Construct a Couple (15 page)

Maybe there’s more to it? Something else about Julia he doesn’t want to say? Don’t be silly, I tell myself, shoving those thoughts into a far corner of my mind. Jeremy’s probably tired and needs a little time to absorb everything. After all, he’s been through a lot lately.

Perhaps I should tell him Karen filled me in on Top Class, and that I know Julia’s the CEO. But the second I open my mouth, I snap it closed again. What’s the point of having an honest relationship if I have to drag out the information? It kind of defeats the purpose. No, I’ve got to trust my boyfriend; to have faith he’ll talk to me when he’s good and ready.

Jeremy slips off his shoes and pads to the lounge, collapsing on the sofa. “God, I’m exhausted.”

I lean my head on his shoulder. “So what will happen to the charity?”

“I gave the trustees a personal guarantee I’d cover the debt. As for going forward . . . well, we’ll have to figure out other options. I’m kind of hoping for a miracle. That’s about what it will take right now.”

“You’ll think of something, I’m sure!” I say in a cheerful tone.  “Hey, why don’t you let me help? We can go through the accounts together, see how much money needs to be raised . . . I’m really good at brainstorming!” I am, too. At my last job, the managing editor said he’d never heard more ‘unique’ ideas to help with the magazine’s circulation. I thought dressing up as doctors’ instruments and parading around Essex was inspired, but the rest of the team weren’t quite so keen.

Jeremy gives me a tired smile. “You know what? I can’t even think about that right now. I’m absolutely knackered.”

“Come on, then. Let’s put you to bed.” I stand, pulling him up. The more rest he has, the better place he’ll be in to get everything – the charity
and
our relationship – on track.

But as I lie beside him a few minutes later, I sense a creeping sort of distance between us. Knowing he’s holding something back has made our safe haven feel insecure. Sighing, I press my cheek against the cool pillow, attempting to conjure up positive thoughts. We’ve pulled through lots of other crises, from my tabloid deeds to Jeremy’s poor health. Compared to those, this little Julia thing is nothing.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As the next week goes by and Jeremy still hasn’t opened up, ‘this little thing’ suddenly doesn’t seem so tiny. In fact, it’s taken on epic proportions as my mind tumbles through an endless maze of scenarios why he’s keeping quiet. I tell myself it’s no big deal and that everything is behind us now – repeating ‘the past is the past’ so often I’m practically murmuring it in my sleep.

What’s a Good Girlfriend to do? I’ve tried to paste on a you-can-talk-to-me expression, turning up the TV whenever a Top Class update appears (Julia’s board of directors has now called for her resignation). Maybe I should borrow Helen’s cattle prod? I shake my head, recalling the latest in her stream of visits to Jonas’s office, where she demanded every employee take a lie detector test to find the leak.

If things were normal at home, Jeremy and I might have a better chance of a heart-to-heart. Right now, though, it’s anything but. Jeremy’s been given the all-clear by his doctor, but he hasn’t been back to Pick Up Sticks since the donation fell through. Instead, he stays in bed most of the morning, getting up around lunch to sit in front of the television for hours. When I come home from work, the blinds are drawn and the only light is the flickering TV. The house has taken on a gloomy, almost nightmarish quality. Try as I might with my chipper voice and glumpy pasta, I can’t banish it. I
know
Jeremy cares deeply about the charity, but recent events combined with poor health seem to have drained him of every last bit of energy.

Things aren’t exactly normal at the newsroom, either. The place is like a pressure cooker, and even though we haven’t (yet) been subjected to Helen’s lie detector, we’re under constant scrutiny. It’s given Gregor permission to become the dictator he always dreamed of. The man’s even cut our allotted bathroom break to sixty seconds!

After a busy day fact-checking the food supply of urban foxes (I swear, those things eat better than me), the clock hits five, and Lizzie packs up to perform her disappearing act. Thank God for her – she’s the only thing that’s made the past week bearable.  Far from dividing and conquering, Gregor’s Machiavelli attitude is uniting us. We’ve even started seeing how long we can stay in the loo before he raps on the door, yelling there’s ‘important work to be done’.

 “What are you up to this weekend?” Lizzie clicks off her monitor with a flourish.

“Um, nothing, I guess. Just hanging out with my boyfriend.” I sigh, wondering once again how I can encourage him to talk.

“Well, if you aren’t busy, why don’t you guys come to East Street Market? You can check out my extra-curricular activities.” She throws me a cheeky grin.

