The toughness in his words broke my heart, because I knew he couldn’t possibly mean it.
‘Oh, don’t say that!’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s not true! You must have had some happy times here.’
He sighed and wiped a hand across his face, then held out his arms. I slid into them gratefully, and squeezed him tight. I could feel his lean muscles beneath his thin shirt. We fitted together neatly.
‘Melissa,’ he murmured into my hair. ‘I have more happy memories of the six months I rented that house in Barnes, when I first met you, than I do of six years of owning this place.’
‘Really?’ My heart skipped.
‘Yes, really.’ Jonathan traced his lips along my forehead. ‘That’s when I knew how unhappy I’d been, because being with you made me feel like a different person.’ He held me at arm’s length, so I could look into his eyes and see how serious he was. ‘You woke me up. Those trips round town with you. You know I used to scour guidebooks, trying to find new farmers’ markets and stately home Masonic halls and umbrella shops I could ask you to take me to?’
‘You did?’ I pretended to pout. ‘And I thought you were interested in the history of London!’
‘Well, yeah. That too. But I was more interested in being with you.’
I sank back into his arms. ‘It was a pleasure. Even the Masonic halls.’
‘So the least I can do is return the favour,’ he went on, stroking my hair. ‘And you know what? I think you’ll like New York.’
‘I’m sure I will.’ I pulled away from him. There was something echoing and chilly about the apartment, and it wasn’t the air-conditioning. ‘But, um, can we go back to your new place? It’s not that I don’t like this flat, but . . .’
I looked at him, trying to not say, ‘But I don’t want Cindy hanging over us.’
Jonathan shrugged. ‘Listen, Melissa, I wanted to show you this partly because I wanted you to know what I’m leaving behind. Cindy and I are selling this apartment because neither of us wants to live here. And believe me, there are hundreds of clients on our list who would kill to get in this building. It’s easier to get into Congress than it is to get in here. But I want to move on.’
He fixed me with his special extra-determined look. ‘I want to move on with you.’
My skin tingled with excitement as blood pounded to my extremities. ‘Good,’ I said, trying to appear cooler than I felt. ‘That’s . . . that’s . . . good.’
Jonathan looked at me, his head tilting to one side. ‘Good?’
I opened my mouth again, but I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I was, after all, standing in famous Cindy’s spectacularly appointed kitchen, with bits of American Airline pretzels still lodged in my back molars, and here was Jonathan offering to chuck away this lavish apartment so he could start a whole new life with me. The clammy, jet-lagged woman whose dress was sticking to the back of her thighs.
It was rather overwhelming – in a good way, obviously.
‘British understatement,’ I said. ‘We like to fall back on it in times of . . . astonishment. I mean . . .’ I spread my hands in apology. ‘I’m hardly going to say, “Hurray! You’ve divorced your wife and got shot of your flat!” am I? But, yes, I think it’s for the best that you want to move on. Much healthier.’
Jonathan’s face relaxed. ‘For a moment there I thought you were pissed that I was selling this place.’
‘God, no!’ I spluttered. Then a thought occurred to me. ‘You’re not still living here, are you? I mean, this isn’t your . . .’
His smile increased. ‘No, I’m not. In fact, I’ve already bought somewhere else. Much more your style, I think.’
He picked up my plate and poured the cold cup of coffee down the sink, rinsed them both, and replaced them in the cupboard. ‘I think we’ve spent enough time in this place, don’t you? Let’s get a cab home.’ And he put an arm around my waist and escorted me out of the kitchen, back into the plush reception room, where my small wheelie bag sat, dwarfed by a couple of shoulder-height modern vases.
Home. I liked the sound of that.
8
Jonathan summoned a cab out of the surging traffic with the merest twitch of his hand, and we set off downtown. It was as much as I could do to stop my eyes flicking from side to side at the array of familiar shop names and/or commenting on the powerful air-conditioning now reviving me nicely.
Jonathan, meanwhile, had got straight onto his favourite topic: houses, the acquisition and improvement thereof.
