by Jane Green
Or all night, as the case may have been.
“So how long are you planning on staying? ” he asks, making her a camomile tea.
“My visa is six weeks, and I’ve been here three, so not much longer.” Her face falls. “I can’t believe how quickly it’s gone, and I can’t believe I have to leave.”
“You like it here? ”
“More than like. I love it. I wish I could stay. I was thinking that if I went back home, I could just shoot back for another three months.”
“You know, if Ginny is your mother, aren’t you eligible for dual citizenship? ”
“I am, but right now she refuses to recognize me as her daughter, and I need her to petition me. She won’t even take my calls. I don’t want anything from her, except the right to be recognized as half American.”
“I would have thought she’d do it. She’s a tough old broad, but I’ve always got on with her really well.”
“Maybe you can have a word with her? God knows she refuses to talk to me.”
“I will. If you want me to. Hopefully, she’ll make it for the party, and I can pick her up from the airport and talk to her then.”
“Really? That would be amazing! ”
“I don’t mind at all.”
Annabel beams with delight at Adam, and then, without planning it, without even truly thinking about it, she leans across the table, and kisses him.
Lightly at first, a thank-you peck on the lips, pulling away to see Adam, his eyes closed, his lips parted slightly, then going back in to kiss him again, this time longer, sweeter, and the next, sweeter still.
“Oh God,” Adam groans, as they finally disengage. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I know,” Annabel says. “Should I go? ”
“God, no! ” he says, and pulls her over to sit on his lap.
She could stay. She shouldn’t stay, but she could. And she wants to. But Kit is expecting her home, and how could she explain it? And isn’t this bad enough?
They move from the kitchen table to the living-room sofa, grappling around like lust-filled teenagers, clothes being torn off and thrown across the room.
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” Annabel says, as Adam licks his way down her body.
“I don’t think you should.” Adam stops to grin up at her. “Who said anything about sleeping? ”
“For an old man,” she says as she lies in his arms, still on the sofa, one leg draped over his, “you’ve got a pretty impressive amount of energy.”
“Old man? ” Adam laughs, exhausted, sated, happy. “Who are you calling an old man? ”
“You’re almost fifteen years older than me!” Annabel says, and Adam shivers with horror.
“That’s awful. Can you just stop already? ” he says, no longer smiling.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I think you’re gorgeous.”
“You do? ”
“I do.”
And Adam’s ego swells, for while he has made many conquests since splitting up with Kit, none has been quite so young, nor quite so beautiful, as Annabel.
Nor have any of them been quite so forbidden, but that is something he is trying hard not to think about. She’ll be gone soon, and this can never be anything more than a fling. They just have to keep it a secret for another three weeks.
And after the party no one will question the fact that they spent time together—people will assume they were spending hours planning the surprise.
It’s the perfect excuse.
Annabel leans over and fishes her BlackBerry out of her bag, quickly checking for messages.
“Am I boring you? ” Adam laughs, conscious of his own addiction, but his BlackBerry is safely upstairs, charging on his bedside table, and he cannot be bothered to go upstairs and check it.
“No.” Annabel kisses him gently. “Never. I was just seeing if Dad had called me back. I’ve left masses of messages and I’m starting to get worried. I really need to talk to him.”
“Is everything okay? ”
“Well, yes, everything’s fine, but I wanted him to send me some money. I didn’t expect everything to cost as much as it does, and I’m almost all out, so he’s going to have to wire me something pretty quickly or I’ll be completely stuck.”
“You mustn’t worry about that.” Adam smiles indulgently. “I can help you.”
“Really? ” She sits up. “Are you sure? I mean, I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, and that’s not why I said anything. I was going to ask Kit . . .” She stops, uneasy at bringing up Kit’s name so soon after she slept with her ex-husband.
“I can afford it, and I don’t want you to worry. How much do you need? ”
“I . . . look, I honestly don’t know when I can pay you back. I need to find some work and I feel awful about—”
“Don’t feel awful! ” Adam interrupts her. “I can afford it, and it would be my pleasure. Think of this as a gift. If you can pay me back at some point, that’s fine, and if not, that’s also fine. What do you need? ”
“I don’t know. A thousand, maybe? ”
“Why don’t I give you three? That should cover you for a while, and it enables you to feel safe. Think of the additional money as a safety net, and you can always give back what you don’t use.”
“Oh my God!” Annabel throws her arms around him. “I don’t know what to say! You’re amazing! How can I thank you? ”
He pushes her back gently, with a small smile. “I have a pretty good idea.”
And after that, they don’t say anything at all for a very long time.
Chapter Twenty-four
These past few days, Annabel’s behavior has become increasingly mysterious. Kit suspects she has a boyfriend, but every time she asks Annabel clams up, which is so out of character, even from the little Kit knows of her, that she doesn’t quite know how to pursue the topic.
She is out more and more, although less so when the kids are with their dad. Kit imagines Annabel feels guilty about leaving Kit on her own to do whatever she has been doing, although Kit loves nothing more than having the house to herself and is slightly resentful of not getting that time alone.
