tableâs edge to steady herself. There is a love note in Ralphâs trash, a love note that has been ripped into pieces and screwed up in anger. Who was it written to? It must be Sarah. Jem feels suddenly filled with rage and hatred. Whoever this Sarah is, she has Ralphâs heart and for that, she despises her.
She goes into Ralphâs bedroom. She has never been into Ralphâs bedroom before. It is smaller than sheâd imagined. It is not airy and white and full of billowy curtains and soft sheepskin rugs, as she has imagined, but small and cramped, with an unmade bed in one corner, a cheap teak-effect wardrobe in the other and a rather small window overlooking the side return, which is where the household keeps its rolling trash can. One ofRalphâs paintings hangs over his bed. It is not one of his âJemâ paintings, the famous collection he painted while he was aching with unconsummated love for her. Those were all sold a long time ago, for vast amounts of money, save for one that Jem keeps above her own bed. Rather it is one that he painted just after he got back from California, after his ill-fated trip to see Smith last year. It is a dove, painted in thick scrapings of off-white paint, its wings outspread, its oversized beak wide open as if in a silent scream. Below the disturbed dove lies the footprint of a city, painted in black, brown and scarlet squares. It is not clear whether the city is alive, on fire or razed, postapocalyptically, to the ground. The expression on the doveâs face would suggest the last.
The painting is ugly. She hates the stuff that Ralph has been painting lately. It makes her feel sad. Jem turns her head from it and looks around for clues. The first thing she sees is a bracelet, on the bedside table. It is silver with small blue and rose-pink beads hanging from it. She picks it up. It is very light, cheap, probably cost a few quid from River Island. She holds it to her nose and breathes inâit smells of skin. Her skin. Sarahâs skin.
Jem knows nothing about Sarah. Blake and Scarlett have never met her. Jem has seen only her car, a neat Ford Fiesta in a strange shade of lime green, with a pair of sage-green Wellington boots and a large umbrella on the back shelf. A year ago, Jem could have pictured the sort of girl that Ralph would want to be with if he wasnât with her. A year ago she could have described a thin, wispy blonde with a difficult personality and a fondness for black eyeliner. But now . . . all she knows is that Sarah has Hunter Wellingtons in the back of her car, that she wears cheap, flimsy, not especially stylish jewelry. And now, clearly, that she has shared a bed with Ralph.
Jem puts the bracelet back on the table. She feels shivery with distaste and sadness. Ralph. Her Ralph. With another woman. She aches for him. She misses him.
Jem returns to the living room and heads for the answerphone. She sees it flashing and presses play.
âYou have five new messages.â
Two of the five messages are from Philippe, Ralphâs agent, wondering how he is and if he has anything new he would like to show him. His voice is slightly high-pitched and laced with barely concealed frustration. The first message is Jemâs, the one that she left last week when he didnât come for the children. The fourth is from Ralphâs dad, saying that heâd just spoken to Jem and that everyone was a bit worried about him, and the last is from her, from Sarah.
She is American.
â Hi, Ralph, itâs Sarah. Sorry not to have been in touch, things are crazy round here. Anyhoo ââJem wrinkles her nose at the âanyhooâââ would be gorgeous to see you. Give me a ring. See ya ! â
Jem shudders. But then she has a thought. The message was left yesterday. But if Sarah is the same woman who was in Ralphâs bed last week, the recipient of the love note, she seems very upbeat about things, all of a
She goes into Ralphâs bedroom. She has never been into Ralphâs bedroom before. It is smaller than sheâd imagined. It is not airy and white and full of billowy curtains and soft sheepskin rugs, as she has imagined, but small and cramped, with an unmade bed in one corner, a cheap teak-effect wardrobe in the other and a rather small window overlooking the side return, which is where the household keeps its rolling trash can. One ofRalphâs paintings hangs over his bed. It is not one of his âJemâ paintings, the famous collection he painted while he was aching with unconsummated love for her. Those were all sold a long time ago, for vast amounts of money, save for one that Jem keeps above her own bed. Rather it is one that he painted just after he got back from California, after his ill-fated trip to see Smith last year. It is a dove, painted in thick scrapings of off-white paint, its wings outspread, its oversized beak wide open as if in a silent scream. Below the disturbed dove lies the footprint of a city, painted in black, brown and scarlet squares. It is not clear whether the city is alive, on fire or razed, postapocalyptically, to the ground. The expression on the doveâs face would suggest the last.
The painting is ugly. She hates the stuff that Ralph has been painting lately. It makes her feel sad. Jem turns her head from it and looks around for clues. The first thing she sees is a bracelet, on the bedside table. It is silver with small blue and rose-pink beads hanging from it. She picks it up. It is very light, cheap, probably cost a few quid from River Island. She holds it to her nose and breathes inâit smells of skin. Her skin. Sarahâs skin.
Jem knows nothing about Sarah. Blake and Scarlett have never met her. Jem has seen only her car, a neat Ford Fiesta in a strange shade of lime green, with a pair of sage-green Wellington boots and a large umbrella on the back shelf. A year ago, Jem could have pictured the sort of girl that Ralph would want to be with if he wasnât with her. A year ago she could have described a thin, wispy blonde with a difficult personality and a fondness for black eyeliner. But now . . . all she knows is that Sarah has Hunter Wellingtons in the back of her car, that she wears cheap, flimsy, not especially stylish jewelry. And now, clearly, that she has shared a bed with Ralph.
Jem puts the bracelet back on the table. She feels shivery with distaste and sadness. Ralph. Her Ralph. With another woman. She aches for him. She misses him.
Jem returns to the living room and heads for the answerphone. She sees it flashing and presses play.
âYou have five new messages.â
Two of the five messages are from Philippe, Ralphâs agent, wondering how he is and if he has anything new he would like to show him. His voice is slightly high-pitched and laced with barely concealed frustration. The first message is Jemâs, the one that she left last week when he didnât come for the children. The fourth is from Ralphâs dad, saying that heâd just spoken to Jem and that everyone was a bit worried about him, and the last is from her, from Sarah.
She is American.
â Hi, Ralph, itâs Sarah. Sorry not to have been in touch, things are crazy round here. Anyhoo ââJem wrinkles her nose at the âanyhooâââ would be gorgeous to see you. Give me a ring. See ya ! â
Jem shudders. But then she has a thought. The message was left yesterday. But if Sarah is the same woman who was in Ralphâs bed last week, the recipient of the love note, she seems very upbeat about things, all of a
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