Now Is Our Time

by Jo Kessel

  The home phone rang. Shit. He had better not be cancelling.

  “Hello?” Claire answered, hesitantly.

  “Hi.”

  Phew, the accent was British. It was Anthony.

  “Is everything ok?” she asked.

  “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to warn you that we’re running about half an hour late. I’m really sorry. I took Miriam to the cinema after school and something’s gone wrong with the projector. They think it should be fixed within thirty minutes and I know that Miriam would really like to see the end of the movie if you agree to it.”

  Crap. Claire should have known that something would go wrong. The later that Anthony and Miriam returned, the more chance their presence would clash with Jonah’s arrival, which is exactly what she’d hoped to avoid. Claire was within her rights to tell Anthony no. It had all been thrashed out in the divorce settlement and his contact days and times were set in stone. But if she said ‘no’ then she would feel badly for her daughter. It was a no win scenario, to hell with it. What would be would be. She uncorked a chilled bottle of Chardonnay. Some Dutch courage was definitely in order.

  “Don’t worry, just enjoy yourselves,” she told Anthony. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

  She hung up on the call, took two wine glasses down from the cupboard, filled one of them to the top and downed a long, generous gulp.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sometimes it’s best to fear the worst so that, at least, one can be prepared. As Claire leaned against the frame of her open front door watching the scene unfold, she was thankful she’d drunk that glass of wine. It had relaxed her, allowing a natural smile to crease her lips at the irony of Jonah, Anthony and Miriam all pulling up outside 77 Gladstone Road at the same time: Anthony in his white BMW jeep, Jonah in a black taxi cab. Hell, could this be any more awkward? Somehow the sight of Jonah ducking his head as he stepped out of the taxi and unfurled to his six-foot-three inches calmed her. When she spotted his right hand clutching a large yellow Selfridges paper bag, it took all the strength she could muster to not coo “ah” out loud. Jonah was the first to saunter up the garden path whilst Anthony busied himself fetching Miriam’s bag from the boot before letting his daughter out, all the while his beady eyes following Jonah’s every step with suspicion. Claire wished she could read what was going on in his head. Did he recognise Jonah? Did he care? Did he have a strong urge to cross-examine Claire on how, why or when this man had wormed his way back into her life? Heck, they’d spoken about him often enough at the beginning of their relationship, as they’d delved into each others’ significant pasts. Anthony had known the name. He’d been impressed, but un-phased. He’d not even objected to Claire keeping photos of Jonah by her bedside. “I can’t begin to compete with that,” Anthony had kept his cool, “so I’m not even going to try.” A few months later Claire had tucked the photos, face down, at the back of her bedside table drawer.

  Jonah remained impervious to Anthony’s gaze tracking his every movement but, even if he had been aware, it wouldn’t have unnerved him. To compete professionally in any sport requires nerves of steel and Jonah had honed his into the finest titanium.

  Miriam was the first to reach Claire, running to enter her mother’s outstretched arms.

  “Hey, darling,” Claire hugged her daughter and kissed her head, before turning her attention to the supporting cast standing behind Miriam. She’d never in her wildest dreams imagined these two different men and worlds colliding.

  “Jonah, this is Anthony. Anthony, this is Jonah,” she introduced.

  If Jonah hadn’t known who this stranger was, now he knew. Cool as a cucumber he offered his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he drawled. Anthony complied with the handshake but didn’t reply. His steady expression was unreadable, his famous lawyer ‘look’.

  Niceties dealt with, Jonah smiled at the pretty little girl standing in front of him and squatted down to her level.

  “And you must be Miriam?”

  She nodded and duly thwacked the flat palm he held up for her to high five. “Ouch,” he joked, shaking out his palm in mock pain. Miriam laughed.

  “This is an old friend of mine,” Claire told her daughter, “called Jonah.”

  Miriam spent a few seconds eyeing Jonah up from toe to top, her gaze finally settling on the Selfridges bag in his hand.

  “Is that for me?” she asked.

  “It certainly is,” he smiled, passing the booty over.

  Miriam’s eyes boggled.

  “What do you say?” Claire reminded her daughter about manners.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  As Miriam peeked into the bag, Anthony took his cue, politely nodding at Claire and Jonah before ruffling his daughter’s head and saying goodbye. Claire ushered the two of them into the house and as she closed the front door behind them, Miriam tapped gently on Jonah’s arm. “You’ve got a funny accent,” she said.

  ----------------------

  Half an hour later Claire padded into her conservatory. Miriam had now officially been put to bed, with instructions to go straight to sleep. It was late and Mummy and her friend didn’t want to be disturbed because they hadn’t seen each other for years and needed to catch-up.

  “Is Jonah the tennis player?” Miriam had asked innocently as her mother kissed her goodnight. Claire had recoiled in surprise.

