He could hear music now coming from the house. Glancing around to check that he wasn’t being watched, he moved closer, stopping at the rear entrance – the wooden walkway where Connor had left his paddleboard that morning. Now he had an uninterrupted view across the pool to the back of the house. And there, backlit in all his glory, was Connor Gilbert, wrapped in a robe, a glass in one hand, apparently dancing to an old Dire Straits song.
‘Idiot,’ Jim muttered, imagining the look of shock and panic on Connor’s face when he knocked on the window.
He had just reached the decking when he froze. Jennifer had walked into view, her back to the window. He gasped: she was wearing only black lingerie, with panties that barely covered her buttocks. She came up behind Connor and put her arms around him, undoing his robe and pulling it off his shoulders. He turned, grinning, kissing her bare shoulder as she tossed her dark hair.
It was painful to watch, but Jim couldn’t take his eyes off them. Connor was unclipping her bra now and lifting her on to the table. She lay back, her legs parting instinctively, and Connor stepped closer, disappearing almost from view between her thighs. Jim watched the top of his head moving in a slow, intimate rhythm. The music drowned any other noise, but Jim could imagine Jennifer’s soft moans of pleasure as her husband’s tongue dipped inside her.
He missed a breath as he realised how badly he’d misjudged everything. He had always found some consolation in the idea that Jennifer didn’t really love Connor. They were a couple thrown together by circumstance, bound by guilt and convention.
But here they were now, fucking on a table like young lovers. Jim shifted his position to keep out of view, a voice in his head telling him that he should just leave. Jennifer was climaxing now, arching on the table, her head tipping back in urgent desire, hair cascading like a waterfall. And it was then that he noticed something, and a sick, heavy feeling welled in his stomach. As Connor withdrew himself, his wife coiled upwards to a sitting position, then slid off the table and turned round to face the beach, snaking her arms upwards to stretch out her naked post-coital body. And Jim knew for certain that the woman he was watching was not Jennifer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Justin and Ashley were getting married, and Jim had been invited as Sarah’s plus one. The ceremony itself had been at three o’clock at City Hall, with the guests transported to the reception in Williamsburg in a fleet of beaten-up pickup trucks that reminded him of his old mode of transport in Savannah. Sitting on a hay bale with a dozen beautiful, bohemian-looking guests, Jim enjoyed the sun on his face as they crossed Brooklyn Bridge. He put his sunglasses on as he watched the bride and groom kissing on the opposite bale, grinning at how blissfully happy they looked. Justin had grown his beard for the occasion, and in waistcoat, tweed trousers and boots he reminded Jim of an Amish potato farmer. His bride, a picture of lovely simplicity in a long floaty cream gown and floral crown, was unable to take her eyes off her new husband. Jim found himself hoping that he too could be that happy one day.
‘Wow, look at this place,’ said Sarah when they arrived at the reception venue. It was an enormous loft stretching the entire length of the warehouse building. There were twinkling fairy lights everywhere, and long tables dressed with white linen, seasonal blooms and tea lights in Mason jars that spilled more soft light about the stark industrial space.
‘I didn’t think a hipster wedding would be so tasteful,’ whispered Jim, gazing around the cavernous room.
‘What were you expecting?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe something a little less conventional. More craft beer, less champagne,’ he said, letting a waiter serve him a glass of ice-cold Moët.
‘Well, you did come by pickup truck.’
‘I was hoping for a skateboard.’
‘Well, the speeches have apparently been dispensed with. That’s left-field. Instead we’re being invited to view a photo montage on the mezzanine.’
‘A photo montage?’
‘A visual expression of their love for each other and everyone involved in the wedding.’
They both giggled and looked for where they were sitting. Jim found his name written on a square of brown recycled cardboard, which also contained instructions to ‘post pictures of our wedding to #ashandjustietheknot’. He wondered who he would be sitting next to for the next two hours and glanced at the surrounding names. He didn’t recognise any of them, and felt weary at the prospect of having to be perky and sociable. At least
the drink was flowing freely, he thought, taking another glass of fizz.
In the event, they had Patrick and Bryony and Alex and Joanna for company. They were all around Sarah’s age. Conversation was the Brooklyn equivalent of house prices and schools; Patrick and Bryony told them at great length about their own wedding, being held in a barn in upstate New York in three weeks’ time. Bryony gave Sarah a Pinterest link in case she was interested in their inspiration.
As the day went on, and their farm-to-table main course turned to dairy-free dessert, Jim found himself wishing that he was somewhere else. It was a lovely wedding, and he was genuinely happy for Ashley and Justin, but surrounded by happy – dare he say it, smug – couples, he couldn’t help thinking of Connor and Jennifer’s relationship. It had been three days since he had seen Connor and the unknown woman in flagrante, and he still hadn’t worked out what to do about it. The only thing he knew with absolute certainty was that Jennifer did not deserve to be treated like that.
But what was the alternative? If he told her that Connor was having an affair, it would look suspiciously peevish after their heart-to-heart at the townhouse. And could Jennifer cope with the idea of Connor and another woman? ‘Connor loves me. Connor looks after me.’ These were ideas she held on to like a talisman; was it better for her not to know?
‘So is this a trend or something?’ smiled Jim, reclining in his chair as coffee was served. He was glad of the caffeine, knew he needed it to sober up. He hadn’t had lunch, and his cashew milk smoothie breakfast, whipped up by Sarah that morning, had done little to soak up the alcohol.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Bryony, fiddling with her fiancé’s ear lobe.
‘Getting married in your twenties.’
‘Why do you say that?’ said Bryony with bemusement.
‘You guys, Ashley and Justin . . . When I was twenty-seven, I was still chasing girls around nightclubs.’
‘I thought you were doing that until you met me,’ laughed Sarah, settling her arm over the back of his chair.
Bryony smiled thinly and touched Patrick on the forearm, her gratitude at having dodged men like Jim Johnson obvious to see.
‘You two aren’t married, I take it,’ said Alex, putting his chocolate dinner mint to one side.