Happier Than She's Ever Been... (12 page)

That evening her prestigious London publishers took her out to dinner. She arrived twenty minutes early, surrendered her coat, then sat down at the empty table for five. She ordered a bottle of water and gingerly fingered the silver cutlery. She watched the waiters gliding between the tables with trays and plates held elegantly aloft as though they were performers in an intricate modern dance routine.

May glanced around at the impeccably dressed people populating the booths close to her. She sat up a little straighter. Only a few metres away sat the star of a film she'd watched on the plane: in the flesh, actually eating real food with a knife and fork. Next to him was someone else she recognised, though it took May a few minutes to place her. It was Caitlyn Walker. A bestselling author: tall, thin, blonde, beautiful… an American writer who'd had seven of her books turned into multi-million-dollar films, every one of which was a box-office smash. Little did May know that Ms Walker was far more lost even than May, suffering from a broken heart, a battered spirit, a wounded soul, and writer's block.

On the surface at least, the evening went wonderfully. May's publishers loved her, loved the book and were very excited about the high-octane itinerary they'd lined up for the coming month. Almost every hour was accounted for, with only a half-day off on Sundays. They'd booked her appearances on every chat show, daytime and evening, fluffy and cultural. They'd appointed interviews in newspapers – tabloids and broadsheets – and magazines. They'd arranged advance book readings around London, followed by a nationwide tour once the book came out. It was BIG. And it was only the beginning.

When May finally returned to the hotel, it was long past midnight and her head was spinning so much she had to hold onto the wall while opening the door to her room. She walked over to the sofa and sat back with a sigh, still dizzy and staring up at the ceiling, breathing deeply, trying to steady herself, trying to figure out what she was feeling. And then, slowly, she knew. Right now, finally alone again, she didn't feel happy or excited or scared or sad. She was numb; she felt nothing, absolutely nothing at all, which was the worst thing of all. Just as Lily had warned, she'd lost her heart by focusing on success instead of self-fulfilment, and with it the love of her life.

‘That's quite a story,' the interviewer gushed. ‘You must feel pretty damn proud of yourself, what with all you've achieved?'

May was sitting on the sofa of her Hyde Park hotel room with a tabloid journalist. They'd done the photo shoot earlier that day and it had been a little risqué. She knew Ben wouldn't have approved. But of course, sadly, it didn't matter what he thought any more.

‘I don't know, I suppose I feel, well…'

‘So, what'll the headline be?' the journalist mused, biting his pencil. ‘From penniless waitress to international writer –'

‘Well, I wasn't really a waitress. I owned the café.'

‘Okay,' he considered, ‘from baker to bestseller –'

‘Well, actually I wasn't –'

‘Yep, that's not bad. 'Course we need to sex it up a little, but I'm sure the editor'll take care of that, smarmy git. So,' he said, turning back to her, ‘how
do
you feel, now you've done everything you've ever dreamed of ?'

It was an easy question, with an easy answer. May opened her mouth, waiting for all the clichés about living a fairy-tale life to trip off her tongue. But nothing came out. She was silent.

Surprised to be still waiting, the journalist prompted her. ‘Stupid question I suppose. So then, is there anything left, anything else you still want to achieve, or would you say you have it all?'

What else did she want? May pondered this. Well, to go back in time and make different choices. To have her life back, her lovely little life before she lost her heart and all sense of perspective. To know unconditional love again. To have joy in her heart and peace in her soul. To be a good person again, a worthwhile person, a person who brings light to other people's lives. To remember why she promoted the book in the first place. And to feel something. Anything at all.

‘No, nothing else,' May answered, smiling. ‘I have everything I've ever wanted.'

‘Yeah?' The journalist laughed. ‘And everything every other bugger in the world wants too!'

‘Yes.' May nodded. ‘Yes, I'm very lucky, very lucky indeed.'

