Jemima J. (47 page)

“That’s okay,” I say, smiling. “I know what you meant, and thank you. You look great too. I’ve seen you on television. Being a star obviously suits you.”

“I’m not really a star,” says Ben. “Just a presenter.”

“Bullshit,” I tease. “Geraldine sent me that double-page spread they ran on you. You’re a star, Ben. Take it from me.”

“I can’t believe she did that, that’s so embarrassing,” says Ben. “Now you know all about me.”

“Your murky past,” I laugh.

“I know,” he sighs. “You did warn me.”

“And I’m always right.”

“Yup,” he laughs. “You always are. God, Jemima. I’ve missed you,” and I can hear the sincerity in his voice and I know that he means it, and I realize how much I’ve missed him, and not just because I love him. I’ve missed this, the easy banter, the friendship, and, even though I haven’t seen him for months, it’s almost as if barely a day’s gone by, I mean, we’re so relaxed we could almost be sitting in the cafeteria of the
Kilburn Herald.

And how is it for Ben? The longer Ben sits in this restaurant with this beautiful woman, the less she becomes a gorgeous blond, and the more she becomes Jemima Jones, for Ben looks past the legs, the dress, the hair, and he sees his old friend, a friend, he suddenly realizes, he never wants to walk out on again.

I’m teasing Ben about work and we’re laughing and he tells me about Diana Macpherson, grudgingly, admittedly, and even though I feel a red-hot poker of jealousy stabbing me as he
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tells
me
about his drunken mistake, I don’t really mind because he’s relaxed enough to confide in me, and anyway he doesn’t want her, plus he tells me confidentially that he’s been offered a far better job with another TV station, which solves the problem. But the funny thing is that actually I feel a little bit sorry for Diana Macpherson, this media ogre, because I know what it’s like to want someone that badly, to want them even though they don’t want you.

I tell him about Brad, about what it was like to finally have a boyfriend that everyone else wanted, and about how it all went horribly wrong. And yes. Okay. I did tell him about the porn pictures, I tell him very slowly and very seriously, waiting for sympathy, waiting for concern, but when I look up Ben’s trying to suppress a smile.

“It’s not funny, Ben,” I say sternly.

“No,” he says. “You’re right. It’s not,” but he can’t contain himself any more, he starts giggling, and it’s so infectious and I suppose the story is so bizarre that I start giggling too, and the giggling soon becomes hysterical laughter, and the pair of us are rocking back on our chairs, clutching our stomachs in pain and crying with laughter.

“Oh God.” I scrabble around for a napkin to wipe the tears of laughter away. “I never thought I’d see the funny side of that.”

“Jemima, it’s
classic.
It’s one of the greatest stories I’ve ever heard,” and we both start laughing again.

Neither of us eats very much. The food sits on our plates while we pick at it, raise the odd mouthful to our lips, but there’s just so much to talk about, so many things to catch up on, and we hardly have a chance to breathe, we don’t even let one another finish a sentence, we just let them tumble and twist, and eventually, when the waiters bring the bill, we stand up and smile at one another.

“I’ve had such a good time,” says Ben, as we walk out.

“So have I. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.” And as I turn to look at him, suddenly, the easy camaraderie of the
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evening disappears and we both stand awkwardly on the pavement outside the restaurant, and why do I suddenly feel nervous, what does this mean?

Ben’s arm reaches out, and suddenly, and oh God I didn’t plan this, but suddenly I’m in his arms and we’re hugging but it’s not like before, it’s not just a friendly hug, and I’m very aware of Ben’s breathing, of his touch, and as I stand there wrapped around him I feel him stroke my hair and I lean my head back to look at him and then everything becomes slow motion as he bends his head and kisses me, and I know it sounds naff, I know it sounds unreal, but I honestly feel that every fiber in my body is about to melt.

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How do you know when you’ve found love? How do you know when you’ve met the person with whom you want to spend the rest of your life? How do you know it’s not just two people lusting after one another, and consummating that lust in a night of unbelievable passion. How do you know it’s not going to be just a one-night stand? How do you know whether your wishes will come true?

I wish I knew. All I do know, right now, when I open my eyes to the morning sunlight and Ben Williams fast asleep next to me, is that, even if I never set eyes on Ben again, this has been, and will always be, the happiest night of my life.

I know because I never dreamt that lovemaking could be so passionate, and yet so tender. I know because no one has ever cupped my face and looked deep in my eyes, and whispered how wonderful I am while moving gently inside me.

I know because I’ve never felt so comfortable with anyone in my life as I felt with Ben last night, because I’ve never felt
any
of the feelings I felt last night.

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And finally I know that I will never forget what it is like to be so happy you are frightened you’re going to burst.

So I just lie in bed and soak up this joy. I don’t move, I’m too frightened of waking Ben up, too frightened of the magic disappearing, but as I watch him sleep he slowly opens his eyes, stretches, and then turns his head to look at me.

