Now Is Our Time (8 page)

Claire couldn’t believe she’d not mentioned it either. Georgia would normally have been the first person she’d have told. But the weekend had been so busy with Jonah around, not to mention having to prepare food for the show, that she’d not had a spare minute to breathe or think, let alone to call. Hell, she’d forgotten to tell her mum too.

“I know. I’m sorry,” she apologised, switching on her phone. “Guilty as charged.”

Her mobile predictably beeped with a message. Claire looked down. It was from her mother.
Darling, you were brilliant. Bravo. Can’t believe you didn’t tell me………again.
A couple of seconds later another text beeped through.
You smashed it, my little Firecracker. I’m so proud of you. Call you later. X

“Who’s that from?” asked Georgia.

“My mother,” Claire began, “…………………..and Jonah.”

Claire hadn’t telephoned Georgia over the weekend but, now that Claire thought about it, it was a little odd that Georgia hadn’t called
her
. The last time they’d spoken was when she’d gone shopping for the barbecue. George was usually the first to demand all the gory details.

“How are things going with sexy aging stud?” Georgia beamed.

“He’s gone to Eastbourne for the week.”

Claire couldn’t help but smile at the ‘sexy aging stud’ reference, although truth be told she was a little forlorn about him having gone. He’d left late last night and she was already feeling his absence acutely. With him around she felt she could be anyone or do anything. “He’s commentating on a pre-Wimbledon tournament from there.” 

“And, anything else?” Georgia probed, undeterred.

“And……..yes,” Claire blushed under her half a centimetre layer of foundation. “It’s going well.”

She didn’t feel like going into details here and now. She wanted to keep things close to her chest for a while longer and when the time came, they’d need a long, lazy evening with a bottle of wine to discuss it. A rushed, impromptu chat in a poky dressing room, even one that had a gold star for a door knob, wasn’t the right time or place. 

“Tell me about
you
,” Claire changed the subject. “You’re looking even more fabulous than normal.”

Georgia turned coy. Georgia was a headstrong woman. She was the type of person whom Claire secretly thought would be difficult to have as your boss. Humility and timidity did not feature amongst her attributes.

“Really?” asked George, cocking her head shyly. 

Claire watched keenly as Georgia’s hand dropped protectively towards her lower abdomen.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, “you’re
pregnant
.”

Claire emphasised the ‘p’ word, drawing it out as she watched Georgia’s eyes darting wildly, like those of a cat dodging traffic on a busy road.

“No,” she stuttered. “I mean…….why would you think that………what makes you say that…..um-

Claire’s pregnancy comment had been, at best, a guess, but her friend’s bizarre reaction confirmed it as being the truth. Claire reckoned that it must be early days and Georgia didn’t want anyone to know.  

“It’s ok,” Claire reassured.  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Georgia’s eyes stilled, her hands settling defiantly on her hips. “You’re a witch, do you know that?” she joked.

“Congratulations,” Claire stood up and wrapped her arms around her best friend. “That’s wonderful news. You’ll make a fabulous mother.”

They were mid hug when there was a sharp rat-a-tat on the door and the person knocking didn’t wait for permission to enter. It was Richard, editor of
Morning Cuppa
. Claire was about to introduce them, but it was quickly evident they already knew one another as they airbrushed each others’ cheeks with showbiz kisses.  “Dahling Claire,” he began, holding a tablet under her nose. “Check this out. Your cheese and spinach pasta sauce has already had more than a hundred thousand hits in just fifteen minutes. What do you say to that? You’re breaking records here for us.”

Claire straightened the screen so she could get a better view. Most of the typeface was so small that she couldn’t make out the recipe, or the number of hits the page had had. 

What she could see, however, and most mortifyingly clearly, was a very large image of her in outstretched jazz-hand pose. And a speech bubble coming out of her mouth had the word ‘Voila’ written inside.

June 13th

A malaise descended upon Claire as she drove in her little black mini towards the house of her favourite client, actor Orlando Goodman. Even Daft Punk’s
Get Lucky
which was playing on the radio couldn’t buoy her mood.  Maybe it was the coming down from the high of the show. Maybe it was the coming down from the high of Jonah. Or perhaps it was none of these things because the truth of the matter was, today was June 13
th
. 

She shook her head as she clicked her right indicator, trying to rid her mind of all negative thoughts and to concentrate on the positives. Her life had turned a corner and all was pretty great at the moment. No, not great,
brilliant
. There was Jonah, there was the new job. How many people would long to be in her shoes? But the harmful thoughts wouldn’t go.
It
wouldn’t go. The date kept spinning round in her head, and much as she tried to resist it, so did the thoughts that she associated with this date. She was a rational person and didn’t believe in superstition. The number thirteen was inauspicious, holding so much weight for so many people, and yet she’d always refuted its force. She would happily buy a house bearing that number. She would happily stay on the thirteenth floor of a hotel. 