  “How do you know about the tennis player?”

  “You once told me about him after I broke that funny little statue of yours which is now in the lounge.”

  “Oh.”

  The things children remember! Claire wracked her brains to try to recall a kernel of such a conversation, but nothing came to her. She planted one final kiss on her forehead.

  “Love you.”

  “Love you more.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  Claire smiled as she closed Miriam’s door softly behind her. The ‘love you’, ‘love you more’ ritual was part of their own personal, nightly routine. Claire was certain that Miriam couldn’t love her more. She couldn’t imagine anyone loving anyone more than she loved Miriam.

  When she’d walked into the conservatory the sight before her had felt like an improbable dream. The floor-to-ceiling patio doors were flung wide open onto the small garden where Jonah was busy at the barbecue. Coming from California, barbecues were second nature to him. At his family home in San Diego, where he and Claire had spent a fair amount of time at the beginning of their relationship, there had been an inbuilt brick burner in the back yard next to the swimming pool. She couldn’t remember the number of times they’d chucked some fresh fish onto the coals as they’d drunk some new age Sancerre.

  Jonah’s back was to her and she took the opportunity to observe him for a couple of minutes transfixed, watching his muscular arms at work, picking up the tongs and turning the chicken thighs and burgers over. She’d always loved every glorious inch of his body, warts, scars and all, but if she had to choose her favourite part, it would be his strong, sportsman’s arms. She could feel her breath quicken. She wanted to touch them. She needed to touch them. She tiptoed barefoot towards him and caught him unawares, pinning her stomach against his back as she ran her hands up and down his triceps. Half a minute later he spun round to face her and they stilled, their foreheads touching as the tips of their noses performed a languorous Eskimo kiss.

  “Do you know what?” he said, his forehead still glued to hers.

  “What?”

  “If it’s possible, I think you’re more beautiful now than you were when I last knew you.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “It’s not ‘rubbish’,” he mocked her accent, wearing a playful smirk on his face. “It’s the truth. I think thirty-seven must be the perfect age for a woman. You’re coming into your sexual and physical peak.”

  He trailed his hands to the hem of her black vest t-shirt and wormed his way underneath, stroking her bare back before teasingly slipping his
hands towards her front, tickling the sides of her waist as his fingers continued on a northbound trajectory, lightly grazing her breasts. Claire’s breath hitched.

  “Do you have any idea what you do to me? What you’ve always done to me?” Jonah asked.

  Claire shook her head, but really she did have a very good idea. And if she could have taken her mind off his travelling fingers she might have found the courage to admit that he made her feel as nobody else had done and how her body ached for him. She floated her hands from his biceps to the back of his neck and pulled his mouth urgently to hers, whimpering as he parted her lips with his tongue, her whole body tingling with desire.

  “If we wait a bit longer,” Jonah whispered with their mouths still meshed, “it will be even more sensational.”

  Claire was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the chicken. She nodded in agreement, pulling away with a smile.

  “I think we should eat then,” she suggested.

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  Claire had prepared everything that they’d need and placed it on the counter in the kitchen which was adjacent to the conservatory. Two plates, two sets of cutlery (each wrapped in a serviette) a curried pasta salad, a green salad and a jug of home-made vinaigrette. It was still warm enough to eat outside so Jonah helped her carry everything to the wrought-iron table in the garden, to join the bottle of Chardonnay and wine glasses which were already laid there. Claire lit a scented candle to ward off the bugs and then went in to fetch one final platter which she loaded with the crispy chicken and burgers waiting on the barbecue. She’d way over-catered.

  “Voila,” she said, once they were both seated at the table. As she said the word ‘voila’ she caught herself doing the same weird jazz-hand gesticulation which so embarrassed her in the viral video. It was obviously a mannerism she didn’t even know she had, like a nervous tick. She must stop doing it!

  Jonah refilled Claire’s glass before topping up his own and holding it aloft to make a toast.

  “To you,” he said.

  “To happiness,” said Claire.

  Happiness: that elusive state of mind which right here, right now, as she moistened her lips with wine, she felt she’d achieved. She felt lighter than she had done for years. She didn’t want the moment or the feeling to end, ever. Watching Jonah pile his plate and tuck in made her feel that they belonged together. His very presence beside her felt so right and sent a wave of warmth coursing through her bones.

  “You’ve got a lovely home,” he said.

  Her previous marital home, a penthouse apartment overlooking Regents Canal, had been much more impressive. Splitting their assets post-divorce, however, had led to the inevitable downsizing. This had been a compromise house. She’d compromised on the size of the garden and the size of every single box room for that matter, but what she had got was a house full of period character, with original wooden floorboards, fireplaces and Edwardian picture rails. Not to mention the conservatory, which she adored. She’d kept the décor simple, offsetting ivory walls with colourful rugs and furnishings in deep tones of red. And she loved the location - a trendy, vibrant pocket of London, which buzzed with cafes and ambience.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Do you still live in the same condo?”

