A Most Desirable Marriage (10 page)

Travis smiled at her. It was such a tender smile, her heart contracted. Is that more pity, she wondered. Please, just go away, leave me alone before I make a total fool of myself and do something I’ll probably regret and you certainly will, she muttered silently. But she found herself smiling back. And that night, when he got back from an evening out with Nicky and his new girlfriend, she was still up.

*

Frances Gillard sat next to her in the conference room. The large glass table stretched away from them as they perched at one end on the padded black chairs.

‘Thought we ought to touch base about the new outline.’

Frances was intimidatingly elegant. In her forties, with shoulder-length auburn hair always smooth and shining and perfectly cut, she power-dressed in tailored suits and blouses in muted navy, stone, white, accompanied by toe-crushing, spine-damaging heels that elevated her five feet to a passable height. But once you’d got past her appearance, her gutsy laugh and no-bullshit take on life made her surprisingly approachable. Jo felt lucky to have her as her editor, but with her confidence at rock bottom, she’d been dreading this morning’s meeting.

In front of them on the table were two printouts of Jo’s proposal.

Frances smoothed the paper with her small manicured hand. ‘I felt the premise was good, Joanna. I just worry that not enough happens. I think we need a twist or two to really make it zing.’

Jo’s heart sank. ‘Does it have to be complicated? I wanted to do a book with a single thread, keep it really clear. Surely it’s twist enough to have all these relationships with boys and girls turning out to be fantasy . . . all in his mind?’

‘Hmm, yes . . . but I thought perhaps we could include an online predator scene? A groomer? Make it really current. What do you think?’

‘Not a bad idea,’ Jo said. ‘But I’ve just been re-reading a Georgette Heyer –
These Old Shades
. Her stories are so simple. No sudden twists, no reveals, just a good honest narrative well told.’

‘Yes, love her. But she was writing, what, eighty, ninety years ago?’

‘Her books still sell.’

‘They do, because she’s a classic, iconic.’

‘I reckon it’s because she has brilliant characters and tells a great tale.’

Frances’s frown said it all. ‘It’s all changed, though, hasn’t it? We’re in the grip of Marketing now. A good tale isn’t enough any more. There has to be a hook.’ She gave Jo a wry smile. ‘Gotta keep up.’

Is this a dig at my age? Jo wondered, shocked. ‘Of course. Anyway, I like your idea, the groomer one,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ll work it in.’

‘Great and if you can think of anything else, you know, to spice it up a bit . . . these are teenagers, they have a very short attention span. We must keep ’em guessing.’

‘Do you want to see another outline, or shall I get on with it?’

‘Just ping it over when you’ve got something and I’ll cast a quick eye. But I think we know where we’re going now.’ Frances glanced down at her phone and sighed. ‘Sorry, must run. Thanks so much for coming in, Joanna. I’m thrilled we’ve got an agreement on this. I really like your work, as you know.’

Jo trailed out of the massive glass structure, stalling at the turnstile in the foyer, which was activated by the card she’d been given on arrival. Without her reading glasses – which were buried in the bottom of her bag – she couldn’t see where to place it and had to summon the help of the security guard, making her feel exactly like the person Donna had evoked: the bent old bag in a cardie.

She pulled out her phone and dialled Maggie’s number.

‘It went well I think. She wanted “twists” and “zing” and “spice” as usual, but she seemed to think the outline worked in theory.’

‘Good. So we’re on track. Well done. And although the money’s rubbish, think of all those lovely royalties.’

Jo wasn’t comforted, given that it would take her six months to write and another year to publish and God knows how long to sell and be paid any hard cash. She was looking down the barrel of two years at least earning only a few thousand pounds.

‘Now I’ve got to write it,’ she said.

Maggie laughed. ‘That’s the general idea.’

Jo forced a laugh too, but the thought of the blank white document on her computer waiting for her narrative pearls filled her with dread. She’d done no writing at all since Lawrence left three months ago, beyond the thousand-word outline. And for the first time in her life she had no desire to do so. It had been such a compelling part of her world ever since she could remember. A way to exorcise the demons of her childhood, cathartic and soothing to her psyche – she lost herself for hours while she was writing. But she hadn’t written about Lawrence. Not a line.

‘Frances thinks I’m too old for the job.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘She said we’ve got to “keep up” . . . with the marketing aspect of publishing. Marketing rules the world.’

