I arrange my features into a mock-serious expression as I hand her a stack of folded cardigans. “Bring it on.”
“Not like that!” Lizzie laughs. “You look constipated.”
For God’s sake, why do people think I need the toilet whenever I try to seem serious? Lifting my lips in a bright smile, I paste on my best bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed expression. “How about this?”
Lizzie grins over her shoulder as she straightens brocade on a pair of trousers. “Perfect. Now, if you really want to make money for this charity, come over here and help me sell!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“What a weekend. I’m bloody knackered.” Yawning, Lizzie stretches to remove one of the few remaining garments from her stall.
It’s Sunday night, and every little bit of me throbs with fatigue. Our fundraising team worked its ass off the past couple days as Londoners took advantage of the rare sunny weekend, packing the market. From one end of the street to the other, the throng was so thick sometimes, people could hardly move. Even Lizzie’s mom said she’d never seen the place so jammed, and Karen was nearly trampled in the crowd.
I couldn’t have asked for more: Pat was tireless in her efforts, roaming up and down the stretch handing out leaflets and checking in with stallholders. Karen, surprising even herself, was a stellar saleswoman, almost draining Lizzie of her stock, and Lizzie made sure everyone who passed knew it was a special fundraising weekend. The level of support has been amazing, and to top it all off, Pat has offered to help with any future fundraising activities – if the charity has a future, that is.
“Everyone’s saying sales have been great this weekend.” Lizzie sinks onto a stool in the corner of the stall, rubbing a hand over her face. “Wonder how much money we raised. What are you hoping for?”
“Around two thousand would be ideal. With that amount as a baseline, we’d need to run five events a month to reach the charity’s monthly target. It’s a lot, but it’s doable. Anyway” – I nod towards an approaching trader clutching an envelope – “we’ll know soon enough.”
“Hiya, ladies,” the man says in a thick south London accent. “Here you go. Nice tidy sum for you.” I’m dying to ask the total, but I restrain myself. Barely.
“Thank you!” I say, shaking his hand. “I really appreciate it.”
Over the next hour, more and more stallholders come by, bringing us everything from handfuls of cash, to stuffed envelopes, to shoeboxes filled with change. By the time the street has gone quiet in the soft dusk, a treasure trove of scattered coins and crumpled notes surrounds Lizzie and me.
“God!” she laughs. “How on earth are you going to get this home? It’s not exactly safe, you carrying the dosh on your own. I wonder how much it is?”
I shake my head, marvelling at the riches spread out around me. Although it appears I could give Trump a run for his money, I’ve no idea if this will transform into the magical amount needed to convince the trustees of our plan.
“Come on. I’ll help you get everything back to yours,” Lizzie says, standing. “Thanks to Karen, almost all the stock is gone, and I can take what’s left with me now.” Reaching up, she unhooks the final two cardigans and a bunch of wildly patterned scarves from the rail above her, folding them into her oversized handbag.
“Are you sure?” I ask, although I’m doubtful I can move with the weight of the coins. She’s done so much already, and my bedsit, well . . . it’s not exactly visitor-ready. I can’t even remember the last time I cleaned.
“No problem.” Lizzie helps me funnel loose change into the pocket of my bag. “But you’d better have some wine ready!”
“Don’t worry, I’ve definitely got that covered,” I say, thinking of the many bottles on my shelf. Ever since returning to London, my diet’s consisted mainly of wine (hey, it’s grape juice, so it’s nutritious!), coffee, and a steady stream of Jaffas. Forget the five food groups; I’ve never felt more energised . . . although that could be down to caffeine.
After splitting the notes into piles and dividing the heavy change between us, we march towards the tube. With every jingle of every step, I wonder: is this enough – not only to prove the plan is viable, but also to show Jeremy I’m on his side, willing to pitch in and work with him on what’s important?
And when on earth is he going to return?
An hour later, we thump up the steps to my bedsit. Fumbling in my pocket for the key, I swing open the door.
