Lovestruck (27 page)

The following morning, the boys were playing at Elise’s house, supervised by her new handsome Slovenian manny. Rosie was singing along tunelessly to Daft Punk on the radio while packing their belongings into crates. A plastic tractor intoned, ‘I. Am. Coming. To. Find. You,’ in a creepy robotic voice whenever you pressed the red button. Maybe she’d accidentally lose that. They wouldn’t have room for all these toys in the new flat anyway.

The buzzer went. Rosie went to the door. It would be a meter reader. People kept arriving to shut things down and turn other things on, in preparation for the tenants: a Venezuelan banker and his wife.

‘Hello?’ she said into the entryphone.

‘Hi,’ said a familiar voice and her heart jolted as if she’d put her hand on an electric fence.

‘Hello. What do you want?’ It came out very abruptly.

‘Charming,’ Jake snapped, but then in more placatory tones: ‘Sorry! Sorry.’

‘No, I’m sorry. Do you want to come in?’

She buzzed. On the little screen she watched him walk across the drive. His gait was much jauntier than usual. Rosie’s heart dived. Had he met someone else?

She opened the door, her head spinning at this horrible prospect. They stood and looked at each other.

‘I’ve come to take you out for lunch,’ he said.

‘Is this Christy’s idea?’ she asked. ‘Or your mother’s?’ Then immediately she hated herself for her snippy tone.

‘No, it’s not! It’s mine. I’ve been thinking about how we used to be, what we used to like doing, before … before everything changed, and I wanted to try to do that again.’

‘Oh.’

He beckoned to her. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

Outside the gates a rickety-looking moped was parked. Two helmets hung from the handlebars. Jake handed her one.

‘Are these your wheels now?’ she asked in surprise.

He nodded. ‘I know you like going on the bus or the tube, but people do stare a lot so …’

‘Do you know how to drive it?’

He laughed. ‘Of course I do. It’s a bike with a motor. How hard can it be?’

Nonetheless, Rosie was nervous, sitting behind him, as they bumped off along the road and swept round the corner past the Village Green. There was Patrizia jogging by the pond, Minette was outside her shop, looking quizzically up at the window display, Bella was walking her dogs. None of them spotted her.

‘How do I stay on?’ she yelled, as they turned into a corner.

‘Lean into it. And hold on to me.’

Reluctantly she leaned forward and put her hands round her husband’s waist. He was skinnier even than before, but his body felt warm. As they hit the road that led to the common, he sped up and she buried her face in his jacket. He smelled so … Jake. Slightly spicy, slightly sour. It was that smell that had intoxicated her the first night she’d met him and as a flash of how she’d felt when she’d caught his eye swept over her, her knees turned to jelly.

Stop it, Rosie
.

They bumped and jerked and occasionally sped through south London, round busy roundabouts, along stretches of green covered with bodies – no longer pasty, but tanned from the long hot summer, past red-brick mansion blocks, imposing stucco houses, sprawling council estates, over railways lines and overtaking buses, until they pulled up in a car park on the edges of Tooting Common.

‘What are we doing here?’

‘There’s a restaurant where Simon and I have been hanging out. It’s fab. No one recognizes us. I want to show it to you.’

‘Simon the director?’

‘Yup. Brunhilde’s left him. He’s living in a little rented flat just up the road.’

‘She found out?’

‘You knew?’ Jake was surprised.

‘Ellie told me.’

Jake shook his head. ‘She’s a minx, that one. Simon’s desolate, but he buggered up. Brunhilde’s going to make sure he only sees those kids once a month. She has him over a barrel.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘You’d never do that to me, would you?’

‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed.

‘Good. Only … Simon cheated on Brunhilde. I never betrayed you. I’ve always loved you.’

Rosie’s head was turning swimmy again. ‘Yes,’ she said idiotically and then, confused, pushed open the restaurant door. It was Lebanese: a small, cosy place with a huge clay oven in the corner blasting out heat that was having to be counterbalanced by whirring fans. The room was full of men and women at small Formica tables, who were clearly Lebanese too, talking and laughing. Forks clattered and singing floated through the open kitchen door. The room smelled of herbs and freshly baked bread. Rosie’s stomach rumbled. ‘This is lovely.’

‘Wait until you try the food,’ said Jake, as they sat at a corner table. ‘Will you let me order?’

