Second Chance
Authors: Jane Green
Second Chance
Jane Green
by the same author
Straight Talking
Jemima J
Mr Maybe
Bookends
Babyville
Spellbound
The Other Woman
Life Swap
Second Chance
JANE GREEN
MICHAEL JOSEPH
an imprint of
PENGUIN BOOKS
MICHAEL JOSEPH
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London
WC2R 0RL
, England
Published in 2007
1
Copyright © Jane Green, 2007
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Lyrics from ‘Goodbye My Friend’ on p. 93
used by permission of Seagrape Music © 1988
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright
reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior
written permission of both the copyright owner and
the above publisher of this book
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
EISBN: 978–0–141–90121–3
This book is dedicated to the memory of Piers Simon, who will always be missed
Acknowledgements
I am often dubious about extended acknowledgements, but there have been so many angels in my life this past year who have guided me through with their love and support, and to whom I remain eternally grateful. My gratitude and unending thanks go to the following…
Deborah Valentin and Dani Shapiro, for their extraordinary wisdom, advice and love.
Roe Chlala, Jody Eisemann, Brian Russell, Kathy Steffens, Nicole Straight, and all the many friends who showed me, with grace and humility, that there is another way.
Joan Burgess, Fiona Garland and Andy Bentley, Anthony Goff, Kim and Niv Harizman, Bob and Jane Jacobs, Steve March and Rob Rizzo, Lisa Miller, Louise Moore, Deborah Schneider, Gail Sperry, Jonathan Tropper, Susan Warburg, David and Natalia Warburg.
And finally to Ian Warburg. For bringing me back to myself. And for everything else besides. I love you.
The wine has been drunk, the pasta demolished, three-quarters of the tiramisu polished off. Were you to peer through the window you might think you were looking at a group of old friends laughing, catching up, having a wonderful time, never seeing the gossamer-thin threads of grief that are woven between them, that have brought them together again after all this time.
Look a little more closely and you’ll see the way the brunette – Holly – has a tendency to drift off into space. How she’ll gaze into her wine glass, lost in a memory, a tear welling up in the corner of one eye; how the blonde – Saffron – will lean over and ask gently if she’s okay, lay a hand softly on her arm with a squeeze; how Holly will nod her head with a smile as she blinks the tear away and gets up to clear a dish that doesn’t yet need clearing, wash a bowl that doesn’t yet need washing.
Observe how the thin girl with the short, mousy bob watches them both with concern, her eyes softening as she sees how Saffron is able to comfort, how after all this time apart Saffron doesn’t feel the slightest bit awkward about reaching out and making Holly feel better. There is a part of Olivia that wants to be able to do this too, but she has spent years trying to find comfort in her skin, in who she is, in being someone
who has not followed the paths expected of her, not being a lawyer, or a doctor, or a super-successful, highflying businesswoman, and, while she thought she was happy, finding herself surrounded by her school friends has brought back those insecure feelings of old: not being good enough. Clever enough. Ambitious enough.
His name is not mentioned for a while, they are too busy focusing on catching up. They go around the table, haltingly at first, as they fill one another in on who they are now, where their lives have taken them.
‘Short summaries, please,’ Paul requests with a grin. ‘No more than two sentences to start off with, I think.’
‘Christ.’ Saffron looks at him in amazement. ‘Over twenty years since we left school and you haven’t changed a bit. Still trying to be the boss.’
‘Fine, I’ll start,’ he says. ‘Freelance journalist for various newspapers and a few men’s magazines. Quite successful, quite enjoy it. Evenings and some mornings spent writing, as I said, the great British novel. Small house in Crouch End but fast car to make up for –’
‘–small penis?’ Olivia remarks.
‘Not small, average, I think, but no complaints from Anna.’
‘Tell us all about Anna.’ Saffron raises an eyebrow.
‘Swedish, thirty-nine, gorgeous. Also highly tolerant, given she puts up with me. As you know, founder of fashionista.uk.net. As a result she is frighteningly trendy, which is stunning given she’s married to me. Desperate for children, have been trying for two years, and currently undergoing yet another bloody round of IVF after which I think we may have to resign ourselves to
having cats. Anna is the best thing that has ever happened to me, but starting another cycle with this awful Synarel nasal spray that turns Anna into the hormonal horror from hell, so not particularly looking forward to it. Hopefully,’ he looks around the room and attempts a smile, ‘this time will be the last time, hopefully this will be successful. Keep everything crossed for us… Saffron? Your turn.’
‘That was more than two sentences,’ Saffron says softly. ‘But I will keep everything crossed for you. So… me. Actress, a bit of theatre, hopefully big role coming in major film with Heath Ledger. Split time mostly between LA and New York. Am very happy with someone, but complicated so can’t talk about it. No children, animals, or other dependants, but good circle of friends, although have to say, nothing like being with people you’ve known almost your entire life.’ She looks at each person sitting around the table and smiles. ‘Having a shared history is something you just can’t create with the new ones. No matter how much you like them, it just isn’t the same.’
