Chapter Thirty-one

How do you know when you’ve found love? How do you know when you’ve met the person with whom you want to spend the rest of your life? How do you know it’s not just two people lusting after one another, and consummating that lust in a night of unbelievable passion. How do you know it’s not going to be just a one-night-stand? How do you know whether your wishes will come true?

I wish I knew. All I do know, right now, when I open my eyes to the morning sunlight and Ben Williams fast asleep next to me, is that, even if I never set eyes on Ben again, this has been, and will always be, the happiest night of my life.

I know because I never dreamt that love-making could be so passionate, and yet so tender. I know because no one has ever cupped my face and looked deep in my eyes, and whispered how wonderful I am while moving gently inside me.

I know because I’ve never felt so comfortable with anyone in my life as I felt with Ben last night, because I’v never felt any of the feelings I felt last night.

And finally I know that I will never forget what it is like to be so happy you are frightened you’re going to burst.

So I just lie in bed and soak up this joy. I don’t move, I’m too frightened of waking Ben up, too frightened of the magic disappearing, but as I watch him sleep he slowly opens his eyes, stretches, and then turns his head to look at me.

What should I do? I want to smile, to say something, but I can’t, because I haven’t got a clue how Ben is feeling, and when he blinks, smiles sleepily and holds his arm out to me, the relief is so overwhelming it practically sweeps me away and I snuggle into his chest like the proverbial cat that got the cream.

He kisses my hair, and then my shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he says huskily, and I just smile, making small circles on his chest with my index finger.

We stay there for a little while, kissing, cuddling, completely comfortable with one another, and then Ben looks at the clock. ‘Shit!’ he jumps out of bed. ‘I’ve got a flight to catch.’

There’s a knock on the door as I sit up in bed.

‘Ben? It’s Simon. We’re leaving in ten minutes. Are you ready?’

‘Nearly,’ shouts Ben, tripping over his shoes. ‘Shit!’ he mutters, running around the bedroom.

‘I’ll help you pack,’ I say, climbing out of bed without a second thought, even though I’m completely naked. Ben stops and looks at me then drops his clothes and puts his arms around me, groaning, ‘I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t believe last night.’ We start kissing again, and then Ben pulls away. ‘I can’t. We can’t. No time. Shit!’

There’s no time for lazy post-coital kisses and cuddles, and within ten minutes Ben is packed and dressed, and I follow him downstairs, terrified at how we’re going to say goodbye, what’s going to happen next.

‘He-llo,’ says a man I don’t recognize, walking over to Ben but keeping his eyes firmly on me with a bit of a leer. ‘Who’s this?’

‘This is my friend Jemima,’ says Ben. ‘This is Simon,’ and I shake Simon’s hand, not missing the look that he gives Ben, which Ben, being the gentleman that he is, tries to ignore.

‘Simon, I’ll see you by the car,’ he says, and Simon reluctantly walks out, probably dying to fill in the rest of the crew on the gossip.

‘How long are you here?’ Ben says, tucking my hair behind my ears.

‘About two more months,’ I say, already trying to think of some way to get home, to be with Ben.

‘What am I going to do for the next two months?’ he says, as my heart lifts.

‘I’d love to come home but I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

I know it’s crazy, but I don’t want to tell him I haven’t got the money, that I’m over my limit on my credit card, that in truth I no longer have a penny to my name. It sounds too sad, too like the Jemima Jones of old, so I think on my feet and come up with the perfect excuse.

‘I’m doing a column for the Kilburn Herald and you know what the editor’s like, I have to stay here, otherwise I’ll lose my job.’

‘I’ll miss you,’ he whispers eventually, pulling me close and kissing my forehead.

‘We can write,’ I say in desperation. ‘Or phone.’

‘Definitely,’ he nods. ‘Can you write down your address and number?’

I pull away from him, reluctantly, and scribble down Lauren’s address and number, and just as I hand it to him Simon reappears and says testily, ‘Ben, we’ve got to go.’

We do hug, and kiss, and then Ben starts walking away. Just before he reaches the door he turns around and runs back, scooping me up in his arms and kissing me. ‘I’ll phone,’ he says. ‘As soon as I get back home.’

‘What time will that be?’

‘God knows. But don’t worry, I’ll call,’ and he leaves, turning back to wave as he climbs in the car, and I float back home on a cloud of sheer, unadulterated bliss.

‘Well?’ Lauren opens the door before I even get a chance to put my key in the lock, and I don’t have to say anything, she can see from the ridiculously soppy grin on my face that last night was unbelievable.