‘How long will it take for you to make up your mind?’ Rosie teased.

He smiled. ‘I know the menu off by heart.’

Rapidly a plate of mixed mezze arrived. Rosie dipped her bread into a bowl of mashed broad beans and groaned in delight as the earthy, garlicky, lemony flavour exploded in her mouth.

‘Oh, yum. This is fabulous.’

‘It’s the kind of place you like, isn’t it?’ asked Jake, smiling at her.

‘Mmm-waargh.’

He smiled. ‘I got you wrong, Bean. Christy did too. We thought you wanted fancy restaurants and jewellery and swimming pools and Range Rovers, but you didn’t, did you?’

She shook her head, still unable to talk.

‘You pig,’ he laughed.

‘Are you going to eat something?’

‘I’m too nervous,’ he replied and suddenly her stomach flipped and she was too nervous as well.

They stared at each other.

‘I was an idiot,’ he said. ‘I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, I was an idiot to think money was so important to us, when it never had been and it never will. I was a dumbass to prioritize my career over spending time with you.’

She nodded.

‘I was a fool to be so proud, to go all cold on you when you suggested this separation. I was a moron to walk out of counselling.’ He gulped, then continued: ‘I miss you and the boys so much. I can’t bear it any more, Ro.’

‘Is it me you miss or the boys?’

‘All of you! You come as a package. You can’t have one without the other.’

He reached out and touched her hand. She put her other hand on top of his. They looked down at the pile of fingers.

‘You don’t know how much I wish none of this had ever happened to me,’ he said. ‘Everything was easier before
Archbishop Grace
. I mean, I know you were working hard, but we had so much more time together. I saw the boys so much more. I didn’t have to spend my spare time with a freaking personal trainer. I didn’t feel under so much pressure to succeed the whole time.’

‘You shouldn’t have felt that pressure. It was silly.’

‘I know, but I did.’

‘I’d have loved you whoever you were. I’d love you if you were a dustman.’

‘Would you?’

‘Of course!’ Rosie said firmly. ‘Idiot.’

‘I’m sorry, Bean. It’s all become so frightening. It used to be just me and my dreams, reciting Willy Loman’s big speech to myself in the mirror, hanging out with my mates who weren’t getting anywhere either, but it didn’t really matter, because everyone had warned us how tough acting was and how we didn’t stand a chance. And then I got lucky and suddenly there was all this stuff I was never prepared for, never wanted, like dinner with producers, and interviews where I don’t know what to say and it all came out wrong. I’m sorry.’

‘Everything OK with the food?’ The manager was hovering over them, looking worried.

‘It’s fine,’ they chorused. ‘It’s delicious. It’s …’

‘Just give us a moment,’ Jake said.

Rosie made a huge effort and dipped the bread into
a bowl of charred aubergine, speckled with pomegranate. ‘Ooh, this is delicious too!’

They carried on eating. It felt surreal sitting at a restaurant table together, yet at the same time utterly mundane, something they’d done a hundred times before, as if they’d nipped out to their local caff, like they used to in the good old days. Without either of them saying anything, Rosie knew they were back together now, that they’d overcome this hump and without having to say anything more they were able to gasp over the crisp pastries containing melting feta and lemony spinach and squabble about who was going to have the most of the grilled chicken order, and who was going to settle for second best with the beef.

‘Me, I guess,’ Jake said with a shrug.

‘I should think so too.’

They were back to normal. Well, not the old normal, that had been lost the first time
Archbishop Grace
was aired, but a new kind of normal and they’d deal with that.

Once they’d scoffed their way through the pastries and had a cup of bracing black coffee, they wandered hand in hand across Tooting Common.

‘You were saying we didn’t go for enough walks in the park,’ Jake said.

‘I was. We weren’t.’

‘We’ll do it now,’ he promised.

Tentatively he reached out and touched her face.
Slowly she touched him back. She stood on tiptoes, as he bent down towards her. She felt his forehead warm against hers, his breath warm on her face and they were kissing with even more passion than that first night they met, that night when they hadn’t actually known each other, just had the strongest feeling that it was all meant to be.

