by Lisa Jewell
She is American.
‘Hi Ralph, it’s Sarah. Sorry not to have been in touch, things are crazy round here. Anyhoo,’ Jem wrinkles her nose at the ‘anyhoo’, ‘would be gorgeous to see you. Give me a ring. See ya!’
Jem shudders. But then she has a thought. The message was left yesterday. But if Sarah is the same woman who was in Ralph’s bed last week, the recipient of the love note, she seems very upbeat about things, all of a sudden. How did she go from tearing up love notes into bitter shreds to leaving jaunty answerphone messages? Is it possible, she wonders, that Sarah is not his lover? Is it possible that the woman with the bracelet is someone else altogether?
She presses 1471 and takes down the last number to have called Ralph’s. Maybe this Sarah, whoever the hell she is, might be able to help her find her missing partner.
Chapter 1
One year earlier
Ralph felt himself re-forming as he took his seat on the plane and tucked his rucksack under the chair in front of him. He had a window seat and the flight was half empty so he stood a good chance of not having to sit next to anyone.
Saying goodbye had been tough. Tough and unsettling. Jem had been tight-lipped, clearly resigned to his going but not about to let him go without letting him know how lucky he was that she’d let him. Which he was. He was a bright man. He knew he was pushing his luck. He knew that he hadn’t done anything to deserve this break. He knew that in the bank account of their relationship, Jem was very much in credit. But still, the force of whatever strangeness lay within him had been strong enough to propel him away from a sobbing Scarlett and a resentment-storing Jem and on to the Heathrow Express with a rucksack and a cheery farewell. He’d felt sad for about forty-five seconds and then he’d felt euphoric. The image of his small son stayed longer in his consciousness than those of Jem and Scarlett, maybe because he knew that Blake was the only one of the three who would be markedly different when he came back or maybe because he felt the most guilt about leaving him. His son, so new he barely knew him, and yet he was running away from him, glad to be gone from him, happy not to have to think about him or consider him for the next seven days. He felt relieved. Yet he didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if Blake was his responsibility anyway. Jem did everything for him. But still Ralph found his presence vaguely oppressive. Maybe, he mused, it was not because of what he needed from Ralph now, but what Ralph knew he would expect from him in the future.
Ralph enjoyed the flight to LA. He got slowly and pleasantly drunk, he read half a David Baldacci novel, he ate something with chicken in it and an actually quite nice raspberry trifle, he listened to some music and watched an episode of The Office and a not particularly brilliant film called Forgetting Sarah Marshall, which had that weird Russell Brand bloke in it who Jem seemed to think was incredibly funny. And then he had a little sleep. An undisturbed, indulgent and completely guilt-free sleep.
Ralph liked to fly.
He didn’t like to take-off, which always felt somewhat unlikely, and he didn’t like to land, which always felt somewhat rash, but the bit in between he enjoyed very much. He and Jem had flown to Italy when Scarlett was two. It was the first time either of them had flown with a child and it was the last time he would do it for a good long time.
As they’d dismounted the plane at Pisa airport Jem had said, ‘Well, that wasn’t so bad.’ Ralph had raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Define bad.’
But this, just himself, nobody wanting to be taken to the toilet, nobody constantly dropping crayons underneath the seat in front, nobody spilling orange juice all over themselves and nobody screaming when their ears popped on landing, not to mention nobody giving him filthy looks when he attempted to flick through the in-flight magazine and hissing, ‘You think you’re going to read? Are you serious?’ at him – this was good.
Smith was there when he left Customs.
He was wearing a black suit, a grey T-shirt, black sunglasses and was holding a sign that said: ‘MR DICK SMALL’.
Ralph smiled when he saw him. ‘A-ha ha. And ha,’ he said, bringing Smith to him in a one-armed man-hug. ‘Good to see you.’
Smith patted him back solidly. ‘Bloody good to see you too,’ he said. ‘It’s been bloody ages.’
‘Four years and three months to be precise. New Year’s Eve 2003.’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s right, we went out in Croydon, didn’t we, trying to recapture the old days?’
