“I think it’s the modern clothes, they’re throwing me off,” she said, clearing her throat. “You were always so well-dressed at Oxford. Not that you’re not well-dressed now, I just mean, you had a particular style.”
“A youthful affectation,” he said, finally cracking another smile. “Trying to blend in with my surroundings rather than my contemporaries.”
“Well, I liked it,” Chloe said, and he gave a brief nod, then shifted in his seat.
“So, are you still writing plays?” he asked, eyes intent on a frayed thread he was pulling loose on his jeans.
“Here and there, when I can,” she said, which wasn’t a complete lie.But when John looked at her now, it felt like heknew. She quickly turned her attention to Richard, stroking him under the chin. He lifted his head appreciatively.
“I’m glad you’re still writing, that you haven’t been deterred,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked, feeling herself prickle.
“Nothing, I just know it’s a tough industry, hard to get things made.” He watched her face. “Sean said you had an acting agent for a while. I always loved watching you perform, you had a wonderful stage presence.”
This took her by surprise. How did Sean know she’d had an agent? Did they talk about her?
“Thanks,” she said quietly. “But I quickly learned that just because you’re good enough in college, it doesn’t mean you’re necessarily good enough in the real world.” She looked out the window, lost in a confusing mix of emotions. When she glanced down at her watch, she saw a gray line dart across the screen.
“You were good enough,” John said gently. “These thingsdon’t often come down to merit.” And now Richard pressed his nose on her knee, as though he sensed a shift in her mood and was trying to comfort her. She patted his head, already a little in love with this dog.
She and John both turned to look out the window, watching the urban sprawl of London disappear as the bus reached the motorway. The noise of the other passengers receded and suddenly, the coach didn’t feel quite as unpleasant as it had when they’d got on.
“So where are you living? What do you get up to when you’re not working? Are you still a cryptic crossword whiz?” she asked, keen to picture what John’s life was like now.
“I still do the cryptic every day,” he said, looking pleased she’d remembered this about him. “I rent a ground-floor apartment near Abbey Road. It’s tiny, but it has this amazing domed sunroom. The owner is a horticulturalist, and all these unusual plants came as part of the lease. I’ve become an unwilling expert on keeping exotic South American plants alive.” She smiled at this, imagining him with a watering can, googling obscure cacti. He shrugged as though unsure what else to tell her. “I play the organ at a church in Kilburn and I’m part of this volunteer archaeology group. Whenever I get time off work, I’m off somewhere in Europe digging up old bones and pots that no one else finds interesting but I find endlessly fascinating.”
“That sounds fun,” she said, then after a beat, “I remember reading this article about Agatha Christie. She said an archaeologist is the best husband a woman can have, because the older she gets, the more interested he is in her.” John blushed slightly. “Not that I’m judging your husband potential,” she quickly added. “I just thought that was a funny thing to say.”
“Richard doesn’t like it when I go away,” John said. “But he likes digging up bones even more than I do, so he can’t really talk.”
She laughed at this, and the awkward moment passed. “Who looks after him when you go away?”
“My sister, but she’s got a baby now. It’s not so easy.”
“I’ll dog-sit for you if you like,” she offered without even thinking. Then she imagined she’d have to sleep in John’s bed, surrounded by all his things, and the thought sent a strange jolt of heat through her. She shifted her gaze to the aisle. John cleared his throat.
“Thanks. How about you, then? Tell me more about this new boyfriend of yours,” John said, his voice slightly strained, as he turned his attention back to the loose thread at the bottom of his jeans.
“How do you know he’s new?”
“Because you didn’t know his name until two weeks ago,” John said.
“He’s notthatnew, I just didn’t know if he could come,” she said, shifting her eyeline back to Richard. She found it helpful having a dog to pet whenever the conversation got awkward.
“More than a month?” John asked, his interest clearly piqued. She didn’t respond, but he must have seen her eyes flicker. “Less than a month? Less than a week?” His whole face flashed into a smile. “Oh right,newnew.”
She pushed her thigh hard against his. “That’s none of your business, Tiny Dancer.”
John laughed, and she noticed his laugh hadn’t changed. It was still rich, warm, entirely unselfconscious. “So bringing this new almost-boyfriend has nothing to do with the fact thatSean’s going to be there?” he asked, shooting her a mischievous side-eye. Then, as though it had just dawned on him, he said, “Rob Dempsey is your emotional support boyfriend.”
“He is nothing of the sort,” she said briskly. He was teasing her. John never teased. He’d always been the quiet observer, occasionally chiming in with a wry remark or relevant quote. This was new. “What about you? Is there a Mrs.Tiny Dancer? Any teeny weeny Tiny Dancers?”
“No,” he said, cracking a smile.
“Significant other?” she asked, and he nodded toward Richard.
“People are overrated,” he said, then pointed to her phone. “Show me this boyfriend of yours, then.” She pulled up a selfie she’d taken of the two of them in the park this morning. John rolled his eyes.