‘You did it! You did it!’ She leaps up and down and throws her arms around me while I start giggling. ‘I want to hear everything.’

‘I’m so tired,’ I moan, collapsing on the sofa, still smiling.

‘I don’t want to hear that crap, I want to hear about Ben.’

‘I love him,’ I say simply, and then I say it again, just to hear the words, just to make sure it’s true. ‘I love him.’

‘Start from the beginning,’ she commands, and I do.

I tell her about meeting him, about him not realizing it was me, and how it was like we’d never been apart. I tell her about his stories, his work, his life. I tell her about leaving the restaurant and practically leaping on one another as soon as we got outside. And I tell her about making love with him, what it was like, how I felt.

I tell her word for word, action for action, and all the time I’m talking this stupid grin doesn’t leave my face, and I feel like I’m swimming in happiness.

‘So you’ve got over Brad then?’ she says, when I’ve finished.

‘Brad who?’ I laugh. ‘No, seriously, Lauren. It was so completely different to being with Brad. I mean, the sex was amazing with Brad, but last night made me realize how that’s all it was, just great sex. There was no tenderness, no love, just passion, and at the time I thought it was enough. But Ben was so different, maybe because I know him, maybe because we’re friends, but I think it’s more than that. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I’m still totally in love with him.’ I stop and sigh.

‘Do you think he feels the same way?’

‘I don’t know,’ I sigh, as the insecurities threaten to strike. ‘I know that he was incredibly caring, and giving, and loving, but I don’t know whether that means he feels the same way, but there’s no point thinking about that. Anyway, he’s going to call as soon as he gets home.’

‘What time?’

‘I don’t know, but I know he’ll call. Oh God, Lauren. I just want to be with him. I want to go home.’ And I do, and two months feels like an eternity and I don’t know how I’m going to cope for the next few weeks with just the memories of one night to keep me going.

‘He’s going to call,’ she says, ‘and you’re going home in just over seven weeks. It’s nothing. It will pass in a flash. Now,’ she says looking at her watch. ‘How about a celebratory brunch?’

‘Perfect,’ I say. ‘I’m starving.

We go to the Broadway Deli and I tuck into french toast and bacon and strawberries, and it’s delicious and we go over every detail all over again, and I feel as if I’m bathed in love, as if everyone’s looking at me with envy because I am a woman in love and they wish they were me.

And then afterwards we get some Ben & Jerry’s frozen yoghurt and some old videos from Blockbuster and we spend the rest of the afternoon and evening watching our favourite love stories, and I try to concentrate, I really do, but I’m trying not to jump every time I hear a noise because it might be the phone, except it’s not, and by 10 p.m. I’m looking at my watch and starting to feel slightly sick because it’s six o’clock in the morning at home and I know, I just know, that with the time difference he must have been home for ages now, and even if his luggage took for ever to come through, and even if it took hours to get through customs he would still be home and he hasn’t called.

And by midnight I feel the last shreds of happiness drift away from me and I think I’m going to cry.

‘Anything could have happened,’ says Lauren, finishing off the last of her tub of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. ‘The flight might have been delayed, he might have had to work. Don’t worry, he’ll call.’ But I do worry and I am worried, and even though I know this morning I said that it wouldn’t matter if I never saw him again, that the one night with him would last me the rest of my life, I know that’s not true, and I know that the pain that suddenly attacks me like a knife is something I’m going to have to learn to live with, because he hasn’t called, and he won’t call, and this is how it’s going to be for the rest of my life.

A week later I’m still trying to learn to live with the pain. Sure, I’m putting on a brave face, trying to get on with my life. I don’t go to the gym any more, but I go out with Lauren, pretend to have a good time, and then every morning when I wake up the first thing I think is, something’s wrong, what is it? And then I remember and the black clouds descend and the bloody things follow me around until the next morning.

You’d think I’d find some peace at night, fast asleep, but even there the pain’s still present. I dream about Ben. Constantly. A mixture of memories and surreal fantasy, and, without wishing to sound over-dramatic, I think I understand what it’s like to be bereaved, to lose someone you love with all your heart, to know there’s no possibility of ever seeing them again.

Brad was bad. That whole Brad and Jenny thing was bad. But it was nothing, nothing, compared to this. A mere drop in the ocean of grief I now feel every moment of the day, and there are days when I don’t want to get up at all, I just want to lie in bed and drift into nothingness, just get it all over with.