‘Yeah, and ended up feeling like we were about sixty.’
‘Yeah, well, you may as well be sixty if you’re over thirty in Croydon on New Year’s Eve. Christ, that was a shit night.’
‘Totally,’ said Ralph. ‘You’re looking good.’ And he was. Smith had always been a good-looking man, but in a careworn way. He’d always looked like he was in need of the love of a good woman, to feed him properly and make him smile. Now he was fit, his skin glowed, his hair shone. He looked well, very well.
‘Thanks, mate, not sure I can return the compliment.’
‘What!’
‘London boy.’ He punched his arm affectionately.
‘I’ve just spent ten hours on a fucking plane, what do you expect?’
‘Yeah yeah. You just need some sunshine and some exercise.’
Exercise? Ralph smiled mockingly. When he and Smith had lived together in Battersea all those many years ago, the concept of exercise had been about as alien to the two men as the concept of vegetable carving. Or indeed the concept of reiki therapy, the discipline that Smith now practised for a living.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking hold of Ralph’s hand-luggage, ‘let’s get back to mine.’
* * *
Smith lived in a very small but well-furnished apartment in Santa Monica, three blocks back from the sea. The building was quite scruffy, painted white and a sickly apricot and centred around a dull-looking swimming pool, but Smith had done a good job with the interior. It wasn’t minimalist and blokey, it was tasteful and comfortable, and remarkably tidy.
‘Do you always live like this,’ asked Ralph, lowering his rucksack to the floor, ‘or is this on my account?’
‘Bit of both, really,’ said Smith dropping his front door keys into a large glass bowl. ‘It’s easy to keep the place tidy when it’s just me. And I’ve got a cleaner.’
Ralph raised his brow in surprise. It seemed odd to him that Smith was functioning out here, alone, without him. He couldn’t imagine Smith sauntering around a department store picking out glass bowls and velvety cushions. He couldn’t see how he’d have found a cleaning lady, how he’d have engineered a conversation with someone about how often he’d like his toilet bowl cleaned and how much he would pay her to do it. None of it made any sense. Ralph had always been the practical one when it came to domestic matters. He was the one who’d remember to buy bleach and hoover under the sofa and get the windows cleaned once a year. Smith had just coasted along, paying his way, offering the occasional ‘cheers’ when he could sense that Ralph had put himself out.
‘It’s a nice place,’ he said. ‘What’s the rent like?’
Smith blew out his cheeks. ‘You don’t want to know. Too much.’
‘So, you’re doing all right then, with the old …’ he waggled his fingers, ‘reiki business.’
‘Yeah,’ Smith ran his hands over his hair, ‘not bad at all.’
‘So, where shall I …?’ He pointed at his rucksack.
‘Oh, sure, yeah, you’re in here.’
Smith led him through a narrow corridor, painted white and hung with panels of patterned glass.
‘Bathroom here,’ he said, opening a door and pulling on a light switch to reveal a plain white bathroom, clean and fragrant, equipped, Ralph was impressed to note, with more than one bath towel. ‘Your room here,’ he opened a door at the end of the corridor, revealing a small white room filled with a large white bed, a pale ash console table with a flat-screen TV on it and a wall of fitted wardrobes. Over the bed was a large canvas of a small hand holding three fat
peony blooms.
‘Ha!’ Ralph said, putting his rucksack on to the bed. ‘One of my Jem paintings.’
‘Yeah,’ said Smith, his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ve hidden it in here.’
‘Yeah, charming, I noticed.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s a great painting but it’s a bit, you know …’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
‘No, really, I wouldn’t have paid a thousand fucking quid for it if I didn’t like it. It’s just a bit girly, that’s all. And I think it goes in here …’
Ralph nodded and smiled, rubbing his chin sceptically.
Smith smiled. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it’s five o’clock, what do you want to do? Take a shower?’
‘Have a shower.’
‘What?’
‘Have a shower, not take a shower.’
