‘What for?’ she asked, slipping off her coat.
‘The letter I sent you about Casa D’Or. It was a bit formal.’
‘I was just as bad.’ She smiled sadly.
‘Yes, you were.’
‘It was business.’
‘Yes, it was,’ said Jim, determined to keep his poise.
The waitress returned with their drinks: a bottle of beer for Jim and a glass of white wine for Jennifer.
‘I’ve stayed in a couple of Omari hotels before,’ she said finally. ‘I had no idea you worked for them. What happened to wanting to be a musician?’
‘That was never going to happen. Besides, I like what I do now.’
‘Which is what?’
‘I buy and develop properties for the Omari group. Not quite pushed through to the board yet, but I’m getting there,’ he said, sitting straighter in his seat.
‘How long have you been doing that?’
‘Fifteen years. I put in a couple of years at J. P. Morgan first. Joined Omari just as Simon Desai was looking to expand his Indian hotels into a global chain.’
‘You were in banking?’ she said, raising one eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ he said defensively.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘What?’ he asked quickly.
She smiled slowly and looked down at the table. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think that’s the way you’d go.’
‘Where did you think I’d go?’ he said. Her last words to him were ringing in his head as if they’d been spoken yesterday: Just go back to England, Jim. It was an instant dampener on his mood. When he thought about how she’d ended their relationship, he felt as sick and mugged as he had done twenty years earlier.
He’d been willing to give up everything for Jennifer Wyatt – his family, his friends, his life in England – but when it came to the crunch, she had only ever been having fun, playing with his emotions. For weeks afterwards he’d tortured himself with thoughts of what might have happened if Sylvia Wyatt hadn’t died that night, but the truth was that Jennifer had already made her decision. She’d picked money and prospects over whatever it was Jim Johnson could or could not offer.
He’d returned to England, summer had faded into autumn, and although he’d felt wretched, he had returned to UCL for his final year, swearing off women, the Students’ Union, anything remotely resembling fun. He had found a strange and reassuring solace in work, and nine months later, in possession of a high 2:1 degree, all that hurt, yearning and rejection morphed into pure ambition. He won an entry-level position at one of the City’s top banks, and was never going to be rebuffed again.
‘I travel the world, I get to stay in fantastic hotels, play golf, go skiing, try out minibars – all in the name of work,’ he said expansively as he traced her expression for any sign of guilt or regret.
‘It’s worked out well for you,’ she said softly.
‘So far, so good,’ he said, swirling the beer around the bottle. ‘What about you?’ he added, looking at her more directly.
She gave a gentle laugh.
‘What?’ said Jim kindly.
‘Nothing,’ she said with a wave of her hand. ‘It’s just a forty thing. Wondering what I’ve done with my life, what I’m going to do with my life . . .’
Jim wanted to tell her that from this angle it looked as if she had done pretty well for herself. Of course he’d Googled the address that Marion Wyatt had given him, Street Viewed it in fact. He had worked in property long enough to recognise twenty million dollars’ worth of real estate when he saw it.
‘Forty is the new twenty-five. Look at me, moving to New York.’
‘You were always going to be brilliant,’ she said, not taking her eyes off his.