Ben Williams cannot believe he has been so stupid. He cannot believe that the scrap of paper on which Jemima had scrawled her number and address has gone missing. He cannot believe that he has no way of getting in touch with her. He’s left countless messages at Brad’s, but he assumes they haven’t been passed on because they haven’t been returned. He phoned Geraldine, but the only number she had for him was at Brad’s, and Sophie and Lisa weren’t much use either. He even tried the editor at the Kilburn Herald, but he was more interested in moaning about Jemima’s missing copy, and again she hadn’t been in touch to tell him she’d moved.

Ben’s been through his clothes, his bags, his cases with a fine-tooth comb, but he can’t find the bloody thing at all.

And although he’s only been back a week, he’s been thinking about Jemima Jones. A lot. In the middle of a broadcast he’ll suddenly lose his train of thought as a picture will flash up in his mind of Jemima’s face as she looked trustingly into his eyes when he pulled her on top of him. Or he’ll suddenly remember the feel of her skin when he’s in a meeting with the production team.

And there are times, late at night, every night, when he just wants to hear her voice, and he keeps hoping that she’ll call him, she’ll realize something’s wrong, but the phone doesn’t ring, and when it does it’s not her. Eventually Ben – and who would have thought the divine Ben Williams had an ounce of insecurity within – starts to worry that maybe, for Jemima, it was just a one-night-stand. Maybe she doesn’t care about him at all. Maybe she’s met someone else.

When a week goes by and he hasn’t heard from her and he hasn’t been able to get in touch, he tells Richard about her. He tells him against his better judgement, for Richard, as we know, is not the best person to tell your troubles to.

‘She could call you,’ says Richard. ‘Let’s face it, Ben, she knows where you work and all she has to do is pick up the phone. You should just leave it as a brilliant one-night-stand and get on with your life.’

‘Hmm,’ says Ben, who sees a grain of truth in what Richard just said. After all, Jemima could call him, and she hasn’t, so maybe he should just forget about it.

‘Oh no,’ says Richard, looking at Ben intensely.

‘What’s the matter?’ Ben asks in alarm.

‘You’re not? You can’t be?’

‘What?’

‘You’re bloody in love with her aren’t you?’

‘Absolutely not.’ Ben shakes his head.

‘You are. I recognize the signs.’

‘I’m not,’ says Ben. ‘No way,’ and he looks at his watch. ‘I’ve gotta go,’ he says, standing up. ‘I’m doing an interview with the Daily Mail.’

‘What? Another interview?’

Ben sighs. ‘I know. After the last one I thought I’d done enough, but you’ve got to keep that publicity ball rolling.’

‘Don’t tell them anything,’ says Richard dramatically.

‘No,’ says Ben firmly. ‘I won’t.

But Ben can’t quite help himself. The journalist is so nice, a warm, caring middle-aged woman to whom Ben immediately wanted to open his heart, and before he knows it he tells her far more than he should.

‘Please don’t put that stuff in about not being able to find her,’ he pleads, as he says goodbye. ‘That’s off the record.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she says laying a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘You can trust me.’

Ben refuses to think about this for the rest of the evening. How could he, when all he can think about is Jemima Jones and how to find her.

I wasn’t going to phone anyone at home. I didn’t want anyone to know what happened, and I knew that if I dared call anyone to tell them I’d moved, they’d want to know why, and I haven’t got the strength to tell people about Brad, about Jenny and, mostly, about Ben.

But a week is a bloody long time when your heart has broken, and Lauren, great as she has been, is starting to get on my nerves. She doesn’t mean to, she’s lovely, it’s just that sometimes I want to be on my own, to just sit and reflect on the one perfect night of my life, on the future I could have had if Ben had called me, but she won’t leave me alone, and I know she’s trying to cheer me up but sometimes the jokes wear a bit thin, that’s all.

And then, finally, it becomes too much. I have to talk to someone who knows Ben. Someone who can tell me what to do. Someone who might, just might, know what he’s thinking, why he hasn’t called.

‘Geraldine? It’s me.’

‘Jemima Jones! Am I glad you called. Where the hell have you been?’

‘Are you sitting down?’

‘I most certainly am. What on earth is going on there?’

‘Oh God, Geraldine. It’s awful. I don’t know where to start.’

‘At the beginning,’ she says quietly, so I do. I tell her about Brad, and Jenny, and Lauren, and food, and everything. And then, eventually, I tell her about Ben.

‘But he called me!’ she says, not even waiting for me to finish describing my pain. ‘I knew there was something up because I hadn’t spoken to him since he left. He phoned last week to see if I had your number. Jemima, you idiot! He must have lost your number. Why the hell didn’t you call me sooner?’

