadness that comes from being cheated on, but for me, the shame of it is what cuts the deepest.
“Obviously, pilots spend a lot of time away from home, and it was fine. I like my space. But after we’d been dating for a year or so, weird things started popping up.
Keycards in his luggage from hotels I didn’t recognize the names of.
A copy of a rental car contract with a woman’s name on it as an authorized driver. ”
As I talk, Jake makes low sounds of agreement or understanding. Or maybe it’s just his way of saying: I’m still with you. I’ve been looking down at my drink, but I can tell he’s watching me. I could feel his eyes on me in a pitch-black room. His presence has a weight to it.
I wave both my hands in front of me dismissively and blow out a quick breath. “Long story short—he cheated on me with women in all the cities he had regular overnights in.”
“Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it.” Gently, he asks, “How did it end?”