The Return of Mrs. Jones (14 page)

‘You are having the whole night off. You can come back tomorrow morning, but not a second before.’ There was no trace of humour in his voice, just worry. ‘And I’ll see how you are then.’

‘Yes, boss.’

But it was an effort to form the words, and she didn’t demur as Jonas led her through the crowds and round to the staff car park, where he gently helped her into his car.

Lawrie sank into the seat and closed her eyes. Half asleep, she didn’t notice the route Jonas took until he stopped the car with an undignified squeal of brakes. She prised her eyelids open and looked about her. They were in the tiny old town, amongst the fishermen’s cottages that clustered around the harbour.

‘This isn’t home,’ she murmured sleepily.

‘This is my house,’ Jonas told her, and he unbuckled her seat belt before getting out and coming round to open her door and help her out. ‘I don’t trust you not to be logging on and fussing if I let you go back to yours.’

‘Too tired to log on,’ she protested, but obediently followed him along the street.

They were at the very top of the old town, with the cliffs towering above them and views over the rooftops down to the harbour below. Jonas came to a stop by a long crooked house that lurched drunkenly along the street and opened the door. Lawrie stopped on the doorstep and stared at him, suddenly more awake.

‘The crooked house? You bought it?’

‘Yep. Come in.’

She looked at him. Didn’t he remember? That this was
the house
—the one that every time they played the ‘one day when we are rich’ game they had decided they would buy. Some were bigger, others more imposing, cuter, older, quainter, but something about this last house in the old town had appealed to her the most. The funny little corners, the different levels, the roof garden... It had always drawn her in, and now it belonged to Jonas.

‘Lawrie, are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m coming.’

Slowly she stepped into her dream house. Inside it was just as she’d imagined. The hall that bisected the mismatched halves of the house was covered in grey flagstones, a wooden bannister curved around the crooked staircase.

She didn’t have time to see more as Jonas ushered her straight upstairs. He turned down the winding passage to his left and stopped at the first door, pausing with his hand on the handle, a look of slight embarrassment on his face. ‘I haven’t made the other beds up but my sheets are clean on...’ He trailed off.

She stared at him incredulously, then laughed. ‘Jonas, we have been sleeping together most nights for the last month—plus, I am so tired I wouldn’t care if your sheets hadn’t been changed in weeks.’

He grinned. ‘Good point,’ he said and, turning the handle, ushered her inside.

It was a large, rectangular room, with two small windows cut into the deep walls, the stone window seats covered in plush cushions. An oak bedstead dominated the room and was made up in a rich, dark chocolate linen. It was the most inviting thing Lawrie had ever seen.

‘Right...’ He still stood at the door. ‘I will leave you to...ah...make yourself comfortable. There’s a bathroom just there.’ He gestured at a door set in the far wall. ‘I’ll be back in the morning with some clean clothes and a meal, so just sleep, okay?’

‘’kay...’ She nodded, but her eyes were already fixated on the plump, cool-looking pillows, the king-size comfortable bed.

Jonas had scarcely pulled the door shut behind him before she’d started to undress, kicking off her shoes, slipping off her shorts and unhooking her bra, manoeuvring it off under her vest top. Clad just in her top and knickers, she climbed into the bed and closed her eyes.

As she drifted off to sleep the events of the day replayed themselves. Why had Jonas been so funny about her sleeping in his bed? Of
course
, she thought drowsily as sleep began to overtake her. They had only shared a bed to have sex—sometimes sleeping together afterwards, sometimes he would leave her and go home. But this—this letting her into his bed, into his home—this was intimacy.

It scared her...it comforted her.

Lawrie drifted off to sleep.

*

It wasn’t worth going back to the hotel, Jonas decided. After all, Fliss could cope for a few hours, and if she couldn’t he was just fifteen minutes’ drive away; it could take longer than that to walk from one side of the site to the other.

