As the next week goes by and Jeremy still hasn’t opened up, ‘this little thing’ suddenly doesn’t seem so tiny. In fact, it’s taken on epic proportions as my mind tumbles through an endless maze of scenarios why he’s keeping quiet. I tell myself it’s no big deal and that everything is behind us now – repeating ‘the past is the past’ so often I’m practically murmuring it in my sleep.
What’s a Good Girlfriend to do? I’ve tried to paste on a you-can-talk-to-me expression, turning up the TV whenever a Top Class update appears (Julia’s board of directors has now called for her resignation). Maybe I should borrow Helen’s cattle prod? I shake my head, recalling the latest in her stream of visits to Jonas’s office, where she demanded every employee take a lie detector test to find the leak.
If things were normal at home, Jeremy and I might have a better chance of a heart-to-heart. Right now, though, it’s anything but. Jeremy’s been given the all-clear by his doctor, but he hasn’t been back to Pick Up Sticks since the donation fell through. Instead, he stays in bed most of the morning, getting up around lunch to sit in front of the television for hours. When I come home from work, the blinds are drawn and the only light is the flickering TV. The house has taken on a gloomy, almost nightmarish quality. Try as I might with my chipper voice and glumpy pasta, I can’t banish it. I know Jeremy cares deeply about the charity, but recent events combined with poor health seem to have drained him of every last bit of energy.
Things aren’t exactly normal at the newsroom, either. The place is like a pressure cooker, and even though we haven’t (yet) been subjected to Helen’s lie detector, we’re under constant scrutiny. It’s given Gregor permission to become the dictator he always dreamed of. The man’s even cut our allotted bathroom break to sixty seconds!
After a busy day fact-checking the food supply of urban foxes (I swear, those things eat better than me), the clock hits five, and Lizzie packs up to perform her disappearing act. Thank God for her – she’s the only thing that’s made the past week bearable. Far from dividing and conquering, Gregor’s Machiavelli attitude is uniting us. We’ve even started seeing how long we can stay in the loo before he raps on the door, yelling there’s ‘important work to be done’.
“What are you up to this weekend?” Lizzie clicks off her monitor with a flourish.
“Um, nothing, I guess. Just hanging out with my boyfriend.” I sigh, wondering once again how I can encourage him to talk.
“Well, if you aren’t busy, why don’t you guys come to East Street Market? You can check out my extra-curricular activities.” She throws me a cheeky grin.
“East Street Market?” I’ve never heard of it. And . . . extra-curricular activities? I try to keep the curious expression off my face. Will this explain why she tears out of here at five every day?
“It’s just off Walworth Road, not far from here,” Lizzie explains. “I have a stall there, selling my own fashion designs. Mum manages it on weekdays, and I help her pack up and move all the stock home when it closes. I take over at the weekends so Mum can have a few days off.”
“Wow!” I eye Lizzie’s peg-leg trousers and embellished top, images of her standing proudly in a stall of her own creations flowing through my head. Actually, it suits her perfectly – much better than the silence of the newsroom. God, she must not have a second to rest if she’s at the market the instant this job is finished, and all weekend, too. Good thing she’s so energetic!
“Yeah, it’s brilliant. You’ll love the atmosphere. It’s a real London market, you know? I wish I could work the stall on weekdays, but fact-checking’s helping me save for my own premises. One more year, and I should have enough to open a shop. Then I’m outta here!”
I nod, impressed at her drive. “We’d love to come down and see you.” Jeremy’s a big fan of the markets, and although I’ll need to wrestle away the TV remote, leaving the house will do him good. Mom’s always saying a breath of fresh air performs wonders for the soul.
As I watch Lizzie make a dash for freedom, a thread of hope weaves into me. Perhaps a breath of fresh air will do wonders for the soul! With the heaviness that’s settled around us the past few days, conversation conditions haven’t been ideal. If I want this relationship to be open, I need to create an environment where Jeremy feels comfortable baring his heart.
Tomorrow will be the perfect opportunity: a wander around a London market, maybe a stroll down the nearby South Bank (you really can’t get more romantic than Waterloo Bridge), and then I’ll cook up an awesome candlelit dinner. And finally . . . a little dessert, à la Serenity (and no, I don’t mean Jaffas!).
