“He’s going to call,” she says, “and you’re going home in just over seven weeks. It’s nothing. It will pass in a flash. Now,” she says looking at her watch, “how about a celebratory brunch?”
“Perfect,” I say. “I’m starving.”
We go to the Broadway Deli and I dive into french toast and bacon and strawberries, and it’s delicious and we go over every detail all over again, and I feel as if I’m bathed in love, as if everyone’s looking at me with envy because I am a woman in love and they wish they were me.
And then afterwards we get some Ben & Jerry’s frozen yogurt and some old videos from Blockbuster and we spend the rest of the afternoon and evening watching our favorite love stories, and I try to concentrate, I really do, but I’m trying not to jump every time I hear a noise because it might be the phone, except it’s not, and by 10 P.M. I’m looking at my watch and starting to feel slightly sick because it’s six o’clock in the morning at home and I know, I just know, that with the time difference he must have been home for ages now, and even if his luggage took forever to come through, and even if it took hours to get through customs he would still be home and he hasn’t called.
And by midnight I feel the last shreds of happiness drift away from me and I think I’m going to cry.
“Anything could have happened,” says Lauren, finishing off the last of her tub of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. “The flight might have been delayed, he might have had to work. Don’t worry, he’ll call.” But I do worry and I am worried, and even though I know this morning I said that it wouldn’t matter if I never saw him again, that the one night with him would last me the rest of my life, I know that’s not true, and I know that the pain that suddenly attacks me like a knife is something I’m going to have to learn to live with, because he hasn’t called, and he won’t call, and this is how it’s going to be for the rest of my life.
A week later I’m still trying to learn to live with the pain. Sure, I’m putting on a brave face, trying to get on with my life. I don’t go to the gym anymore, but I go out with Lauren, pretend to have a good time, and then every morning when I wake up the first thing I think is, something’s wrong, what is it? And then I remember and the black clouds descend and the bloody things follow me around until the next morning.
You’d think I’d find some peace at night, fast asleep, but even there the pain’s still present. I dream about Ben. Constantly. A mixture of memories and surreal fantasy, and, without wishing to sound overdramatic, I think I understand what it’s like to be bereaved, to lose someone you love with all your heart, to know there’s no possibility of ever seeing them again.
Brad was bad. That whole Brad and Jenny thing was bad. But it was nothing, nothing, compared to this. A mere drop in the ocean of grief I now feel every moment of the day, and there are days when I don’t want to get up at all, I just want to lie in bed and drift into nothingness, just get it all over with.
Ben Williams cannot believe he has been so stupid. He cannot believe that the scrap of paper on which Jemima had scrawled her number and address is lost. He cannot believe that he has no way of getting in touch with her. He’s left countless messages at Brad’s, but he assumes they haven’t been passed on because they haven’t been returned. He phoned Geraldine, but the only number she had for her was at Brad’s, and Sophie and Lisa weren’t much use either. He even tried the editor at the Kilburn Herald, but he was more interested in moaning about Jemima’s missing copy, and again she hadn’t been in touch to tell him she’d moved.
Ben’s been through his clothes, his bags, his cases with a fine-tooth comb, but he can’t find the bloody thing at all.
And although he’s only been back a week, he’s been thinking about Jemima Jones. A lot. In the middle of a broadcast he’ll suddenly lose his train of thought as a picture will flash up in his mind of Jemima’s face as she looked trustingly into his eyes when he pulled her on top of him. Or he’ll suddenly remember the feel of her skin when he’s in a meeting with the production team.
And there are times, late at night, every night, when he just wants to hear her voice, and he keeps hoping that she’ll call him, she’ll realize something’s wrong, but the phone doesn’t ring, and when it does it’s not her. Eventually Ben—and who would have thought the divine Ben Williams had an ounce of insecurity within—starts to worry that maybe, for Jemima, it was just a one-night stand. Maybe she doesn’t care about him at all. Maybe she’s met someone else.