Dropping by Lawrie’s to pick her up a change of clothes had taken him far longer than he’d anticipated. Choosing an outfit had felt almost uncomfortably intimate—which, considering some of the truly intimate actions he had been performing with and to her on a nightly basis, was just too weird.

He hadn’t wanted to dwell on why that might be, choosing a dress and cardigan almost at random and plucking underwear out of her drawer with his face averted.

Well, maybe he’d had a little peek. But not a long one—he wasn’t one of
those
guys.

Back at his house, he wandered into his sitting room, falling onto the leather corner sofa with a sigh, his mind fixated on the room above, where Lawrie slept. He had avoided bringing her here, to his home, to the house she had once loved so much.

He dragged his eyes away from the ceiling he was staring at as if he had X-ray vision—as if he could see through to the room, to the bed, to the sleeping girl above—fixing his gaze instead on the large watercolour portrait that hung above the open fireplace. It was a sea scene, of course—every work of art he owned reflected the coast in some way—in which a girl sat on a rock, staring out to a wild sea, her hair whipped and blowing. She was turned away from the artist, so only a small part of her face could be seen.

Lawrie. A portrait painted by a summer visitor years ago. Jonas had tracked it down and bought it several years ago.

He didn’t really like to examine his reasons why. Just as he didn’t like to examine his reasons for buying this house in particular. The house he and Lawrie had play-furnished in their dreams time and time again. He could easily afford something bigger, fancier, more luxurious, but he felt grounded here—at home.

In the house she’d loved, with her portrait on the wall.

He sat bolt upright, adrenaline running through him. What was he
doing
? What had he been doing these last nine years?

He was pathetic. All these years he had prided himself on how independent he was, how he needed no one but himself, and look at him.

No wonder he was still single. How could any real woman compete with the ghost at the feast? They had never had a chance, had they? No matter how fun or accomplished or sexy they were, they had always been missing something very important.

They weren’t Lawrie.

Maybe part of him had held on, hoping for her return. And here she was. Back in his life and back in his bed.

About to leave again.

He could try and change her mind. He could ask her to stay, beg her to stay. Rush up there now and tell her how he felt.

And then what?

Jonas got to his feet and walked over to the painting. There she was, her eyes fixed on the horizon, on the future. She had always dreamt big.

Right now she was vulnerable, more scarred by the loss of her job and her fiancé than she would ever admit. He could play on that fear and she might stay.

And then what?

He knew too well how
that
scenario played out. He would watch her feel more and more confined and constricted. Watch her start to blame and resent him. Again. Watch her walk away, walk out of his life, and this time never come back.

Or he could let her go and then move on himself. Finally,
properly
move on.

He looked at the clock sitting on the mantelpiece. Eight hours before he needed to wake her. It wouldn’t hurt if he just stretched out for a while himself. The sofa was long enough, wide enough, comfortable enough... And yet he couldn’t relax.

This was ridiculous. He had a perfectly good bed upstairs. Lawrie wouldn’t mind.

*

She was fast asleep, the covers kicked off, exposing long, lean legs. The curve of her bottom encased in sheer black silk was a stark contrast to the cream of her skin. The strap of her vest had fallen down, showing a rare vulnerability in the usually self-possessed, contained, organised Lawrie. Looking down at her, he felt a tenderness creep over him for his beautiful, intelligent wife.

Ex
-wife. Just two letters made such a difference.

Jonas kicked off his shoes and quietly slipped his shorts off, hanging them on the chair before crossing the room to get into bed beside her. He fitted his length against her, pulling her in close, one arm holding her tight.

‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll always love you.’

Eyes open, thoughts racing, Jonas lay there, holding Lawrie close, willing time to slow, wishing that the night would last for ever.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
T
WAS
THE
campfire’s fault. If Lawrie hadn’t attended the end-of-festival campfire—hadn’t met up with old friends, hadn’t found herself singing songs she had forgotten she had ever known, hadn’t cooed over babies and admired stroppy, tired toddlers, hadn’t met new couples and heard one hundred stories about how they’d met...