My mind flashes back to the last candlelit dinner I made Jeremy, the night before my first day at the magazine. It seems so long ago, as if it was another century. Shame I can’t hit the rewind button and start again, knowing what I do now. I’d thought we had the Michelin Man version of a relationship, but I’m beginning to see I mistook silence for strength.
Well, after a London day to die for, a romantic dinner sans pasta balls, and a little ‘horizontal tango’, as Kirsty calls it, Jeremy’s lips will loosen, I’m sure.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The weather must have heard of my plan, because it’s definitely creating the perfect conditions today. Early Saturday afternoon sun streams from the sky, birds are chirping, and even the normally grimy air feels fresh.
“I’ve not been in this part of London for ages,” Jeremy says, manoeuvring the car into a tight space. I’m amazed people can actually find places to park – the warren of narrow streets seems better suited to moles than motorised vehicles.
“Finally, a bit of the city we can discover together!” The rays of sun dappling the asphalt transform even this grey south London neighbourhood into something magical.
“Thanks for dragging me out.” Jeremy turns off the ignition, putting a hand on my leg. I smile, noting he looks more energetic today, thank God. I knew this would work!
“So how are things at the magazine, anyway?” Jeremy asks as we stroll through the streets to the market. “Seems like ages since we’ve talked.”
That’s because it is, I mumble under my breath. But just wait – by the end of the day, he’ll be blabbing with the best of them.
“Oh, it’s fine. Settling in, learning the ropes, you know.” There’s not much more to add. Fact-checking isn’t exactly the exciting job I pumped it up to be, but I’m okay with that now. As tedious as it is, the knowledge I’m gaining in all departments will be invaluable when I am ready to be a reporter.
“Gregor still giving you problems?”
I raise an eyebrow, impressed Jeremy remembers the name. I love that about him – he really listens, unlike my last boyfriend who could barely remember what state I’m from. “Oh, no. He’s a bit of a nuisance, but I can deal with him.”
Silence falls as we walk the rest of the short distance, and my mind spins with things to say. It’s still early, though, and I don’t want our conversation to peak too soon. Just relax, I tell myself, pushing away the tension building inside.
The welcoming shouts of market traders and the buzzing crowd envelop us as we turn onto East Street.
“Wow.” Jeremy grins, taking in the hustle and bustle. The stretch is lined with stalls flogging everything from resplendent African-inspired turbans, to fruit and vegetables, to jewellery. “Now this is what I call a London market.”
I squeeze his hand, happy the street’s infectious energy is rubbing off on him. As we saunter between the stalls, eyes popping at the cacophony of colour, I can see what he means. Camden, Portobello, Borough . . . they’re all massive markets, packed with sightseers. But here – I scan the street – there’s not even one tourist. The place is buzzing with locals doing their weekly shop, haggling with the stallholders as they peruse the wares. I stand still for a minute and breathe in the life around me, watching as Jeremy chats with a man selling wooden trinkets.
“Oh, there she is!” I take Jeremy’s arm, pointing to Lizzie’s stal
l a few feet down the road. ‘Lulu Lizzie’, a sign says in funky black script on a white background with candy-pink horizontal lines. Her creations are professionally arranged on rails, and even from here, two or three pieces jump out at me: a bright red blazer with burnished military-style buttons marching down the front; a jaunty navy trilby with a delicate decoration of dyed peacock feathers; and an otherwise plain cardigan with elaborate jewelled trimming. I shake my head in admiration. The girl has talent! Amidst the other run-of-the-mill goods on the street, Lizzie’s stand out as something special.
“Hey, there!” I say when the two of us reach her side. “This stuff is amazing.”
Lizzie grins proudly. “It is, isn’t it?” She glances over at Jeremy. “Hi, I’m Lizzie. You must be Serenity’s boyfriend.”
“Oh, sorry!” I was so caught up in her designs I forgot Jeremy was beside me. “Lizzie, this is Jeremy; Jeremy, Lizzie.”
They bob in that awkward kiss-on-the-cheek thing Brits do for some reason – seriously, why not shake hands? – then smile.