  He’d bought a lovely place by the ocean when they’d been together, as an investment, but travelling the world from one tournament to the next hadn’t really been conducive to setting down roots. It had always felt more like a rental than a proper home. Much more of their time had been spent living out of suitcases in hotel rooms.

  “No, I sold that and bought something further up the coast. It’s much nicer and bigger than the last one. The complex even has tennis courts, just in case I get the urge.”

  He chuckled as he said this, removing his I-phone from his pocket to show her some pictures. It was stunning, bougainvillea creeping up the outside walls and spacious inside, with a divine, open plan kitchen and living space.

  “Was it weird meeting Anthony?” she asked.

  Claire still hadn’t met Anthony’s new girlfriend and she certainly wasn’t in a hurry to do so. But she imagined meeting Jonah’s ex would be on a whole new level. It would be hard to accept that a woman, other than herself, had borne him a child.

  “A little,” he admitted.

  “Well, at least it’s over and done with,” she appeased.

  Jonah downed the contents of his wine glass.

  “He looks like Barack Obama.”

  Claire laughed. She’d not seen the comparison before, but Jonah was absolutely right. Anthony had recently shorn his mad, afro hair, and did now resemble the American President. Claire put down her knife and fork and pushed her plate away. Despite the meal being delicious and Jonah having barbecued the chicken to perfection, she just didn’t have an appetite. Well, not for food anyway.

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  The Claire of old had always been at ease with her body. She’d had enviable long legs, womanly curves and a bust which too often had caused men to defy etiquette by talking to her cleavage instead of to her face. Whilst she’d never liked the tone of her skin, a pale cream which didn’t tan no matter how long she lazed in the sun, Jonah had always found her colouring alluring. With her fiery hair and white limbs, he thought she looked as if she’d just walked out of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.

  That was then, though, and this was now. Superficially, not much had changed. She’d not gained weight since childbirth and her hourglass figure was still pretty much the same as it ever was. And she still, according to Jonah, looked like Kate Winslet. Yet, as she led Jonah upstairs, their fingers tightly interlocked, two major issues were vexing her. What room should she take him to, just in case Miriam should wake up and how on earth would she avoid Jonah seeing her withered breasts?

  In the end she decided on the spare bedroom and ordered him to close his eyes whilst she undressed. His lips curled upwards in amusement and she was grateful that he didn’t probe further. Instead he gamely turned his back to her whilst she slipped out of her denim shorts and T-shirt and clambered under the duvet.

  “You can turn around now,” she smiled.

  She knew this whole scenario was ridiculous. She was acting like a seventeen-year old rather than a woman of thirty-seven, but she just couldn’t help herself. With Anthony, she hadn’t cared. He’d been a witness to the changes. Jonah, however, was familiar with the twenty-something Claire and not her more mature counterpart. His comment about her approaching her physical and sexual peak hadn’t helped matters either. He kicked off his sneakers and socks, grinning as he moved towards Claire’s side of the bed, sitting on its edge and leaning over, tenderly melting his lips into hers as he stroked her hair back from her face. As their kissing deepened he positioned himself on top of her. The sensation of his entire body and hardness pressing into her caused Claire to moan with pleasure. She needed to feel him, to touch him. She ran her hands under his black T-shirt. His skin was still gloriously smooth and soft. She tugged at the top, motioning that she wanted it removed, and he obliged, raising his arms so she could pull it free. His sculpted triceps, shoulders and back felt divine under her hands and she moved down to his buttocks, pushing them tighter towards her.

  “Nope,” he said, removing her hands. “It’s my turn.”

  He linked her fingers in his and raised her arms above her head, pinning her wrists down with one of his hands. With his other hand he traced a teasing line towards her elbow, then her collarbone, stopping when he reached the cup of her strapless black lacy bra.

  “You’re cheating,” he murmured. “I’ve already got my top off.”

  She wanted to tell him to stop, to leave her bra alone, but her arms were still pinned above her head as he sneaked his fingers behind her back and expertly unhooked the clasp single-handed. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see his look of disappointment as he freed her breasts and tossed the garment aside.

  He kissed her right breast and tugged her nipple wi
th his teeth. She whimpered, writhing underneath him.

  “My breasts are not what they used to be,” she apologised.

  He ignored her and moved onto the left breast, kissing it as if it was the most precious thing in the world before gently taking its nipple between his teeth. Even though he was pinning her down, Claire could barely keep still. She’d not felt this aroused for years.

  “Did you breastfeed,” he whispered, moving his lips slowly, languorously across both her breasts.

  “Uh huh,” she rasped, her voice barely audible.