She was by the pavilion now, which looked like a beautiful antique bird cage in the dark. It was soothing out here, and thoughts of her mother started to dissolve, until the sight of the Lake House taunted her again.
You have to go and say goodbye, she told herself, downing the flute of champagne she had brought with her.
A tear ran down her cheek as she spotted a light on in the house. She imagined Jim packing, his music on loud. She wondered if he was looking across the lake too, watching the lights of the party and feeling as sad and regretful as she was. She doubted it.
Jim Johnson had a wild and passionate heart – it was one of the things she liked most about him. When he cared, he cared deeply; whether it was about his music, or an opinion, he was prepared to put himself out there. He was not the type of guy to let awkwardness or embarrassment stop him from doing something, unless it was the sort of embarrassment that stemmed from regret.
The moon shimmered across the water and she felt her shoulders sag. She had escaped New York at the beginning of the summer to get some clarity in her life, but now, two months later, things seemed more confused than ever.
‘Hey.’ She heard a voice behind her and turned round, her heart thudding with hope. She was disappointed to see that it was Connor.
‘What are you doing out here?’ She laughed awkwardly.
‘Looking for you,’ he said, taking a step towards her in the pavilion.
The space between them seemed to contract. It was an oppressively hot night, but the air seemed to have been sucked out of the tiny glass building. She felt uncomfortable being in such a close, confined space with him, and pushed her hair back behind her ear.
‘Great party.’
‘My mom would have settled for nothing less,’ she smiled.
‘Marion told me you decorated the terrace yourself. It looks good.’
‘I didn’t think men noticed things like that,’ she teased.
‘Well I did, and I’m proud of you.’
‘I wanted it to look photogenic. I did some filming for the documentary.’
‘About the documentary,’ he said guardedly. ‘I’ve got some news.’
She felt her mood lift. The last time she had been in New York, Connor had told her about his new friends and acquaintances in the city, one of whom was a film editor who had worked on all sorts of exciting projects and had offered to help Jennifer cut her documentary together. She had hours of footage, was happy with the interviews but Bryn Johnson had been right when he had said that without structure and editing, her tapes were just rambling introspection. Jennifer had been thrilled when Connor said he would set up a meeting, and had been waiting all week for at least a name or contact number where she could reach him.
‘Your friend, the editor. Did you speak to him?’ she asked breathlessly.
Connor paused.
‘Well, I spoke to a friend. Another friend.’
‘Is he an editor too?’ she asked. She was aware that the clock was ticking. David Wyatt was already making noises about ending her allowance, and Jennifer planned to enter her film into three competitions whose deadlines were fast approaching.
‘I haven’t even done a rough cut yet, and if your friend can’t help me, then I need to find someone else as quickly as I can.’
Connor took another step forward.
‘Look, Jen. I’m not being funny, but entering festivals is amateur stuff. What you really want is a job in the industry, and I think I’ve just sorted you out.’
She didn’t agree with what he was saying but still felt her brow crease with curiosity.
‘You’ve met David Clarke. On my course; we watched the rowing with him once. His brother Richard owns a production company. Makes very successful short films. Anyway, I mentioned you to him and he wants to talk to you. Thinks he might have something.’
‘What sort of films?’ she asked suspiciously. She had never known Connor to have any friends that worked in the creative industries, and now he seemed to have lots of them.
‘Films,’ he shrugged. ‘For the corporate sector. Did something very interesting recently for one of the big oil companies, some digital presentation as part of their sales prospectus.’
‘Oh,’ she said, feeling herself deflate.
‘What did you expect?’ he said, frowning. ‘An internship with Spielberg? Look, this is where the money is, right here.’ He pointed to the ground for emphasis. ‘Corporate videos. The printed word is dead – within ten years, once this internet thing really takes off, we are all going to consume our information visually. Films, pictures, razzle-dazzle.’