“You’ve got a great stall,” Jeremy says, stepping back to take it all in. “And this is a brilliant market.”
“I think so, too,” Lizzie responds. “It’s such a friendly place – a real sense of community, you know?”
I nod, surveying the street again. Almost everyone’s sporting a grin, and the trader beside us whistles cheerily as he arranges boxes of cheap plimsolls.
“Cuppa?” he asks, and Lizzie nods. The trader pours tea into three plastic glasses, and without asking, heaps a spoonful of sugar into each. Yikes, there goes my calorie intake for the day.
We sip the hot liquid in the sun, watching punters admire Lizzie’s creations, and her easy interaction with the passing crowd. It’s obvious by her animated face and lively tone this is where she belongs. Now that I’ve seen her here, I can’t help being even more impressed by her hard slog in the sterile, silent newsroom – worlds away from this environment – to raise money for her dream.
“So how did you get into all this?” Jeremy asks when there’s a break in the crowd.
“Well, I’ve always like sewing,” Lizzie says, “and Mum worked for most of her life as a market trader. I used to pester her to let me sell my stuff at her stall, but half-sewn baby T-shirts don’t exactly gel with veggies.” She laughs, reaching up to adjust a ruffle on a sequinned jacket. “Anyway, I was determined to start up my own business once I finished college. Just as I was about to graduate, Mum had a stroke. No surprise, I guess, since she smoked like a chimney. Anyway, the stroke was minor, but it took her a while to recover.”
Jeremy nods. “I know all about it. I’m recovering from a stroke, too. It’s been over a year and I still find my energy levels are nowhere what they used to be.”
Lizzie’s eyebrows fly up. “Really? Serenity mentioned you’d been in the hospital recently, but you look great.”
He does, too, I think, staring into my boyfriend’s eyes. For the first time in ages, he doesn’t seem like he’s about to collapse. Score one for fresh air!
“It’s the same for Mum,” Lizzie continues. “She recovered well, thank God, but she couldn’t handle being on her feet all day at the stall. She managed to pay someone peanuts to help out. Without her working full-time, though, sales took a dive. So I put off starting my business, and looked for a job.”
“How did you end up at Seven Days?” I ask.
“Kind of a lucky break.” Lizzie pulls a face. “I think. I took media courses in college and had just finished a work placement at Seven Days, right around the time of the lawsuit fiasco. A fact-checker left, and they needed someone to step in – someone they wouldn’t need to pay a lot, since the budget was shot. I happened to be their cheap labour of choice.” She shrugs. “Much as it’s not my thing, I can’t complain. The money I earned meant I could buy lots of fabrics, and once Mum was up on her feet and back to her usual self, I asked how she’d feel about converting the vegetable pitch to fashion. Veggie sales were dire anyway and this would be easier for her – she wouldn’t have to deal with suppliers or stock. She agreed to give it a couple months to see how it went, and we’ve never looked back.”
“That’s amazing, Lizzie,” I say, truly inspired by her determination.
Her cheeks colour. “You do what you have to. And you, Jeremy? Are you working again?”
“I run a charity to help stroke victims.” Jeremy’s voice rings with pride, but a dark cloud passes over his face a second later. Uh-oh. I don’t want him to slip into the black mood of the past few days.
“That’s fantastic!” Lizzie says. “People don’t understand how difficult it can be to get over a stroke, even if it’s a small one. We could have used a lot of help when Mum was out of the hospital.”
“Lizzie, we’re going to take a look around the market.” I break in before Jeremy has time to reflect on the charity’s state. “We’ll pop back in a bit.”
Lizzie nods, turning away to grab a mirror so a customer can check her reflection. “Okay, brill. I’ll catch you two later. Nice to meet you, Jeremy.”
He lifts a hand, and we wend our way through the bustling crowd. Despite the calls of market traders and the low hum of the punters, a strange kind of silence swirls around us, like we’re each enclosed in a bubble I don’t know how to break. I glance over, wondering if it’s just me or if Jeremy senses it too, but I can’t tell anything from his expression.
