‘When I told my mate I was dating a forty-year-old, she warned me there’d be baggage, but I didn’t realise it would be a whole rucksack full of love for the one that got away.’
‘You’re being too emotional,’ said Jim, trying to sound firm. ‘We’ve had a drink, we’re at a wedding. Right now everyone is feeling a bit inadequate compared to the great love that is Justin and Ashley.’ He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.
‘Sarah, you know I think you’re amazing . . .’ he said softly.
‘I do. I’m just not Jennifer Wyatt.’
He couldn’t deny it any more. She deserved a lot more than platitudes. Another shift in the tension, and a soft, resigned solidarity shimmered between them. Sarah Huxley really was an amazing woman, he thought sadly.
‘Tell her how you feel,’ she said, looking out across the Hudson.
‘She’s married,’ he reminded her.
‘To an absolute tosser who’s shagging around behind her back. Look, Jim. I’ve seen the way you two are together and I feel like a spare part whenever I’m with you both. Why do you think I always try and put off seeing her with you? But I’m not finishing with you for you not to do anything about this. That way we’ll all end up bloody miserable.’
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s her business, she’s got to work it out herself.’
‘Grow a set of fucking balls, Jim. You can fly to the Caribbean tomorrow to negotiate with a gangster but you can’t tell the woman you love how you feel about her. I know about the backstory, I know why she chose Connor in the first place, and if she still can’t see what’s in front of her eyes, if she still says no, if she wants to stay with that dick-swinging Gordon Gekko, then so be it. But at least you’ll know once and for all. At least if you tell her, you’ll be able to finally move on.’
Jim felt stunned into silence.
‘Just go, Jim. Just go and do it,’ she said, her voice hardening. ‘I spoke to her at Pilates on Thursday. She’s going to be at some art dinner at the Met this evening.’
Jim took her hand and spun her round and put his arms around her. As she looked up at him, her eyes were sparkling with tears.
‘Don’t go feeling sorry for me. I have enough of that from this lot thinking I’m dating Grandad. Now go on, piss off. If you make my mascara run, I’ll have no option but to set Bryony on you.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
He left the wedding and stepped out on to the deserted street. As he raised his hand for a cab, there was a roll of thunder like a portent, fat droplets stippling the sidewalk. He waved both arms like a man drowning, but car after car hissed past.
He thought about Sarah’s words. Settling, not settling down: that was what Jennifer had done with Connor. He’d been a coward back then, leaving Jennifer to her grief and a consolation relationship with Connor. As for Jennifer herself, she’d said she’d have made the same choice, picked Connor if Jim had come back for her, but what if he’d made her braver; made her face her fears and guilt and demons? Made her choose love not death?
Finally a taxi stopped. He jumped in and directed it to New York’s famous museum. The rain was sheeting down as it stopped outside the wide expanse of marble steps. Jim lifted his jacket over his head to protect himself from the weather.
Security was on the door.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, wondering how difficult it would be to get in. A couple in cocktail attire were running down the wet steps. The woman slipped and Jim caught hold of her hand.
‘Thank you.’ She squinted through the rain.
‘I need to get in there. I need to tell someone how much I love them. I don’t suppose you still have your invitation on you?’ he grinned, his hair sticking to his forehead like glue.
Her companion put his hand into the pocket of his dinner jacket and pulled out a stiff white piece of card.
‘Good luck, pal,’ he laughed, and they ran off to get a taxi.
Jim rubbed the top of his head to shake off the excess moisture. People were already leaving, huddling under umbrellas as he ran up the steps, waving his invitation at a pair of disinterested security guards.
Pushing against the tide of people, he threaded his way into the high marble hall. Please don’t let her have left. He scanned the crowd, looking for her but seeing only dowdy women and men in dark suits.
Then his heart skipped a beat as he spotted her across the room. Her dress was bronze, shimmering. She was smiling as someone in a dinner jacket talked animatedly to her, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
This wasn’t Jennifer, he realised; it never had been. He could vividly remember her running barefoot by the creek. The smear of dirt on her cheek, the scratches along her ankles from brambles. Had it not been for her mother’s death, Jim felt sure that she wouldn’t have ended up leading a life like this.
She was as tall as many of the men in the room, and as her eyes drifted away from her acquaintance, they locked with Jim’s across the heads of the thinning crowd. He nervously flattened his wet hair and started weaving through the guests to get to her.
‘Jim. What are you doing here?’