‘It was the quickest deal ever, ever. I just fell in love with this property the moment I walked in the door,’ he was saying, his eyes shining. ‘It never even went on the market – I was meant to be checking it over for an old family friend, but as soon as I saw it, I just thought, I’ve got to have that! So I did!’
‘Really?’ This opportunism sounded somewhat out of character for Jonathan – in fact, it rather smacked of my father’s behaviour – but my attention was temporarily distracted by yet another amazing-looking deli. There were Gaps everywhere. Really big Gaps. I wriggled in my seat with excitement.
‘I wanted something very different from that Upper East Side apartment I had with Cindy,’ he went on. ‘Somewhere I could have a library, and a study, if I wanted, and not have to kowtow to the co-op board whenever I needed to have the plumbing fixed.’
I’m not saying I wasn’t listening, but there was an awful lot to take in, all at once, so I just nodded and carried on trying to fit everything together in my reeling head.
‘It’s quite a different neighbourhood too,’ he said. ‘You know how you used to tell me that London was like a bunch of villages, all joined up? Well, this really is a village. Greenwich Village. It’s kind of like London in some ways.’
I turned to him, and squeezed his hand tighter. We were holding hands in the cab – Jonathan and I shared the same strict rules about what was and wasn’t acceptable on public transport. Anticipation is underrated, in my book. ‘I’m sure I’ll love it.’
‘I hope so,’ he said solemnly, and for a moment he sounded almost nervous.
The neighbourhood was definitely getting less city-like as the streets narrowed and became more residential, with trees shading the pavement between tall Victorian town houses. Passers-by were walking dogs, and sitting outside at table cafés, and generally looking more boho than they had been a moment ago. Boho in an expensive, Notting Hill way, though.
Jonathan indicated for the cab to stop outside a brownstone house, with steps up to a dark green front door. It was second to the end of the street, near a cobbled crossroads, and had a tall tree shading its porch, with ivy curling around the iron handrails, winding down to the basement windows. And, rather prettily, instead of just being a number, the street had a name: Jane Street. I liked that.
‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Home sweet home. Whaddya reckon?’
To be honest, it wasn’t quite what I was expecting of Jonathan’s New York residence. It was really rather old-fashioned and understated. Homely. It reminded me, in fact, of Sesame Street, although I didn’t say this to Jonathan.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I replied and smiled broadly. The hint of nervousness vanished from his eyes and he smiled back, showing his perfect teeth.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you approve.’
While Jonathan was paying the driver, I peered out of the window at the house, preparing myself to step back into the muggy air. Actually, on closer inspection, there was something slightly, well, less tended about this house compared to its neighbours. The paint on the door, for a start, seemed to be bubbling, and the lion’s head knocker was dull.
Jonathan got out and opened my door for me. ‘Quick,’ he said, making flapping gestures with his hands. ‘Let’s get in before the humidity kills you.’
I followed him as he hoisted my bag effortlessly up the steps and turned his key in the lock. The door, I could now confirm, was definitely flaking in places.
‘So,’ he said,
stepping back to let me into the cool, tiled hallway. ‘First impressions?’
‘It’s . . . it’s full of character,’ I said.
It was full of packing cases. And beyond the packing cases, I could see some delightful details: a big fireplace with lovely original tiles in the sitting room, between two long sash windows, and flower-petal mouldings on the ceiling. But the packing cases were pretty much the dominant feature, in the hall at least.
Above that, though, was a light, airy smell of shaded rooms and old wood. It smelled of grandmothers and faded wallpaper and books and dusty lamps. Not an unpleasant smell at all, to my nose, but one that I knew was a sign that the whole place needed doing up. I hoped he wouldn’t do it up too much. And there was another smell too, that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but there was something familiar about it.
‘Excuse the mess,’ Jonathan explained, his footsteps echoing on the tiles as he led the way through into the long sitting room. ‘Not everything’s unpacked, because the designers and the builders wanted to see it as it was. And I’ve been really busy, setting things up in the office. But don’t worry – I’ve got people coming to take care of everything on Monday.’