Smith rolled his eyes. ‘Have a shower? Have a sleep? Hit the town?’
Ralph considered the weight of his eyelids against the dryness of his eyeballs. He thought about the grimy film that covered his entire body and the stickiness of his scalp. But then he thought about trying to locate his wash bag inside his badly packed rucksack, finding a whole clean outfit to change into afterwards and the fact that by the time he took his clothes off he’d probably just want to collapse in bed and that this was his first night in LA. Away from his family. That he only had six more nights before he had to go home again. That he wasn’t here to shower and sleep, but to live and breathe.
‘The town sounds good,’ he smiled.
‘Cool,’ said Smith, ‘let’s go.’
Chapter 2
Smith drove.
He had a swanky little Chevrolet, in forest green. It was very clean. Ralph thought about his car at home. He thought about the empty Pom-Bear packets stuffed into the storage panels in the door, the lumps of rock-hard chocolate brownie in the footwell, the sticky orange juice cartons wedged between the back seats and the cluster of tiny plastic toys that seemed to reside nowhere in particular. He thought of the back seat, once a spacious bench for the ferrying around of friends or paintings or trays of pansies from the garden centre, now home to two large and ugly child seats. It wasn’t his car, it was his family’s car. How luxurious, he felt, to have a car of your own.
He stared out of the window at the scenery. Low-level shopping arcades, wide pavements, thirty-foot palm trees, men and women in beachwear, unfeasibly small dogs, rollerblades, baseball caps, frozen yogurt, car parks, parasols, beach clubs, whitewashed walls overhung with golden Angel’s Trumpets, tessellated paving, potted cacti, a spangle-fronted cinema, Mexican food, Spanish food, French food, food from the Pacific Islands and acre after acre of soft white sand.
For a moment it struck him as bizarre that he willingly lived in a damp corner of Herne Hill in a house the colour of fag butts. Why would he do such a thing when this place existed? Had he chosen to live where he lived, was it a decision he’d ever consciously made? And if so, what was he thinking? London had its charms, it had pubs (which he rarely visited), it had a magnificent river (which he rarely saw), it had cultural diversity and tradition and elegance and beauty. It had trees and parks and a trillion restaurants. But of what use were any of these things to Ralph when all he experienced of it was a dank loft room, a treadmill at the gym, the occasional half-decent takeaway and even more occasional beer and meal out with Jem? They had gyms here. They had children’s playgrounds. They had good restaurants and places to drink beer and people to talk to and things to do.
And they had a beach.
And they had the sun.
And they had palm trees thirty feet high.
Ralph folded his arms and looked once more out of the window. He considered the sky, so clear, so expansive, so distinct from the landscape. He let the blueness and simplicity of it wash over him for a while and then he watched a small white-tipped wave hit the soft caramel sand.
Smith glanced at him and then smiled. ‘Ha!’ he said, ‘you’re wondering what the fuck you’re doing in London, aren’t you?’
‘Just a bit.’
‘Yeah, I know. Why d’you think I never come back?’
Smith took them to an Asian fusion restaurant called Pacifique. It had a wide terrace at the front where they took a table looking out towards the sea. A very cute girl with a name badge on that declared her to be called Avril took their orders for tequila-based cocktails and mixed hors-d’oeuvres, the latter of which arrived on rough-hewn crockery the same colour as the sky, with numerous dipping sauces in various shades of red and brown.
Ralph watched Smith take a sip from his cocktail. ‘I thought they were really tight on drink-driving out here?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, they are. I’m leaving my car here; Rosey’s borrowing it.’
‘Rosey?’
‘Yeah, the other half.’
‘You have an other half?’ Ralph asked in flattened surprise.
‘Yes. A girlfriend, you know.’
‘Yeah, I know what an other half is. I’m just surprised, that’s all.’
‘What,’ snorted Smith, ‘surprised that anyone would want to go out with me?’
‘No. Not that. Just that you’ve never mentioned anyone.’
‘No, well, there’s not much to say.’
