But she was right. I had nowhere to sleep. And her house was warm. Her bed was soft. Her body was perfect. So I said, “Are you sure?” and she said, “Of course I am.”
And I said, “Thank you. I promise you I’ll be quiet.”
chapter twenty
Jane feels restless in Tony’s house that evening. Beyond the walls of his peaceful pied-à-terre, the city is tremulous, alive with the energy of people enjoying a night out. She peers through the window down onto the pavement and sighs at the sight of young people, the bright evening sun shining off their smooth faces, lighting up their eyes. She sees the shimmer of movement behind restaurant windows, imagines cold wine in dewy glasses, complicated cocktails with smoke and twisted rinds, seared steaks, yogurty, garlicky sauces, shrimps and squids and unctuous ribbons of homemade noodles, and she wants to be out there, in the world, eating it and drinking it and smelling it. She can pretend this world doesn’t exist when she’s at Rosebery Hall, a mile and a half from the nearest pub. But here, so close… she aches for it.
An hour later Jane is sitting at a table for one in a beautiful French restaurant lit with flickering candles, sipping a spicy margarita and researching every cast member of the 2006 low-budget movie calledThe Bedsitter. She is being beautifully looked after by a young waitress who is giving her, Jane is sure, extra-careful service. Jane has always rejected the idea that womenbecome invisible after a certain age, believes that if you exude enough bright energy into the world, everyone will see the shine and you will always get the attention of people, be found attractive, regardless of your age. Jane is rarely ignored and mostly favored by good service, flirtatious encounters, and kind interactions. Invisibility is, she theorizes, a choice. And it is a choice she has never wanted to make.
Few of the actors or contributors toThe Bedsitterappear to have gone on to work in any other capacity in the world of film and TV, and Jane can only assume that it must have been some kind of amateur production, a one-off project. And then, just as she has chased the last piquant drops of her margarita from the bottom of the glass and started to contemplate a second drink, her phone vibrates, and she sees that she has a notification from Instagram. It is from Natasha de Large.
OMG!the message begins:
Jane! How are you? I am still doing the dog thing, as you can see, life goes on, kids growing up, all good. Lovely to see a photo of your doggoes. They look great! And yes, that was me in THE BEDSITTER! Crazily enough I studied costume design at Central. I know, you wouldn’t think it. And there was this guy. He was someone’s boyfriend, I think? And he made this little movie with me and some of my mates from Central, and he was a total knob, nothing ever happened with it, but I did meet my hubby on set, so there was that! The rest is history! How about you? How’s your hunky American husband? What was his name? I always thought he might be a mafioso, I don’t know why! Happy to chat on the phone or in person if there was anything else you wanted to know! Lots of love! Nat xxx
Jane smiles wryly at the mention of the hunky American husband. She never really thought of Tony as hunky. Not compared to the Viscount. But maybe he was? She sighs a little at the thought of Tony and the madness of their ten-year marriage. What a time that had been: the jet-setting, thearguing, the sex, the laughing, the skiing, the yachting, the drinking, the kids, the glorious kids. God, she misses her stepkids. She must, she thinks, organize a get-together while she’s here in London. It’s an impossible task to drag everyone down to her stupid house in the middle of nowhere; it’s not like the movies where crowds of amenable people turn up to order for country weekends; her stepkids are always busy, away, babies, jobs, clashing schedules. And she knows, of course she does, that they make excuses because getting to her place is a nightmare and once you’re there there’s nowhere comfortable to sleep and Jane is a terrible cook and everything is covered in dog hair and dried mud, and no, she gets it, she really does. But a gathering in Central London is simple. Ubers, babysitters, nice hotel rooms, easy peasy lemon squeezy.
She’s about to post a message in a WhatsApp group called “The Kiddies” when the sweet waitress arrives at her side and asks her if she’d like another drink. Jane beams at her and says, “You know what? Yes, that would be lovely. Maybe a glass of champagne. Thank you.”
The young waitress beams back at her. “If I wasn’t here”—she points at her spot—“doing this, I would totally be there”—she points at Jane’s chair—“drinking champagne.” She winks at her and then turns. “One glass of champagne coming up.”
Jane lets her eyes go back to her phone after the waitress leaves and sees that she was about to message the stepkids but then remembers that as much as she wants to make a wonderful plan, give herself something lovely to look forward to, that is not why she is here, and Natasha de Large is currently her priority.
What can you tell me,she types in reply,about Jessamine Black?
Jane returns to the town house in Seven Dials an hour later in very good spirits. She pours herself a glass of wine from the fridge and takes it to the roof terrace. The night is not as warm as it had been, and she pulls on a cardigan. But still, here, in the pulsing heart of everything, full of tequila,champagne, wild mushrooms, garlic, soft warm bread, good service, a hot-pink sunset, her own pleasant company, and a mystery to solve, Jane feels complete. Natasha de Large had replied almost immediately.
Come to mine for breakfast tomorrow if you’re free. I’ll tell you everything I know about Jessamine Black. And not only that, but I can play you the movie! I’m in Chiswick. Hope that’s not too far out for you. 10 a.m.?
Jane had replied immediately.
Send me your address and I will be there.
And now she goes back to the stepkids’ WhatsApp group and types an invitation.
I’m in London on and off for the next couple of weeks staying at Tony’s. Would love to see you all in one place. Could do lunch here (delivery!) or book a table somewhere fun. Saturday? Or Sunday? Babies/dogs, everyone welcome!
She pictures the message arriving into homes she cannot envisage, into lives of which she is barely a part, not really; a beloved stepmother, a happy memory in a painful childhood, a fleeting person who hopefully brought succor, comfort, and fun to their lives, but wasn’t around for long enough to knit herself firmly into the fabric of their beings. The realization is like a solid kick to the gut for a moment, a sense of unutterable aloneness. Not loneliness, no, because she is not lonely. But she is alone, and here in London without her dogs, surrounded by somebody else’s things, she feels more alone than she has ever felt, and the flush of the fancy dinner fades and dies and the wine feels less like a treat and more like a sad necessity.
But then her phone buzzes and there is a reply from Dexter—
Yes please! I’m free!—and Jane gets a small hit of oxytocin and thinks: Well, there you go. There’ll be two of them at least.
chapter twenty-one
Natasha greets Jane at the door of her lovely Chiswick house the following morning with a glamorous blond dachshund under her arm.
“Well,” says Natasha, “you’ve barely changed! You must have one of those portraits in your attic!”
“No,” says Jane, ruffling at the long ears of the dachshund. “Just Botox and a very expensive hairdresser.”
“Oh God, I can’t be bothered with all of that stuff. Needles.” Natasha shudders. “Yuck.” She leads Jane through her home; it’s neat and warm and tasteful, full of family photos and scented candles, throws and cushions. It’s a house for a normal person to live in, Jane feels strongly. The sort of house in which she has never, ever lived.
Natasha makes them cappuccinos, and they take them out onto a lovely back terrace where the morning sun is just starting to spill over a long, manicured lawn.
“Where are your dogs?” Natasha asks.
“Left them at home with a sitter.”
