Read Online Now Is Our Time by Jo Kessel - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jo Kessel
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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imagine doing it with anyone else but Claire. With all the other women in his life, what he’d craved most was space. He’d not been short of female company since they’d broken up and, with each new relationship, there’d been a hope that he’d finally be able to move on but nobody had ever matched up. They’d not even come close. Not even the mother of Martha. With her she’d accidentally gotten pregnant and he’d wanted to do the right thing and give this child a chance. So they’d married and given it their best shot which, in the event, hadn’t been anywhere nearly good enough. Sometimes he marvelled at how well Martha had turned out, despite their ineptitude at parenting.
He’d always known that Claire was the one. He’d fallen for her the minute she’d stepped onto his tennis court on the Greek island of Kos. She’d been inappropriately dressed in a sexy black halter-neck bikini top and a tie-die navy sarong which she’d hitched up high by rolling it over a few times at the waist. Her only suitable piece of attire had been the sneakers on her feet but, he’d had to admit, she wasn’t a bad tennis player for an amateur Brit. He’d had fun making her run around, watching her sarong split open, revealing her gorgeous creamy legs as she lunged for shots, determined not to be beaten. Claire always considered herself non-competitive but he would disagree. She didn’t like to lose and the few points she’d legitimately won against him during the years they’d been together always made her do some hilarious victory dance which was so endearing it made him want to pick her up and twirl her around.
It was her mass of red ringlets which had always captivated him and as Claire finally rolled onto her side to settle her head under his arm, her hair fanned out like a peacock’s tail over the pillow. Firecracker. That’s what he used to call her. He wound one of her copper curls tightly around his finger. He still didn’t dare believe that he was here with her again after so many years, their limbs interlocked, her sweet-smelling skin heating his. Her scent hadn’t changed over time. She must still be using the same exotic lemon verbena moisturising cream that always so turned him on.
He’d dreamed of this moment. No, he’d longed for this moment, but had given up. She’d changed her numbers and moved house. It was clear that she had no desire to be found and eventually he reminded himself of that famous adage: if you truly love someone, set them free. So he’d respected her wishes and finally accepted that, much as he wished it were otherwise, it wasn’t meant to be. He’d been sure that she would find someone else and he didn’t want to destroy any new life she may have built for herself. But that hadn’t stopped him from wanting it. He’d played at Wimbledon for at least the next five years after they’d broken up and, every time he’d been in London, a little part of him had hoped she might seek him out. She never had though.
By the time he’d got this job as a commentator, so many more years had passed that he no longer even dared to hope. He’d let it go. And when he’d crossed paths with Georgia in the corridor, he wondered if it was some cruel mirage. He’d done a double take and seen that she too had recognised him, but she’d lowered her eyes and was trying to ignore him, chatting to a colleague as they walked past. No way was he going to let this opportunity disappear. So he’d chased back after her, tapping his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said, knowing it would sound ridiculous if he was wrong. “Are you Claire Jackson’s friend?” He wanted to punch the air when she’d told him that Claire was divorced. Hope had seeped back into his veins. Maybe this time it was meant to be.
Georgia had scrabbled in her bag for something to write on and the creased, scrappy piece of serviette she’d finally etched Claire’s email
He’d always known that Claire was the one. He’d fallen for her the minute she’d stepped onto his tennis court on the Greek island of Kos. She’d been inappropriately dressed in a sexy black halter-neck bikini top and a tie-die navy sarong which she’d hitched up high by rolling it over a few times at the waist. Her only suitable piece of attire had been the sneakers on her feet but, he’d had to admit, she wasn’t a bad tennis player for an amateur Brit. He’d had fun making her run around, watching her sarong split open, revealing her gorgeous creamy legs as she lunged for shots, determined not to be beaten. Claire always considered herself non-competitive but he would disagree. She didn’t like to lose and the few points she’d legitimately won against him during the years they’d been together always made her do some hilarious victory dance which was so endearing it made him want to pick her up and twirl her around.
It was her mass of red ringlets which had always captivated him and as Claire finally rolled onto her side to settle her head under his arm, her hair fanned out like a peacock’s tail over the pillow. Firecracker. That’s what he used to call her. He wound one of her copper curls tightly around his finger. He still didn’t dare believe that he was here with her again after so many years, their limbs interlocked, her sweet-smelling skin heating his. Her scent hadn’t changed over time. She must still be using the same exotic lemon verbena moisturising cream that always so turned him on.
He’d dreamed of this moment. No, he’d longed for this moment, but had given up. She’d changed her numbers and moved house. It was clear that she had no desire to be found and eventually he reminded himself of that famous adage: if you truly love someone, set them free. So he’d respected her wishes and finally accepted that, much as he wished it were otherwise, it wasn’t meant to be. He’d been sure that she would find someone else and he didn’t want to destroy any new life she may have built for herself. But that hadn’t stopped him from wanting it. He’d played at Wimbledon for at least the next five years after they’d broken up and, every time he’d been in London, a little part of him had hoped she might seek him out. She never had though.
By the time he’d got this job as a commentator, so many more years had passed that he no longer even dared to hope. He’d let it go. And when he’d crossed paths with Georgia in the corridor, he wondered if it was some cruel mirage. He’d done a double take and seen that she too had recognised him, but she’d lowered her eyes and was trying to ignore him, chatting to a colleague as they walked past. No way was he going to let this opportunity disappear. So he’d chased back after her, tapping his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said, knowing it would sound ridiculous if he was wrong. “Are you Claire Jackson’s friend?” He wanted to punch the air when she’d told him that Claire was divorced. Hope had seeped back into his veins. Maybe this time it was meant to be.
Georgia had scrabbled in her bag for something to write on and the creased, scrappy piece of serviette she’d finally etched Claire’s email
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