“Want to head to the South Bank?” I ask, once we’ve finished the market stretch. As down-to-earth and lively as this is, it’s time to add some romance to the day. Strolling the walkway by the Thames – with the Millennium Bridge and St Paul’s glistening in the distance – is sure to set the right mood for later. “It’s not far from here, if you’re okay to walk.”
“Sounds good. And maybe we can grab a beverage? I’ll be even better with some wine therapy.” Jeremy kisses the top of my head, and a bit of that odd, uncomfortable feeling falls away.
Thirty minutes later, Waterloo station is behind us and we’re climbing the stairs to the Royal Festival Hall. Even though it’s late afternoon, the sun warms our backs as we cross the terrace, weaving between happy people chatting and drinking.
“Grab a seat and I’ll get us some drinks. Merlot?” Jeremy quirks an eyebrow at me – he knows I adore Merlot, even though he’s always saying it’s a second-rate wine. But as much as I’d love my favourite tipple, it’s time to up the ante.
Forget wine therapy: today calls for hard-core alcohol to loosen the tongue. Jeremy’s driving so I can’t go too crazy, but one glass of something strong won’t hurt. There’s still plenty of time before we need to head home.
“Um, actually, how about I surprise you?” I jump up before he can respond and make my way to the outside bar.
“Can I help you?” the bartender asks, giving the glass in his hand a final polish.
“Two of your strongest drinks, please.” I drum my fingers on the counter.
“Strongest drinks? Like, whisky or something?”
“Sure, sure. Whisky. Great.” Whisky’s supposed to help sore throats, right? Perfect for warming up vocal chords. I watch as the bartender selects a bottle of amber liquid from the shelf behind him.
“On the rocks?” He holds up a scoop of ice.
“No!” I yelp. The less dilution, the better.
“All right, madam,’ the bartender responds, pouring two slugs into glasses. “Fifteen pounds, please.”
Fifteen pounds? My eyes bulge. What, is there liquid gold in them there glasses? Reluctantly, I hand over my bank card, then pinch the two plastic cups between my fingers and head back to Jeremy.
“What’s that?” he asks, eyeing them suspiciously.
“Whisky! For, um, medicinal purposes. Seeing as how you haven’t been feeling well lately.”
“That’s an unexpected choice.” He passes the glass under his nose, breathing in. “It’s been ages since I’ve had whisky. I didn’t even know you liked it, Ser.”
“Oh, yes. I used to drink it all the time. Well” – I raise the cup in the air – “Cheers!”
“Cheers!” Jeremy takes a swig of the liquid, and I follow suit.
Oh. My. God.
Why don’t people tell you this stuff burns? It feels like I’ve swallowed a smouldering match.
When I finish sputtering, I manage to get out the words: “It’s been a while since I’ve had whisky, too.” Jeremy just nods, then takes another mouthful. How can he do that?
We sip in silence, watching buskers on the riverside below as boats ease their way down the Thames. With the sun glinting off the water and the pleasant spring temperature, it couldn’t be a more perfect day. Except . . . I drum my fingers on the table.
“So!” I say brightly, waiting for the alcohol to work its magic.
“So.” Jeremy smiles, then reaches over and squeezes my hand. I like hand squeezes as much as the next girl, but a few random words with that squeeze would be nice.
“You’re feeling better today?” I ask lamely. You gotta start somewhere, right?
“Fine, fine. Much better, thanks.”
Silence falls again and I toy with my plastic glass, turning it this way and that as liquid swirls across the bottom.
“Serenity.” Jeremy’s tone is serious and his face solemn, and my heart leaps. This is it. The second he’s going to tell me everything – and ahead of schedule, too. Praise the Lord for whisky!
My eyes meet his clear green ones. “Yes?”
He points to the cup in my hand. “You’re going to spill your drink!”
“Oh.” I glance downwards, where the liquid is about to tip over the edge. So much for spilling his guts – he’s more concerned I’m spilling my stupid drink. Plenty of time, though, I remind myself. There’s dinner, then dessert . . . my cheeks colour as a rush of desire goes through me. God, it’s been ages since we’ve done anything in the bedroom besides sleep. But tonight’s the night!
I force back the rest of the horrid drink, then make a big show of examining my watch. “We’d better head to the market to say bye to Lizzie before it closes.”
Construct A Couple Page 12