“Come on in!” I grimace at the domestic carnage before us. My backpack lies gaping on the floor, clothes are strewn across the bed, and an empty packet of Jaffas rests on the windowsill (why the windowsill? Why not?).
“Interesting décor,” Lizzie says, surveying the room. “I thought Americans were meant to be rich?”
I can’t help laughing; she clearly hasn’t seen the state of my bank account. “Not this one.”
“Hope they didn’t charge you extra for the stain on the ceiling.” Pushing aside a pair of jeans, Lizzie makes herself comfy on the bed. “Now, how about that drink? Then I’ll help you count everything.”
“You don’t have to,” I protest weakly, even though I’m dying to know the total and with two of us on the job, we’ll find out faster.
“Are you joking? I want to see how much we raised! If it’s not our target, I’m sure Mum would love to terrorise the traders into giving more.” She grins, and my heart skips a beat in hopes we’ve accomplished our goal.
“That’d be great. Okay, wine coming right up.” I wash two mugs (no glasses), sloshing the remainder of last night’s bottle into them. Handing one to Lizzie, I sink down beside her, trying to relax. But the money-laden bags taunt me, and nerves jump in my stomach. I take a gulp of wine to calm down.
When I can’t stand the suspense any longer, I scoot off the bed and sit cross-legged on the floor.
“Let’s see what we have here,” I say, unzipping a bag. “I’ll take the notes if you take the change?” I don’t want to admit it, but all those little pence thingamajigs still boggle my mind. Half the time I don’t even use them; just let them collect in the bottom of my handbag.
Lizzie slides down beside me, mug of wine in one hand. I flick on my phone’s MP3 player, and for the next hour, the only sound is the clinking of coins and the upbeat music of One Direction as we concentrate on counting.
Finally, Lizzie looks up, gesturing to the mountain of change in front of her. “Just over two hundred pounds. Mainly in pound-coins, thank God.”
“Okay,” I say, reserving judgment until everything’s added. But two hundred in change isn’t bad, right? It’s a tenth of the way to two grand, and lots of notes still need to be counted. I hand Lizzie a stack of fivers, trying to stay focused on the pile in front of me.
“Right,” I say when I’ve finished. “I’ve got one thousand, six hundred and fifty-five pounds.” With Lizzie’s change, that makes just over eighteen hundred – almost to our goal. I watch eagerly as she thumbs a fistful of notes.
“Seven hundred and twenty!” she says with a flourish. “So the total?”
“Um . . .” I do the sum quickly in my head (‘quickly’ being a relative term; I have been drinking). “That makes two thousand, five hundred and seventy-five pounds.” I collapse back against the bed, relief flooding through me. We did it – we met our target!
“Holy shit, that’s brilliant.” A wide smile almost splits Lizzie’s face in two. “Mum will be happy the bullying paid off.”
“Please thank her for me. And . . .” – I swallow back rising emotion – “I can’t say thanks enough for everything you’ve done.” Without her flash of inspiration, I’d probably be stuck flogging soggy cupcakes on the street corner.
“Sure. I’ll do anything I can to help in the future, too.” Lizzie drains her mug and gets to her feet. “I don’t know where Jeremy’s been in all this, but I hope he appreciates how hard you’ve been working to help the charity. Because girl, if he doesn’t, he’s really not worth it. Most blo
kes would be happy if you bought them a beer.”
I can’t help giggling at her words, but she doesn’t understand how complex our relationship is. “It’s not that simple,” I say, shaking my head.
“Nothing is. That’s life, innit?” Lizzie gives me a hug, then throws on her jacket and turns to go. She plonks down the stairs, and I hear the shuddering click of the heavy front door as it opens and closes.
Sighing, I wander to the window, looking out at the quiet street below. It’s still light, but an orangey red tints the sky as the sun starts to set. One more night before the trustee meeting – and one more night for Jeremy to return. When Karen left the market earlier today, she promised to ring if she heard from him. And so far? Nothing.
