“Well?” she presses.
He fears she suspects something. Mind you, she always suspects something. She pulls herself up on her haunches, her flimsy skirt revealing two long, tanned legs.
“Let’s just say we met in a haze of time,” he explains.
“You like her?”
“We have a connection. And it’s a connection I’ve never had with anyone else.”
“Oh please, spare me, Guy. Connection? You’re the Connection Casanova.”
Guy laughs, then shakes his head.
“I’m telling you, Stella… This is different. This isn’t about flirting or getting likes. This is real. It’s real and it’s messy and…suddenly I don’t know what to do with myself. Because I like her. I really like her.”
Stella just laughs.
“Oh, Guy, you’re too cute.”
Then she eyes him from the rims of her Prada sunglasses.
“But I have to ask, is she—?”
He knows what she’s going to say.
“One of us?”
“No,” he says. “She’s a normal, cool girl. She doesn’t care about postcodes and fine wines and the who’s who of Chelsea. Doesn’t need to. She’s amazing as she is. And I want to talk with her all the time and make her laugh and be in her space and, honestly, she’s like a lovely drug.”
“Sounds suspiciously like infatuation to me. Not healthy, Guy. Lust/love. They’re not the same thing, you know. Something tells me you’ll obsess about her until the shine wears off, then you’ll dump her and move on to the next. And then she’ll assume you’ve dumped her after sex, which will really piss her off and probably fuck up the rest of her dating career. So just don’t. Go. There.”
Guy cogitates on this rather grim appraisal of his prospects, then climbs to his feet.
“No!” he says, suddenly animated, surprised by his own ferocity. “No. I like her. I really, truly like her. In fact, sorry, Stella, but I think I’m in love with her.”
Stella glares at him, openmouthed.
She’ll never tolerate him being in love with someone else. He can see in her eyes that she fears losing him, her most loyal, doting best friend forever, who tells her the truth, does as he’s told, and always gives her first dibs on any good jewelry he comes across. He knows, deep down, that theirs is not a balanced friendship, but where would he be without her?
“She has something to do with my necklace, doesn’t she?” Stella demands, eyes narrowed. “I want that necklace back, Guy. You said it was with the repairman, but it must be fixed by now.”
Guy sighs.
“I paid for it,” she asserts, her pout turning sour. “So it’s mine. Get it for me.”
“All right, all right,” he says, stressed.
He hates this, the way he feels like her puppet. His role has been to keep Stella amused for the forty-five weeks of the year that she hasn’t been with Yannis (now, seemingly, to become fifty-two). In return, he gets a rent-free home in a Portobello mews house, free trips to LA, and above all, an open door to London’s rich list. He’s built his business on reputation. And they like him. They value him. They believe him. But…at what cost?
He paces, under pressure, the tendrils of his past threatening to creep to the surface, reminding him of the life he’s escaped from. All those sad kids in that care home in Kent where he grew up. What did they ever amount to? Selling crack to underage schoolkids going nowhere? Scrabbling for pennies to pay the electricity meter in sorry-sorry bedsit-ville?
No. He’s risen up. He’s used his guile and his charisma to make a better life for himself. He’s gotten away from all that. He’s become a success, despite no one caring whether he would or not.
So just keep rolling the dice, keep in the game.
“I’ll call my man,” he says. “You’ll have it back by the end of the day.”
Stella plants a sleek, glossy kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, baby,” she coos. “Now, I’m thinking, what about Cannes this autumn? Should we go to Cannes?”
He grins. Yeah. Why not?
***
Wary of the reason behind Guy’s request to meet, Jess hobbles toward his suggested venue: Hatton Garden, London’s diamond center, the destination for affluent engaged couples looking for something twinkly to seal the deal. But despite the delight of these environs, her hackles are up. She can only assume he chose the venue to fit in with his “van der Meer” diamond-family charade. Whether she’ll get the truth from him, she has no idea, which only serves as testament to how little she knows him. She steels herself, grimaces, resolves to be more annoyed than ever before.