When a week goes by and he hasn’t heard from her and he hasn’t been able to get in touch, he tells Richard about her. He tells him against his better judgment, for Richard, as we know, is not the best person to tell your troubles to.
“She could call you,” says Richard. “Let’s face it, Ben, she knows where you work and all she has to do is pick up the phone. You should just leave it as a brilliant one-night stand and get on with your life.”
“Hmm,” says Ben, who sees a grain of truth in what Richard just said. After all, Jemima could call him, and she hasn’t, so maybe he should just forget about it.
“Oh no,” says Richard, looking at Ben intensely.
“What’s the matter?” Ben asks in alarm.
“You’re not? You can’t be?”
“What?”
“You’re bloody in love with her aren’t you?”
“Absolutely not.” Ben shakes his head.
“You are. I recognize the signs.”
“I’m not,” says Ben. “No way,” and he looks at his watch. “I’ve gotta go,” he says, standing up. “I’m doing an interview with the Daily Mail.”
“What? Another interview?”
Ben sighs. “I know. After the last one I thought I’d done enough, but you’ve got to keep that publicity ball rolling.”
“Don’t tell them anything,” says Richard dramatically.
“No,” says Ben firmly. “I won’t.”
But Ben can’t quite help himself. The journalist is so nice, a warm, caring middle-aged woman to whom Ben immediately wanted to open his heart, and before he knows it he tells her far more than he should.
“Please don’t put that stuff in about not being able to find her,” he pleads, as he says goodbye. “That’s off the record.”
“Don’t worry,” she says laying a reassuring hand on his arm. “You can trust me.”
Ben refuses to think about this for the rest of the evening. How could he, when all he can think about is Jemima Jones and how to find her.
I wasn’t going to phone anyone at home. I didn’t want anyone to know what happened, and I knew that if I dared call anyone to tell them I’d moved, they’d want to know why, and I haven’t got the strength to tell people about Brad, about Jenny and, mostly, about Ben.
But a week is a bloody long time when your heart has broken, and Lauren, great as she has been, is starting to get on my nerves. She doesn’t mean to, she’s lovely, it’s just that sometimes I want to be on my own, to just sit and reflect on the one perfect night of my life, on the future I could have had if Ben had called me, but she won’t leave me alone, and I know she’s trying to cheer me up but sometimes the jokes wear a bit thin, that’s all.
And then, finally, it becomes too much. I have to talk to someone who knows Ben. Someone who can tell me what to do. Someone who might, just might, know what he’s thinking, why he hasn’t called.
“Geraldine? It’s me.”
“Jemima Jones! Am I glad you called. Where the hell have you been?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“I most certainly am. What on earth is going on there?”
“Oh God, Geraldine. It’s awful. I don’t know where to start.”
“At the beginning,” she says quietly, so I do. I tell her about Brad, and Jenny, and Lauren, and food, and everything. And then, eventually, I tell her about Ben.
“But he called me!” she says, not even waiting for me to finish describing my pain. “I knew there was something up because I hadn’t spoken to him
since he left. He phoned last week to see if I had your number. Jemima, you idiot! He must have lost your number. Why the hell didn’t you call me sooner?”
“He called you?” Slowly, slowly, my heart starts piecing itself back together again. “He called you?”
“Yes! Last week! I knew from his voice that something had happened. I just knew it.”
“What did he say? Tell me exactly what he said.”
“He didn’t tell me anything, he just said he’d seen you in Los Angeles and he meant to call you to thank you but he couldn’t find your number.”
“What should I do? Should I call him? Oh God, Geraldine, I just want to come home.”
“So why don’t you?”
“I can’t,” I moan. “It’ll cost me $954 plus tax to change my flight and I’ve run out of money.”
“Did you tell Ben that?”
“How could I? I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me, so I just said I was stuck out here writing the column.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Jemima. Why didn’t you tell him the truth?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “Would it have made any difference?”
“I don’t know,” she echoes. “But I’m planning to find out.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Just leave it to me,” she says firmly.
