Now Is Our Time

by Jo Kessel

  She wasn’t sure what he’d think. He’d always told her she resembled a red-headed Kate Winslet and, to a degree, this was an astute observation. There was definitely a likeness in their faces and Claire even more definitely shared the same curves and body-shape issues as the English actress. She’d once had a bust to be proud of, a bust that Jonah had adored. After she’d finished breastfeeding Miriam, however, her breasts had shrunk in size and she now thought of them woefully, as two, ugly, withered prunes. She remembered joking with Anthony. “You do realise,” she’d told him, “that I’ll never be able to have an affair or be with another man because I’d be way too embarrassed for anyone else to see me naked.” This was still the truth and she hadn’t made love with another man since Anthony.

  She decided to keep on the dress she had worn for the screen test but swapped her shoes for emerald wedge sandals which matched the velvet choker. Lipstick was touched up with her stick of deep-red Mac which she then popped into her fake leopard print clutch. She’d long had a penchant for leopard print, which hadn’t really been to Jonah’s taste, but he’d always said it looked good ‘on her’. Would he even remember? She took one final glance at her reflection and wished herself a silent ‘Good Luck’ before locking the front door behind her.

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  The Dorchester, on London’s Park Lane, opposite Hyde Park, held a special place in Claire’s heart, although she didn’t think Jonah would have known it. Her grandparents used to take her there for the occasional posh afternoon tea when she was a little girl. Little cakes had been served on multi-tiered display platters. Chocolate éclairs, scones, warm sausage rolls, tiny cucumber sandwiches with their crusts cut off. White-gloved waiters wore long black tail coats; the beverage itself was served in delicate floral china cups, the purest Ceylon blend that existed. It had always felt like such a treat. Royalty couldn’t have been served better!

  As she approached the hotel from the tube station Claire slowed down her pace. She felt as anxious as a pubescent teenager about to go on their first date. Thoughts raced through her mind. What should she say? How should she be? They mustn’t, at all costs, talk about what she’d done. No, she reminded herself. What they’d done. Not today. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes late. Would he already be waiting in the lobby? She hoped so, because she didn’t want to be there first. And then she heard him.

  “Claire.”

  She could have recognised that sexy, lazy drawl blindfold from a line-up of hundreds. It stopped her in her tracks. It was a voice that had a direct passage to her heart. It was a voice that melted away her anxiety. It was a voice that ignited her desire. But she still couldn’t see the man it belonged to.

  “Claire.”

  And then, as if he instinctively knew that something was needed to put a stop to the frenzied activity going on in her brain, he suddenly appeared before her, like an apparition on the pavement, scooping her into his arms, wrapping them around her so tightly it was as if he didn’t want to ever let her go. As they stood there, rocking back and forth, thirteen years of space and time peeled away like the layers of an onion.

  “You feel good,” he whispered into her hair.

  “So do you.”

  “I don’t want to let you go.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Eventually he pulled away and held her at arms length.

  “I need to take a good look at you.”

  It gave Claire the opportunity to drink him in too. Georgia was right. He had aged well. The dimple was still there, only somehow it appeared endearingly magnified as it creased his cheek. The subtle grey streaks in his hair and the more weathered skin on his face gave him an air of sexy maturity. His large grey eyes were still hot and smouldering, and they were dancing too. And as for his body, she didn’t need to see it to know that it hadn’t changed either. She’d felt it when they’d embraced. He still had the taut, beautifully sculpted chest and arms of an athlete and he hadn’t shrunk a millimetre. His six-foot three frame towered over her, despite her being raised on four- inch wedges. As she checked out his jeans, sneakers and tight white T-shirt, she wondered how she’d ever let him go in the first place. What on earth would this Adonis make of her?

  “You haven’t changed,” he smiled, “although maybe you’ve got thinner.”

  “It’s an optical illusion,” Claire grinned back. This time it was a natural smile, not the forced ones she seemed to have been pulling most of the day.

  “It is so good to see you.”

  “You too,” Claire said shyly.

  “Claire Jackson, thank goodness I didn’t let another day pass before seeing you again.”

  It was funny hearing him use her maiden name. Although she was now, strictly speaking, Claire Jackson again because her divorce was finalised, she still answered to her old married name, de Klerk.

  “I’m so pleased you suggested tonight,” she said, “because if we’d waited any longer I fear I might have backed out.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m not sure,” she whispered, “but I’d possibly have tried to convince myself that it was a bad idea.”

  He took one of her hands in each of his and she felt a bolt of electricity shudder up both her arms.

  “How could this ever be a bad idea?”

  Their eyes locked and despite any resolve she might have had, in that split second, she could feel herself falling for him all over again, just like she had when she was nineteen. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “Come on,” he said, putting his arm around her and lightening the mood by playfully pinching the side of her waist, “I’ve booked us a table at Nobu.”