There he is, leaning against a lamppost beside a glittering window display, in a moss-green shirt and gray jeans, oozing louche confidence.
“Ta-da! Another jewelry-themed destination,” he says as she approaches.
His attention immediately falls to the butterfly necklace, the plique-à-jour wings poking out from the collar of her blouse. The sense of his gaze both thrills and enrages her. He then goes for a hug, but she pulls away. Clearly he presumed there would be the usual verve between them. Not today though. The rules of the game have changed.
“So I suppose you picked this location because it’s familiar territory?” she snarls.
He shrugs.
“Diamonds?” she nudges. “The van der Meer family legacy and all that?”
“Oh, yes, sure”—he catches her eye, maintains the conceit—“although my family specialized in raw diamonds. A lot of the ice around here is synthetic. Not so good.”
So he really does live this lie. Not only is he maintaining it, but he’s embellishing it. Raw diamonds? Really, Mr. Davis? She glares back at him, scrutinizing the sparkle in his eyes.
“Everything okay?” he queries.
“All good,” she snaps. “So…what was so urgent we needed to meet?”
“Well. I thought we could window-shop the diamond porn, then get a coffee or maybe lunch, and then—”
“Can’t,” says Jess. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Oh.”
His disappointment is palpable. That face, eyelids half-lowered, an unexpected hint of But I like you vulnerability, it feels—or at least it seems—genuine. She hadn’t expected disappointment. All those early rebuffs she’d given him had been met with cocky, self-assured smugness. This one is different. This one bothers him, which can only mean that beneath the veneer, perhaps he actually does feel something true. She blinks, holds her breath, emotions surging.
Stay firm, Jess, she tells herself. Don’t fall for it.
A smiley couple in matching gray business suits come to the shop window to ogle at the engagement bling. Their loved-up presence only amplifies the awkwardness between Jess and Guy.
“Please,” she says, determined to sever the occasion before her judgment clouds completely, before she says or does something she’ll regret, “if there’s nothing else you want from me, I have to get on.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re being funny with me, Jess?”
Jess shrugs, the weight of the butterfly necklace pressing against the base of her throat. Guy stares at her.
“Is it Tim?” he asks.
Jess sighs, lowers her head.
“I have a question for you,” he says, fighting for closeness. “You say you’re committed, but what if it’s the wrong relationship? What if the person you’re really meant to be with is standing in front of you right now? It could be, couldn’t it? I mean, this fizz between us—”
Jess looks to the sky, the nitpicking opinions of Aggie, Ed, and Steph tearing circles through her mind.
“Fizz is not enough,” she says. “That’s it. I have to go.”
“Oh, Jess, come on—”
He eyes the necklace, then smiles at her. He is thinking about kissing her, she can tell. The wanting, the
resisting…it’s a crazy, crazy torture.
“You’re just a diversion,” she says.
“Brilliant. Great. What’s not to love about diversions? Although I could be the main journey, if you like. Really, try me. Watch me become an excellent main journey—”
“No!” Jess asserts. “How many ways do I have to say it? We’re not a thing. We can’t be.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” he says, pride wounded, recoiling like a scolded animal, “I might as well put it out there… I need the necklace back. Stella wants it. You’ve had your favor, so now, please”—he holds out his hand—“let me return it to its legal owner.”
Jess glowers. She hasn’t yet told him of Nancy’s death. Fair enough, but still, it’s as if it’s not just the necklace he’s asking for, but the very memory of Nancy, so raw and unprocessed.
“I’ll give you the money for it,” she implores, barely able to look at him. “I’ll go straight to a cash machine now.”
“It’s not about the money, Jess. Stella wants her necklace. She’s nagging. My neck’s on the line. I helped you out—I was happy to, more than happy—but you should have known it wasn’t a permanent fix.”
“But you said…you said she wouldn’t miss it—”
“Well, she has and that’s that. My loyalty’s to Stella. I mean, she’s someone I’m actually enough for.”
