sudden. How did she go from tearing up love notes into bitter shreds to leaving jaunty answerphone messages? Is it possible, she wonders, that Sarah is not his lover? Is it possible that the woman with the bracelet is someone else altogether?
She presses 1471 and takes down the last number to have called Ralphâs. Maybe this Sarah, whoever the hell she is, might be able to help her find her missing partner.
Chapter 9
One Year Earlier
R alph felt himself re-forming as he took his seat on the plane and tucked his rucksack under the chair in front of him. He had a window seat and the flight was half empty so he stood a good chance of not having to sit next to anyone.
Saying good-bye had been tough. Tough and unsettling. Jem had been tight-lipped, clearly resigned to his going but not about to let him go without letting him know how lucky he was that sheâd let him. Which he was. He was a bright man. He knew he was pushing his luck. He knew that he hadnât done anything to deserve this break. He knew that in the bank account of their relationship, Jem was very much in credit. But still, the force of whatever strangeness lay within him had been strong enough to propel him away from a sobbing Scarlett and a resentment-storing Jem and on to the Heathrow Express with a rucksack and a cheery farewell. Heâd felt sad for about forty-five seconds and then heâd felt euphoric. The image of his small son stayed longer in his consciousness than those of Jem and Scarlett, maybe because he knew that Blake was the only one of the three who would be markedly different when he came back or maybe because he felt the most guilt about leaving him.His son, so new he barely knew him, and yet he was running away from him, glad to be gone from him, happy not to have to think about him or consider him for the next seven days. He felt relieved. Yet he didnât know why. It wasnât as if Blake was his responsibility anyway. Jem did everything for him. But still Ralph found his presence vaguely oppressive. Maybe, he mused, it was not because of what he needed from Ralph now, but what Ralph knew he would expect from him in the future.
Ralph enjoyed the flight to LA. He got slowly and pleasantly drunk, he read half a David Baldacci novel, he ate something with chicken in it and an actually quite nice raspberry trifle, he listened to some music and watched an episode of The Office and a not particularly brilliant film called Forgetting Sarah Marshall , which had that weird Russell Brand bloke in it who Jem seemed to think was incredibly funny. And then he had a little sleep. An undisturbed, indulgent and completely guilt-free sleep.
Ralph liked to fly.
He didnât like to take off, which always felt somewhat unlikely, and he didnât like to land, which always felt somewhat rash, but the bit in between he enjoyed very much. He and Jem had flown to Italy when Scarlett was two. It was the first time either of them had flown with a child and it was the last time he would do it for a good long time.
As theyâd disembarked from the plane at Pisa airport Jem had said, âWell, that wasnât so bad.â Ralph had raised an eyebrow and said, âDefine bad.â
But this, just himself, nobody wanting to be taken to the toilet, nobody constantly dropping crayons underneath the seat in front, nobody spilling orange juice all over themselves andnobody screaming when their ears popped on landing, not to mention nobody giving him filthy looks when he attempted to flick through the in-flight magazine and hissing, âYou think youâre going to rea d ? Are you serious ?â at himâthis was good.
Smith was there when he left Customs.
He was wearing a black suit, a gray T-shirt and black sunglasses and was holding a sign that said: âMR. DICK SMALL.â
Ralph smiled when he saw him. âA-ha ha. And ha,â he said, bringing Smith to him in a one-armed man-hug. âGood to see
She presses 1471 and takes down the last number to have called Ralphâs. Maybe this Sarah, whoever the hell she is, might be able to help her find her missing partner.
Chapter 9
One Year Earlier
R alph felt himself re-forming as he took his seat on the plane and tucked his rucksack under the chair in front of him. He had a window seat and the flight was half empty so he stood a good chance of not having to sit next to anyone.
Saying good-bye had been tough. Tough and unsettling. Jem had been tight-lipped, clearly resigned to his going but not about to let him go without letting him know how lucky he was that sheâd let him. Which he was. He was a bright man. He knew he was pushing his luck. He knew that he hadnât done anything to deserve this break. He knew that in the bank account of their relationship, Jem was very much in credit. But still, the force of whatever strangeness lay within him had been strong enough to propel him away from a sobbing Scarlett and a resentment-storing Jem and on to the Heathrow Express with a rucksack and a cheery farewell. Heâd felt sad for about forty-five seconds and then heâd felt euphoric. The image of his small son stayed longer in his consciousness than those of Jem and Scarlett, maybe because he knew that Blake was the only one of the three who would be markedly different when he came back or maybe because he felt the most guilt about leaving him.His son, so new he barely knew him, and yet he was running away from him, glad to be gone from him, happy not to have to think about him or consider him for the next seven days. He felt relieved. Yet he didnât know why. It wasnât as if Blake was his responsibility anyway. Jem did everything for him. But still Ralph found his presence vaguely oppressive. Maybe, he mused, it was not because of what he needed from Ralph now, but what Ralph knew he would expect from him in the future.
Ralph enjoyed the flight to LA. He got slowly and pleasantly drunk, he read half a David Baldacci novel, he ate something with chicken in it and an actually quite nice raspberry trifle, he listened to some music and watched an episode of The Office and a not particularly brilliant film called Forgetting Sarah Marshall , which had that weird Russell Brand bloke in it who Jem seemed to think was incredibly funny. And then he had a little sleep. An undisturbed, indulgent and completely guilt-free sleep.
Ralph liked to fly.
He didnât like to take off, which always felt somewhat unlikely, and he didnât like to land, which always felt somewhat rash, but the bit in between he enjoyed very much. He and Jem had flown to Italy when Scarlett was two. It was the first time either of them had flown with a child and it was the last time he would do it for a good long time.
As theyâd disembarked from the plane at Pisa airport Jem had said, âWell, that wasnât so bad.â Ralph had raised an eyebrow and said, âDefine bad.â
But this, just himself, nobody wanting to be taken to the toilet, nobody constantly dropping crayons underneath the seat in front, nobody spilling orange juice all over themselves andnobody screaming when their ears popped on landing, not to mention nobody giving him filthy looks when he attempted to flick through the in-flight magazine and hissing, âYou think youâre going to rea d ? Are you serious ?â at himâthis was good.
Smith was there when he left Customs.
He was wearing a black suit, a gray T-shirt and black sunglasses and was holding a sign that said: âMR. DICK SMALL.â
Ralph smiled when he saw him. âA-ha ha. And ha,â he said, bringing Smith to him in a one-armed man-hug. âGood to see
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