  ----------------------------

  It wasn’t a surprise that Jonah had chosen a Japanese restaurant. Sushi is a sportsman’s staple. Athletes need a high protein diet and you can’t get much more high protein than a platter of sashimi. She’d been to plenty of sushi bars with him in his home town of San Diego, but they’d never eaten at Nobu, Old Park Lane. The sommelier poured them each a flute of champagne. When he’d finished, they clinked their glasses and Claire leaned in conspiratorially.

  “Are you aware that it was in the broom cupboard of this restaurant that Boris Becker got a woman pregnant?” she asked.

  Jonah raised an eyebrow at her, eyes twinkling, ignoring her piece of tittle-tattle.

  “To us,” he said.

  “To us,” she echoed.

  “I don’t care about Boris Becker and broom cupboards. I want to know about you,” he started. “I want to know how life has been treating you.”

  And so, as they ordered and tucked into scallop, salmon and sweet shrimp sashimi, they gave each other a précis of their lives. Jonah had known Claire as an aspiring artist, but Claire told him how she’d decided to retrain as a Nutritionist after they’d broken up, to give her a new focus. And about six months into her course she’d met Anthony at a party thrown by one of her fellow students. A couple of years later he’d proposed to her and, for better or worse, she’d said yes. Then Miriam had come along. Jonah asked to see a photo. Claire bent down to retrieve her leopard skin clutch from between her feet and placed it on the table. “Still loving the leopard skin,” Jonah joked. He remembered. She took her mobile phone out of the bag to give him a quick slideshow of her daughter: Miriam with a daisy chain around her neck; Miriam as a bridesmaid at Georgia’s recent wedding; Miriam making a sandcastle on a beach. “She’s absolutely stunning,” Jonah complemented. And then he took one of her hands in his and added: “but of course she would be. She’s yours.”

  Claire asked him to show her a photo of his daughter, who was called Martha. She, too, was gorgeous and a complete opposite to dark, exotic-looking Miriam. Martha had white-blonde hair which skimmed her waist and Jonah’s broody grey eyes. “She’s a mini you,” Claire whispered, thankful that the sommelier had returned to fill her glass with more champagne. She needed it. It was hard thinking of Jonah hav
ing a child. It felt wrong. They should have had a child together. Things should have been different.

  Stop. This was a dangerous path to tread, even if it was only in her head, so Claire quickly changed the subject. “Right, your turn,” she said. “Now I don’t think you won Wimbledon, but did any of your dreams come true?”

  Jonah’s dreams had been part of the problem. It had always been about him. When they’d met he’d already been ranked number ten in America, but he’d been plagued by knee injuries and an operation had forced him to take time out from competing. He’d taken a job as a tennis coach on the Greek island of Kos to recuperate. What he’d ended up with - a long distance girlfriend – had not been part of the plan. If anything, she’d been a hindrance, and Jonah’s coach had a gift for making her feel unwanted. But Jonah was smitten. “You’re my lucky charm,” he’d told her. “The coach knows nothing. I need you by my side.” It was a testament to how they felt about each other that their relationship had lasted as long as it did. Claire, who was studying Fine Art at St Andrews University just a few years before Prince William and Kate Middleton put the place on the map, had pulled pints overtime in pubs to pay for transatlantic flights so that she could accompany Jonah on the road at every possible opportunity. She’d been a dutiful tennis girlfriend, turning up to support him at some of the remotest and pithiest satellite tournaments. And, of course, once he’d started winning more and earning better money, he’d paid for her to join him. Bit by bit he’d clawed his way up the rankings. He’d been number three in the U.S by the time they’d split up. Not quite Andre Agassi standard but still bloody impressive! His pretty face had made him popular among female tennis fans, which was something else that Claire had found hard to deal with.

  “My dreams,” he paused, reflecting. “Maybe as we get older we recalibrate our dreams.”

  He reminded her that anybody who’s crazy enough to want to compete in the world of tennis does it because they want to be No.1. He was no different. He’d wanted to be a champion. It was all or nothing. But his body had let him down. He’d had three more knee operations since they’d last met and his right elbow had also started packing up. He showed her the new scar on the back of his arm and it took all the strength she could muster to not reach out and run her fingertips over it. There once had been a time when she’d known every faded stitch and wound on his body and they’d jokingly graded each surgeon for their sewing capabilities. Some of the wounds were botch jobs and Miriam could, quite frankly, have done a better running stitch. “Did you see me play Federer in the quarter finals at Melbourne?” he asked her. She shook her head without elaborating. She didn’t want to admit that she’d refused to watch or follow his career at all, because it was just too damn painful. Wimbledon had been the hardest to avoid, and she’d hated doing so because she’d been passionate about watching tennis and there was no other tournament in the world quite like it. Their relationship had, to a degree, ruined Claire’s love of the game.

  He told her that this match against Federer in the Australian Open had caused a huge upset at the time and had been a nail-biting one to both watch and play. As the underdog and seeded more than thirty places behind the Swiss player, Jonah hadn’t been expected to win. “It was some of the best tennis I’ve ever produced,” he said, “and whenever it rains it’s still one of the classic games they broadcast until play is resumed.”

