Now Is Our Time
NOW IS OUR TIME
BY
JO KESSEL
To my father
For teaching me that life is for living
CLAIRE
This isn’t how I expected my life to be
. That’s what Claire de Klerk was thinking as she plucked yet another moth wing out of her threadbare beige bedroom carpet. Nobody had ever warned her that the fairytale ending might not in fact exist. Nope, she’d grown up believing in love and marriage and that Prince Charming would provide her with at least 2.5 children. It hadn’t always been this way. At one point she nearly was living the dream. She had the man, the ring and a couple of years later they were blessed by the pitter-patter of tiny feet. But alas the foundations of this perfect world had proved even patchier than the carpet she was now fingering. So she now found herself not only a divorced single mother and seemingly on the scrap heap at the ripe old age of thirty-seven, but dealing with something far crueller: a moth infestation. She hated insects at the best of times, to the point that if a hairy fat bluebottle dared fly within half a meter’s radius of her, she’d vacate the room in an embarrassing fluster. Single motherhood, however, had forced her to address such demons so that her precious eight-year-old daughter Miriam would feel safe and protected. She’d even honed a technique for evacuating creepy crawlies from the house without killing them. Trap the beast in question under an empty cup, slide a piece of paper underneath and carefully carry to the front door where the contents are released back into the wild. Because, whilst her daughter Miriam might not appreciate finding spiders in her bath, if getting rid of them meant murder, that was not an option. “No killing, please Mummy,” she’d insist. “Put them back in the garden with their friends.”
If only it had been as easy to shift the moths. Sadly their infestation had been so extreme that they’d had to vacate the house so it could be fumigated and baked to such a high temperature that no small living organism could possibly survive. Claire’s fingers picked out tiny frail wings which the vacuum cleaner had failed to dislodge from the shag pile, before loading them onto a piece of newspaper. The phone rang, snapping her from her reverie.
8.30 a.m.
Shit.
Her ex-husband Anthony was going to be here to fetch Miriam any second and she hadn’t yet packed her daughter’s overnight bag. She considered ignoring the phone for fear it might delay her yet further, but then she realized that it might indeed
be
Anthony calling and therefore she better pick it up.
“Hello?”
Her tone was a downtrodden mix of weary and wary.
“Claire,” a female voice purred in her ear.
Claire’s shoulders visibly relaxed. It wasn’t Anthony. It was her best friend Georgia. Whilst others had deserted her post divorce, Georgia had been a saintly rock, mopping up tears and trying to help her move on.
“George, I’m running late. Can I call you back?”
“No, I’m about to go get on the tube and just wanted to check that you’re all set for later.”
Claire smiled. Georgia knew Claire well enough to know that what was happening
later
could easily have slipped her mind. But actually, what was happening
later
was the most exciting thing Claire had planned in years, and whilst part of her was dreading it, an impish voice in her head was telling her she had to give it a go. We all only have one life after all.
“I’ve not forgotten.”
“So have you decided what you’re going to wear?”
Ah, no, that little matter had slipped her mind and most of her wardrobe was still sealed in protective anti-moth-munching boxes.
“Yes, I think so,” she lied. “But remind me the rules?”
“Keep it simple and stylish and perhaps one statement piece of jewellery. No stripes or squiggles and nothing which could give you damp patches under the armpits. It will be hot in there, so be warned.”
One more lie wouldn’t hurt. Georgia getting angry that she hadn’t yet selected an outfit wouldn’t help expedite things.
“Ok, yep, I’m all set,” she replied.
Claire waited for a response or for her friend to wish her good luck but Georgia suddenly gave her the silent treatment, sitting wordlessly on the other end of the receiver. Claire scrambled to her feet, trying to fashion the piece of newspaper she was holding into a funnel.
“Are you ok?” Claire probed further. “Or is there something on your mind?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Georgia replied. “I don’t want to distract you from this afternoon.”
“No, tell me now. Otherwise I won’t be able to
concentrate
later.”
Claire could hear her friend draw a deep breath.
“Ok,” Georgia whispered. “I saw Jonah yesterday.”
“Jonah?”
As Claire uttered his name like a question, like she was querying the very existence of somebody, anybody by that name, she knew it was ridiculous. There was only one Jonah that Georgia could possibly be referring to, but her friend answered anyway.
“Jonah Kennedy.”
Claire gasped. The moisture from her mouth seemed to find its way to the palms of her hands at the mere sound of his name. The pulse thumping in her ears became louder by the second. She tried to say “oh”, but instead her lips quivered feebly. That, after all this time, was all she could muster. That, after all this time, was the effect the mere mention of his name still had on her, which is why she’d spent so long trying to do anything but think or speak about Jonah Kennedy.
“He said he’d like to contact you. He wanted your phone number, but I hope you don’t mind, I gave him your e-mail address instead.”
The piece of newspaper fell from Claire’s fingers, taking its load floating with it to the floor. She wanted to get off the phone, to guzzle a glass of icy water to clear her head and to grab a paper bag, because any second now she might just start hyperventilating. She quickly pulled herself together and coughed, to clear the atmosphere, hoping that the cough alone could erase the information she’d just been given. She didn’t have time for this right now. She didn’t have time for this ever.
“Claire?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” she reassured Georgia. “But I’ve got to go. Anthony’s at the door. Let’s speak about this later. Let’s speak about everything later.”