‘And… time’s up,’ says Paul, looking at his watch.
‘My turn?’ Olivia sighs. Here it is. ‘Um. God. Where do I start?’
‘At the beginning?’ Paul offers helpfully.
‘Okay. Did drama at university, which was ridiculous really as nowhere near confident enough to be an actress.’ She looks nervously at Saffron, who gives her an encouraging smile. ‘Played around for a few years doing various jobs – worked at health-food store, ran book shop for a while, then asked to volunteer at animal
sanctuary. Seven years later, run the place and love it. Gorgeous flat in Kensal Rise, and–’ she takes a deep breath, wondering why on earth this should be so hard given that it has been six months since George left – ‘and still single. Was in relationship with George for seven years, but he upped and left and is about to marry ghastly American girl called Cindy, and now I am planning on turning into the crazy old woman with a million cats and dogs.’
‘No one else on the horizon?’ Paul is surprised.
‘Well… oddly enough Tom put me in touch with someone from his American office. We’ve been emailing for a few weeks, and he’s coming over here soon, but what was fun and sweet seems just awful now, since… everything. I feel really weird about even meeting him.’
‘Bollocks,’ Saffron says. ‘You have to meet him, especially if Tom set it up.’
‘You’re probably right. I just feel completely unready for a relationship,’ Olivia confesses.
‘Darling,’ Saffron shrugs dramatically, ‘who’s talking relationship? I bet you haven’t been laid for six months.’
Olivia blushes and looks over to Holly for help.
‘Okay,’ Holly laughs as she interjects. ‘My turn. That fine arts degree wasn’t a complete waste of time as I’ve managed to make a somewhat decent living over the years. I’m an illustrator for a card company, although my dream is to work on children’s books. Met Marcus in Australia at twenty-five. He seemed, on paper, to be everything I was supposed to be looking for in a husband, now rather think no one should get married
before the age of thirty.’ Olivia raises an eyebrow and Saffron’s eyes widen slightly. ‘Whoops,’ Holly said, knowing that she had drunk too much. ‘Did I say that out loud? Oh well. Two gorgeous children, Oliver and Daisy, and truthfully Marcus is a pillar of strength. Really. So strong. He could move mountains. Harbour secret fantasies of running away with kids but know that’s just typical of an old married woman thinking the grass is always greener. Have to say, in all, life’s pretty good.’
Holly pauses. ‘And to finish, I sent Tom an email because I hadn’t spoken to him in ages, and I never heard back. What about you lot? When did you last speak to him?’ Holly looks up at each of them, and the tension, almost undetectable but nevertheless present all evening, now dissipates.
Finally it is safe to talk about Tom. They have spent the evening talking about themselves, reminiscing about school days, but none of them wanting to bring up Tom, none of them knowing the appropriate way to talk about him, knowing what to say. None of them ready to face the reason they are all sitting in this room. Friends reunited. After twenty long years.
Tom wakes up first. Lies in the blackness and sighs as he reaches over to turn off the alarm clock. Five thirty. Blinking red, beeping madly, waiting for him to bang it off. He turns his head to see if Sarah has woken up, but no. She is still soundly asleep, rolled on her side, breathing heavily into her pillow.
He packed the night before, so accustomed now to these business trips, to getting up in the middle of the night, looking out of the window to check that the town car is waiting in the driveway, the driver killing time by reading the
New York Post
, a large cardboard cup of steaming coffee in hand.
The pay-off, as he and Sarah both know, is that these business trips won’t be for ever. Soon his company, a large software company, will have finished buying the smaller start-ups and, as chief executive officer, he will be able to concentrate on growing what they already have. He’s thirty-nine now and in another three years or so hopefully his annual bonuses will allow him to think about doing something else. Some money will have been put aside for the kids’ college accounts, and he’ll be able to retire, maybe buy his own business, do something that doesn’t involve travel or a commute, time away from the family.
In the bathroom, he trips over Tickle Me Elmo and
shakes his head in exasperation before smiling at the memory of Dustin, two years old, giggling uncontrollably alongside Elmo until his elder sister, Violet, grabbed it away, leaving Dustin in floods of tears.
A hot shower, the last of the packing, and he’s ready to go. Back into the bedroom to kiss Sarah on the cheek. ‘Love you, Bunks,’ he whispers, using their pet name for each other, a name they’ve been using for so long they don’t even remember how it came to be.
Sarah stirs and opens her eyes. ‘Love you,’ she murmurs. What time is it?’
‘Just after six. The town car’s here. Are you going to get up?’
‘Yup. In a second. Have to get the kids ready for school.’