What should I do? I want to smile, to say something, but I can’t, because I haven’t got a clue how Ben is feeling, and when he blinks, smiles sleepily and holds his arm out to me, the relief is so overwhelming it practically sweeps me away and I snuggle into his chest like the proverbial cat that got the cream.

He kisses my hair, and then my shoulder. “Thank you,” he says huskily, and I just smile, making small circles on his chest with my index finger.

We stay there for a little while, kissing, cuddling, completely comfortable with one another, and then Ben looks at the clock. “Shit!” he jumps out of bed. “I’ve got a flight to catch.”

There’s a knock on the door as I sit up in bed.

“Ben? It’s Simon. We’re leaving in ten minutes. Are you ready?”

“Nearly,” shouts Ben, tripping over his shoes. “Shit!” he mutters, running around the bedroom.

“I’ll help you pack,” I say, climbing out of bed without a second thought, even though I’m completely naked. Ben stops and looks at me then drops his clothes and puts his arms around me, groaning, “I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t believe last night.” We start kissing again, and then Ben pulls away. “I can’t. We can’t. No time. Shit!”

There’s no time for lazy post-coital kisses and cuddles, and within ten minutes Ben is packed and dressed, and I follow him downstairs, terrified at how we’re going to say goodbye, what’s going to happen next.

“He-llo,” says a man I don’t recognize, walking over to Ben but keeping his eyes firmly on me with a bit of a leer. “Who’s this?”

“This is my friend Jemima,” says Ben. “This is Simon,” and I
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shake Simon’s hand, not missing the look that he gives Ben, which Ben, being the gentleman that he is, tries to ignore.

“Simon, I’ll see you by the car,” he says, and Simon reluctantly walks out, probably dying to fill in the rest of the crew on the gossip.

“How long are you here?” Ben says, tucking my hair behind my ears.

“About two more months,” I say, already trying to think of some way to get home, to be with Ben.

“What am I going to do for the next two months?” he says, as my heart lifts.

“I’d love to come home but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I know it’s crazy, but I don’t want to tell him I haven’t got the money, that I’m over my limit on my credit card, that in truth I no longer have a penny to my name. It sounds too sad, too like the Jemima Jones of old, so I think on my feet and come up with the perfect excuse.

“I’m doing a column for the
Kilburn Herald
and you know what the editor’s like, I have to stay here, otherwise I’ll lose my job.”

“I’ll miss you,” he whispers eventually, pulling me close and kissing my forehead.

“We can write,” I say in desperation. “Or phone.”

“Definitely.” He nods. “Can you write down your address and number?”

I pull away from him, reluctantly, and scribble down Lauren’s address and number, and just as I hand it to him Simon reappears and says testily, “Ben, we’ve
got
to go.”

We do hug, and kiss, and then Ben starts walking away. Just before he reaches the door he turns around and runs back, scooping me up in his arms and kissing me. “I’ll phone,” he says. “As soon as I get back home.”

“What time will that be?”

“God knows. But don’t worry, I’ll call,” and he leaves, turning back to wave as he climbs in the car, and I float back home on a cloud of sheer, unadulterated bliss.

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“Well?” Lauren opens the door before I even get a chance to put my key in the lock, and I don’t have to say anything, she can see from the ridiculously soppy grin on my face that last night was unbelievable.

“You did it! You did it!” She leaps up and down and throws her arms around me while I start giggling. “I want to hear everything.”

“I’m so tired,” I moan, collapsing on the sofa, still smiling.

“I don’t want to hear that crap, I want to hear about Ben.”

“I love him,” I say simply, and then I say it again, just to hear the words, just to make sure it’s true. “I love him.”

“Start from the beginning,” she commands, and I do.

I tell her about meeting him, about him not realizing it was me, and how it was like we’d never been apart. I tell her about his stories, his work, his life. I tell her about leaving the restaurant and practically leaping on one another as soon as we got outside. And I tell her about making love with him, what it was like, how I felt.

I tell her word for word, action for action, and all the time I’m talking this stupid grin doesn’t leave my face, and I feel like I’m swimming in happiness.

“So you’ve got over Brad then?” she says, when I’ve finished.

“Brad who?” I laugh. “No seriously, Lauren. It was so completely different from being with Brad. I mean, the sex was amazing with Brad, but last night made me realize how that’s all it was, just great sex. There was no tenderness, no love, just passion, and at the time I thought it was enough. But Ben was so different, maybe because I know him, maybe because we’re friends, but I think it’s more than that. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I’m still totally in love with him.” I stop and sigh.

“Do you think he feels the same way?”

“I don’t know,” I sigh, as the insecurities threaten to strike. “I know that he was incredibly caring, and giving, and loving, but I don’t know whether that means he feels the same way, but there’s no point thinking about that. Anyway, he’s going to call as soon as he gets home.”

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“What time?”

“I don’t know, but I know he’ll call. Oh God, Lauren. I just want to be with him. I want to go home.” And I do, and two months feels like an eternity and I don’t know how I’m going to cope for the next few weeks with just the memories of one night to keep me going.

“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
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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.