“East Street Market?” I’ve never heard of it. And . . . extra-curricular activities? I try to keep the curious expression off my face. Will this explain why she tears out of here at five every day?

 “It’s just off Walworth Road, not far from here,” Lizzie explains. “I have a stall there, selling my own fashion designs. Mum manages it on weekdays, and I help her pack up and move all the stock home when it closes. I take over at the weekends so Mum can have a few days off.”

“Wow!” I eye Lizzie’s peg-leg trousers and embellished top, images of her standing proudly in a stall of her own creations flowing through my head. Actually, it suits her perfectly – much better than the silence of the newsroom. God, she must not have a second to rest if she’s at the market the instant this job is finished, and all weekend, too. Good thing she’s so energetic!

“Yeah, it’s brilliant. You’ll love the atmosphere. It’s a real London market, you know? I wish I could work the stall on weekdays, but fact-checking’s helping me save for my own premises. One more year, and I should have enough to open a shop. Then I’m outta here!”

I nod, impressed at her drive. “We’d love to come down and see you.” Jeremy’s a big fan of the markets, and although I’ll need to wrestle away the TV remote, leaving the house will do him good. Mom’s always saying a breath of fresh air performs wonders for the soul.

 As I watch Lizzie make a dash for freedom, a thread of hope weaves into me. Perhaps a breath of fresh air
will
do wonders for the soul! With the heaviness that’s settled around us the past few days, conversation conditions haven’t been ideal. If I want this relationship to be open, I need to create an environment where Jeremy feels comfortable baring his heart.

Tomorrow will be the perfect opportunity: a wander around a London market, maybe a stroll down the nearby South Bank (you really can’t get more romantic than Waterloo Bridge), and then I’ll cook up an awesome candlelit dinner. And finally . . . a little dessert,
à la
Serenity (and no, I don’t mean Jaffas!).

My mind flashes back to the last candlelit dinner I made Jeremy, the night before my first day at the magazine. It seems so long ago, as if it was another century. Shame I can’t hit the rewind button and start again, knowing what I do now. I’d thought we had the Michelin Man version of a relationship, but I’m beginning to see I mistook silence for strength.

Well, after a London day to die for, a romantic dinner
sans
pasta balls, and a little ‘horizontal tango’, as Kirsty calls it, Jeremy’s lips will loosen, I’m sure.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The weather must have heard of my plan, because it’s definitely creating the perfect conditions today. Early Saturday afternoon sun streams from the sky, birds are chirping, and even the normally grimy air feels fresh.

 “I’ve not been in this part of London for ages,” Jeremy says, manoeuvring the car into a tight space. I’m amazed people can actually find places to park – the warren of narrow streets seems better suited to moles than motorised vehicles.

“Finally, a bit of the city we can discover together!” The rays of sun dappling the asphalt transform even this grey south London neighbourhood into something magical.

“Thanks for dragging me out.” Jeremy turns off the ignition, putting a hand on my leg. I smile, noting he looks more energetic today, thank God. I knew this would work!

“So how are things at the magazine, anyway?” Jeremy asks as we stroll through the streets to the market. “Seems like ages since we’ve talked.”

That’s because it is, I mumble under my breath. But just wait – by the end of the day, he’ll be blabbing with the best of them.

“Oh, it’s fine. Settling in, learning the ropes, you know.” There’s not much more to add. Fact-checking isn’t exactly the exciting job I pumped it up to be, but I’m okay with that now. As tedious as it is, the knowledge I’m gaining in all departments will be invaluable when I am ready to be a reporter.

“Gregor still giving you problems?”

I raise an eyebrow, impressed Jeremy remembers the name. I love that about him – he really listens, unlike my last boyfriend who could barely remember what state I’m from. “Oh, no. He’s a bit of a nuisance, but I can deal with him.”

Silence falls as we walk the rest of the short distance, and my mind spins with things to say. It’s still early, though, and I don’t want our conversation to peak too soon. Just relax, I tell myself, pushing away the tension building inside.

The welcoming shouts of market traders and the buzzing crowd envelop us as we turn onto East Street.

“Wow.” Jeremy grins, taking in the hustle and bustle. The stretch is lined with stalls flogging everything from resplendent African-inspired turbans, to fruit and vegetables, to jewellery. “Now
this
is what I call a London market.”