I stared at his retreating back. ‘Builders?’
‘Ah.’ He stopped, and turned round. He had the grace to look a little sheepish. ‘Well, yes. As you can see there’s a fair amount of work to be done to bring this up to its full potential, and—’
‘You didn’t mention you had builders in,’ I said. ‘When you offered this as a refuge from the building work going on in my own house.’
‘Well . . . it wasn’t my plan,’ said Jonathan, putting his hands on my arms. ‘You’ll hardly notice a thing. They’re going to start at the top and work down, and it’ll be mainly designers for the next few weeks, anyway. The builders won’t be starting for a while. There are several teams of construction guys and architects and lighting people and so on to co-ordinate, so I don’t anticipate any actual hammering for a little while.’
‘I see.’ I looked around. How much had he unpacked? ‘It’s a huge place.’
‘Well, exactly. You’ll never notice they’re here. Want to know what the plan is?’ he said, eyes twinkling with excitement. ‘My architect’s working on converting it into two apartments – one to rent out on the top floor, and the other for us to live in. What do you reckon?’
In a way, it was flattering that he’d even wanted me to interrupt his new house plans. Nothing usually came between Jonathan and an important property. ‘That sounds very clever. How long do you think it’ll take?’ I asked. ‘To get it the way you want?’ I smiled. ‘Now, admit it – was that why you invited me over? So I could manage the project for you? You just wanted the Little Lady Agency services at mates’ rates, didn’t you?’
‘No,’ said Jonathan, not getting the joke. ‘No, not at all. You won’t have to lift a finger. I’ve got the best designers in New York on board, and some great architects. They’re coming up with the plans.’
That, I supposed, was the difference between Nelson and Jonathan: Nelson had agonised over authentic paint colours and appropriate carpets for days, whereas Jonathan was too busy for messing about. He just called in the experts and set them to work.
Still, it would be nice to offer some advice. Somewhere.
‘I’m working on the actual schedule, but I’ve got some really great ideas and it’s just a case of dovetailing the contractors so everything . . .’ He suddenly stopped, and cupped my cheek with his palm. ‘Are you mad? I guess I should have said. But I really wanted you to come over, and I thought I’d have got more done by this stage, and . . . You are mad, aren’t you?’ He stuck his hands in his hair and the smooth effect was instantly ruined as the waves sprang back rebelliously. ‘I should have been more upfront. I apologise,’ he sighed. ‘But I thought you wouldn’t come and I’ve missed you. You wouldn’t believe how I’ve missed you, Melissa.’
Really, he could look so vulnerable. Especially when he apologised in his suit.
‘Oh, Jonathan,’ I said, sliding my arms around his waist. ‘It would take more than a few electricians to stop me coming to see you. Now, please tell me you’ve at least unpacked somewhere for me to sleep?’
His tense face broke into a smile, then went serious again. ‘But of course. You don’t think I’d have been so ill-mannered as to have invited a guest without clearing out a guest room?’
I squeezed him, even though by now I was tingling all over with excitement. It had been quite a while since I’d seen him, if you know what I mean.
‘Guest room?’ I said.
‘That’s right. I even checked with one of your British etiquette books about getting the right flowers, the water vase, the selection of amusing bedside reading.’
For a moment, I wondered if he meant it. He did take my tips about etiquette extraordinarily seriously. I squirmed, not sure if I’d made the right assumptions. We weren’t, after all, living together and he was, in many ways, terribly old-fashioned.
‘But in fact,’ he said, leaning closer, so his lips were right over mine, ‘the master bedroom was the first room I got ready. And I think you’ll prefer it.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ I murmured, my eyes closed, totally forgetting how sticky I still was after the flight, as his familiar smell came closer and closer, and I felt his breath on my skin.
Just as he was about to kiss me, a frenzied howling and scrabbling tore through the air, making me jump so hard I accidentally head-butted Jonathan’s nose.
‘What the hell is that?’ I yelped as the howling increased to a deafening pitch, accompanied by the sound of wood being attacked.