‘He called you?’ Slowly, slowly, my heart starts piecing itself back together again. ‘He called you?’

‘Yes! Last week! I knew from his voice that something had happened. I just knew it.’

‘What did he say? Tell me exactly what he said.’

‘He didn’t tell me anything, he just said he’d seen you in Los Angeles and he meant to call you to thank you but he couldn’t find your number.’

‘What should I do? Should I call him? Oh God, Geraldine, I just want to come home.’

‘So why don’t you?’

‘I can’t,’ I moan. ‘It’ll cost me $954 plus tax to change my flight and I’ve run out of money.’

‘Did you tell Ben that?’

‘How could I? I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me, so I just said I was stuck out here writing the column.’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Jemima. Why didn’t you tell him the truth?’

‘I don’t know,’ I murmur. ‘Would it have made any difference?’

‘I don’t know,’ she echoes. ‘But I’m planning to find out.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Just leave it to me,’ she says firmly.

‘What? Tell me. Shall I ring him?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘Absolutely not. You just sit tight and let me sort it out.’

‘Geraldine, please don’t say I haven’t got the money to come home. Anyway, he’s probably changed his mind by now.’

‘Jemima, if it was as incredible as you say it was, he won’t have changed his mind. Trust me. I know men.’ And I breathe a sigh of relief because no one knows men better than Geraldine.

‘JJ? I forgot to tell you, a letter came for you this morning.’ Lauren dumps the shopping on the kitchen table.

‘Hmm? Where is it?’

‘I left it on the coffee table.’ Lauren comes out and lifts a magazine to reveal a large brown envelope with a London postmark. My heart stops as she hands it to me but it’s not from Ben. It’s Geraldine. I’d know that writing anywhere.

I tear open the envelope and pull out a newspaper clipping and a compliments slip.

Jemima Jones! As usual Auntie Geraldine has come to the rescue, and I’m sorry, I know you didn’t want me to tell Ben about being stuck out there but I had to. Plus, it gave me a chance to call him a stupid bastard which I’ve been dying to do for years!!! (no offence …)

Anyway, I don’t think you’ll mind once you’ve opened this envelope, and it’s not from me, it’s from Ben, AND, I think you’ll find the enclosed interesting reading!!! (I certainly did …) Lucky, lucky you!! Things still going great guns with me and Nick, will tell you all when I see you. Soon. Very soon. Ha! Loads of love and kisses, Geraldine. xxxxxxxxxx

I’m smiling because I can almost hear Geraldine speak, and then I read it again and I wonder why Geraldine’s written to me, why not Ben, and, if the clipping that’s attached is from Ben and not her, why did she bother writing at all, and oh my God, I don’t feel too good about this and that small light at the end of the tunnel starts getting smaller, so I pick up the clipping and then I have to sit down very quickly.

‘What is it?’ says Lauren, sitting next to me, so I start to read it out loud, haltingly, disbelievingly.

‘Ben Williams is cagey on the subject of love,’ I read. ‘He’s “had his fingers burnt”, as he puts it, and doesn’t want to reveal who it is. But millions of women will be devastated to hear that the gorgeous presenter of London Nights has fallen in love. “She’s an old friend,” reveals Williams, “whom I hadn’t seen for a while, and then we met up recently and we became more than friends. I don’t think I even knew it was love until we were apart, and now I’m just killing time until she comes home.” So who is this mystery woman of his? “No one famous,” he laughs. “Her name’s Jemima Jones.”’

I start shaking. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, and neither of us speaks, I think Lauren’s as shocked as I am. After a while Lauren frowns and picks up the envelope, and, instead of putting it in the bin, she looks inside, smiles, and then gives it to me. I look at her, then feel the envelope, and there’s something else in there, and when I pull it out I see something that looks suspiciously like an air ticket, and why has Geraldine sent me an air ticket? And then I notice there’s writing on the cover and I remember that writing, and it says, ‘Come home. I miss you. Ben.’ And I know why Ben and Geraldine, met up, and I know that this was probably Geraldine’s idea because it’s so typical of her and I don’t care, and Ben misses me and he wants me to come home.

And slowly I look closely at the ticket and I gasp when I read it’s a one-way flight from LAX to Heathrow for the day after tomorrow. The day after tomorrow! I’m going home!

‘See?’ says Lauren, throwing her arms around me and hugging me tightly. ‘I knew he’d come through for you.’

‘He has.’ I whisper, as the tears start rolling down my face. ‘He has.’