Jess’s gaze followed Rachel as she disappeared toward the loo, before coming to rest on a group of people a decade or so younger than she was. Their faces glowed with the warmth that comes from being in a densely packed room, with friends and food and wine, on a Friday night, in the greatest city on earth, with enough money in their pockets and nothing but the weekend ahead.
As she watched, a good-looking young man at the end of the table said something that made the others laugh, and the girl beside him smiled with a proprietorial brow arch of amusement that marked her immediately as his partner. The ghost of dinner parties past came back to Jess. She and Matt had been that sort of double act, once upon a time. She could remember a particularly amusing set piece they’d performed, usually when someone in their wider circle had fallen victim to the perils of parenthood. Jess would say something about the demands of her job and Matt would concur, adding, with that droll smile of his, that besides—he wasn’t the mothering sort. Cue: laughter.
But the last laugh had been on them. That is, it had been on her. For now she had neither a job, a boyfriend, nor a child, while Matt had a new young wife, a delightful five-month-old daughter, and asudden, born-again evangelism regarding the wonders of fatherhood. He also had a column in theDaily Mail, after the runaway success of a piece he’d written following the baby’s birth. The column was called “Dad About London,” the “D” in Dad written atop a crossed-out “L,” suggesting that our onetime Lad had been reformed. Jess had heard through the grapevine that a book was forthcoming.
She took a larger sip of wine than she’d intended and cursed herself for not savoring it. The bearded man at the next table burst into laughter again, and as the sound reverberated off the low domed ceiling, Jess was of a sudden mind to slap him.
She was saved from the urge by Rachel, weaving her way back between tables. “Speaking of editors,” Rachel said, sliding into place, “did you hear anything about Well Walk?”
Jess didn’t think she hesitated for long, but she must have, because Rachel followed up with: “He passed? Bloody hell, what’s the matter with him? Did he say why?”
“He doesn’t want a series. He’s looking for pieces that are more ‘immediate,’ less ‘historical.’” The editor had telephoned soon after Mrs. Robinson, while Jess had been in the process of trying to scrape together the taxi fare plus tip.
“I don’t speak writer. What does ‘immediate’ mean?”
“Personal. From my perspective.”
“Well, write about the history ofyourhouse, then. It’s oldish—at least a hundred years.”
“Maybe. Though I got the impression that was one of the aspects he didn’t like. He said people don’t read the magazine for a history lesson. They want to see their own feelings and experiences reflected in the life of the writer. It must be ‘essential.’”
“God—let’s get you that drink.”
“No, I’m good.” Lately, it seemed like every conversation she and Rachel had was focused on some disappointment or failure in Jess’s life. She wasn’t sure when she’d become this person, so needful of reassurance. It made her feel like a stranger to herself.
“What are you talking about? My treat.”
Jess smiled in thanks. “I really do have to go. I want to ring the hospital early and catch the doctor before he starts rounds.”
Rachel nodded. “I suppose I ought to be getting home, too. Responsibilities and all that. No matter how much I beg the nanny to move in with us, she insists on going back to the peace and quiet of her own home in the evenings.”
They paid the bill and then shrugged into their coats and scarves at the bottom of the stairs, pulling on wool hats and gloves as they emerged onto the cold street. The forecast was for possible snow, but so far it had managed only icy sleet, visible as flecks in the streetlights. They hugged one another and Rachel looked at Jess seriously. “Call me as soon as you hear about Nora. And if you’re going back to Oz, let me know if there’s anything I can do while you’re away. Water plants, check your place, play your piano.” She grinned and kissed Jess on the cheek and then started making her way down Church Row in the direction of St. John’s.
Jess watched for a minute as her friend crossed the street and turned the corner into Holly Walk, hurrying toward the warm cottage halfway up the hill, filled with noise and toys and a cheerfully tired banker husband called Ben.
Jess walked between slow traffic on Heath Street and cut down Perrin’s Lane. The Christmas lights were up, strings of tiny gold bulbs zigzagging across the narrow, cobbled alley. She always felt that the city came into its own at this time of year. Tonight, though, the beauty of the wonky houses and ivy-clad bricks, the lanterns on the cottages of the well-heeled, the hint of warm domesticity glowing yellow from behind the curtains, was acute. It pressed upon her sharply from all sides, and where once she had felt part of it, now she felt as if she were outside, an observer looking in.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket as she was passing Waterstones. She fumbled it out with a gloved hand and freed one cold finger to swipe.
The message was from Rachel:I know what you should write!!it exclaimed, followed by three dots presaging more to come.
Something everyone can relate to!
More dots, pulsing for long enough this time that the suspense took Jess across the zebra crossing and around the corner into the top of Flask Walk.
The message arrived as she was passing the fairy-lit window of Judy Green’s Garden Store:If you go back to Australia, write about that. Write about how it feels to go home after so long away.
3
Heathrow Airport
December 8, 2018
The Qantas flight back to Australia departed late at night, and Jess had left Hampstead with hours to spare, partly because she was catching the train and you never knew what might happen, but also because, having packed and readied the house for her absence, she’d started to feel like a guest who’d overstayed her welcome and was now being tolerated by a well-mannered host. The train ride had been smooth, and she’d arrived well ahead of time, setting herself up in the Pret a Manger near security so she could have a bite to eat before going through the rigmarole. She preferred it on this side, where travelers and their families were still together. She liked to guess at their relationships and the purpose of travel, the destinations, and the length of time they’d be away.
She had been observing a group of three at the table beside her own and continued to watch them now as they made their way toward the security area. The young woman carrying a backpack was clearly the one leaving, walking faster than the older couple, with an eagerness and energy to her gait. A few meters out from the door, she stopped and they all embraced; some further words were exchanged, the backpack was referenced, and a laugh was shared. Another round of hugs and the girl continued to the door alone. She gave her parents (presumably) a quick wave, flashed them a bright smile, and didn’t look back again.
Jess had been that young girl once, twenty years before. She knew about the excitement on the other side of the gate: the first taste of real freedom, the thrilling sense of being, at last, in control of one’s own destiny.