Jonathan clutched his face. ‘That’s my new flatmate,’ he said, with enough venom to be heard through his cupped hands.
‘Your what?’
‘Blame Cindy,’ he said heavily, and, taking my hand, he led me through the sitting room, which I now saw held a couple of distressed leather sofas and some stacks of books, through to the kitchen.
The howling got louder as we approached the back door.
‘Jonathan, what on earth is it?’ I demanded, mentally picturing a Labrador or a boxer, at least. So that’s what I’d smelled: eau de hound.
‘Stand back,’ he warned, and undid his cufflinks, folding back his pristine cuffs to his elbows. Then he rotated his shoulders, braced one foot against the door, and turned back to me. ‘I mean it, honey. Get back behind the table.’
‘Oh, Jonathan, don’t be . . . OK.’ Seeing the look on his face, I moved aside one of the dining chairs and stood behind the table.
‘Right,’ he said, more to himself than me, then yanked open the door.
A flash of white shot out like a furry bullet and, with superb timing, Jonathan managed to snatch it by the collar with one hand, and the rear end with the other, scooping it up into the air like a rugby ball.
I don’t know who was more surprised: me or the dog.
On balance, probably the dog, since it stopped barking for three seconds, long enough for me to see that rather than being the Hound of the Baskervilles, it was actually a West Highland terrier, roughly the size of my overnight bag. And when it stopped barking, it forgot to put its tongue back in, which made it look exactly like the loo-roll cover the matron had in the sick-bay lavatory at school. Pom-poms for its head and ears and everything.
‘Good Lord,’ I said, trying not to laugh.
Obviously, it was one of those dogs who responded poorly to owner amusement, and it threw its head back and went into a deafening yapping of complaint.
‘Shut up! Shut up!’ yelled Jonathan helplessly.
‘What’s it called?’ I shouted.
‘Braveheart!’ shouted Jonathan, as if it pained him to say it aloud. ‘I didn’t choose the name. Get the dog food out of the fridge!’
I opened and closed appliances until I came to the fridge. There wasn’t much in there, apart from some milk, some bottles of champagne and a plastic takeaway box.
‘I can’t see anything!’ I shouted back over the sound of indignant barking.
‘The box,’ yelled Jonathan. ‘It’s the box of stuff.’
I pulled out the plastic container, confused. ‘But this is takeaway, isn’t it? There’s pasta in here and everything. Are you sure it’s not—’
‘Braveheart has a dietician,’ he roared. ‘Now if you look in the cupboard next to you, there’s a dog bowl.’
I opened the cupboard. It was empty, apart from what looked suspiciously like a porcelain soup plate.
Now, I know my mother was a bit daft about her ghastly animals, but this was really ridiculous. It had a crest on it. In gold leaf.
‘Jonathan, you can’t be . . .’ I stared at him, as he and Braveheart tussled with each other. ‘Darling, stop shaking the dog,’ I added, before I could stop myself. ‘It won’t help.’
‘I’m not shaking him,’ said Jonathan through gritted teeth. ‘He’s shaking me.’
Braveheart turned his pompom head and snarled in my direction, as if to say, ‘Make it snappy with the food, woman.’
Hastily, I tipped the contents of the plastic box into the bowl and set it down on the floor, by the huge stainless-steel swing-top bin.
Jonathan let go of the dog, which catapulted himself across the kitchen floor, skidding only momentarily on the tiles, before sinking his nose into the dish of aromatic pasta verdi.
‘It’s Cindy’s dog, she got him while we were still going to counselling, she thought it might bring us together,’ Jonathan explained rapidly, taking advantage of the temporary silence, broken only by the sound of slurping, and a china bowl being scraped round the floor. ‘Other people have babies to patch up their relationship, but Cindy couldn’t timetable a hospital stay into her development programme at work, plus she, quote, “resented the penalty of stretch marks”, unquote, so we got a West Highland terrier. He’s got a longer pedigree than I have and his ancestors belonged to Queen Victoria’s mother’s companion.’