It Could Have Been Her(25)
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.”
“Oh, you must be missing them.”
“I really am.”
“And hubby?”
“Ex-hubby.” Jane smiles tightly.
“Oh no. I’m sorry to hear that. I liked him very much.”
“Yes,” says Jane. “So did I! And actually, I still do. He’s a lovely man. But just sadly not the right lovely man for me. Frankly, I’ve reached the conclusion that no man is the man for me, that I was absolutely mad to think they ever were when everything in my life was screaming at me to keep away from them. For everyone’s sake!”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” says Natasha. “But I do have fantasies sometimes about me and the dog all alone in a tiny one-bed flat above a shop somewhere, just the two of us, eating crisps for dinner and never having to fold a pair of underpants.” She smiles wryly. “Not really, obviously. But. You know.”
Jane does know. She really does.
“So.” Natasha draws the conversation back. “Jessamine Black. What’s the deal with her?”
“Well.” Jane places her coffee cup on the table to her side; then she explains about finding the white dog in her bluebell woods, the strange man in Hampstead, the missing girl, the sweatshirt from the school in Islington. “And I googled the address that we took the dog back to and saw that a woman who lived there called Jessamine Black had signed an online petition a few years back, so I googled her and ta-da…”