“Nancy’s gone,” Jess admits. “She died on Sunday morning. The funeral’s next week.”
Immediately Guy softens, comes toward her.
“Oh, Jess, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I—”
He pulls her into a hug, whether she wants him to or not. She can’t deny that there is comfort in his arms, that her heart races, that his smell makes her tingle, that his hair against her cheek is sensuous. But then—perhaps she’s being paranoid, just imagining it—then she becomes aware of his fingers at the back of her neck. And it feels as though they’re working their way toward the necklace clasp. Her blood cools. She backs away.
“You were about to undo it!” she accuses.
“No. I was just comforting you. Oh, for god’s sake. I can’t win, no matter what I do. But you know what? Out of all of this, Jess, technically, legally, the necklace is Stella’s. She paid for it.”
“This isn’t about legality,” Jess rages. “It’s not even about you or me. This necklace”—she hastens it from her neck, nearly ripping the chain in her fury—“is about my life! And now you’re demanding it back like you really don’t get it! Just take it,” she hisses, pushing against him in anger. “Take it and fuck off back to Ramsgate!”
Guy flinches.
“Yes, that’s right,” she says. “I’ve seen through the ‘diamond family’ bullshit.” She glances down at the leopard-head ring. “You’re nothing but a lying fake, Guy Davis.”
He stares at her, mouth open. But before he can argue or say anything constructive, she is away, wielding her cane as though it’s more a weapon than an aid.
Chapter Eighteen
The bread is dry around the edges. In her scrutiny of the buffet, Aggie is underwhelmed. They should have known to cut the loaves last. No one likes a stale egg sandwich. She looks to Ed, who is busying himself with the bar staff, hopefully setting a limit on the tab; then to Marcus who is buried in a copy of Gaming World; and to Steph, who has her cheeks sucked in as she takes selfies. Mourning chic. Dear god.
It was a somber service, and now this wake, in the oldest of Shoreditch’s pubs, promises to be quietly excruciating. Aggie is at least pleased with the bouquets of white lilies on the tables (not that Nancy would ever have complimented her for her efforts), which make up for the curly bread crusts. The guests are few. Jess will cite Nancy’s old age and singular lifestyle as the cause of such a small crowd. No doubt she’ll claim Nancy would have wanted it like this, far too forgiving to acknowledge that a certain disagreeableness of character drove everyone away.
Aggie looks cautiously over at her sister. Jess is no longer wearing that necklace, but it’s hard to tell whether this is a good or bad thing. She hasn’t spoken much this week. Today she looks wan, like a sad doll. Lost a bit of weight, perhaps? It shows in the hollowness of her eyes and the way she leans on her cane. Really, it’s as if she’s in a permanent state of semicollapse.
Hooray for Tim, who patiently fusses over her, brings her tea, finds her chairs, and rubs her shoulders. And thank goodness that the discussion regarding that “other” male distraction seems to have sunk in. Once the grief is out of the way, hopefully things will fall into place: Jess and Tim, the happy pair in their new home. The Hoppit House will get its spare room back. Steph will stop playing aunt-versus-mother. And Aggie herself will be reassured that the responsibility of her little sister is in good hands. Who knows, maybe this time next year, she’ll be helping choose a wedding dress. She has the details of a great little bridal shop, specializing in vintage, right up Jess’s street. A year after that, maybe she’ll be selecting baby clothes. She’ll have to impress the matter on Jess. That window of fertility doesn’t stay open forever…
The family pile their plates with chicken wings and vol-au-vents, then gather at one of the beer-sticky wooden tables. The chat flits between school matters, favorite television, and cycling races. And then, just as Aggie is finishing her first glass of warm, white pub wine, a specter appears in the doorway: their dad, Richard Barrow. They have spoken little in the last two years and seen each other even less. Richard has gained weight and failed to buy new clothes to accommodate it. He has also, Aggie notices, lost a few more hairs. Overall, it is not a cheering sight.
