Joshua Hamer-Lyndon. Modern parents and their need to keep maternal surnames, Josh had complained. Our children, he declared, would be Bill and Ben Hamer-Lyndon-Blaxland-Hunter, and pity the poor generation that came after them.
I’d never taken him seriously. Children hadn’t been in my plan—not until the distant future, at any rate—so I’d assumed they weren’t in his, either.
“Do you mind if I get my boss over here? She’d be ever so thrilled to meet you.”
And that night I simply couldn’t do it. I would look like a stuck-up cow, I knew. It would be shop-floor gossip for weeks: “Emma Blaxland-Hunter came in to look at our display, wouldn’t even talk to us.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to be somewhere . . .” I backed away, nearly knocking over a mannequin with legs identical to the shop assistant’s. “I’m very sorry.”
I escaped, hurried down to the crowded street. My stomach grumbled lowly. I ducked into the Bond Street underground and made my way home.
Every time I opened the door, my heart held its breath, hoping Josh would be back. But no, the flat was dark andempty. I hung my keys on the hook and switched on a lamp. The message light was blinking on the phone. Surely it would be Josh this time. This silly game had gone on for too long. I dialed the message bank. No Josh; Adelaide, my part-time personal assistant.
“Call me. Important. Really important. Not work-related but important nonetheless. I want you to hear it from me.”
I frowned, hung up the phone. I didn’t want to call her. She sounded rattled. As though she had bad news.
I set about opening every window in the apartment; a grudging breeze, warm and laden with the smell of petrol fumes, leaked in. I poured a glass of wine. I looked in the pantry for food. There was none. When had I last shopped? I glanced at the phone.
Really important.
I didn’t want to know; I was afraid of what I’d hear.
Finally, I marched up to the phone, lifted the receiver, and dialed.
Adelaide had it on the first ring. “Emma?”
“How did you know?” My heart thudded softly in my throat.
“Caller ID. Are you sitting down?”
I perched on the arm of the couch. “I am now.”
“I saw Josh this evening.”
“Josh? My Josh? Is he . . . ?”
Coming back?
But I knew from the tone of her voice that he wasn’t coming back; that this would not be happy news.
“He was with someone else, Emma. I’m so sorry.”
My stomach sank. I hung on tight to the edge of the couch with my free hand. “You mean . . . ?”
“A woman, yes. Not just any woman. Sarah. His assistant.”
I barely remembered her and was surprised that Adelaide did. But they had probably organized appointments together. Josh and I were both very busy people.
Somehow I managed to keep my voice even. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish I had good news for you.”
“No, no. I’m glad you told me.” Was I? Or was that the kind of empty platitude anyone said when her heart had been torn out and crushed to pulp on the ground? “I’ll see you at the studio.”
I hung up, slid down into the couch with my eyes closed. Josh and his assistant. What a horrid cliché. He’d moved quickly: less than two weeks since we . . .
But wait.
Sarah.
I was remembering now. She had a hard face, not pretty at all. Her name had popped up many times in our conversations, not that I’d paid much attention. And now it seemed that I’d been overlooking some very important facts. Josh’s late nights at the office, at least one business trip a month, the endless attachment to his BlackBerry, furiously two-thumbing messages every minute of the day and night. Had he been having an affair all along? Was his ultimatum a way of finally deciding between me and her?
I felt myself crumbling from within, turning to sand. I didn’t want to be alone, but I had so few friends. Two away, abroad with the ballet. One old friend from Australia who now lived in . . .
I’d never taken him seriously. Children hadn’t been in my plan—not until the distant future, at any rate—so I’d assumed they weren’t in his, either.
“Do you mind if I get my boss over here? She’d be ever so thrilled to meet you.”
And that night I simply couldn’t do it. I would look like a stuck-up cow, I knew. It would be shop-floor gossip for weeks: “Emma Blaxland-Hunter came in to look at our display, wouldn’t even talk to us.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to be somewhere . . .” I backed away, nearly knocking over a mannequin with legs identical to the shop assistant’s. “I’m very sorry.”
I escaped, hurried down to the crowded street. My stomach grumbled lowly. I ducked into the Bond Street underground and made my way home.
Every time I opened the door, my heart held its breath, hoping Josh would be back. But no, the flat was dark andempty. I hung my keys on the hook and switched on a lamp. The message light was blinking on the phone. Surely it would be Josh this time. This silly game had gone on for too long. I dialed the message bank. No Josh; Adelaide, my part-time personal assistant.
“Call me. Important. Really important. Not work-related but important nonetheless. I want you to hear it from me.”
I frowned, hung up the phone. I didn’t want to call her. She sounded rattled. As though she had bad news.
I set about opening every window in the apartment; a grudging breeze, warm and laden with the smell of petrol fumes, leaked in. I poured a glass of wine. I looked in the pantry for food. There was none. When had I last shopped? I glanced at the phone.
Really important.
I didn’t want to know; I was afraid of what I’d hear.
Finally, I marched up to the phone, lifted the receiver, and dialed.
Adelaide had it on the first ring. “Emma?”
“How did you know?” My heart thudded softly in my throat.
“Caller ID. Are you sitting down?”
I perched on the arm of the couch. “I am now.”
“I saw Josh this evening.”
“Josh? My Josh? Is he . . . ?”
Coming back?
But I knew from the tone of her voice that he wasn’t coming back; that this would not be happy news.
“He was with someone else, Emma. I’m so sorry.”
My stomach sank. I hung on tight to the edge of the couch with my free hand. “You mean . . . ?”
“A woman, yes. Not just any woman. Sarah. His assistant.”
I barely remembered her and was surprised that Adelaide did. But they had probably organized appointments together. Josh and I were both very busy people.
Somehow I managed to keep my voice even. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish I had good news for you.”
“No, no. I’m glad you told me.” Was I? Or was that the kind of empty platitude anyone said when her heart had been torn out and crushed to pulp on the ground? “I’ll see you at the studio.”
I hung up, slid down into the couch with my eyes closed. Josh and his assistant. What a horrid cliché. He’d moved quickly: less than two weeks since we . . .
But wait.
Sarah.
I was remembering now. She had a hard face, not pretty at all. Her name had popped up many times in our conversations, not that I’d paid much attention. And now it seemed that I’d been overlooking some very important facts. Josh’s late nights at the office, at least one business trip a month, the endless attachment to his BlackBerry, furiously two-thumbing messages every minute of the day and night. Had he been having an affair all along? Was his ultimatum a way of finally deciding between me and her?
I felt myself crumbling from within, turning to sand. I didn’t want to be alone, but I had so few friends. Two away, abroad with the ballet. One old friend from Australia who now lived in . . .
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