  “But,” he said, as he sipped the remainder of his champagne and paid the bill, “I got into the world’s top ten, which wasn’t too shabby.” He tried saying the word ‘shabby’ in his best British accent and they both giggled at his poor effort. “And things are good now. I’ve been taken on as a Commentator by Sky Sports and apparently I’m not too bad at it. That’s why I’m in the UK. I’m commentating on all the tournaments building up to and including Wimbledon.”

  “That sounds great,” Claire replied.

  It really did, but all Claire could calculate as silence fell between them was that he would only be here for another month and then he’d be gone. It reminded her of how peripatetic their life had been together. She’d hated it, and yet something about sitting opposite him here and now felt so horribly right. He took her hands in his once again and suggested they go for a walk.

  ------------------------

  Back on Park Lane, Jonah clasped her fingers tightly into his to keep her safe as they dodged traffic to cross the busy road. Once they reached the other side, he didn’t let go. If anything, he held on even tighter as they strolled towards Kensington Palace. Claire didn’t resist. She liked being attached to him and welcomed the warmth and naturalness of their connection. With him, she’d always felt like she belonged.

  It was 9 p.m. and the soft light was slowly starting to fade. Her shoulders shivered as the temperature dropped and Claire slipped on the crop black cardigan she’d brought with. There was an empty bench outside the wrought-iron gates which guarded the Palace, the same gates which mourners had flocked to, to decorate with flowers and wreaths and messages of condolence after Princess Diana had died. As they sat down Jonah still didn’t free her hand. They stared straight ahead at the gates for a few seconds and then Jonah broke the silence, turning to her.

  “I tried contacting you after you left you know,” he said quietly. “I never wanted you to go.”

  Tears began welling in Claire’s eyes and one dared to tumble over the edge and dribble towards her nose. Jonah wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. She nodded, but didn’t dare to speak. After she’d left, she’d changed her phone number, her e-mail address and even her home address. She’d not wanted to be found. She’d thought she was doing the right thing for everybody.

  “What was your wife like?” Claire whispered.

  She hadn’t asked in Nobu and she cursed herself for letting that question pop out her mouth now. She didn’t want to know that he’d shacked up with some tall, leggy supermodel. Lord knows, there’d been enough of them around, clamouring to take him off her.

  “She was a mistake,” he said, tracing his finger down from Claire’s wet eye and along her cheek towards the back of her neck. It was a gesture so sensitive and tender that she felt her head tilt towards his hand and her eyes close. She’d never in her wildest dreams imagined being with Jonah, ever again. This was almost too much, too soon, too hard to take in. Her life had felt dull for years and, to an extent, she’d been responsible for letting that happen. She hadn’t believed she’d deserved better. Not after what she did. And now, from nowhere it had sped into fast forward.

  “But she gave you Martha,” Claire reminded him.

  “Yes, and for that I am truly grateful.”

  Jonah leaned forward and cupped his other hand around Claire’s face. It was safer to close her eyes and not to try to read his expression, or guess his thoughts.

  “Open your eyes,” he commanded.

  With difficulty she obeyed and found herself staring into his deep, grey pools. What she thought she could read in them unsettled her. It felt like nothing had changed in the intervening years, even though she knew so much had. A lump caught at the back of her throat and she could feel her lower lip trembling. Part of her wanted to run away, scared of being exposed to what was sure to be emotional turmoil. But another part of her was frozen to the spot. He had her face clasped in both his hands and once again she found her eyelids closing as he caressed her cheeks.

  “I have to admit something,” he said.

  She nodded, eyes still tightly sealed. Here it comes, she thought. He’d given her the good stuff and was now about to deliver bad news, to tell her he was in a new relationship or something. She didn’t want to see him as he said it.

  “You know I think you’re beautiful,” he continued. “But, I have to admit, I prefer you without make-up.”

  Her eyes snapped open as she giggled.

  “I don’t normally wear make-up. This was put on me this morning for some silly screen test Georgia put me up to.”

  He raised a question
ing eyebrow.

  “It was nothing,” she brushed it off.

  She wanted to close her eyes again, but his gaze held her magnetically. She wasn’t sure if her thirty-seven year old heart could keep up the cracking pace it was now thumping at and she knew she must look ridiculous. Her lower lip was quivering uncontrollably and her porcelain make-up was no doubt now a streaky mess. Idiot, why hadn’t she removed it before coming? She couldn’t stop herself from looking down at his mouth, his luscious, thick, sensual lips. No-one’s lips had ever matched up to his, either before or after. It was as if he could read her mind.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he said.

  She clamped her eyes back shut and nodded.

  “I can’t watch,” she whispered.

  She waited for so long that she considered telling him to hurry up, but then she felt his teeth gently take her lower lip in its grip, as if trying to stop the tremor. When she’d calmed down, he released it, pulled away for a second and she could feel the smile on his lips as he crushed his mouth deliciously into hers.