The Friends We Keep(46)

“Of course,” Robert said diplomatically. “I’ll wait in the kitchen.”

Back upstairs, Maggie pulled Ben into the master bedroom, and closing the door, she looked at him and let out a silent squeal. “I love it,” she said. “I love, love, love, love it.”

“I do as well,” said Ben, who looked a little scared. “But this is a big house. It’s huge. I can’t imagine just the two of us living here.”

“But that’s the point. It’s not going to be just the two of us. I feel like this is all meant to be, that this house is a happy family house and it’s waiting for people like us to come here. Can’t you just see children running around that lawn? Imagine our sons playing soccer right there!” She pulled Ben to the window that overlooked the back lawn. “And our daughter will have picnic tea parties right there. Can’t you see it, Ben?” She looked at him then, startled to see his eyes were glimmering.

“I can,” he said and nodded, gazing around in smiling wonder. “I really can. You could get horses. We have stables!” He grinned.

“Maybe I will. What do you think? Lord and lady of the manor. Kind of.”

“Not bad for a working-class boy from Lancashire,” said Ben. “Although this is pretty normal for you. Just bigger.”

“True. But much bigger. This is a proper grand manor house. Do you think it’s too big for us?”

“Not when we fill it with children and dogs. Shall we do it? Shall we make an offer?”

“We’d be happy here,” said Maggie, sitting on the window seat and looking out the large bay window in the master bedroom. “This feels right.” She looked at him. “You’re ready to commute?”

“I’d have to stay in London a couple of nights a week, but I think we should do it.” He sat down next to her and put his arms around her. “You?”

“Yes. Let’s do it,” she said as they both hugged each other tight.

Whatever challenges they had faced, however difficult Ben’s drinking might have been over the last couple of years, she knew this would be a fresh start. Clean, country air and old-fashioned values. No Ministry of Sound. No pubs on every corner. The quiet country pub was the sort of place they’d go to for Sunday lunches after a long hike. This was perfect. This was everything she’d ever dreamed of.





twenty-one


- 1998 -



Evvie had just returned from a shoot in Jamaica, bringing her mother and grandmother along for an all-expenses-paid holiday. They stayed at Jamaica Inn, which her grandmother pretended was much too fancy for her, but Evvie knew she loved it.

“Come back to New York,” she’d pleaded with her mom on the penultimate day, knowing she wouldn’t come. “I have so much room and I’m living on my own now. You’ve never seen my place. Just change your flights. I’ll pay for everything.”

“Don’t bother me,” said her mother. “I’m going back to Stockwell.”

“You can’t say I haven’t tried,” sighed Evvie, who went through this every time she saw her.

Evvie was on her way back to her open-plan loft in the Meatpacking District, not too dissimilar to the one she once lived in with roommates when she first came to New York, except bigger, brighter, and much tidier. The exposed brick walls were flooded with light from the giant floor-to-ceiling windows, her furniture a collection of things she had gathered during her travels.

Enormous white sofas that were as big as beds were piled with Indian hand-blocked pillows. Leather poufs from Marrakech were scattered around the Balinese door coffee table, and antique wicker lounge chairs sat on either side of the fireplace on top of an ivory and pale pink dhurrie rug.

It was an eclectic and beautiful blend, what Evvie liked to think of as “boho chic.” There were objects she had collected from all over the world, hand-carved African sculptures, painted pots from Tunisia, antique suzanis thrown over the backs of chairs.

Everywhere she looked, she saw a memory, and no matter how glamorous her trips, returning home was always something she looked forward to most of all. The agency had sent a car to pick her up from the airport, and as it rounded the corner, her heart sank, for there was the familiar figure of Patrick, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his PalmPilot.

Evvie’s first instinct was to tell the driver to keep on going, but she couldn’t avoid him forever. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t expected him to show up. Being in Jamaica was a much-needed break from him, and she had done her best to put him out of her mind. A year ago, when she met him, she had thought he might be the One, this charming, funny venture capitalist who owned a vineyard on the North Fork and loved the outdoors.

He didn’t show his other side until nine months in, until Evvie was truly smitten, could see a future with him. They had been having an argument one night, Patrick’s jealousy getting the better of him. He was convinced she had spent the evening flirting with a photographer at a party they had been to.

Evvie had laughed in disbelief at Patrick’s rage. The photographer in question was gay, in a well-documented long-term relationship, and Patrick, who was almost frothing at the mouth by the time she had laughed, slapped her. Evvie’s hand had risen to her face in shock as she stared at him, eyes widened, unable to believe what just happened.