The Other Half (34 page)

With a sigh, Chloë put him down and watched him make his way back to the dent in the cushions that was the hallmark of his snoozing spot. He doesn’t give a fig, she thought. She hunted for her handbag, located it under the kitchen table, and cast her eye around the apartment, allowing herself a moment’s nostalgia as she recalled the good times she and Rob had shared there. It had been her haven (albeit a messy one) virtually since the day she’d left college, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about someone else moving into her room, even though it was set to be a good friend of Rob’s whom she also knew. Then there was Rob. Would he be okay without her? More to the point, would she be okay without him?

Hell, thought Chloë. I’ll never know unless I try it.

She caught the bus to work as usual, and took her favorite seat on the top deck.

What a few weeks it’s been, she acknowledged as the double-decker crossed the Thames. More than I could have dreamed for careerwise seems to be coming true, and this will be one of the last times I’ll travel this particular route …

She’d not breathed a word about her transfer to anyone at the office other than Vanessa until it was all signed and sealed—even James didn’t know. They’d gotten together a handful of times at her apartment since the party, but with uncharacteristic patience she had held off on mentioning anything until she’d an offer in writing. Two days ago her contract had finally arrived, so today she was due to break the news. She’d chosen neutral territory and arranged to see him during her lunch hour.

They met in Soho Square. It was a bright, spring day; the daffodils were out. And although they needed to keep their jackets on, it was warm enough to sit on the grass with their sandwiches.

“You wanted to talk.” James unwrapped his panini and took a large bite. He sounded faintly worried.

Confronted with this situation, Chloë couldn’t think where to start. Several voices were fighting to be heard in her head.

There was Jean, reminding her that Jamie probably still loved Maggie.

There was Rob, despairing because James had shown no sign of being able to decide between the two of them.

There was her mother, all those years ago with her theories of rebound relationships.

There was Sam, who seemed so disappointed that his sister was selling herself short.

And there was also another set of voices: Chloë’s own voices.

There was the hedonistic voice of the rebellious teenager, which said,
“Hey, but you’ve had such a good time! Surely you’re not going to give up all that fun?”

There was the romantic voice, which recalled the flowers, the lovemaking, the passion.

There was the intellectual voice, which made her question whether she’d ever enjoy such sparky conversations with another man.

There was the lonely voice of the little-girl-lost, who didn’t want to be on her own.

And there was the voice of doom, which said she’d never get over it, that if she finished it with James she’d never meet anyone, ever again.

But the voice that finally spoke was none of these. It was the voice of self-belief, the voice of resolve, the voice of a grown woman. “I’m leaving you,” she said.

James stopped mid-mouthful. He swallowed, hard. “Oh.”

Chloë knew she needed to explain more fully. “I mean literally leaving you.”

James looked puzzled. “Literally?”

“Yes. I’m leaving. Going away.”

“On vacation? You’re having a break? You deserve it.”

Chloë laughed, slightly bitterly. “You couldn’t be more wrong. I’ll probably end up working harder than ever. I’ll have to learn a whole different market.”

“I don’t understand.” His mouth was contorted.

“I’ve got a new job.”

“Oh? Gosh.” He sounded surprised. “But these first few issues of
All Woman
have been such a success. I thought that was what you wanted; it’s your baby. Would you really want to go and work on another magazine? And, anyway, even if you did, why does that mean you’re leaving me?” She noticed he’d stopped eating altogether.

“I’m still going to be working on
All Woman
. But they’ve asked me to go to New York. Set up an American edition there.”

“What?” James was clearly stunned. In the normal run of events, as the publisher, he would have been aware of such a move.

“I asked them not to tell you, or anyone, till I’d thought it through.” Chloë went on, beginning to find the conversation harder now. He was plucking at the grass, little tufts of unspoken emotion. “I know it was a bit out of turn … but I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I see.” James looked up, into her eyes. He looked so wounded, so hurt, so adrift, like a small boy. It was a look she’d seen before, all those months back, in the Paramount in New York, just after he’d spoken to Maggie. The day before he told me he loved me, she thought. Her gut wrenched. Oh God, this was so unfair!

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“Are you definitely going to go?” He was hoarse.

She nodded.

“Do you want me to stop you?”