There was a puzzled silence on the other end of the phone. ‘OK. Well, that’s not exactly the same thing as saying you’re too old for the job, is it? She probably just meant we all have to keep an eye on marketing. Which is true these days.’

‘I think she meant my books were old-fashioned.’

‘I wasn’t there, obviously, but I’m sure she was just talking generally . . . wasn’t she?’

Jo thought about the conversation. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘Are you OK, Jo? You sound very down.’

‘I’m fine. Just she was definitely pointing out that publishing had changed and I ignored it at my peril.’

‘But it’s not about age,’ Maggie said tartly. ‘People of all ages write successful books. And you aren’t old anyway, you’re barely sixty and no one would guess it to look at you. I tell you what though. If you go on banging on about how ancient you are, people will start to believe you.’ She paused, softened her tone. ‘I know you’ve been through a hard time recently, but it won’t help to wallow.’

‘OK, take your point. I . . . Oh, my God—’ Still clutching the phone to her ear, she stopped dead, staring across the road. On the opposite pavement, walking along, laughing together, positively jaunty, were her husband and the Russian professor. Arkadius wore jeans and a v-necked charcoal sweater, a brick-red scarf looped European-style round his neck. He looked chic as usual, but whereas in the past Jo had admired the way he dressed, now she saw it as threatening and manipulative. Her husband was also in jeans, a blue shirt, and his familiar Harris-tweed jacket. She remembered buying it with him years ago in Sayers, an old-fashioned men’s outfitters in Ealing. Lawrence had been so pleased with the jacket, twisting and turning in front of the long shop mirror for hours. And it still looked good on him, dammit.

‘Jo? Jo, are you all right?’ She heard Maggie’s voice, urgent in her ear.

‘Yes . . . no.’ She wanted to turn away, had no desire whatsoever to be seen by them. But she found she was rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes from the two men. ‘I’ve just seen Lawrence . . . with
him . . .
the man,’ she whispered into the phone, although there was no way they could have heard her from the other side of the road.

‘God. What are they doing?’

‘Nothing . . . just walking along.’

They were past her now, going at quite a pace, clearly engrossed in their conversation, Arkadius doing most of the talking, Lawrence cocking his head to one side to catch the Russian’s gems above the traffic noise.

‘Did they see you?’

‘Umm . . . no . . . no they didn’t.’ Jo let out a long, slow breath. ‘Sorry. That was a bit of a shock.’

‘I’m sure. Poor you.’

‘Call you later.’ Jo felt dazed as she said goodbye to Maggie and put her phone back into her jacket pocket. They had looked so normal, so at ease with each other, so . . . alive. It made her feel sick. That could have been her. It
had
been her, for years and years, she and Lawrence, striding along the street talking and talking, laughing. A couple. Could I ever have that with someone else, she wondered as she sat in a nearby café, recovering. Would it be possible to have that closeness, that synergy again? Her thoughts turned to Travis.

Nothing had happened between them since last Friday night, but they saw each other every day, and they had fallen into a pattern of sitting together and talking late evening – mostly outside if it was warm enough, but inside if it wasn’t – after he got home from rehearsals. She hated that she had begun to look forward to seeing him. It scared her. But he seemed as keen as she was to hang out.

He’s got a choice, she told herself. He could stay out, or go straight to his room. There’s no obligation to sit up and drink wine with his landlady if he doesn’t want to. And the more they talked and laughed, the closer they got. Travis wasn’t afraid of personal stuff, she discovered. She was able to talk to him about anything, including her bizarre childhood. And he talked about his own family – his over-religious mother, his workaholic father – and his relationship with a girl whom he’d nearly married.

‘We were together for close on four years when I went home after drama school,’ he’d told her. ‘But she sorta didn’t get the acting thing. I guess she thought I’d grow out of it . . . but I never will.’ He’d given Jo a wry smile. ‘Even if I never get another part my whole life, even if I end up in a crap job, my heart’ll still race at the thought of being up there on the boards, in front of all those people. I just love it.’

‘Me, I’d rather walk across Niagara Falls on a tightrope than do what you do.’

He’d laughed. ‘Bet you’ve had your moments . . . nativity? High school dram soc?’