“What? Tell me. Shall I ring him?”
“No,” she says. “Absolutely not. You just sit tight and let me sort it out.”
“Geraldine, please don’t say I haven’t got the money to come home. Anyway, he’s probably changed his mind by now.”
“Jemima, if it was as incredible as you say it was, he won’t have changed his mind. Trust me. I know men.” And I breathe a sigh of relief because no one knows men better than Geraldine.
“JJ? I forgot to tell you, a letter came for you this morning.” Lauren dumps the shopping on the kitchen table.
“Hmm? Where is it?”
“I left it on the coffee table.” Lauren comes out and lifts a magazine to reveal a large brown envelope with a London postmark. My heart stops as she hands it to me but it’s not from Ben. It’s Geraldine. I’d know that writing anywhere.
I tear open the envelope and pull out a newspaper clipping and a compliments slip.
Jemima Jones! As usual Auntie Geraldine has come to the rescue, and I’m sorry, I know you didn’t want me to tell Ben about being stuck out there but I had to. Plus, it gave me a chance to call him a stupid bastard which I’ve been dying to do for years!!! (no offense . . .)
Anyway, I don’t think you’ll mind once you’ve opened this envelope, and it’s not from me, it’s from Ben, AND, I think you’ll find the enclosed interesting reading!!! (I certainly did . . .) Lucky, lucky you!! Things still going great guns with me and Nick, will tell you all when I see you. Soon. Very soon. Ha! Loads of love and kisses, Geraldine. xxxxxxxxxx
I’m smiling because I can almost hear Geraldine speak, and then I read it again and I wonder why Geraldine’s written to me, why not Ben, and, if the clipping that’s attached is from Ben and not her, why did she bother writing at all, and oh my God, I don’t feel too good about this and that small light at the end of the tunnel starts getting smaller, so I pick up the clipping and then I have to sit down very quickly.
“What is it?” says Lauren, sitting next to me, so I start to read it out loud, haltingly, disbelievingly.
“ ‘Ben Williams is cagey on the subject of love,’ ” I read. “ ‘He’s “had his fingers burned,” as he puts it, and doesn’t want to reveal who it is. But millions of women will be devastated to hear that the gorgeous presenter of London Nights has fallen in love. “She’s an old friend,” reveals Williams, “whom I hadn’t seen for a while, and then we met up recently and we became more than friends. I don’t think I even knew it was love until we were apart, and now I’m just killing time until she comes home.” So who is this mystery woman of his? “No one famous,” he laughs. “Her name’s Jemima Jones.” ’ ”
I start shaking. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, and neither of us speaks, I think Lauren’s as shocked as I am. After a while Lauren frowns and picks up the envelope, and, instead of putting it in the bin, she looks inside, smiles, and then gives it to me. I look at her, then feel the envelope, and there’s something else in there, and when I pull it out I see something that looks suspiciously like a plane ticket, and why has Geraldine sent me a plane ticket? And then I notice there’s writing on the cover and I remember that writing, and it says, “Come home. I miss you. Ben.” And I know why Ben and Geraldine met up, and I know that this was probably Geraldine’s idea because it’s so typical of her and I don’t care, and Ben misses me and he wants me to come home.
And slowly I look closely at the ticket and I gasp when I read it’s a one-way flight from LAX to Heathrow for the day after tomorrow. The day after tomorrow! I’m going home!
“See?” says Lauren, throwing her arms around me and hugging me tightly. “I knew he’d come through for you.”
“He has,” I whisper, as the tears start rolling down my face. “He has.”
Chapter 32
And so here I am, suitcases in hand, not to mention of course the Louis Vuitton vanity case, and thank God I made it through customs—not that I have anything to hide, I just always feel so damn guilty walking through there, and, as I pile the cases on a cart and wheel it out to the waiting crowds of people, I know just how much I’ve missed London.
“ ’Scuse.” A young woman pushes past me and rushes up to her waiting friends, and I never thought I’d be so pleased to hear a British accent.