---------------------------------
Anthony really had rung the doorbell but, even if he hadn’t, Claire would definitely have used that as an excuse to hang up. She took a moment to further digest this recent discovery and then shook her head, willing herself to just ignore it and get on with the job in hand. Downstairs Miriam must have opened the front door to her father because she could hear her squealing not
his
name but the name of her new half-brother, Jasper. A pang shot through Claire’s core. She and Anthony might no longer be together, but it was still hard emotionally to deal with him having another child. He’d clearly managed to move on from their separation more quickly than she had.
Claire hadn’t yet met Jasper and had been dreading this moment. Since his birth six months ago Anthony had left him at home with his mother every time he’d come to fetch Miriam and there’d certainly been no forewarning that today would be any different. Claire sighed so deeply that her diaphragm ached from the stretch and she seemed to gain a couple of extra inches in height. Exhaling slowly she headed into Miriam’s room and started to mechanically fill her overnight bag. Slippers, a new pair of pyjamas which had ‘Good Night Mummy’ scrawled across its top, just in case Miriam needed reminding of her whilst she was away playing with her new step-brother. A hairbrush, toothbrush, clean underwear, spare T-shirt and school reading book were squeezed on top.
Job done, she attempted to fix a bright smile on her lips. As a senior defence lawyer, Anthony had once explained to her how important it was on a professional level not to allow people to be able read your expression because, if they could sense fear or uncertainty, they’d be over you like a rash and the case would be lost. Indeed, Anthony could switch his expression from impassive to cool with the click of a finger. And he wasn’t alone. Many of his colleagues were similarly gifted in this department and Claire had always wondered how they managed it with such ease. It wasn’t as if they were actors.
As someone who was supremely talented at wearing emotions on her sleeve, Claire wasn’t sure how convincing her breezy demeanour now looked but she stuck with it, not so much as a muscle twitch affecting the broad grin she tightly pulled as she descended the creaking Edwardian staircase. Safely at the bottom she looked more closely at Jasper who was sleeping beatifically in Miriam’s arms.
“He’s absolutely gorgeous,” she cooed, trying to draw her lips even wider as she ran a finger lightly across the soft skin on his cheek.
He
was
gorgeous. And yet it was one of the hardest things she’d ever vocalised. Just looking at him made her feel a confusing mix of envy, anger and longing. But she had to be nice, for the sake of her daughter and for the sake of ‘moving on’. He was almost exactly how Miriam had looked as a baby, although perhaps his colouring was slightly darker and the curls on his head slightly tighter.
When Claire finally tore her gaze away from her daughter’s arms Anthony made a point of looking her in the eye and nodding gratefully. Nothing about their break-up had felt particularly acrimonious. Their spark had just died and failed to reignite despite their best efforts.
“Congratulations,” Claire tried to keep her voice steady.
“Thank you,” said Anthony, shifting slightly on his feet and probably feeling just as awkward as his ex-wife. He ruffled the top of Miriam’s dark head of hair which had been coiffed into two long plaits, each with a delicate pink bow tied at the bottom.
“Come on Missy, I’m sure your mother’s got lots to be doing.”
Claire handed him the overnight bag.
“See you tomorrow at eight?”
“Yes,” Anthony replied, hooking the bag over his shoulder and taking back possession of Jasper from his daughter’s embrace.
Claire took a step towards her daughter and hugged her tightly. They’d gone through this rigmarole umpteen times but it never made the parting any easier.
“I love you,” she whispered into Miriam’s ear.
“Love you too,” replied Miriam.
Claire was about to let her go, but then had an afterthought, and pressed her mouth even closer to her daughter’s ear.
“Maybe its best not to mention the moths to Daddy,” she said.
----------------------
Normally Claire would watch from behind the curtains as Anthony put Miriam into his white BMW Jeep and drove away but not today. She knew that in terms of timing she’d be better off looking for an outfit for this afternoon but she knew she wouldn’t settle until she’d checked her e-mails. She didn’t have time to think about Jonah now; she didn’t want to think about Jonah ever and yet suddenly she could think of little else. She didn’t want to know what he had to say, she didn’t want her walls to be broken down, and yet the allure of seeing whether he’d written to her after all this time was pulling her like a drug. She ran back upstairs to her study and turned on the computer. She’d been so busy sorting out the moths that she hadn’t checked her e-mails for a couple of days. When did Georgia say she’d spoken with him? Where did they meet? Had Jonah recognised Georgia after all this time or had it been the other way round? Because there was no way Georgia wouldn’t have recognised
him
. Half the bloody world might still recognise him – he’d certainly had a pretty keen female following back then. How come he was in London when, as far as she knew, he still lived in the U.S? What had Georgia said to him about her? What had
he
asked Georgia about her? How had he
looked
?
She did the mental arithmetic. It had been thirteen years. For thirteen years she had done her best to put Jonah Kennedy out of her mind. To not think of him, to not let anyone talk to her about him and definitely not let any news of him filter through to her via the internet or social media. If she’d wanted news of him she was sure she could have found out everything she wanted to know and more with an easy click of the finger. But for thirteen years she’d resisted this temptation. So why, now, as the thirty, no fifty, no ninety, no
one hundred and fifteen
new messages started loading into her inbox, was she so desperate to see if one was from him? What if he’d had no intention of writing to her at all and if he’d just been making polite conversation?
