Page 196 of Private Lives

‘Yeah, it’s me. Listen, Jess, I just heard about the accident; how are you?’

‘I’m okay, I guess,’ she said slowly. ‘As well as can be expected, anyway.’

‘What the hell happened?’

‘I was just driving back from the studio when some guy comes out of nowhere and crash! He slammed into me, flipped the car in the air a couple of times; I almost got hit by a truck coming the other way.’

‘My God.’

‘Yeah, the fire department had to cut me out of the wreckage. My legs were almost crushed, can you imagine that? There was gasoline everywhere. One spark and I could have . . .’ She trailed off with a sob.

Sam felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn’t help feeling this was all his fault. He and Jessica might not have been right for each other, but ever since his one-night stand with Katie, things seemed to have gone wrong for both of them.

‘Oh honey, I’m so sorry.’

Jessica made some snuffling noises, like she was wiping her nose.

‘That’s sweet, Sam,’ she said. ‘It means a lot.’

‘But you’re okay? Physically, I mean?’

‘Sam, they’re saying I might need surgery,’ said Jessica, her voice cracking again.

‘On your legs?’

‘Maybe some work around my eyes. Jim’s put me in touch with his guy out here.’

‘I should fly out . . .’

‘No, no,’ said Jessica. ‘I’m fine. I’m up and about now, and you have your own life to be getting on with.’

Sam stopped. Had she heard about the picture of him and Anna in Mougins?

‘Are you sure? Because I can easily grab the jet.’

She paused.

‘What for, Sam?’ she said sadly. ‘But honestly, I’m okay. And thanks for calling. I do appreciate it.’

She hung up, and Sam sat there looking at his phone for a long minute. Then he stood up and walked over to the far side of the tennis court, using the scoop to pick up the fluffy yellow balls and drop them into the basket.

Jess had sounded so small and fragile on the phone. There had been times early on in their romance when she had been like that, when she’d shown him her softer, more vulnerable side. He did love her back then. And there had been other good times, both of them on their way up, both in it together. Sam realised that he missed those days badly.

‘But you can’t go back, can you?’ he said aloud, bending to pick up his racquet and the first ball from the top of the basket. He threw the ball into the air, swishing the racquet around in a perfect serve, watching the ball slam into the netting on the other side of the court. ‘No, you can’t.’

62

‘Balls.’

Matt put his coffee cup down on his desk and picked up his diary, remembering that there was a list of posh recommended restaurants at the front. He was due to meet up with Carla on Wednesday night and he still hadn’t booked anywhere.

He looked at his watch: 10 p.m. Most of them would be closing soon; why had he left it so late? It was exactly the sort of thing she used to bollock him for when they were married. Matt could never understand why she got so worked up about it. As far as he was concerned, the perfect date was a long walk by the river, followed by drinks in some cosy old-fashioned boozer, then falling laughing into bed. Dates were about the conversation and the person you were with, weren’t they? Not the poached quails’ eggs you had for your starter or the bottle of wine you drank with your meal. But Carla didn’t think like that; never had. For her, a date was something expensive and showy, being seen at the right restaurant, at the right table, something she could boast to her friends about the next day.

Had she boasted about their night of passion? he wondered. He doubted it somehow. More likely she had woken up cringing at the thought of what had happened that evening he’d been over to babysit. Yes, the sex had been incredible: passionate, sensual, spontaneous, all the things, he had to admit, their lovemaking had ceased to be long before their divorce. But did that mean that the fire of their relationship had been rekindled? He honestly didn’t know. Maybe the answer would present itself at their dinner.

He picked up the phone and tried the numbers in his diary, the swankiest first. He’d known it was a long shot, and he wasn’t at all surprised when one by one, they snootily told him they were booked up for weeks if not months in advance.

Tutting, he put down the phone and took a sip of his coffee.