Construct a Couple (16 page)

“That’s amazing, Lizzie,” I say, truly inspired by her determination.

Her cheeks colour. “You do what you have to. And you, Jeremy? Are you working again?”

“I run a charity to help stroke victims.” Jeremy’s voice rings with pride, but a dark cloud passes over his face a second later. Uh-oh. I don’t want him to slip into the black mood of the past few days.

“That’s fantastic!” Lizzie says. “People don’t understand how difficult it can be to get over a stroke, even if it’s a small one. We could have used a lot of help when Mum was out of the hospital.” 

“Lizzie, we’re going to take a look around the market.” I break in before Jeremy has time to reflect on the charity’s state. “We’ll pop back in a bit.”  

Lizzie nods, turning away to grab a mirror so a customer can check her reflection. “Okay, brill. I’ll catch you two later. Nice to meet you, Jeremy.”

He lifts a hand, and we wend our way through the bustling crowd. Despite the calls of market traders and the low hum of the punters, a strange kind of silence swirls around us, like we’re each enclosed in a bubble I don’t know how to break. I glance over, wondering if it’s just me or if Jeremy senses it too, but I can’t tell anything from his expression.

“Want to head to the South Bank?” I ask, once we’ve finished the market stretch. As down-to-earth and lively as this is, it’s time to add some romance to the day. Strolling the walkway by the Thames – with the Millennium Bridge and St Paul’s glistening in the distance – is sure to set the right mood for later. “It’s not far from here, if you’re okay to walk.”

“Sounds good. And maybe we can grab a beverage? I’ll be even better with some wine therapy.” Jeremy kisses the top of my head, and a bit of that odd, uncomfortable feeling falls away.

Thirty minutes later, Waterloo station is behind us and we’re climbing the stairs to the Royal Festival Hall. Even though it’s late afternoon, the sun warms our backs as we cross the terrace, weaving between happy people chatting and drinking.

“Grab a seat and I’ll get us some drinks. Merlot?” Jeremy quirks an eyebrow at me – he knows I adore Merlot, even though he’s always saying it’s a second-rate wine. But as much as I’d love my favourite tipple, it’s time to up the ante.

 Forget wine therapy: today calls for hard-core alcohol to loosen the tongue. Jeremy’s driving so I can’t go too crazy, but one glass of something strong won’t hurt. There’s still plenty of time before we need to head home.

“Um, actually, how about I surprise you?” I jump up before he can respond and make my way to the outside bar.

“Can I help you?” the bartender asks, giving the glass in his hand a final polish.

“Two of your strongest drinks, please.” I drum my fingers on the counter.

“Strongest drinks? Like, whisky or something?”

“Sure, sure. Whisky. Great.” Whisky’s supposed to help sore throats, right? Perfect for warming up vocal chords. I watch as the bartender selects a bottle of amber liquid from the shelf behind him.

“On the rocks?” He holds up a scoop of ice.

“No!” I yelp. The less dilution, the better.

“All right, madam,’ the bartender responds, pouring two slugs into glasses. “Fifteen pounds, please.”

Fifteen pounds? My eyes bulge. What, is there liquid gold in them there glasses? Reluctantly, I hand over my bank card, then pinch the two plastic cups between my fingers and head back to Jeremy.

“What’s that?” he asks, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Whisky! For, um, medicinal purposes. Seeing as how you haven’t been feeling well lately.”

“That’s an unexpected choice.” He passes the glass under his nose, breathing in. “It’s been ages since I’ve had whisky. I didn’t even know you liked it, Ser.”

“Oh, yes. I used to drink it all the time. Well” – I raise the cup in the air – “Cheers!”

“Cheers!” Jeremy takes a swig of the liquid, and I follow suit.

Oh. My. God.

Why don’t people tell you this stuff
burns
? It feels like I’ve swallowed a smouldering match.

When I finish sputtering, I manage to get out the words: “It’s been a while since I’ve had whisky, too.” Jeremy just nods, then takes another mouthful. How can he
do
that?

We sip in silence, watching buskers on the riverside below as boats ease their way down the Thames. With the sun glinting off the water and the pleasant spring temperature, it couldn’t be a more perfect day. Except . . . I drum my fingers on the table.

“So!” I say brightly, waiting for the alcohol to work its magic.