She and Jonah had been apart for thirteen years and June 13
th
was a date that still pierced her heart. Perhaps she should start taking more notice of the number’s significance. Perhaps there
was
some warped celestial link to it all. Perhaps that’s why Jonah had come back after thirteen years, because of what she’d done, no what
they’d
done, to force her to reflect on it. For thirteen years Claire had done her utmost to put everything in a box and to not think about it, because thinking about it was too damn painful. But the problem with putting everything in a box is that sometimes it comes back to kick you on the butt. Sometimes that darn box unseals itself without your permission and its contents demand to be heard.

She shook her head. She needed to pull herself together. Orlando was one of the many high-profile clients on her books thanks to Georgia’s showbiz connections and she was nearly at his house.  Irritable bowel syndrome, bloating and high blood pressure were the most common complaints she encountered and Orlando Goodman had at some time complained of all three of these symptoms. He was an extremely handsome man, the sort that women swooned over until they learned that he was gay.

His home was a stylish maisonette converted from a four-storey late Georgian property located on a canal in a quiet backstreet of Kings Cross. He had bought it twenty years ago, when this was a rough, rundown neighbourhood but, with the recent introduction of the Eurostar terminal, the area saw a facelift and his property quadrupled in value. His home was the only one Claire knew that had a navigable waterway for a back garden. It was also the only home Claire knew that had a fabulous Victorian-style doorbell pulley which operated a cast iron bell above the inside front door. Claire tugged on the handle, its church-bell peels bringing a smile to her face.

“Entrez,” beamed Orlando, opening both the door and his arms wide for Claire. They performed their ritual double cheek air kiss. As he released her from his hold Claire was disconcerted. Although he was deserving of the same ‘sexy aging stud’ status Georgia had bestowed on Jonah, today his complexion looked odd. Perhaps it was the light.

“I caught you on
Morning Cuppa
,” said Orlando as she followed him down the hall. They always held their consultation in the kitchen, seated at a wooden bench table by French windows which overlooked the canal. “You never mentioned it.”

Crikey, even her local newsagent had seen her on the telly and told her that he tried the celery boats on his two year old son who loved them. The attention unnerved her. The limelight was bad enough as Jonah Kennedy’s girlfriend but now there was no shadow to hide behind.   

“It all happened very quickly,” she explained, unzipping her bag and removing the file which held Orlando’s notes. When Orlando first started seeing her he was suffering from bloating and constipation. As an actor image meant everything to him and despite daily visits to the gym and intensive abdominal workouts, his lower stomach developed an ungainly bulge. Through a process of elimination Claire worked out that Orlando had an intolerance of dairy as well as problems digesting gluten. By removing both those food groups from his diet and encouraging him to drink more water not only did the constipation clear but so too did his bloating. He was delighted with the results and kept her on, seeing her monthly but knowing he could call her at any time if he had concerns. In many ways, Claire sometimes felt she was more a therapist than a nutritionist. Clients wanted to offload their problems on to her. In fact, frequently it was the offloading that made them feel better. She sometimes acted as an expensive placebo prescription. 

“So, how have
you
been,” she probed, anxious to move the spotlight away from her.

She planted her backside on the wooden bench and swung her legs round to underneath the table.  Taking a pen out of her bag, she flipped open her notebook and poised the nib over the page. Orlando took a seat opposite her. As always, there was a bottle of Perrier and two glass tumblers loaded with ice and a slice of lime set on the table.

“Well actually,” Orlando started, “since I last saw you I have been experiencing stomach pains.” He placed a hand on his upper abdomen, indicating a large surface area where he was feeling it most. “Sometimes it’s a dull ache, sometimes it’s more acute. I’ve tried Gaviscon, but it doesn’t help”

Claire made scrawling notes. As she wrote ‘Gaviscon’ she remembered guzzling it from the bottle when she was pregnant with Miriam. It allegedly cured indigestion.

“Have you noticed whether the pain comes after you eat or after something specific you’ve eaten?”

“No”, replied Orlando, wiping beads of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand before reaching for the bottle of sparkling water and unscrewing the top. “But sometimes the pain is worse when I lie down. When I’m busy and active I notice it less.” 

The sun was streaming through the French windows, flooding the room with beautiful, early morning summer light. It wasn’t yet hot though. If anything there was a chill in the air and Claire wished she’d worn a denim jacket to cover her arms. Orlando, however, was perspiring profusely. He looked pasty and even in this good light she could tell that his skin was infused with an off-putting yellowish hue.