‘Well, God, I don’t know, how long have you been seeing her? How old is she? Where did you meet? Et cetera.’
Smith threw him a puzzled look. ‘Do you really want to know?’ he said.
‘Yeah, of course I do, you’re my mate. I mean, were you even going to mention her to me?’
‘Of course I was. You’ll meet her tomorrow when she brings the car back. It’s not a secret or anything.’
‘So, tell me.’
Smith rolled his eyes. ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘she’s thirty-three, she’s from Melbourne –’
‘Australian?’ interrupted Ralph.
‘Ye-es. She’s a dental hygienist. She’s got blonde hair, like this –’ he made the shape of a blunt bob with the side of his hand against his jaw – ‘and she lives over there.’ He pointed at a small block of flats above a mall, painted deep coral with sky-blue balconies. ‘Oh, and we met here –’ he tapped the tabletop with the heel of his hand – ‘eight months ago.’
‘Ha, so this is your special place then?’
‘No,’ Smith sighed impatiently, ‘this was already my favourite place. I come here all the time. Here, have one of these.’ He passed Ralph a plate of tiny tempura soft-shelled crabs, sprinkled with slivers of chilli and burned garlic, ‘they’re amazing.’
Ralph popped one of the crabs into his mouth and instantly decided that it was his favourite dish in Santa Monica. It was, he mused, the sort of thing that would cost twenty quid in Nobu, and that in order to eat it you’d have to book a table three months in advance and then pay a taxi driver twenty-five pounds to take you there, yet here this was just a relatively inexpensive snack in a local neighbourhood restaurant. ‘That’s fantastic,’ he said, licking the oil from his fingertips.
‘Good, isn’t it? Everything here is good.’
‘So, this Rosey, is it serious?’
Smith shrugged and finished his cocktail. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I guess.’
‘Wow, so this could be it then? This could be the one?’
Smith shrugged again. ‘Depends what you mean by The One?’
‘I mean, the one you marry, the one you have a family with.’
Smith laughed, scoffing at him. ‘A family?’ he repeated.
‘Yeah, you know, kids, children, genetic offspring.’
‘No way.’
Ralph frowned. ‘Why not? You’re forty-one, mate.’
‘Yeah. I’m forty-one and I’ve got a fucking amazing life. What the fuck would I want to go and have kids for?’
Ralph paused. He picked up another little crab and ate it. What could he say to that? That was exactly how he’d felt seven years ago when Jem had first started talking about having kids. Life was good. It didn’t need improving, it
didn’t need changing, it didn’t, in fact, need anything, let alone helpless, needy, extremely short human beings who depended on you for everything and woke you up when you were sleeping and didn’t take lie-ins and didn’t want to do anything that wasn’t their idea and didn’t know how to use a toilet and didn’t understand anything whatsoever about the world or how it worked. He knew exactly why Smith would balk at the suggestion.
But then … it would be odd to get to the end of your days without having done something as fundamental and basic and utterly human as procreating. It would be like dying without having read a book or gone for a swim or eaten an orange or trimmed your toenails or had an argument or fallen in love. It would be like having not lived at all.
Ralph gulped. He found the thought alarming and he certainly wouldn’t share it with Smith. It would mean nothing to him, it would sound smug and trite and it would make Smith even more determined never to cross to the other side. It was exactly the sort of sentiment that had put Ralph off the idea of kids for so long. And it was exactly the reason why he had had no desire to have another baby after the arrival of the precious and remarkable Scarlett.
One child was enough for him. He was a dad. He was a parent. He’d crossed over, and he’d loved it. And it wasn’t that he didn’t love Blake, it was just that he couldn’t quite see the point of him, beyond taking his life back to the same stage it was at four years ago, without any of the thrill of new beginnings.
He shrugged. ‘Fair enough, I suppose, I can’t say I was that wild about the idea myself, but now, you know. What I do think is this: depending on your outlook, having kids is either much better than it looks, or much worse.’
‘And your outlook was?’
‘Let’s just say, I’ve been pleasantly surprised.’