Ben, I know, won’t be waiting, because I phoned him before I left, in a fit of nerves and excitement, gushing my thanks at his generosity while he apologized profusely, told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me, and said he just wanted to be with me. With me!
My Ben. Back home. I still can’t quite believe that in just a few hours’ time I’ll be seeing him. I know I’ll be jet lagged to hell by the time I actually walk in, but I also know that the adrenaline of seeing him will keep me going well into the night.
But, amazingly enough, even though it’s all I’ve been thinking about since I got the plane ticket—seeing him again—I still managed to sleep on the plane. I suppose I was exhausted from all the emotional trauma, but nevertheless I abided by Geraldine’s advice and spritzed my face, covered myself with moisturizer, and fell fast asleep until I was woken by the stewardess placing a breakfast tray in front of me.
And I realize now there aren’t many things I’ll miss about Los Angeles, although I will miss Lauren. She drove me to the airport, and we hugged for ages while she cried and kept asking what she would do without me. I felt like crying too, but my excitement at coming home was stronger than the sadness at leaving Lauren, so I just hugged her back tightly, told her she’d be fine, and made her promise to keep in touch.
And I do think she’ll be fine, because she’s a survivor. She still says she’s planning to come home, but I’m not so sure. She and Bill seem to be going strong, and I’ve got a feeling she may well stay out there after all, but either way she’s sworn she’ll be back, even if it’s just for a holiday, and I want her to meet Ben, and Geraldine, to see how happy I am in the place I belong.
And the funny thing is I’ve realized that Lauren and I aren’t so different after all. That I’m a survivor too; that the experiences I’ve had over the last few months would surely have broken someone weaker than me. It’s not that I feel terribly strong on the surface, but I know, as an absolute certainty, that deep down I have an amazing reserve of strength, which all in all is pretty comforting really.
Although standing here, looking for the taxi sign, I’m not feeling that strong. And I know it’s only been six weeks, but I’m not even sure where I belong anymore. I know my home’s in London, but I feel that I can’t take steps backwards, go back to the life I had before. I assumed I’d go back to living with Sophie and Lisa, and in many
ways I was dreading it, that really would have felt like moving backwards, but luckily that’s changed too.
I phoned them last night, thinking that perhaps I’d just stay there until I found somewhere else, and—stupidly, I know—I was surprised, and slightly disappointed, when Sophie said a friend of Lisa’s was staying in the room, and that they’d put my things under the stairs. They weren’t expecting me back for ages, and they were really sorry but they couldn’t kick this girl out.
I know it’s a good thing, but I panicked for a few minutes, until I rang Geraldine, who once again came to my rescue. She’s moved into her new flat, which, needless to say, is “absolutely gorgeous,” and the spare room, she said, would be perfect for me.
“But what about Nick?” I asked.
“What about him?” she laughed. “You won’t mind if he stays here sometimes, will you? Plus, you’ll have Ben, and just think Jemima, we’ll have the most amazing time. I’d love to have you as a roommate, it’s going to be brilliant. I can run out to Habitat this afternoon and get some curtains, and then the room’s done. It’s yours.”
How could I argue with her?
I clutch the piece of paper with Geraldine’s new address, and get in line for a taxi, loving the fact that the cabs that are slowly lining up and pulling away are so familiar, so solid, that they are London, that they, more than anything else, tell me I’m home.
And I wait in line until finally it’s my turn to climb into the cab, and as it pulls out of the airport I rest my head against the window and watch the lights on the motorway whizzing past, and the closer we get to home, the more excited I start to feel.
This is a whole new start, Jemima Jones. A whole new chapter: mine to write however I choose. And the first step is not going back to the Kilburn Herald. If Ben can do it, so can I. I’m going to fulfill that dream, work on a glossy magazine, and that’s just the beginning. Once upon a time this would have terrified me, but now I can’t wait to get started, to set off on a new journey, this time surrounded by people I love, who love me in return.