Their second first kiss: the kind of kiss you forget all about a few months into a relationship, because you become assailed with an uneasy feeling that you’re imitating something you saw in a film and, anyway, there’s a box set to watch. They’d have to both try harder to recapture that feeling, to make it last, to recognize that sometimes it wouldn’t be so strong, but if they still paid attention to each other and respected each other, it need not mean the end of everything.

They lay in bed, the sheet was tangled around their feet. From the garden, Rosie heard the scream of mating foxes. She was breathing heavily, but her mind was whirring into a different gear.

She ran over her to-do list for the following day. Tesco online shop. RSVP to various birthday-party invitations (boys, of course, her social life was as dead in the water as ever). Double-check with the consultant about what he’d said to Nanna at her hospital appointment. (Though to be fair, Nanna seemed to be doing pretty well on the drugs she was taking.) Try to call some painters for quotes on having the living room repainted.

They’d moved back to Neasden, though in a bigger house this time, with four bedrooms and a smallish garden. Thanks to a schmancy new free school round the corner, which offered Latin from reception, last-minute places had opened up at the other local school for Toby in reception and George in nursery.

Jake was slowly rebuilding his career. He’d sucked up the abuse, grovelled madly to various interviewers, and
appeared on a few panel shows making jokes about himself. After four months of unemployment, having filmed the second series of
Archbishop Grace
, an offer had come in for a big part in a BBC drama.

The production company had made it quite clear to Christy that he’d be contractually obliged to give three interviews talking about ‘taxgate’, but since Jake was genuinely contrite, there was no problem with that. Rehearsals kicked in in a month, at which point life would become more challenging in terms of child care, but Rosie had a lovely childminder lined up, who was also a mum at the school, so she was quietly confident that they’d wing it.

Christy’s career was thriving, she’d impressed several ‘in the business’ with the way she’d handled Jake’s upset and her client list was growing. She’d sworn to Rosie that the affair with Rupert was over, and although Rosie was finding it very difficult to look her father-in-law in the eye any more, she hoped one day she’d have almost completely forgotten what she saw. She and Christy were friends again. Not friends like the way they were at Brightman’s, or when they’d shared the Chelsea flat, but Rosie had realized you couldn’t recapture the ingredients that made those times so special. For the time being, day to day, other people would be more important in their lives, but that didn’t devalue what they had had in the past and the affection they’d always feel for each other.

Rosie herself was back at Tapper-Green, doing four days a week. There’d been no choice but for her to return
when Jake’s future was so dubious and this time he’d stepped up to the plate and done the childcare. But in her absence from work, her Village period as she called it in her head, she felt in a weird way she’d grown up.

She’d realized so many things. That it was OK to have rows with Jake, to disagree, to want different things at different times, to have periods when they didn’t actually like each other very much. It didn’t mean it was all doomed to failure.

She’d realized that, with a mother like hers, she’d been trained at a subconscious level to expect nothing to work out, to throw in the towel at the first bump. She’d also realized that she’d felt so honoured at some level to have been chosen by Jake that she couldn’t believe their relationship could truly last.

But it didn’t have to be that way any more. They’d had a bumpy patch, endured some life-changing experiences, and they’d come through. For now. There’d be bumps in the future too, of course. The LA question still hovered on the horizon. But for now, in their semi on a quiet road, just off the high street, with a patch of garden big enough for a mini trampoline, they were happy. Again.

Now she rolled towards Jake. He was indulging in his favourite fantasy.

‘So, I think a boiled egg on soda bread, with some Maldon salt.’

‘You’re obsessed with breakfast,’ Rosie grinned. He always loved to plan his next meal far in advance.
She nuzzled her head against his chest. ‘I love you and the way you’re obsessed with breakfast.’

‘I love you and the way you’re always trying to chuck out newspapers I haven’t read.’

‘I love you and the way you get all obsessed with mad things – like no-cheese diets.’

‘I love the way you’d never even countenance a diet,’ he said, squeezing her bottom.

‘Hey!’

‘Sorry, Bean! I love your bottom. I love the way you don’t need to diet and you don’t pretend you do, like most women. I love the way you don’t realize you moult in the shower.’

‘I love the way you tell me we’ve run out of orange juice after you’ve finished the carton.’ She hauled herself up and kissed him hard on the lips. ‘I love you, Jake Perry.’ She hadn’t said it for way too long. Once they’d said it to each other two, three, four, ten times a day.

‘I love you too, Rosie Prest. Goodnight.’