Has Jess noticed? She glances at her sister, who is busy trading ketchup for butter. She knows Jess has found their father’s disinterest difficult. Perhaps, thinks Aggie, this explains her poor choice in men. But here he is, Richard Barrow, come to pay his shabby respects. She’ll have to get Steph to put her phone down and offer him a sausage roll. They must be polite. At least be polite. A funeral is definitely not the time to dredge up old hurts.
“Hello, girls,” says Richard, with a sort of shuffling warmth.
“Hello, Dad,” says Aggie, smoothing the way.
“This looks cozy…nice spread… Am I too late?”
“You missed the service, but you’re in time for what’s left of the buffet—”
Looks are passed around the table, no one quite sure what to say. It’s Jess who relaxes the weirdness as she breaks into a startled smile, then shuffles along the bench, making space for her dad to sit. Aggie can see it in her eyes, that distinct blend of fondness and aversion, the one that makes her want to hug and punch him in one go—she knows it too well.
“Richard,” says Ed. “Good that you’ve turned up. Something to drink? We’re running a tab.”
“Er…a lager would be nice, thanks.”
Ed rises, clearly grateful for an excuse to exit the scene. Typical, thinks Aggie. No doubt he’ll be hoping it will all be done and dusted in time for the rugby.
“Eileen and the twins send their condolences,” says Richard. “They couldn’t make it, what with school and everything—”
“Sure,” says Aggie crisply.
“I’ve got to ask, did she…did she go quietly?”
“She did as it goes,” says Jess. “I was there.”
“Oh, Jessy,” says Richard, eyeing her with some vague attempt at fatherly concern. “I hope you aren’t—”
“What?”
“Too sad. After all, you were always her favorite.”
Classic, thinks Aggie, lay it out square and blunt, rub it in. Jess: the favorite. They sit in silence, while Marcus wriggles and makes the table rattle.
“We weren’t expecting you to come,” says Jess eventually.
“Well, for all our differences,” says Richard, “somewhere inside I had a soft spot for the old girl. She picked up the pieces when your
mother passed. Did her bit.”
He folds and unfolds his arms as though not quite sure where to place himself. His eyes dart from daughter to daughter. Aggie struggles to give him anything other than a hard-glazed glare, so he lingers on Jess.
“How are you doing, girl?”
“I’m okay, thank you. I’m lined up to see a specialist. It’s not been a great week, but overall the hip’s much better.”
“And your jewelry? Last time you said you were setting up some kind of online jewel business. Is that—?”
He gestures to the butterfly charm pendant, which Jess has layered over a plain black shift dress. Aggie is so glad she’s finally taken to it, such a sweet gesture from Tim. Okay, it’s a little naff and indistinct, not Jess’s usual style, but it’s the thought that counts. And to be fair, it’s surely a standard that husbands buy their wives a ropy bit of jewelry every now and again. Ed certainly has. The solution is simple: take it back to the shop, get vouchers instead.
***
Tim holds Jess’s knee, urged to protect her. Be polite, it’s a funeral after all, but he knows the last time Jess spoke with her father, it wasn’t pretty. There was some argument about how he’d stopped visiting her when she was broken in the hospital. His own daughter! What a selfish human. Suddenly, Tim feels glad for all the normality and stability his own upbringing has furnished him with. His dad, always there for him at birthdays, holidays, graduation, every cricket match, every cycling race. He’ll pay it forward. He’ll do that for Jess. He’ll be there for her and their children. Always.
She’s got his necklace on. It’s a good sign. She’ll never admit it, but it suits her. A more sedate look—perhaps it will help the world take her a bit more seriously. Whatever. He’s just glad she’s wearing it and that she’s back on board. For a moment it seemed like he was losing her; like sand, the more he grasped, the more she slipped through his fingers. Perhaps it was the stress of losing her grandmother? He must be patient. And he must get her to apply for that teaching post. A proper focus might help curb her restlessness.
The Lost and Found Necklace Page 22