 I squeeze his hand, happy the street’s infectious energy is rubbing off on him. As we saunter between the stalls, eyes popping at the cacophony of colour, I can see what he means. Camden, Portobello, Borough . . . they’re all massive markets, packed with sightseers.  But here – I scan the street – there’s not even one tourist. The place is buzzing with locals doing their weekly shop, haggling with the stallholders as they peruse the wares. I stand still for a minute and breathe in the life around me, watching as Jeremy chats with a man selling wooden trinkets.

“Oh, there she is!” I take Jeremy’s arm, pointing to Lizzie’s stall a few feet down the road. ‘Lulu Lizzie’, a sign says in funky black script on a white background with candy-pink horizontal lines. Her creations are professionally arranged on rails, and even from here, two or three pieces jump out at me:  a bright red blazer with burnished military-style buttons marching down the front; a jaunty navy trilby with a delicate decoration of dyed peacock feathers; and an otherwise plain cardigan with elaborate jewelled trimming. I shake my head in admiration. The girl has talent! Amidst the other run-of-the-mill goods on the street, Lizzie’s stand out as something special.

“Hey, there!” I say when the two of us reach her side. “This stuff is amazing.”

Lizzie grins proudly. “It is, isn’t it?” She glances over at Jeremy. “Hi, I’m Lizzie. You must be Serenity’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, sorry!” I was so caught up in her designs I forgot Jeremy was beside me. “Lizzie, this is Jeremy; Jeremy, Lizzie.”

They bob in that awkward kiss-on-the-cheek thing Brits do for some reason – seriously, why not shake hands? – then smile.

“You’ve got a great stall,” Jeremy says, stepping back to take it all in. “And this is a brilliant market.”

“I think so, too,” Lizzie responds. “It’s such a friendly place – a real sense of community, you know?”

I nod, surveying the street again. Almost everyone’s sporting a grin, and the trader beside us whistles cheerily as he arranges boxes of cheap plimsolls.

“Cuppa?” he asks, and Lizzie nods. The trader pours tea into three plastic glasses, and without asking, heaps a spoonful of sugar into each. Yikes, there goes my calorie intake for the day.

We sip the hot liquid in the sun, watching punters admire Lizzie’s creations, and her easy interaction with the passing crowd. It’s obvious by her animated face and lively tone this is where she belongs. Now that I’ve seen her here, I can’t help being even more impressed by her hard slog in the sterile, silent newsroom – worlds away from this environment – to raise money for her dream.

“So how did you get into all this?” Jeremy asks when there’s a break in the crowd.

“Well, I’ve always like sewing,” Lizzie says, “and Mum worked for most of her life as a market trader. I used to pester her to let me sell my stuff at her stall, but half-sewn baby T-shirts don’t exactly gel with veggies.” She laughs, reaching up to adjust a ruffle on a sequinned jacket. “Anyway, I was determined to start up my own business once I finished college. Just as I was about to graduate, Mum had a stroke. No surprise, I guess, since she smoked like a chimney. Anyway, the stroke was minor, but it took her a while to recover.”

Jeremy nods. “I know all about it. I’m recovering from a stroke, too. It’s been over a year and I still find my energy levels are nowhere what they used to be.”

Lizzie’s eyebrows fly up. “Really? Serenity mentioned you’d been in the hospital recently, but you look great.”

He does, too, I think, staring into my boyfriend’s eyes. For the first time in ages, he doesn’t seem like he’s about to collapse. Score one for fresh air!

“It’s the same for Mum,” Lizzie continues. “She recovered well, thank God, but she couldn’t handle being on her feet all day at the stall. She managed to pay someone peanuts to help out. Without her working full-time, though, sales took a dive. So I put off starting my business, and looked for a job.”

“How did you end up at
Seven Days
?” I ask.

“Kind of a lucky break.” Lizzie pulls a face. “I think. I took media courses in college and had just finished a work placement at
Seven Days,
right around the time of the lawsuit fiasco. A fact-checker left, and they needed someone to step in – someone they wouldn’t need to pay a lot, since the budget was shot. I happened to be their cheap labour of choice.”  She shrugs. “Much as it’s not my thing, I can’t complain. The money I earned meant I could buy lots of fabrics, and once Mum was up on her feet and back to her usual self, I asked how she’d feel about converting the vegetable pitch to fashion. Veggie sales were dire anyway and this would be easier for her – she wouldn’t have to deal with suppliers or stock. She agreed to give it a couple months to see how it went, and we’ve never looked back.”