It was May's first half-day off. The first morning she hadn't crawled out of bed at the crack of dawn, the first time she'd had more than a minute to herself. And now it was almost midday and she hadn't got out of bed at all. She'd turned the television on and off again numerous times, tried reading the papers, but nothing could hold her attention. Every few seconds she glanced at the telephone by the bed. A soft voice inside her heart whispered to her, telling her to call Ben. And her cousin, Faith. Now May knew why she was so scared to call Ben, but didn't really understand why she was putting off calling her favourite cousin. Faith would be rather hurt if she knew. May told herself she'd been meaning to every day and couldn't understand why she kept putting it off. Sometimes, when she'd escaped the media madness for a moment or two and was walking through the park, or had stopped to listen to a street musician, or given a homeless person a ten-pound note – since meeting Harry she'd sought them out – May thought of Faith and her heart ached from missing her. But she was nervous too. Probably because she knew that Faith would say it was all her fault that everything had gone wrong. And she didn't want to hear that because she knew it was.

Another week passed in the blink of an eye. The month was almost up and May still hadn't called Faith or Ben. But most of the time she didn't have to think about it or what to do next because every decision was made for her. And that, at least, was a blessing.

Now she sat in the back of a taxi, speeding towards her very first UK book signing. It was being held in a famous bookshop on Oxford Street, the name of which had momentarily escaped her, the importance of which had not. It was an incredibly prestigious location to have as the first stop on her book tour and, as such, she should have been feeling extremely excited and certainly very proud. But May felt neither of these things; she didn't even feel nervous, just numb. As usual.

As the taxi swept up to the venue, May was surprised to see the queue of customers snaking out of the bookshop and down the street. And she was even more surprised when they clapped and cheered as she walked inside. But the biggest surprise of all was saved for when May sat at the table and looked up to see the first person waiting for her, book in hand and grinning from ear to ear.

Jake.

She blinked at him, unable to believe it. Even looking straight at him: tall and broad, blond hair and blue eyes… Absolutely completely and utterly gorgeous – and he still knew it. The man who had adored her for a few brief blissful months, then left her six months after she'd become needy and clingy and ever-so-slightly obsessed. The man for whom she had given up her sense of self, the reason she had vowed never to do it again. Indeed the man who was a major reason why she'd screwed things up so spectacularly with Ben.

May had fantasised about this moment for years. Since the day he'd walked out, since she'd self-published her book, she dreamt that one day it might become a bestseller and Jake would see it in a window.

He would read it and realise he'd made a hideous, horrible mistake. He'd see how much everyone else adored and admired her, and he'd come running. Just as she still wished her father would.

And now here he was, standing three feet in front of her. She stared at him. He stepped forward, holding her book, smiling the dazzling smile that had always made her melt. In the next few seconds the last few months of their relationship flashed through her mind: the nights when she'd crept out of bed, reading his phone messages in the dark, finding nothing but new depths of self-loathing and despair she never imagined she'd reach. The days she'd pursued him, calling far too often, trying to spice things up, to delve deeper into him, chasing him – the more he pulled away until he started being cruel. Staying close to him no matter what he did or how much it hurt. Until finally, he left her.

May's breath caught in her throat and, unable to speak, she waited to see what Jake would do next.

‘Hi,' he said, still grinning. ‘I'm hoping you might sign my book.'

‘Yes of course.' May composed herself and held his gaze. ‘Do you want a dedication?'

‘Please.'

‘Name?'

‘Oh, don't tell me I meant so little to you, Maya. It'd break my heart.'

May took the book from him and scribbled his name. Silky smooth words still tripped off his tongue so easily, as seductive as chocolate caramels. She shivered a little.
I thought
, she wanted to say,
that it was I who meant so little to you.

‘It's May now,' she said. ‘I go by May.'

‘Oh,' he said, ‘but on your book –'

‘Well, to my friends.' She handed him back the book, and Jake took it as though she'd just given him the crown jewels.

‘Thank you,' he said softly, ‘for still calling me your friend.'

May gave a slight shrug, glancing towards the long queue of people behind him, some of them looking pointedly at their watches and glaring at Jake for making them wait.

‘Well,' she said, ‘I guess I'd better get on.'

Jake nodded. ‘Yeah, right, of course. But, please, let me take you out for dinner tonight. If you don't have plans, fabulous famous person that you are now. Or if you do, break them.' And there was that smile again. The one that seemed to reach right down into May's chest and tug at her heart. She hadn't seen him for so long, hadn't loved him for even longer, but his smile still had that effect on her. May willed herself to say no, to lie, to dismiss him, to say she never wanted to see him again.

But instead she said, ‘Okay, when I'm done here, why don't I meet you at the bar across the street?'

Jake nodded again, flashed her one last smile and was gone.