“No, not really. I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

“It’s me who should be sorry,” he said. Bloody hell—he was crying. “I know I’ve been…” he stumbled over the words “… pretty useless, really.”

“No … no more than me, you haven’t.”

“Can’t I come and see you? You know, I come over to New York a lot.”

“Well…” She hesitated, but then a voice reminded her of what she had pledged to do. “By all means say hello, put your head around the door of my office, or whatever … maybe even go for lunch. But as for more than that, no, you can’t.”

“Oh.” James made the word sound like a cry of pain. “I suppose you’re right. It wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“It’s just…” Chloë was getting tearful too, but fought against it, crazily aware that she had no tissues. “I need to give myself another chance, you know, of meeting someone else.” Her resolution grew stronger again. “Someone who wants me, and only me.”

The sadness of his expression suggested he was far from enthusiastic about the idea of her with another man. “So when are you leaving?” he asked in a whisper.

“Monday.” It was Friday. “Vanessa’s taking over the running of the magazine here, and I’m going to liaise with her from New York for this next edition. Then next month they’ve got a new editor here in the UK. Someone I know actually—she’s very good.”

“But she’s not you.” The miniature pile of grass was getting quite high now.

“No, she’s not. But I’m not Maggie either.”

“No. That’s why I loved you.”

“I know.” Chloë sniffed. “But you love her too—and I don’t want only half of you.” Then she added, generously, “You could go back to her, you know.”

“I’m not certain she’d have me, even if I was sure I wanted to…”

“But you’re not sure.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I want anymore.”

And although Chloë felt terribly sad, this convinced her that she was doing the right thing. “You’re not sure you want me, my love, either.”

James was silent then said, “I hate good-byes.” Right then he seemed a million miles from the successful, confident publisher she’d first met less than a year before.

Suddenly Chloë felt old and wise. Philosophical, even. “They don’t matter. It’s what’s gone before.”

“It’s what you’re telling me can’t come after. Nothing. No more us.”

“Yes.” She paused, pained. “That is what I’m telling you.”

“I should never have become involved with you, dragged you into such a mess.”

“But I knew what I was doing, James, really. I knew you were married when I went into this. I walked in with my eyes open. I may not have liked what I saw, I may have blinded myself. I don’t blame you, honestly. It’s just … in a way, in a funny way … you’ve given me a taste of what I could have, had things been different. And now I want to see if I can find that properly. And it’s easier for me—and it’ll be much easier for you—if I can do that without you around, constantly reminding me.” She leaned forward and very softly, kissed those still-contorted lips. “I’m going to go now,” she said, standing up and dusting off her skirt. “And please don’t phone me or e-mail me or anything. Just let me go and do this my own way.” She looked down at him one last time, sitting there on the grass of Soho Square surrounded by all the other people with their sandwiches, enjoying their normal, everyday lunches. “Part of me will always love you; you know that. And I know that part of you will always love me. But part of you is not enough for me now. I want more—maybe I want too much, who knows? Still, I’ve got to give it a try, because I’ve only got one life … And I know this might sound melodramatic, but I want to be able to live with myself as I live it. So this is it. Good-bye.”

And before he had a chance to say any more, to protest, to beg, to tell her he loved her, to promise that he’d make a go of things with her, she picked up her handbag and turned and walked away.

Once her back was turned she started to cry. Yet she kept walking, determined, back for her final afternoon at UK Publishing, all woman at last.

44

They were standing on the edge of the soccer field together, watching the Shere Tigers versus the Godalming Lions. It was a typical March afternoon—neither warm nor cold, cloudy nor sunny, though it was windy, and gusts kept catching Maggie’s hair, swooping wisps in front of her face.

With only five minutes to go, the Tigers were losing one-zero, and Nathan was standing scuffing the turf with his boots, bored. The game had been focused down at his team’s goal end; as a striker, he’d had little chance to play. Suddenly, one of the Tiger’s defenders snatched the ball in a rare moment of aggression, and kicked it away from the goal mouth, toward him. Startled, Nathan realized he had an opportunity at his feet.

“C’mon, Nathan, my son!” shrieked Jamie, caught up in a wave of excitement.

