The Woman He Loved Before

by Dorothy Koomson

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; Women's Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

Libby has a nice life with a gorgeous husband and a big home by the sea. But over time she is becoming unsure if Jack has ever loved her—and if he is over the death of Eve, his first wife.

When fate intervenes in their relationship, Libby decides to find out all she can about the man she hastily married and the seemingly perfect Eve. Eventually Libby stumbles across some startling truths about Eve, and is soon unearthing more and more devastating family secrets. Frightened by what she finds and the damage it could cause, Libby starts to worry that she too will end up like the first woman Jack loved. . .Tense and moving, The Woman He Loved Before explores if the love you want is always the love you need—or deserve.

Release date: May 14, 2013

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 448

Sample

WHEN I THINK OF JACK, I try to think of walking on wobbly legs after stumbling off the mini roller coaster at the end of Brighton Pier. I try to think of being fed puffs of sticky candyfloss while lying on a threadbare blanket on the pebble beach. I try to think of having handfuls of popcorn stuffed down my shirt in the front row of the cinema. I try to think of laughing and laughing until I’m doubled over and breathless, tears running down my cheeks.

“Libby, Libby, come on, wake up. Don’t fall asleep yet.” The voice is gentle, nudging and slightly pleading.

I open my eyes and he’s blurry. The man with the soft, pleading voice is slightly out of focus, and blinking doesn’t seem to clear the view. My face is wet, and I’m dizzy, and I feel so cold. And it hurts everywhere all at once.

“Good girl,” he says. “Try and keep your eyes open, okay? Try and stay awake. Do you know who I am? Do you remember me?”

“Sam,” I say, even though I don’t think I am making sounds with my words. “You’re a fireman so you’re called Sam.”

He’s a bit more in focus now, the blurriness is ebbing away and I can make out his features so I see his smile split the darkness of his face. “Close enough,” he says.

“Am I going to die?” I ask him. Again, I’m not sure I am making sounds, but Sam The Fireman seems to understand me.

“Not if I can help it,” he says, and he smiles again. If he didn’t look so much like my brother, have the smooth contours of his face, his dark brown skin and bright, almost-black eyes, I could probably develop a crush on him. But that’s what you’re meant to do with heroes, isn’t it? You’re supposed to fall in love with them.

“Is the car going to explode?” I ask, more out of interest than fear.

“No. That only happens in films.”

“That’s what I told Jack. I don’t think he believed me.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Jack?”

“Yes. You were telling me before.”

“Jack…”

When I think of Jack, I try not to think about the locked cupboard without a key that sits in the basement of the house that’s meant to be our home. I try not to think of him curled up alone in the dark, crying as he watches old movies. I try not to think of sitting opposite him at dinner and asking myself when he started to feel like a stranger. And I try not to wonder when time is going to stretch its healing arms toward him and make him feel whole so he can truly open his heart to me.

“Libby, Libby, come on now. Tell me about your husband.”

“Can you hear me?” I ask Sam The Fireman, because I’m fascinated that he seems to be able to when I can’t hear myself.

“I can lip-read.”

“So you drew the short straw, did you? Got stuck with me.”

“It’s not a chore.”

“Short straw. I said short straw. You can’t really lip-read, can you? You’re just putting it on so you get to stay with the car. Avoid any heavy lifting.”

He smiles again. “Busted. Didn’t realize I was so obvious.”

“Obvious is nice sometimes.”

“So: Jack?”

“Do you fancy him? Is that why you’re going on about him?” I ask. “I can put in a good word for you, if you want?”

Sam The Fireman laughs a deep, throaty laugh. “I’m pretty sure I’m not his type. And I’m one hundred percent sure he’s not my type.”

“Ahhh, go on. You shouldn’t be so closed off. He wasn’t my type when I first met him. But look at us now: him with one dead wife and another on the way.”

“You’re not going to die, Libby,” he says sternly. He is cross with me all of a sudden. And now I’m tired. I hurt all over, but especially on one side of my head, and my nose. Actually, all that side of my body hurts and I can’t move it properly. And I’m cold. I really want to sleep so that this pain and coldness goes away. You can’t hurt in your sleep, can you?

“Libby, Libby, Libby!” he says again. “Stay awake, please. Jack’s waiting for you. He’s refusing to go to the hospital until he knows you’re safe. It’s all going to be okay.”

