Page 53 of The Man Who Didn't Call
Please don’t go. Don’t leave.
I stopped writing there to call you, only I couldn’t.
You’re probably in the air now. I’m going outside to watch the sky.
Eddie
?Deleted, 10:26 a.m.
PART II
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Welcome home!’ Jenni shouted, as she opened her front door.
In all the years I’d been flying across the Atlantic I still hadn’t mastered jet lag. The bursting pressure in my chest as I emerged into blinding sunshine and cement-like heat, the zigzags skirting my vision as I sat in a taxi on the 110. The first time I’d flown out here, in 1997, I’d been convinced for the first two days that I was very seriously unwell.
‘I’ve missed you, Sarah Mackey.’ Jenni pulled me into a brisk hug. She smelled of baking.
‘Oh, Jenni, I missed you too. Hello, Frap,’ I said, stroking Jenni’s dog with a tired foot. Frap – short for Frappuccino, one of Jenni’s vices – tried to cock his leg on me, like he always did, but I jumped sideways just in time.
‘Oh, Frappy,’ Jenni sighed. ‘Why are you so determined to urinate on Sarah?’
I leaned forward and clasped her elbows. ‘Well?’
She couldn’t quite meet my eye.
‘The pregnancy test? Wasn’t it today?’
‘No, tomorrow.’ She turned away. ‘I’m super-nervous, so the less said about that, the better. Come in, get yourself on that couch.’
I stepped into a haven of cooled, chocolate-scented air and noticed that Jenni had bought another piece of artwork. This one was an abstract silhouette of a pregnant woman madeup of thousands of tiny fingerprints. A coach she’d been seeing had recommended positive visualizations during the IVF process; this must be part of her response. The picture hung above the easy chair Javier used from 5.15 p.m. until he went to bed at 10.30 p.m. On the counter separating the living room from the kitchen, there was a two-layer chocolate cake, and a bottle of sparkling rosé in a bucket.
I smiled, exhausted and close to tears, as Jenni went into the kitchen and started throwing scoops of ice cream into the blender. ‘Jenni Carmichael, you are very kind and very naughty. We don’t pay you enough to be buying champagne and cakes.’
Jenni shrugged, as if to say,How else would I welcome you home?
She added more ingredients to the blender – few of which resembled food – and switched it on, yelling over the noise. ‘I had Javier go play some pool with his friends, so we could catch up,’ she bellowed. ‘And I couldn’t have you come back here without a sugar binge. It’d be wrong.’
I fell into her enormous couch, with its mallowy spread of cushions, and felt relief so sharp it was almost like a pain. I would be safe here. I would reflect, recalibrate, move on.
Jenni switched off the blender. ‘I went for bubblegum flavour.’
‘Jesus Christ. Really?’
Jenni laughed. ‘I’m not messing around today,’ was all she said.
A good couple of hours later, when we had drunk our thick shakes, eaten several slices of the gigantic cake and binged our way through a large packet of pitta chips, I lay back and belched. Jenni did the same, laughing. ‘I never burped before I met you,’ she admitted.
I poked her foot with mine, too bloated and heavy to move. ‘This has been a magnificent feast. Thank you.’
‘Oh, you’re welcome,’ she smiled, rubbing her tummy. ‘Now, Sarah, I shouldn’t have a drink, but you must try some pink fizz, OK?’
I eyed the bottle and felt a strong, physical sense of dread. ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘Thank you, darling, but I got a bit too drunk with Jo last week and I haven’t been able to face booze since.’
‘Seriously?’ Jenni looked shocked. ‘Not even a little glass?’
But I couldn’t do it. Not even for her.