If she hadn’t spent the evening watching Jonas, golden in the flickering firelight, laughing, relaxing, looking over at her with laughter, with tenderness in his eyes.

If after the campfire they hadn’t sneaked back to the camper van. If they hadn’t made love with an intensity she couldn’t remember having ever experienced before.

She should have left the minute the festival finished—packed her bags and disappeared without a word.

Then she wouldn’t need to find the words to say goodbye. Find the will to turn and walk away.

‘You’re very quiet.’

Jonas was once more driving her to the airport.

Only this time there would be no return trip.

She forced a smile. ‘I’m a little apprehensive,’ she admitted.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Lawrie Bennett, lawyer, festival-organiser, campfire chanteuse...apprehensive? I don’t believe it.’

He was so calm, so
cheerful
. As if her leaving didn’t matter at all.

And, although she couldn’t handle a scene, a little regret might be nice—a sign that their time together had meant something to him.

What if he asked you to stay?

Where had that thought come from?

She pushed it to one side, searching for something to say.
‘
Do you think I’m like my mother?’

As soon as she asked the question she regretted it, not sure she could bear to hear the answer.

Jonas looked surprised. That was good, right?

‘I can’t imagine you abandoning your teenage daughter while you go and party in Goa, no,’ he said finally. ‘Why?’

Immediately Lawrie wanted to backtrack. What could she tell him? That she wasn’t sure about leaving? Didn’t know if she could do this alone?

She fell back on an old conversation. ‘I don’t even know what I like, for goodness’ sake. Is festival-going, shorts-wearing, beach-loving Lawrie more real than the suited and booted City lawyer? I worry that I’m a chameleon, Jonas, just like she is.’

Excuse it might be, but there was truth there. She had always defended her need to blend in. Maybe it was time to learn to stand out.

He was silent for a moment. ‘Your mother spent her life searching—you’ve spent yours
doing
. You have spent your life trying to achieve something, Law. You have been working for it since I knew you. You’re dedicated, single-minded. That’s nothing like her. You never wasted your time on dreams and fairytales.’

That was true, but not enough. ‘But I don’t even know whether I like the stuff I like because of me, or because of you or Hugo. See? Chameleon!’

He laughed, and the warm humour caressed her taut nerves.

‘We’re back to this, are we?’

She nodded, slightly shame-faced.

‘You’re not a chameleon, I promise. Maybe you’ve just found it easier to adapt to other people’s interests as that gives you more time to concentrate on what really matters to you.’

He was silent for a moment, concentrating on overtaking, and Lawrie took his words in, a warmth stealing over as she did so.

He understood her. In some ways better than she understood herself.

He spoke again, quiet and serious. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re both of those people. Even city slickers are allowed to be beach bums occasionally. You don’t have to choose. Okay—we’re here.’

Looking up with a start, Lawrie realised Jonas was taking a left hand turn—the one that led to the airport short-stay car park. He was planning to come in.

Panic clawed at her chest. She couldn’t handle a long, protracted goodbye. Memories flashed through her of tearful train station farewells, clutching desperately on to Jonas as the train drew in, suitcase at her feet.

She’d never been good at goodbyes.

‘You don’t need to stay, honestly. Just drop me off.’

He flashed her a quick glance. ‘You sure?’

She put on her brightest smile. ‘Goodness, yes. You don’t want to waste an hour hanging out at the airport, and I don’t have much luggage—most of my stuff was shipped out last week. I’ll head straight to the departure lounge and read there. You go.’

There was a slightly desperate tinge to her voice as she finished speaking but Jonas didn’t seem to notice—he just turned the car around to drive into the drop-off area.

He pulled up to the kerb and they sat there. Silent. Lawrie stared at her hands, twisting them nervously together.

‘Okay, then, this is it.’

‘Yep.’

‘I’ll get your bag.’

Once again he was walking round the car to fetch her bag. Once again she was sliding out of the low-slung seats, stepping onto the grey paving slabs, ready to walk through the sliding glass doors.

Once again she was leaving.