“You’re a nice man,” I say to him. He’s so nice I don’t want to upset him by telling him how much it hurts. He doesn’t want to listen to me whining on. I just want to sleep. I just want to close my eyes and go to sleep—

“The lads are going to start cutting soon, Libby. After that, you’ll go straight to the hospital where they’ll look after you. Okay? But I need you to stay awake while they’re cutting. Do you hear me, Libby? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand everything,” I say. “I’m the most understanding person on Earth—just ask Jack.”

“There’s going to be a lot of noise in a few seconds. I need you to stay awake while it’s happening. Okay?”

“Stay awake.”

The world is screeching, the car is screaming at me. It is being sliced apart, torn from around me and it is screaming out in agony. It wants the pain to stop, and I want the noise to stop. I want to sleep. I just want to sleep. I close my eyes and rest my head.

When I think of Jack, I try to remember the way we used to sleep together: our bodies like two pieces of a living jigsaw, fitted so perfectly together the gaps looked like tricks of the imagination. I try not to think when I started to wonder, as we climbed into bed at night, if he wished for even a moment I was someone else.

When I think of Jack—

“I think you and this car are going to be very happy together,” Gareth told me. Gareth was one of those men who was your best friend when you were sitting in front of him, being convinced to part with your cash, but if you saw him in a pub or a club he’d not only ignore you, he and his mates—all of them old enough to know better—would take the piss out of you. Would judge your looks, your weight, your sense of dress, because you did not live up to the porn-star ideal he held in his head.

It was safe to say, having been in his company for forty minutes or so, I did not like Gareth.

I curled my lips into my mouth and managed a smile. I wanted this bit to be over. I wanted to pay the deposit, to give him my details, and then to leave here—hopefully never to return, as I could get the car delivered after I’d made the rest of the payment by credit card over the phone.

My eyes strayed to the showroom window and to the Pacific-blue Polo sitting on the forecourt. She seemed to shine, to stand out among all the other gray, black, red, and silver monsters out there. She seemed almost regal but demure with it.

Gareth was talking again so I turned back to him and forced myself to listen. I’d sort of lost interest in most things after slipping into the soft cream leather interior and taking her for a ride. My first car. I’d passed my test two weeks ago, and this was the first car I could see myself driving and that I could afford. I’d had to push for a good bargain because I had no other vehicle to trade in, but she was worth all that haggling.

“Now, Libby, do you want the interior and exterior treatment that will protect the car? It would be helpful with kids. Stops drinks and things spoiling that fantastic leather. And with living in Brighton, with the salty air—”

“Gaz, my man!” someone interrupted. I looked up at the interloper, standing inches from me. He was wearing large, black-lensed Aviator sunglasses inside. That was pretty much all I needed to get the full measure of him. The rest of him—his height, his wavy blond-brown hair, his well-groomed face, the thick gold band on the third finger of his right hand, and his body clothed in a Ralph Lauren shirt, Calvin Klein jeans, and Tag Heuer watch—were all inconsequential to the fact he wore sunglasses indoors.

Gareth jumped to his feet, his face overtaken by a grin, his eyes lighting up. “Jack! Good to see you.” He eagerly held out his hand for “Jack” to shake, excited by the chance to be touched by him. I’d seen some man-on-man crushes in my time, but this was so fervent it was embarrassing. I could imagine Gareth sitting home alone late at night, his phone by his side, waiting and waiting for that phone call where Jack invites him out to drink champagne and grope good-looking women.

“I need your help, buddy,” Jack said, warmly. If you didn’t know better, you’d think “Jack” genuinely liked Gareth when, in reality, Jack probably treated most people with disdain and mild contempt—it sat there plainly on his forehead and in the way he stood.

“One minute,” Gareth barely managed to throw in my direction as Jack slung his arm around Gareth’s shoulders and started to walk him away from his desk.

“Gareth, I’ve messed up, again. I was wondering if you could get one of the lads to take the dents out of the Z4—today, if possible. The regular dealer said next week, but I knew you were the go-to man to get it done today or tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure,” were the last words I heard from Gareth as the pair of them wandered off across the shiny white and chrome showroom.