“And other than the pain in your stomach, how are you feeling?”

“Other than the pain, all seems fine.”

“And is there anything else troubling you? Is work going well?”

Orlando was currently starring as Willy Wonka in the musical
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
at London’s finest playhouse, the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane
.
He had invited Claire and Miriam to the opening night. The whole show, not to mention his performance, was exceptional. He had won an Olivier award and there was talk of the show transferring to Broadway. 

“No, everything’s fine.”

Claire always felt uncomfortable delving into clients’ private lives but sometimes it was essential. It was amazing how depression and stress could physically affect someone’s body, especially the gut.

“And, outside of work, is everything ok?” she probed.

Orlando was very guarded about his personal life. 

“Everything’s fine,” he reassured, with neither his tone nor his expression giving anything away.

“And any other symptoms since we last met?”

Orlando swung his head from side to side, pondering.

“It’s probably just because I’m getting older and my body’s giving up on me, but I have started getting more back-ache than usual.”

Orlando worked out in the gym regularly.

“Do you think you pulled something?”

“I’m not sure. I have stopped lifting weights but it doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

Claire put the end of her pen in her mouth and started chewing on it, contemplating. A brightly painted black and red gypsy barge glided past the window catching both her and Orlando’s attention. Once it was out of view, she continued with the inquisition.  

“Have you seen your Doctor?”

This line of questioning produced a raised eyebrow from Orlando.

“I don’t need a Doctor, I’ve got you.”

Claire took the pen out of her mouth and lowered it onto her pad, cupping her chin in her hands as her elbows found the table. She looked at him and noticed that even the whites of his eyes had a yellowy tinge. He didn’t look right and from what he had told her it wasn’t immediately evident what nutritional changes she could suggest to help. Georgia had jokingly called her a witch the day before. Claire preferred to call it a ‘sixth sense’. And right now her sixth sense was telling her that something was untoward.  

“I’m not a Doctor and the symptoms you’re describing make me think it might be helpful to see someone who’s properly medically qualified.”

She didn’t want to scare him, just in case her sixth sense was having an off-day. But nonetheless she wanted to make sure that he listened to her.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, but please,” she pleaded, “if you won’t see a doctor for you, then do it for me.”  

Orlando held up his hands in surrender.

“Ok, I’ll do it,” he promised.

“Good,” said Claire, “and I’ll call you in a couple of days to check you’ve kept your word.”

One of the perks of a home visit was that Claire performed a recipe demonstration at the end of each consultation. Something was definitely needed to temper the heaviness that now hung in the air. Claire reached for her bag and started unloading an array of ingredients onto the table: a tin of mackerel, a small pot of soy yoghurt and half a lemon.

“Oily fish is a great source of omega 3,” Claire smiled, lifting up the mackerel tin, “and it makes a cheap and easy pate. So let’s get cooking.” 

                               ------------------

Meeting with Orlando had served as a good distraction but, once Claire got back in her car, it didn’t take long for her malaise to return. She slowed and stopped at a red traffic light, tears spilling from her eyes onto her cheeks. She knew she ought to be thinking about Orlando - she was genuinely concerned about him - but the only thing now in her head was Jonah. Damn him! If he hadn’t come back into her life she wouldn’t be having any of these thoughts. That box would have remained firmly sealed.
For
Ever
. This had been precisely what she’d feared from the beginning. That Jonah re-entering her life would open her up to a pool of pain which she just didn’t want to dive into.

The car behind her honked its horn. She wiped her eyes. The traffic-light had turned green and she’d not noticed. Slowly accelerating, she wondered whether this date, June 13
th
, held any significance for Jonah whatsoever. Did he even remember? Well, sure he would remember, but would this particular
date
trigger an emotional response? Had he battled and struggled with this date every year like she had since they’d parted, trying to lock all that torturous emotion away for eternity? She seriously doubted it. Then what did that say about
him
?  

Claire’s brain felt as if its wiring had been temporarily tampered with and signals were firing off in wrong directions.
Think about something nice
.  Claire tried. She thought about Georgia’s exciting pregnancy news. No, that didn’t help! Claire burst out crying as she parked her car outside her house, leaning her head on the steering wheel until she recovered her composure.

Lily Allen’s spine-tingling rendition of
Somewhere Only We Know
was playing on the radio as her tears abated. The pure clarity of Lily Allen’s voice as she sang
Oh simple thing, where have you gone
was haunting. Perhaps it was Lily Allen who was the witch and not her.  Outside, a large black rain cloud drifted underneath the sun and settled there, like a heavy grey weight defying gravity.