She wishes she could be more forthright. Wishes she were the type of person who could draw Annabel aside and say, kindly, “I really need to be on my own tonight.” But she could never do that; she is too worried about offending, of being disliked, too caught up, even at this age, with being a “good girl,” too fearful of a confrontation of any kind.
The problem with Annabel being there, is that she’s so clearly there. There is no fading into the background with Annabel, and Kit is torn between loving the company, and resenting the intrusion.
And the kids adore her. Tory is all moon-faced and pie-eyed when Annabel is around. She’s the fairy godmother Tory has always wanted, dressing Tory up in her clothes, doing her hair and make-up, seducing her with her dulcet English tones.
Even Buckley is keen. He is more reticent than Tory, certainly, but Annabel’s willingness to go outside, whatever the weather, and play baseball—Buckley is attempting to teach her the game—has won him over, and while he would never admit to out-and-out adoration, when he is not on his computer or outside playing baseball (more challenging now that winter is truly setting in), he is usually getting Annabel to play Star Wars with him on the Wii in the family room.
But it is more than the disappearances that are making Kit uncomfortable. Annabel has started buying her gifts. Flowers for no reason, a scarf she saw and thought of Kit, a new lipstick she thinks Kit absolutely has to have.
Small things, but Kit cannot help the feeling that these gifts are loaded; that, as bizarre as it may sound, there is something about the gift-giving that feels like a guilty husband suddenly surprising his wife with flowers, or beautiful underwear, after he has left his mistress.
Kit knows she is being ridiculous. What, after all, could Annabel possibly have to feel guilty about?
Kit pats the concealer under he
r eyes, wishing there was a magic cure for the shadows there, shadows that are all she sees these days when she looks in the mirror.
But for forty-one, she isn’t bad. She remembers when her father turned forty and the two of them went out for dinner, Kit dressing up, loving being taken to a proper grown-up restaurant, loving pretending to be the wife. And her father seemed so old. When did forty stop being middle-aged, for Kit doesn’t feel the slightest bit middle-aged?
If anything, since her divorce, she feels as though she is regressing. During her marriage she noticed she had become a “maam” at some point. She didn’t mind in the slightest, but after her divorce people started calling her “miss” again.
She knew it didn’t have to do with a wedding band, for she chose to continue wearing a ring on her wedding finger. Not her wedding or engagement ring, or the eternity band Adam had bought her after she gave birth to Tory, but a hammered white gold ring with an emerald. It was a gift she bought herself on the day she divorced. A ring she had been admiring, and finally treated herself to, to celebrate the start of a new life.
“You can’t buy yourself an emerald,” Charlie gasped, when Kit turned up at her house to show off her latest purchase. “They’re bad luck.”
“Not this one,” Kit said instantly, and confidently. “This one will bring me luck. You wait and see.” And she was right. It has.
It doesn’t look like a traditional wedding band, and nothing like the large pear-shaped diamond she wore all those years, but people were less traditional these days, and it could certainly pass as a wedding band; yet still, people were calling her “miss.”
“You look younger,” Charlie said once, when they were discussing it. “You look, well, real. Like a real person. When you were married you looked like the wife of a hot-shot banker.”
Kit laughed. “That would be because I was the wife of a hot-shot banker.”
“That’s the point. You looked it.”
“Do I really look that different?”
“Yes. You do.”
Occasionally, Kit looks at old photos of herself. She didn’t particularly want to keep the albums from her marriage, except for the ones with the children, but now that there is little negative charge around Adam, she is able to look at them without feeling anything other than amazement: this was her life, this is who she used to be.
Kit, like so many women, is a consummate chameleon, or at least was, before her divorce. In those days she wasn’t at all sure of who she really was, and so she tried to fit in with what she thought people wanted her to be.
With Adam, that meant being a perfect hostess, a perfect wife. Dressing up, looking glamorous and elegant, in an attempt to present themselves as the perfect couple.
But designer suits and high heels just weren’t Kit. She knew how to do them, knew how to pull off the look—with a mother like Ginny, how could she possibly not know?—but she always felt like a poor facsimile of her mother, who was, she suspected, the type of person Adam really wanted her to be.
And because she was so much happier in jeans, with no make up, her feet in Dansko clogs or Uggs, she was never able to relax in those formal clothes, never able to be herself, always felt as if, at any moment, the façade would slip and Adam’s colleagues or business partners or friends, would see that she was not the person she was pretending to be, and that Kit Hargrove, plain old Kit Hargrove without all the accoutrements, was no one.
There had been a time—Kit must have been around eleven—when she was staying with her mother during the summer, and Ginny had been ill. Kit had tiptoed in to see her early one morning while Ginny was asleep, and Kit had been entirely shocked. Ginny’s face was scrubbed bare, her hair wispy and thin around her face, her mouth hanging slack as she snored lightly.
This wasn’t the woman Kit knew as her mother. This was an old woman. A stranger. And often, as Kit set about turning herself into a glamourpuss for Adam, she thought of her mother, of how she too wore her clothes, her make-up, her jewels, as a costume.