I spun in my seat and watched them standing by the large curved reception desk: Jack a full head taller than Gareth, his feet planted wide apart, his sunglasses in place while he made crude gestures in his chest area, obviously making reference to a woman’s breasts. Gareth was lapping it up, his eyes agog, listening. I had taken the day off work to come here and buy this car. And Jack, who probably didn’t even know what work was, had just wandered in and was getting his problem seen to straight away.

I looked out at my car again. My little beauty. I loved her, but not enough to be treated like this. There were plenty of other places much nearer to home where I could sit and be ignored before handing over a large sum of cash. Unfortunately for Gareth, while I’d got my debit card out of my purse and into his possession, he hadn’t got around to swiping it through the machine. That meant I could still walk away without losing anything but a little time. I stood up, plucked my driving license and debit card from among the papers on Gareth’s desk, shoved them into my bag, then hooked the strap decisively over my shoulder. Gareth could keep some other mug waiting; this one had waited long enough and she was off.

Shooting them both a look of pure contempt, I stalked to the door and pushed it open.

“Libby?” Gareth called after me. “Erm, wait, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

As my hand connected with the door I turned to him, and over my shoulder I shot him another contempt-soaked look and carried on.

Outside was hot but the air, laden with the promise of rain, weighed heavily on my shoulders. I inhaled and braved a last, longing look at my car before I walked slowly down the wide drive of the showroom and out onto the busy main road. I turned right, toward the bus stop. I was somewhere between indignant and sad: indignant at the way Jack had waltzed in and interrupted our chat without a second thought, and sad because my impulsiveness had stopped me getting the car I really loved. Agh! I’d have to start my search again—after I’d run the gauntlet of bus, train, and bus to get home. So much for my day off.

“Libby, Libby!” A man’s voice called.

I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Seconds later, he appeared in my path, which stopped me from walking. His sunglasses were still in place.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he said. “I just—”

“Didn’t feel the need to wait your turn because an insignificant woman was sitting there and you’re so incredibly important your needs come first?” I asked.

He was shocked enough to strip his face of his sunglasses and stare at me. “Not sure how to respond to that, really,” he admitted.

“Maybe there is no response, Jack,” I replied.

His face did a double-take: obviously people rarely answered him in this manner. “Maybe an apology would be the appropriate response,” he offered.

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I’m sorry. What I did was rude. I should not have interrupted your meeting, and I can only apologize for that.”

There was an unpleasant nuance to his apology: he had pitched it so that the words were technically correct, his tone of voice was contrite, but everything was smeared with ridicule. He was taking the piss out of me. He probably took the piss out of everything and got away with it because most people were left unsure of whether he was being sincere or whether they were being hypersensitive.

“Was that it? The best you can do? Wow, I hope you never have to apologize in your day job because you are rubbish at it,” I said. “And if that was your idea of subtly taking the piss out of me then I feel even more sorry for you than I did a few seconds ago because you’re even more rubbish at that.” I stepped around him and continued my journey toward the bus stop.

When I’d seen the beautiful little car on the forecourt, I’d been able to picture myself cruising along, the radio on loud, the windows wide open, my voice mingling with the singers on the radio. Even being stuck in traffic wouldn’t have been so bad because I’d be safe in my own little cocooned world. Now, thanks to his arrogance and my pride, I’d have to start looking from scratch.

And there he was again: Jack. Standing in front of me, blocking me from going any farther.

“What do you want now?” I asked.

“Look, I really am sorry,” he said. “As a result of my actions Gareth has lost a sale. It’s not fair to him that my visit has potentially cost him his livelihood.”

“His livelihood?” I said, smearing my tone with his particular type of ridicule. It did not sit right with me, but this man clearly needed to be dealt with on his level. “His whole livelihood rests upon the sale of one little car?”

“No, but it’s not good to lose customers in this current economic climate. And he’ll be doubly screwed if you go around telling people. That was all my fault. I’m sorry. Truly. Please can you give Gareth another chance? He’s a decent man trying to make a living. I’m an idiot for messing around with that.”

“You’ll get no arguments on that from me.”

“Please, will you give him another chance?”

The picture of me cruising along, window open, stereo on, singing out loud, danced across my mind. Gareth would be nice now. He’d stop trying to sell me extras and would want me to sign on the dotted line as soon as possible. And I did so love that little vehicle…

“You’re always cutting off your nose to spite your face,” my best friend Angela often told me. “I’ve never met a woman as stubborn as you. Even when it’s not in your best interests you’ll do something to make a point. Sometimes, sweetheart, you need to go with the flow.”