I punch in her number now, just in case she forgot to call. There’s no answer, so I leave a message on her voicemail with the final sum we raised, saying I’ll be by tomorrow morning with a money order. Gnawing my lip, I run through the logistics: the bank opens at nine and the meeting’s at eleven, leaving a couple hours to get to Pick Up Sticks beforehand. But what about work?
I’m not keen to take time off, but this can’t be helped. I could feign a doctor’s appointment . . . however, Jonas insists they’re booked in advance. The only option is to call in sick, something I hate to do since Lizzie will be stuck with my work, too. Given the circumstances, though, I know she’ll understand.
Jeremy, where are you? I ask for the zillionth time, firing off yet another message about tomorrow. Gripping the mobile, I flop onto the bed, staring into the dim overhead light to stay awake in case he does text back. But the events of the day overtake me, and my eyes sag closed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The cheery sounds of One Direction awaken me the next morning. It’s him! I think, jamming the mobile to my ear before even looking at the screen. My ancient bedside clock reads eight a.m. He’s made it in the nick of time.
“Jeremy!” I smile, awaiting his warm tone.
“Sorry to disappoint you, love.” My heart drops faster than a runaway elevator as Mom’s voice comes through the phone. What is she doing, calling on a Monday morning? It’s only three a.m. in Maine! My parents are habitual early risers, getting earlier each year. They like to begin the day with yoga and meditation as the sun rises, to ‘cleanse the soul and start anew.’ God knows I could do with a bit of that right about now. Grimacing, I try to picture myself sitting calmly, lotus-like, in the middle of the bedsit. I can’t even touch my toes.
“Hi, Mom.” I make my voice relaxed before she starts inquiring if my aura needs cleansing.
“Dear, why haven’t you answered your phone? I’ve been calling all weekend. We got back from the retreat on Thursday. It was such a groovy time.”
Guilt floods through me as I recall seeing a few missed calls from my parents. In the heat of the market and the resulting fatigue, I’d forgotten to ring back. Which reminds me – I have to talk to Kirsty, too, and update her on everything.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s been pretty crazy around here.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re all right. Dad was about to head over and organise a search party!”
I can’t help smiling at the thought of my hippie Dad, dressed in his typical uniform of torn, faded jeans and beat-up T-shirt, trying to organise anything, let alone combing the streets of London. The last thing Mom put him in charge of was planting the garden, resulting in a war of vegetables when Dad decided they’d do better with integration. Disaster.
“Anyway,” she continues, “I was calling to wish you a blessed fertility weekend, albeit a late one.”
My mind works quickly, trying to figure out what the hell she means. Blessed fertility weekend? Oh! Easter. Growing up, Easter Egg hunts were always accompanied by long explanations of what that egg represented. Shudder. No chocolate-grabbing child wants to hear about sperm when treats are on offer.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, shielding my eyes from the sun. The streak of good weather seems to be holding, and the trees outside are bursting with green.
“Spring marks a new beginning, Serenity,” Mom says in her hushed, reverential tone.
I stare out the window as she babbles on. A new beginning. Is she right? Could this be a fresh start for me and Jeremy, a life where the two of us work together to build something strong? Now, everything seems so up in the air; so uncertain. For God’s sake, he’s not even here! Yet, anyway.
No matter what happens today, at least I didn’t sit around thinking it’d all be okay. I worked my butt off (metaphorically only, sadly) to prove I can help when the chips are down.
“Serenity?” Mom’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “You still there?”
“Yes, sorry. Still here.”
“Well, a happy new life to you, dear.”
“Happy new life, Mom.”
I hang up, adrenaline pouring through me as Mom’s words reverberate in my head. Maybe this could be a fresh start – for all I know, Jeremy might be unlocking his front door this very second. There’s still three hours before the meeting. First things first: I’ll call in sick, head to the bank, then race to the charity.
Ninety minutes later – and five pounds lighter with money order in hand – I emerge from Mornington Crescent tube. It’s just past nine-thirty, and I practically run the short distance to the office. Maybe Jeremy’s already there!