‘Right—you have your suitcase, laptop, handbag, jacket, tickets, passport?’

She nodded. ‘I’m all good.’

‘Okay, then.’ He was moving away, the few steps back towards the car. It was just Lawrie and her bags, alone on the pavement. Just as she wanted.
Fight me on this,
she thought desperately.
Come in with me. See me off.
Ask me not to go.

The need was getting louder, harder to ignore.

Lawrie picked up her bag, testing its weight. This was it. She shot a look over at him, leaning against the bonnet, oblivious or uncaring of the cars lined up behind, waiting for a drop-off spot. His face was calm, set. Inscrutable.

‘Law...?’

She paused, a fizz of hope bubbling up inside her, shocking her with its intensity.

‘Just remember: tea is drunk hot, not iced, and jelly wobbles and is always eaten with ice cream.’

And just like that she was flat.

She attempted a smile. ‘I thought you wanted me to fit in?’

‘Fit in? Yes. Go native? No.’

The world had fallen away. All she was aware of was him. The foot between them seemed an ocean already—that solid, comforting presence a continent away. It was up to her. Only her.

And it terrified her.

Lawrie took a deep breath. ‘I could stay if you wanted me to. If you asked me I would consider it, definitely.’
Ask me,
she begged silently.
Tell me you need me...you can’t live without me. Tell me it will be better this time. Tell me we can make it.

His expression didn’t change. ‘Why?’

Lawrie didn’t know what she had expected him to do. To regretfully but politely turn her down and send her on her way? To run over to her, swoop her up, twirl her, like a montage of every rom-com she had seen? To be embarrassed?

But she hadn’t expected that one-word question. She hadn’t expected the warm blue eyes to turn to steel.

‘Last-minute nerves,’ she said as brightly as she could, pulling the tattered shreds of her pride around her, trying to match his cool expression. ‘You know I hate saying goodbye. It’s been a good few weeks. I got carried away, sorry. Forget I said anything.’

‘What if I did ask?’

How could she have thought him calm? His voice reverberated with suppressed emotion. But not the emotion she’d hoped for. It wasn’t warm, comforting, loving.

‘Would you make it till the end of the year? Till next summer? How long before you blame me because you’re stuck here and not in New York?’

Wow.
Lawrie had never really believed that words could hurt before, but that hit deep—painfully deep. ‘I can’t believe you said that...’ she almost whispered, torn between hot tears and plain old-fashioned anger. ‘I only asked you...’

‘You asked me to make a decision for you.
Again
. You want to stay, Lawrie?’ The words whipped through the air, taut and clear. ‘You stay.
You
make the decision and
you
live with the consequences. Don’t ask somebody else to shoulder the responsibility for you so you can blame them the second it goes wrong.’

‘I’m not!’ All her verbal skills had deserted her. She was defenceless against the unexpected onslaught.

‘No?’ His laugh had no humour in it. ‘You didn’t blame me for keeping you here before? For getting married so young?’

The warmth of the summer’s day had disappeared and a chill wind goosepimpled her bare arms, making her shiver. ‘We were young!’

‘You said yourself you would still be with your ex, making wedding plans, if he hadn’t forced your hand. Now you want me to force it again?’ Jonas shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Lawrie. Take some responsibility for yourself, decide what the hell you want—what you
really
want—and then maybe we can talk.’

‘I don’t need to talk.’ Lawrie’s uncertainty and shock had disappeared, been replaced with a burning anger. How dared he speak to her like that? ‘I made a mistake. Clearly. Thanks for pointing that out. Message received.’

And, picking up her bag, she turned and strode away as confidently as she could, his steel-blue gaze burning into her back as she did so.

*

No one had warned her how cold New York could be. It was barely autumn—fall, she corrected herself—and already the temperatures were dropping, the wind was howling through the island city, and the rain lashed down in great dramatic storms.

Not that Lawrie had much time to concentrate on the weather. New York prided itself on being the city that never slept and its standards were high. She was no shirker, but it was taking everything just to keep up.