The Godalming defense, having had it easy the entire match, were taken unawares. Quick as a flash, Nathan shot down toward the goal, dribbling the way his father had taught him, with virtuosity surprising in a seven-year-old. He nipped around the defender. Now, other than the keeper, there was only one player between him and the goal.

Maggie couldn’t contain herself. She jumped up and down and squealed, “Oh, my God!”

“You’re on side!” bellowed Jamie. “Go for it!”

And with a decisive
thwack,
Nathan kicked the ball past the keeper, through the posts, and scored.

“
Hooray!
” his parents yelped, and caught up in unanimous pride, threw their arms around each other just as Nathan’s teammates rushed to do the same to him.

A few seconds later, flustered, Jamie and Maggie broke apart, shocked at the first physical contact they’d had in months.

Maggie took a step back. “He’s very good, isn’t he?”

“Brilliant,” Jamie enthused. “That was a magnificent shot. He’s far better than I ever was.”

“Surely not. I thought you were the best in your class.”

“Hmm.” Jamie shook his head. “I think he’s got a perfectionist streak that I never had.” He turned to look at her. Her hair was still blowing in the wind. She’d grown it over the last few months, and it was longer than it had been in years. She’d been told she looked different somehow, younger. “Must have gotten it off his mum.”

Maggie blushed, but there was truth in his words: she was more of a perfectionist than Jamie, an idealist, even.

“I miss him, you know,” said Jamie.

“I know.”

They stood watching their son in silence.

Presently Jamie said, “I’m not seeing Chloë anymore.”

Maggie looked at him, saying nothing, but her face must have expressed her skepticism.

“I appreciate you’ve heard me say that before,” he added with some urgency, presumably conscious that the game would finish in a few minutes.

Again Maggie was silent.

“This time it’s different. It really is over.”

Maggie sighed. Part of her so wanted to believe him, still wanted things to work out, if not for her sake, then for Nathan’s. “Why should I believe you? What makes it different this time?”

“She’s leaving.” explained Jamie. “Going away.”

“Oh.” Maggie felt a mix of emotions. Part of her was glad that at last this woman would be out of her life. Yet regardless of her relief, part of her still refused to give in to her desire to make up with Jamie, to reunite as a family. She realized that this was what he was asking her to consider—he’d pretty much said so before. Yet deep down something prevented her from feeling at ease. She tried to put a finger on it, and in the hope of gaining clarification, asked, “Where’s she going?”

“To New York. She’s been invited to set up an American edition of
All Woman
there.”

“I see … So when does she go?”

“Tomorrow.”

There; there it was. That was what was bothering her. Maggie was sure she could hear regret in his voice. It was so subtle that someone who knew him less well might not have heard it. “Tell me, Jamie, did you finish it?” She paused. “Or did she?”

Jamie looked down at his shoes. “I suppose … she did.” He must know this wasn’t the right thing to say; that it meant he would lose her, yet perhaps at last he was sick of lying.

Maggie tucked her hair behind her ears so she could see him properly. “That’s it, Jamie, don’t you see? It was all I ever asked of you, for you to decide for yourself. And you never could. That was all I wanted—for you to come back, to try to make a go of things, of your own accord. But you couldn’t do that, and even now that it’s over with Chloë, you weren’t the one to decide. The ceaseless fluctuating … Never knowing what you wanted … Always reacting to me or her, never taking the initiative. You must see that I can’t take you back. Not on those terms, not now.”

“Mm.” His voice was small, disappointed, but resigned. “I kind of thought you’d say that.”

Again she sighed. “I guess maybe it’s because I’m a perfectionist, like you said. But that’s the way I am and try as I may, I can’t change it. I wouldn’t be being true to myself.” She fought back the tears, struggling to express what she meant, yet be kind. “That’s the irony—it might be one of the reasons you love me but … I don’t know. Perhaps we’re too different in that way. Your ambivalence, your pragmatism … I understand it, but living like that, it was killing me, all that compromise. And I ended up putting all my idealism into the wrong stuff—stupid things, shallow things—an immaculate house, the perfect bloody soufflé … I’m sorry, but I’ve fought so hard to get it back … who I really am. It’s not that I don’t still love you, it’s that I can’t love you like I used to—or at least be with you—not in the same way, not anymore.”