Car versus Tell this man where to go?

There really was only one option.

SHE’S STILL AWAKE.”

“Awake?”

“Her eyes might be closed, but she’s trying to speak.”

“Libby likes to talk.”

“You don’t, do you, Jack? Not about anything that really matters.”

“Keep talking to her, it’ll help.”

“Libby? It’s me, Jack. I’m right here. Everything’s going to be okay. You’re going to be just fine.”

“I don’t feel fine. I don’t feel much of any—”

“What’s the ETA?”

“About three minutes. We should have got a doctor to come to the scene.”

“They said there was no one available. Put your foot down. Oh, BP has just gone through the floor.”

Jack was sitting on the bonnet of a red car, chewing on bites of an apple when I had finally finished with Gareth. His long legs were drawn up toward his chest and splayed out at the knees, while he rested his elbows on his knees. I gave him a passing glance, a nod, then began toward the driveway.

“All sorted then?” he called at me, taking off his sunglasses.

“Yes. All sorted.”

“Good.”

Unexpectedly, the driver’s side door of the car he sat on popped open, and a pair of bronzed, slender legs in a pair of Prada sandals stepped out. The owner of the legs slowly uncurled herself from the car and was, of course, beautiful: perfectly applied makeup, shoulder-length honey-blonde hair, a short, floaty Gucci number and a diamond-encrusted Rolex on her wrist. They could not be a more clichéd couple if they tried.

“Grace, this is Libby. Libby, this is Grace, my best friend’s wife. She’s here to drive me home while my car is being fixed.”

“Hi,” I said to her, wondering why he’d been at pains to clarify that she wasn’t his girlfriend.

She smiled warmly, which wrong-footed me: in my job, I met women like her all the time and they generally behaved how Jack behaved—as if the world revolved around them. “Hello,” she said, the corner of her nude-lipsticked mouth turning up a fraction in slight amusement. If she wasn’t his girlfriend, she probably liked the idea of Jack having to apologize. “Pleased to meet you.”

“You too,” I said.

I nodded good-bye to them and then continued walking toward the bus stop. A minute later, he was in front of me again. He wiped the apple juice that had been glistening on his lips on the back of his hand and tucked his sunglasses in his top pocket.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Is what it?” I replied.

“You and me, done and dusted?”

“Was there ever a you and me?” I asked.

“I thought there was a little frisson earlier. Something we could work on.”

“Frisson? You mean, you taking the piss out of me and me saying you were rubbish? That was a frisson? I feel really sorry for the women you go out with.”

“So this,” he moved his forefinger in the space between us, “isn’t going anywhere?”

“Where did you think it would go?”

“To dinner or a drink?”

“Jack, I’m sorry to say I don’t particularly like you. Your clearly over-inflated sense of entitlement keeps bringing out the not very nice side of me. See? I would never normally say that to someone—and believe me, I meet a lot of odorous people on a daily basis so I do know how to keep it in—but with you, I can’t help it. So, no, I don’t see this going anywhere.”

He studied me silently, his eyebrows knitted slightly together as his moss-green eyes held mine. “At least tell me your full name.”

“Why?”

“So I can forever remember the one person who didn’t fall for my charm, or lack thereof.”

The promise of rain in the air suddenly fulfilled itself, spilling out onto the world. This rain in early July was incredibly welcome: beautiful and calming. I lifted my face to the sky, smiling as the drops gently exploded on my skin. It was the enemy of my hair, would make me a frizzy mess in less time than it took to boil water, but I still loved the cooling touch of rain.

As I lowered my head, I saw on the horizon behind Jack the large lumbering shape of a bus. It was going in my direction and I had to be on it if I had any hope of salvaging what was left of my day off. “No, you can’t have my full name,” I said to him. “I know you’ll just Google it, because you can’t help yourself, and then you’ll have to call whatever number you find because, again, you won’t be able to help yourself. Believe me, it’s better like this.” As I spoke, I ferreted in my bag for my one-day travel pass. Finally finding it lodged between the book I was reading and my umbrella, I pulled it free. “Good-bye, again.” Without waiting for a response, I stepped around him to start running down the slick pavement for the bus stop.

