‘How did he sound?’
‘Fine.’ She nodded, then smiled shyly. ‘Actually,’ she blurted, unable to contain herself, ‘he said he loved me.’
Jazzy raised his eyebrows in an impressed gesture. ‘Really? Nice one.’
‘No need to sound so fucking surprised, thank you very much.’
He laughed. ‘Sorry,’ and he gave her a fond smile that made her want to cry.
‘Because at first I thought…’ If it had been anyone else, anyone other than Jazzy, she would have kept this to herself. Simone knew how most of her friends thought of her. The porcelain doll with the porcelain heart; smooth, cool, impenetrable and invulnerable to the pain the rest of them felt at their imperfect relationships. And it was a persona Simone had always been happy to play along with. So much easier than to have to open up the painful sores for inspection and discussion; better for everyone to pretend they were not there at all. But with Jazzy there had never been much point pretending; Jazzy would know everything anyway, just from the way she was breathing, from the colour in her cheeks, from the way she spoke Mack’s name. When she first met Jazzy, over a decade ago, her reserves of energy had been so depleted that she had never bothered even trying to build up the usual defensive wall around herself. No point starting now, she supposed.
‘I was a bit worried,’ she continued, ‘you know, maybe him not being in touch or anything, maybe it was because he, I don’t know, regretted it or something. But if you haven’t heard from him either, and he’s not come back…’
Jazzy winced. ‘Yes, I know. I know what you mean.’
There was a pause while the two of them looked at each other. Simone realised, to her embarrassment, that Jazzy’s breath was visible in thin clouds in the flat’s dim air.
‘Are we supposed to be worried about him?’ Jazzy asked. His voice sounded light, but as though he were consciously trying to keep it that way.
Simone looked at him. The feeling of wanting to cry threatened to overwhelm her again, but she fought it down. ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to be.’
With every previous boyfriend Simone had always been able to play it cool with little or no effort. She was cool. But with Mack that had all, to her unending surprise, changed. At first, in the first few tentative weeks of their courtship, there had been the usual hesitation and denial and one step forward followed by four steps sideways, the two of them circling round each other, unsure whether something so seemingly perfect could really be trusted. But in the last few months, something had grown between them – what her grandmother’s generation might have called ‘an understanding’. They were together, and being together was seriously important to them both, and it was for real this time. And for the first time since… well, for the first time in a very long time, Simone had allowed some of the frost inside her to thaw, had allowed herself to believe that this man, that the life she might have with this man, might be worth laying herself open to pain and heartbreak for.
And now he loved her, and he was gone.
Simone swallowed and looked at Jazzy. ‘I was thinking about… about the police.’
Jazzy’s jaw was set. ‘Right. What, you mean like a missing person?’
She nodded. ‘What do you think? I mean, he’s a grown man, he’s allowed to go off by himself for a few days isn’t he? I just don’t want to…’
‘Look mental?’ Jazzy said again.
‘Well, yeah.’ Neither of them laughed this time and they both sat for a moment in silence. Simone watched as the wisps of their breath appeared and disappeared on the air.
Jazzy shook his head. ‘You’re not being mental,’ he said with confidence, as though consciously bringing himself back to the moment. ‘But I don’t think we need to call the police yet either. Have you got his mum’s number?’
‘No. And even if I did, there’s no way I’d ring her. I’ve only met her once, that really would make me look mental.’ Only a few weeks ago Simone had met Mack’s mother for the first time, in an Ethiopian restaurant in Lewisham with a BYO licence and Dolly Parton on the sound system. Mack had been his usual easy-going, ebullient self, at least on the outside, but Simone flattered herself that she already knew him well enough to detect something else in his demeanour, a stiffness and reserve that she had rarely seen him display. It could be that he had just been nervous, perhaps that he felt, as she did, that there could be a lot riding on this evening, that he really, really wanted to make sure his mother liked her. Or it could have been something else, something that Simone hoped she might find out about in due course. Family dynamics are a fraught and emotional thing for all but the best-adjusted, Simone knew that better than anyone, and if there was something difficult in his relationship with his mother, he may be waiting until he and Simone had known each other a little longer before he let her in on it. She had decided not to push him on it, and he had not mentioned the evening since. His mother had been pleasant and polite but not especially interested in Simone, who had come away wondering if his mother had seen her merely as another amongst many attractive young women who had skirted round the edges of her son’s life over the years.
Jazzy held Simone’s gaze for a few moments. Only someone who knew him as well as she did would have been able to see the worry behind his eyes. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK. I tell you what, why don’t we just wait until Monday? If he’s still not come to the office and we still haven’t heard from him then we’ll – well, we’ll talk again and decide what to do. But don’t worry, I’m sure it won’t come to that.’
‘No,’ Simone agreed. ‘I’m sure it won’t.’ Her words sounded firm and confident to her ears, so she wondered why she felt the panic rising again as she once more fought down the overwhelming urge to cry.
Jazzy, Petra and Rory lived round the corner from the post office. Living so close to the main road was the only way they could afford to live in Winchmore Hill, but it did bring certain benefits; such as actually having the post delivered before they set off for work.
‘Letter,’ Petra said, handing Jazzy the plain white envelope without looking at him. She was holding a slice of dry toast between her front teeth as she tried to tie her hair back. Jazzy grabbed the letter from her with one hand as he used the other to try and prevent Rory from wiping his slobbery face all over Jazzy’s good work trousers.
‘Thanks. I’ll open it on my way, I’ve got to go if I want a seat on the bus. Come here, big guy,’ he said to Rory, picking the baby up and kissing him on the top of his head, the only visible part of him that was clean and dry. ‘Love you lots, have a good day at nursery. Bye darling.’ He kissed Petra’s cheek, and she nodded at him in good-natured acknowledgement.
‘Let me know about Mack, won’t you?’ she said through the dry toast.
‘Sure.’
Jazzy forgot about the letter until he was nearly at work, so preoccupied was he with thinking about Mack. When he had texted Simone last thing the previous night: ‘Anything?’ the reply had come simply: ‘Not yet.’ The hope embodied in those three letters ‘yet’ was what made him angry; angry at what Mack might be doing, angrier still at the thought that Mack might be in the process of proving Petra right.
Petra had warned Jazzy all along about allowing things to go so far with Mack and Simone.
‘You know what’s going to happen,’ she had said. ‘He’ll do what he always does, he’ll get bored, he’ll ditch her and where will that leave you? Whose side are you