“So.” Jeremy smiles, then reaches over and squeezes my hand. I like hand squeezes as much as the next girl, but a few random words with that squeeze would be nice.

“You’re feeling better today?” I ask lamely. You gotta start somewhere, right?

“Fine, fine. Much better, thanks.”

Silence falls again and I toy with my plastic glass, turning it this way and that as liquid swirls across the bottom.

“Serenity.” Jeremy’s tone is serious and his face solemn, and my heart leaps. This is it. The second he’s going to tell me everything – and ahead of schedule, too. Praise the Lord for whisky!

My eyes meet his clear green ones. “Yes?”

He points to the cup in my hand. “You’re going to spill your drink!”

“Oh.” I glance downwards, where the liquid is about to tip over the edge. So much for spilling his guts – he’s more concerned I’m spilling my stupid drink. Plenty of time, though, I remind myself. There’s dinner, then dessert . . . my cheeks colour as a rush of desire goes through me. God, it’s been ages since we’ve done anything in the bedroom besides sleep. But tonight’s the night!

I force back the rest of the horrid drink, then make a big show of examining my watch. “We’d better head to the market to say bye to Lizzie before it closes.”

Nodding, Jeremy gets to his feet and takes our glasses to the rubbish bin. His gait is sure and steady – that damn whisky hasn’t affected him at all!

Next time, I’m definitely sticking with wine therapy.

A few hours later, we’re back at Jeremy’s, and I’m putting the finishing touches on the Waitrose ready meal I picked up after work yesterday. Despite the earlier whisky fail, we’re still on track for Operation Heart-to-Heart. I’m sure after Jeremy consumes this dinner – combined with a little bedroom action – he’ll be singing like a canary.

He pads into the kitchen, wearing a faded pair of jeans and an old sweater his grandmother knit for him. “Smells great, Ser. What is it?”

“Um . . .” My mind strains as I try to remember what the packet said. “It’s a chicken thingamajig”—that’s a technical cooking term, right? – “and potatoes. And once we’re finished eating, it will be time for
dessert
.” I accompany the last few words with some hip swivels so he gets the message, but I’m standing too close to the table, and my butt knocks his mobile onto the floor. The battery detaches and skims across the hardwood.

“Whoops.” I crouch to pick up the pieces. When I’m upright again, Jeremy’s stretching, his tan stomach peeping out from under the sweater. Ha! I knew the promise of dessert would get him going.

The buzzer dings, and I click off the oven.

“Want me to set the table?” he asks.

I love that Jeremy always offers to help. “No, it’s all right. Why don’t you go relax in the lounge, and I’ll call you when everything’s ready.” Poor guy, he looks as if he’s about to keel over, and I don’t want a little thing like sleep to interfere with my plans.

“Okay.” Jeremy yawns. “Sounds good.”

Ten minutes later, the food has cooked to perfection in its tidy tin, and the wine is open. If ever there were perfect conditions to share disappointments and dismays of the past, it’s now.

“Dinner!” I call.

Jeremy slides into place on the wide wooden bench. I take the chicken and potatoes from the oven and artistically arrange the food onto two plates, setting them down with a flourish.

“So!” I slice through the meat, praying it’s cooked. Ah, thank God. The last thing we need to bring us closer is a little gastric action. “Top Class sure is getting pounded by the media. I wonder how Julia’s holding up?” There. I said it. The dreaded J-word is out of the bag, and all Jeremy needs to do is take up the thread.

“Do you mind if we don’t talk about that right now?” he asks, pushing a bit of food around his plate. In the dim light, his face is an unreadable mask.

“Sure!” I chirp, furiously chomping my chicken. Actually, I
do
mind. But he did say ‘right now’, so maybe that means we’ll chat about it later? Après sex?

 “I’ve got some brownies heating up, and then we can get onto the real dessert.” I leer over with what I hope is a come-hither look, but Jeremy’s eyes are distant.

“Is it okay if I just hit the sack?” he says. “I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted.”

“Oh.” My face sinks into its normal expression, my heart plummeting so fast I feel light-headed. He doesn’t want to talk now. He doesn’t want to talk later! Why the
hell not
? Staring into my wine glass, I swear Julia’s perfect visage sneers up at me.

Jeremy puts down his cutlery, even though he’s barely touched the chicken or wine. “That was fantastic, Ser. Thanks.”  Leaning over, he places his lips lightly on mine. “Night.”