“Libby!” he called to me.

I stopped, turned around. “Yes?” I asked, pushing locks of my wet black hair off my face.

He smiled, shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll see you around.”

I shrugged. “Anything’s possible.” I turned and sprinted toward the bus stop, arriving just in time to get on.

Jack stood in the same spot and waved at me as the bus went past.

I gave him a wan smile then looked out of the front window to concentrate on where I was going, which was away from this place.

BP’S STILL DROPPING, she’s extremely tachycardic.”

Why is only part of my life flashing before my eyes? What about everything else? Doesn’t the rest of my life count?

“We need to get more fluids into her.”

Is my whole life really about Jack?

“I’ve lost her pulse!”

“Have you been keeping things from us, Libby Rabvena?” asked Paloma when I returned to the haven of the staff room after performing a particularly gruesome bikini wax.

I was still shuddering, hoping I wouldn’t wake up tonight dreaming about it, when Paloma had stopped me in the doorway with her words. She was my boss: manager of Si Pur, the exclusive beauty salon for those who liked to experience purity from the inside out.

Standing beside her, like a row of white-uniformed, cleansed, toned and moisturized soldiers were Inês, Sandra, Amy, and Vera, the other beauticians who, like me, lived to do nothing more than impart the Si Pur ethos. They were all looking at me with flawless, expectant faces, and I instantly drew back in apprehension. Those looks meant they were up to something, possibly planning a surprise of some sort. And I did not like surprises. I preferred to know what was coming, always.

“Not that I know of,” I said cautiously. I wasn’t exactly living the most exciting life at the moment. The only thing that I hadn’t told them was that I had lost my debit card yesterday, after paying the deposit on my car. Thankfully, I’d managed to cancel it before whoever found it had used it. I hadn’t told them that because, well, why would I? I had told them about my car, which would be arriving sometime next week.

“Well, what do you make of this, then?” Paloma said and, almost as if they had choreographed it, the five of them stepped aside, revealing a bouquet of burgundy and cream roses.

I stared at the roses, all with lickably luscious, velvety petals, and at the expensive glass vase with a large red bow tied around its middle that they had obviously arrived in.

“Are those for me?” I asked.

“Yes,” Paloma said, not bothering to hide the naked jealousy in her voice. “They’ve just arrived.”

“Right,” I said, perplexed. I could not think of a single person who would send me flowers, let alone ones as beautiful as these. I stepped forward, and reached for the square white card with my name and the salon’s address on the front that sat on its own metal holder in the middle of the bouquet.

“And who’s Jack?” Paloma asked before my hand had made contact.

I wasn’t surprised she’d opened the card; she did that sort of thing all the time. She made no secret of the fact that she thought she had first dibs on anything that came into the salon—even if it was sent specifically to one of us. It was a perk of management, she insisted to anyone who dared complain: you try doing her job on top of managing such a large salon for the money she made, she reasoned; it would make you realize that you deserved a little extra. None of us had been brave enough to point out that what she did was actually bordering on theft.

“Some man I met,” I said, slipping the card out of its envelope.

You wouldn’t tell me your name, but I found this, so I took it as Fate. Call me. Jack. His number was at the bottom of the card.

From the envelope I pulled out my errant debit card. Ah. When I’d got my pass out of my bag, I must have dropped it. That was why he’d called me when I ran for the bus—for a moment he was going to return it, then saw it as too good an opportunity to pass up.

It was not Fate; it was me needing to organize my bag so things like this did not happen.

“You can’t just say that! Where did you meet him? When? Who is he? How come he sent you flowers? Are you going to call him?” Paloma asked, straining to keep herself in check. She thrived on mysteries; the thought of one involving a man who sent flowers was probably driving her insane.

Paloma was stunning. She had thick dark hair that she wore in a sensible bun for work, a heart-shaped face, dewy dark-brown skin and long eyelashes that framed her chestnut eyes. She would love Jack. And he would probably love her. She might be less of a challenge than me, but she was on his wavelength: she had an innate sense of entitlement, and she was impressed by money and monied people. They would go together perfectly.

“You should call him,” I said, handing her the little white card. “You’d love him: good looking, rich. Drives one of those sporty Z4 things and wears a Tag Heuer watch.”