And keeping up wasn’t enough. She needed to excel. Others might skate in Central Park, go for coffee wrapped up in giant jumpers and cashmere scarves and hats; Lawrie worked. She had found a small studio flat close to the office, but spent so much time at her desk it really was just a base to sleep, shower and eat. Ostensibly she was apartment-hunting, looking for a place of her own to buy. In reality her attempts mirrored her wedding-planning with Hugo. Non-existent.

Hugo was now married to his secretary, Helen—happily, she assumed. His social media pages certainly painted that picture, showing a beaming Hugo—he had put on weight, she thought critically—with one arm possessively around his blooming bride. Every detail of Helen’s pregnancy was detailed, along with scans, possible baby names and more information about her physical symptoms than Lawrie was entirely comfortable with.

On the surface she was cynically amused, but buried deep down inside—
very
deep down—she was touched and a little jealous. Not of Helen and Hugo, exactly, but of the absolute patent happiness that glowed out of every sentimental update. No amount of completed contracts, of senior partner compliments could compete with that.

And Jonas didn’t get in touch. Not one word. No apology.

And she didn’t contact him.

His last words reverberated around her mind, echoing at unexpected times. Not just when she was alone, and not just in the dead of night as she lay sleepless in an unfamiliar bed in a strange city, but in meetings, at the gym, as she walked down the street.

Take some responsibility.

And then the anger flared up again, but it was getting weaker as the days slowly passed.

And at the same time that unwanted voice was whispering insistently,
What if you could do it again? Would you ask him or would you tell him? Would you tell him you were staying and want to be with him?

Would you tell him that you love him?

*

‘Are you having a party this year?’

Jonas looked up irritably. ‘What?’

‘I asked,’ Fliss repeated equably, ‘if you want to have a birthday party again this year?’

As Jonas’s birthday coincided with the final weekend of the season—the start of autumn proper—he usually had a big party at the Boat House. A chance for the locals and the villagers to let their hair down and reclaim their home after months of incomers.

He couldn’t imagine anything worse, but the speculation if he missed a year would be unbearable.

‘I haven’t really thought about it. I suppose so.’

‘Oh, great!’ Fliss was obviously annoyed. ‘Masses of preparation for “I suppose so”. What you mean is,
Thank you, Fliss, I would love to—and, yes, I will of course be leaving the grumpy expression and the grunting at home and try to enjoy myself for once in my miserable life.
’

That was a little too close for comfort. ‘That’s enough,’ he snapped.

Fliss looked anxious. ‘Honestly, Jonas, you’ve been the proverbial sore-headed bear for weeks. Even
I
am finding you pretty difficult, and I have a much higher Jonas tolerance than most.’

Jonas swung his chair round and stared at her. ‘Oh, come on. I know I’ve been a bit short—’

‘A
bit
?’ she interjected.

‘Busy—’

‘A reclusive workaholic.’

‘And I don’t suffer fools gladly.’ He shot her a look as she opened her mouth and she snapped it shut. ‘There has been a lot happening, as I am sure you have noticed: new cafés, two new hotels, getting the clothes line launch ready for next year.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I work here too, remember?’

‘Well, then, life isn’t all surfing. Sometimes it is pure, hard, exhausting work.’

‘But a balance is always good. When did you last take a board out? Not since the day after Lawrie left.’

‘Don’t say her name!’

It was involuntary, and he cursed himself for revealing so much—for revealing everything. But Fliss didn’t look shocked or horrified. She looked knowing. She looked...heck...she looked
sorry
for him. Jonas gritted his teeth.

‘Just because L... Because her departure coincided with a busy period does not mean that my present mood has anything to do with her.’

Fliss looked apologetic. ‘But we’ve been here before,’ she reminded him. ‘That summer she left, before the third Wave Fest, you changed. You went curt and mean and nearly drove all your staff away. You worked twenty-four-seven and a year later—
voilà
—five more cafés and a mini-chain.’