‘Nope. I was always the spear-carrier in the school play because I was tall and incapable of saying a line without trembling.’

‘It’s just practice. Bet I could stop you trembling with not a lot of coaching.’

‘Thanks, but I’m not sure
you
could—’ her words were spontaneous, but that didn’t prevent her cringing with embarrassment when she realized what it might sound like to him. Until that moment she’d been scrupulous not to give Travis the impression that she found him attractive. It wasn’t easy. His smile, so engaging, drew her in, his glance frequently sought hers. If it weren’t so unlikely that her feelings were reciprocated, she would have been convinced he was flirting.

He’d just looked at her and replied softly, ‘Is that so?’ And she’d made some excuse and hurried inside.

Now, although it was barely midday, she was already wondering if he would be home tonight – and hoping fervently that he would.

*

‘Nicky was going to come by, but Amber got to him first,’ Travis said. It was nearly nine and he’d just got in. ‘It’s hotting up, only one more rehearsal before the previews. Everyone’s on edge.’ He stretched his arms to the ceiling, rolling his head around as if his neck were stiff. ‘Christ . . . I think I feel a tremble coming on at the thought.’ He lowered his head, his eyes full of amusement.

‘Don’t tease,’ she said, turning away but unable to repress a smile.

They were in the kitchen. Jo had made him a fried egg sandwich – he’d offered to make it himself, but she’d insisted – and they’d opened a bottle of Beaujolais.

‘I’ll look forward to it . . . you trembling. Unmissable,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’ He grinned through a mouth full of sandwich.

She didn’t have time to say more as the front door suddenly banged open and Cassie’s voice called through, ‘Mum!’

Jo got up and a second later her daughter burst into the kitchen, dumping a tatty backpack on the tiled floor and throwing herself at her mother.

‘I couldn’t stand it any more,’ Cassie declared as they embraced. Then she saw Travis and pulled away from her mother, looking disconcerted.

‘Oh. Sorry.’

The American got up, wiped his hand on his jeans and held it out to her. ‘Travis. The lodger.’

Cassie’s face cleared. ‘Ah, Nicky’s friend. Hi.’ She shook his hand across the table. ‘Mum said, but I couldn’t remember you.’

‘No reason you should.’ He hesitated. ‘Listen, I’ll head off upstairs, let you guys catch up.’ He grabbed his sandwich and glass of wine and made for the hall.

Cassie raised her eyebrows at her mum. ‘Hot lodger, Mum. You didn’t mention that part.’

Jo didn’t comment. ‘What’s happened, darling?’

Her daughter let out a long, tired groan. ‘I couldn’t stand it,’ she repeated. ‘We had yet another row about something utterly pointless, and he was vile—’ She saw her mother’s look and added hastily, ‘Not violent, Matt’d never hurt me . . . but he’s so cruel when I don’t agree with him. I can’t live like that.’

‘You haven’t left him, have you?’

Cassie’s expression looked immediately hostile at the suggestion. ‘So what if I have? He deserves it.’

Jo frowned. ‘You’re saying you’ve left Matt?’

Tears sprung to her daughter’s huge grey eyes. ‘I don’t know, Mum. I don’t know anything any more. All I know is that I want a comfortable life. I don’t give a fuck about the planet at this point. We never laugh, never have sex, we don’t even talk like we used to. We just scrunge around, worrying about compost and lettuces and off milk. It’s fucking insane.’

‘Did you manage to have the conversation, tell him how you feel?’

‘I tried. But he wasn’t listening, and he’s always got a smart answer anyway. He virtually said he’d heard it all before and that I’d got to decide if this was the life I wanted, because it was the life
he
wanted. So I called his bluff and left.’

‘And what did he say when you told him you were going?’

‘Nothing. He said nothing. He just pulled that stupid beanie over his stupid head and disappeared into his stupid shed. Basically he couldn’t give a fuck about me, Mum. I’m nothing but a convenience, his own private skivvy.’

‘I’m so sorry, darling.’ She reached for Cassie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘It’s lovely to see you, even under the circumstances.’

‘I just can’t wait to open the fridge and get the milk out.’ Her daughter’s laugh had the edge of hysteria. ‘And sleep in my lovely soft bed. I mean why can’t we have a proper mattress? There’s nothing environmentally unfriendly about box-springs. Why does it have to be a hairy futon?’