She almost snatched the card out of my hand, stared at it wide-eyed. “You really think I should?” she asked casually, while her eyes were desperately committing his details to memory in case I changed my mind.

“I do,” I said. “You’re his type.”

Once she had memorized his number, she raised her gaze to me and pursed her lips. “What’s the catch?” she asked. “What do you want in return?”

Shaking my head, I went to the cleaning cupboard and liberated the jar of instant coffee we hid behind the bleach and washing up liquid. (If we ever had a visit from the “so pure” people who owned the salons, they would probably die—after sacking us—to discover we didn’t sip green tea and eat seeds all day in the purity of our staff room haven.) “Nothing,” I said, going to the kettle and shaking it to see if it had enough for a cup. “Oh, except maybe an invite to the wedding if it all works out.”

At the word “wedding,” Paloma’s eyes suddenly lost focus and she began mentally trying on her—already chosen—Vera Wang wedding dress, placing her real diamond tiara on her head, and wafting the long white veil with Swarovski crystals hand-sewn onto it. It was obvious she would never invite any of us mere mortals to her wedding. She tolerated us because we were all good at our jobs, but she was treading water—the second she landed a handsome, rich husband she was leaving and not looking back. Once she hit her jackpot, she’d probably pass us in the street and pretend she didn’t know who we were.

The more I thought about it, the more perfect she seemed for Jack.

“It’s a deal,” she said with a smile.

Her hands reached out for the vase. “But I get to keep the flowers,” I told her. Her manicured fingers hovered a few seconds longer around the base of the vase, before they were eventually—reluctantly—withdrawn. There’d be plenty more where they came from, she obviously decided.

WHY IS IT so quiet?

And so dark?

And still.

A minute ago there was noise and sirens and people talking, and I think Jack was holding my hand, and everything was moving so fast.

At least the pain has stopped.

But I want to know why everything else has stopped, too.

Am I asleep?

Maybe I’m asleep. You can’t hurt in your sleep. And all I wanted was to go to sleep before.

I want to wake up now.

Where is everybody?

Why am I suddenly alone?

“You’re not alone,” the woman’s voice, as smooth and rich as velvet, says. “I’m here. And I know exactly what you’re going through.”

“Who are you?”

“Oh, come on, Libby, you know who I am.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. You’re a smart woman; that’s why Jack’s with you. Come on, you can work it out.”

“No, you can’t be. You can’t be—”

“We’ve got her back, but I don’t know for how long. You really need to put your foot down or she won’t make it.”

“I’ll try, but there is so much traffic. No one is moving because there’s nowhere to move to.”

“I’ll keep pumping in fluids, but I don’t know how long that’s going to work.”

“That was very funny, giving my number to your boss,” Jack said to me as I approached my building.

He was leaning on the wall outside, holding a brown cardboard drinks tray with two white paper coffee cups slotted into the holes and a white bag perched between them.

It was eight o’clock. The world was bright, and London was, of course, already on the move: traffic was rolling past Si Pur’s glass-fronted building at the bottom of Covent Garden; various people were heading toward buildings or the Tube station around the corner. I always came into work early because it meant I was less likely to have to do the late shift since I had the farthest to travel. I’d also been hoping to leave early tomorrow because my car was being delivered.

“Just happened to be in the area?” I asked him.

“No. I came to see if I could tempt you to sit on a bench and eat a croissant and drink a coffee with me. And to thank you for giving my number to your boss, of course.”

“She actually called you? She wouldn’t tell us if she had or not.”

“She did.”

“And it didn’t go well?”

“Not for me it didn’t.”

“I genuinely thought you’d get on.”

“We did get on. It turns out we know quite a few of the same people, and she’s funny, and intelligent, and if it wasn’t for one little problem, I’d probably have asked her out.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “That’s a shame.”

“Don’t you want to know what that problem is?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I’ll tell you anyway: the problem is I’m interested in going out with you.”

“Okay,” I said.

Jack’s handsome face, which looked disconcertingly awake for the hour, did a double take. “You’ll go out with me. Just like that?”

“Yes. I will go out with you. Right now. I will go and sit on a park bench and eat a croissant and drink a coffee and we’ll call it ‘going out’ and then we can call it quits, okay?”

“What if you actually enjoy yourself? What if you decide that