“Night,” I say softly as he climbs the stairs. The creak of the floorboards above me fills the air, then silence falls.

So much for creating the ideal atmosphere, I sigh, clanking and clanging the dishes to make some noise. I’ve been in this house many times on my own, but I’ve never felt as alone as I do right now, with Jeremy sleeping and so much unsaid.

My mobile bleeps and I race towards it, desperate for a connection with the outside world. It’s Kirsty! I haven’t heard from her since she took off for New York.

Found the perfect house! Offer accepted – staying on here and moving in next week. Miss you. xx

I stare at the words, trying to absorb them. Kirsty bought a place already? Moving in next week? God, she doesn’t waste time, does she? The knowledge my best friend is miles away – and staying that way – makes me even lonelier and at sea.

Scrunching up the tea towel, I grab a brownie and flop onto the bench. Despite chewing mouthful after mouthful of gooey chocolate, my heart is heavier than ever. I’ve done everything I can short of torture to get Jeremy to open up and explain Julia’s involvement with the charity. And while I tried to make excuses, it’s obvious now he’s not keen.

Kirsty would be screaming at me to just tell him already; to put everything out on the table. But after this failed attempt, I’m not sure I
want
to discover why he’s kept his contact with Julia quiet. What if it’s something I’d rather not know?

I sigh, munching the moist brownie methodically. I can’t keep turning stuff over in my mind like this, trying to figure out what’s happening in my boyfriend’s head.

There are plenty of things I’ve kept secret recently, for the good of our relationship.

Maybe I need to convince myself Jeremy’s doing the same.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As March morphs into April, I
do
manage to convince myself Jeremy’s silence is a good thing, and it’s better if we just move ahead. I will time to pass quickly, burying the article and everything it represents with layer upon layer of cement to build up a protective coating, so it can’t invade our present.  But our relationship, once happy and light, feels weighed down, as if it’s straining to move.

Jeremy appears weighted, too. Despite my constant attempts to jolly him into going out to Providores or Primrose Hill, he seems to have more interest in becoming one with the sofa than anything I offer. I’ve resorted to ringing up Karen and asking her to fabricate excuses to drag him into the charity. But – most worryingly of all – even that doesn’t get him moving.

Thankfully, work at the magazine is its usual self.
One World
hasn’t scooped us again but Helen won’t let up, claiming it just proves the leak got scared by Jonas’s investigations. Apart from that drama, I’m slowly becoming efficient at pinning down information. Gregor’s queries on my articles are sparser every day, and even Helen’s thrown me a kind word or two whenever I’ve worked on her stories.

Despite Gregor’s huffs and puffs and the tight work schedule, Lizzie and I have managed to escape the newsroom for lunch a few times, heading to a nearby café for greasy paninis. The more time we spend together, the more I respect her strength of purpose, not to mention her fashion chutzpah. After failing to find me something suitable at the stall to wear (aka, an item befitting my growing butt), she’s offered to design me a one-off original piece.

It’s the start of a new week and I flop into my chair, psyching myself up for an article on chin warts. Without looking over, Gregor releases his customary ‘good morning’ sniff. I snuffle in response, giggling when his furry eyebrows rise half a millimetre. Ha! Two can play at the sniffing game, my Kleenex-challenged friend. The phone interrupts my morning entertainment, and I lift the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Come see me.” As usual, Jonas’s tone is unreadable.

“Um, okay.” Hmm, I wonder what he wants? We’ve barely spoken since he killed the Top Class feature.

I trudge to his office, noting with surprise Helen’s there, too.

“Take a seat.” Jonas points to the torn vinyl chair. “As you know, Helen has suspected stories of being leaked to our competitors –
One World
, in particular.”

I tilt my head, wondering what this has to do with me. “Yes.”

“We’ve been investigating for a while, but it’s a hard thing to pin down. Although the stories have been similar, the quotes were different enough to throw us off. Until that Top Class article.” Jonas shakes his head. “The quotes from the care-home manager were word for word what you had written. It’s a little much to be a coincidence.”

All right, fine, but what am I doing here? My heart starts beating fast as a thought enters my mind. They don’t think I’m the leak, do they?

“The fact-checking team is one of the only departments with access to almost every story we run.” Jonas leans back, his eyes locked on mine. “We have a good idea the leak is coming from there.”