They certainly worked as armor. Kit felt reserved with them on. She could be someone else: gracious, elegant, charming. What she couldn’t do was what she does all the time at home these days, now she doesn’t have to pretend to be someone else: curl up on the sofa, or slouch at the kitchen table drinking coffee.
She did what all the other women did, what she thought she had to do in order to be accepted. She spent her days going to ladies’ lunches, or sitting primly at the local theater, or attending book group meetings where everyone strived to show off their intellectual prowess.
She dressed her children in the requisite French designer clothes, put them in class after class after class, because she was trying so hard to be like all the others, to be good enough, to be liked.
But since the divorce, she has changed immeasurably. Since the divorce, she has remembered who she is. Not a meek replica of all the other wealthy wives in Highfield, not someone who follows the pack, but someone who is in full charge of her life, who doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone else, who never feels the need to play a role, or try to be someone else.
These days she has taken to wearing little or no make-up, choosing clothes for practicality and function, not to impress, and as a result she moves differently, with a grace and comfort in her skin that is surprising to those who only knew her during the marriage.
She doesn’t blame Adam. She blames herself. She thinks that both she and Adam were trying to play a part, being who they thought they were supposed to be: a successful couple living in Highfield, being seen at all the smartest restaurants and parties in town.
It wasn’t so much pressure that Adam put on her, as pressure she put on herself. She didn’t want to let him down, wanted to fit in. She wanted, so very much, to be the woman she thought he wanted her to be.
Today, she is back to being “miss,” because, she suspects, she is lighter. The make-up, far from keeping her youthful, aged her, and the hairstyle was really too severe for a woman of her age.
But still. The lines, the shadows under her eyes she can do nothing about, even if, more generally, for forty-one she’s in pretty good shape.
Charlie is taking her out for her birthday tonight, which is a lovely surprise, particularly given that Charlie really can’t afford it, but she has insisted. Kit was hoping Steve would be around, but he has a business trip. However, he said he has a special gift to give her tomorrow.
Things are going well. Kit is happy, and starting to trust in the possibility of a relationship again. Steve seems to be going full speed ahead, though, which, at times, makes Kit nervous.
Just the other night, they were out at dinner, and Steve moved the bottle of wine out of the way so he could gaze into Kit’s eyes. It made her feel ever so slightly awkward, not to mention that her palms were a bit sweaty, hence her embarrassment when he reached over for her hand.
“I know this is very soon,” he said, “but I . . . I think I’m falling in love with you.”
“You are? ” She didn’t know what to say. Part delighted, part appalled. How could he possibly be in love with her after a handful of dates? Sure, men had told her this before after an equally short time, but not since she was around twenty.
Steve sat and waited for her reaction, but she couldn’t give him one. She was flattered, but nervous. This seemed a little . . . much.
“I . . . I love being with you,” she said awkwardly, knowing she couldn’t possibly say she loved him too.
“That’s okay.” He smiled. “I know you’re not ready, but you will be. Honestly, Kit, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
“But . . . you hardly know me,” she said eventually, trying to push her discomfort away.
“I know enough to know you’re an amazing person” he said. “You’re beautiful and smart and funny, and you make me feel like the best person I can be when I’m around you.”
Christ, she thought. This sounds like a line from a very bad chick flick. But she didn�
��t say anything. She just smiled.
Later that night, in her bed, when he rolled off her and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head and squeezing her, she told herself she was being ridiculous to have reservations. Look at this amazing man! Who wouldn’t want a man like this falling madly in love with her!
Perhaps her cynicism was unnecessary. Just because she didn’t believe in love at first sight, that didn’t mean it didn’t exist, and maybe Steve genuinely did feel all that he said he felt. Maybe she was just wary because she’d been through a divorce, was wary of being burned, of giving herself too easily, too fast.
She should count her lucky stars, she knows. There are dozens of divorced women in this town, and postdivorce life is lonely for so many. How lucky to have found a wonderful man, good-looking, successful, unattached and, most importantly, in love with her.
Tonight, though, he is away, and she will confess to missing him, to wishing he was here on her birthday. He can’t help it, she knows, but it seems so sad, to be celebrating her birthday with just Charlie.
They are going to the Greenhouse, and Kit knows Charlie will have organized a cake, will have done something to make it special, but she sees Charlie all the time and she wishes others were coming, to make it feel more of a celebration.
Tracy is busy. Alice is working. Annabel said she has a date, with a guy she met at the grocery store.
“We’ll celebrate with them another time,” Charlie said. “Tonight it’s just you and me.”
Kit finishes her make-up, flips her head upside down and runs her fingers through her hair, then sprays it smooth to make sure it stays that way.
She slips into her black dress, and grabs a bag, glancing in the mirror and thinking what a shame it is she looks so nice when it is only Charlie who will appreciate it. Then she goes out through the door, shutting it firmly behind her.
“SURPRISE! ”
Kit’s eyes widen in shock, and delight. Charlie, Keith, Steve, Adam, Annabel, Tracy, Robert, Edie, Tory and Buckley are all crowding round, hugging and kissing her, in the private room at the Greenhouse.