“I got the money order,” I puff, bursting through the door and glancing around in hopes of spotting him. But the space is empty except for Karen, looking immaculate in a powder-blue suit with a string of pearls. Even her hair has faded into a slightly more natural colour.
“Well done, dear,” she says, taking the document from my sweaty grasp, “and good morning. Everything’s ready for the big day.” She gestures to a small meeting room off to the side, where our neatly printed plan sits on the table in front of each chair. “I’ll review our proposal, then present the board with the money order as the final pièce de résistance.”
“Still nothing from Jeremy?” I ask, even though I know she would have told me.
“No.” Karen sighs. “We’ll do what we can. At the very least, our plan might convince the trustees to hold off on any major decisions until he’s present.”
I nod, but we both know it will be an uphill battle if the charity’s founder is missing in action. “Call me as soon as the meeting is over, okay?”
“Of course. And Serenity, thank you so much for all your help. I hope Jeremy realises what a special person he has.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep back my tears.
“Good luck,” I manage to get out as I head down the corridor and into the street. Standing on the sidewalk, liquid blurs my eyes. Does Jeremy think I’m special? He’s been silent for so long, I don’t even know what to believe any more.
I can’t face returning to my bedsit, so I head towards Camden Market. Although it’s Monday, the streets are jammed with tourists on extended holidays and teens on their Easter break. Passing by the clothing stalls, I wander over the canal lock and through Stables Market, a rabbit warren full of everything from plastic glasses to punk gear. Leaving the chaos behind, I plod past Chalk Farm tube station and up the incline, pausing to rest outside the restaurant where Jeremy and I celebrated the charity’s donation. God, that seems so long ago, as if we were two different people.
Before I know it, I’m at Primrose Hill. The grassy space spreads out before me, and I force my legs faster and faster up the steep rise, as if the harder I work my body, the less pain I’ll feel inside. My lungs burn and my muscles ache, but I won’t slow down. I can’t. The second my limbs stop pumping, the tidal wave of emotions I’m trying to block will engulf me.
Just as I’m nearing collapse, I reach the bench Jeremy and I adopted as our own. I can’t take another step or even sit upright, so I plop down on the freshly green grass, chest heaving as I stare at the vapour trails of airplanes criss-crossing the sky. Unable to push them away, feelings flood into me – a strange mixtur
e of longing, regret, and hope. The city below gave birth to our relationship; cradled the two of us in its arms. Will we ever be able to experience it together again?
I glance at my phone: twelve-thirty. The meeting’s gone on now for ninety minutes, and since Karen’s yet to call, I guess it’s still going. If it’s taking this long . . . I sit up and flip to my inbox, trying to escape the negative thoughts. But my eyes start to water when I see message after message I sent to Jeremy, with nothing in response.
I draw in a lungful of spring-scented air. I’ve done everything I can, but ultimately, I can’t make this work on my own. I’ll send him one more text, and then . . . well, I’ll just have to hope he’ll meet me halfway. Tears streak down my cheeks as I slowly tap out a message.
At our bench on Primrose Hill. Wishing you were here. I love you.
I pause, wondering what else to say. The trustee meeting is in progress? I did my best to save the charity? Really, it boils down to the words on the screen: the life we’ve built in London; the love between us. Clicking ‘send’, I watch the text fly off into cyberspace, praying something comes back.
As the minutes pass, the silence of my mobile gets heavier and heavier, until it’s a weight pushing against my chest and I’m struggling to breathe. Finally, I can’t bear waiting any longer. I’m just about to head back to the office to stalk the board meeting when a shadow looms over me. I sit up quickly, shading my eyes from the bright sun.
My mouth drops open.
There, right in front of me – silhouetted against the tree-dotted skyline of London Town – is Jeremy.
I gasp, looking up into the familiar face. His skin is nut-brown with tan, making his eyes look even greener. His normally short hair is longer than usual, waving around his temples. He looks healthier than I’ve seen him in months, and relief pours into me.
Jeremy’s lips lift in a smile. “You did say you wished I was here . . . “ He waves the mobile in his hand.
Construct A Couple Page 19
