The Pieces of You and Me - Rachel Burton

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pub, after Jess had moved to London. They would sit in the corner, always at the same table, and chat amiably as they watched the match.

      ‘For what it’s worth,’ Ed had said one night. ‘I think you made the right decision about staying in Cambridge and not going to one of those Ivy League universities. I think you’ll be much happier here. I think you spent enough time away at school.’

      Rupert had smiled. Ed always seemed to know him so well. ‘I’m glad I stayed too,’ he said. ‘Dad doesn’t always know what’s right for me.’

      ‘He’s doing his best,’ Ed had said as Rupert had scowled. ‘Us parents have such high hopes for our kids, such big dreams, and eventually we have to give those dreams up and trust our kids to make the right decision.’

      ‘I guess you and Caro are better at that than my parents,’ Rupert had said. It had always been Ed and Caro he went to when he was angry with his father, and it had always been them who had helped him calm down, helped him think more rationally. He hadn’t known then what he would have done without them.

      One night during Rupert’s second year at university, Jess had come home early for the weekend and surprised them in the pub. Rupert had watched Ed’s face light up when Jess walked in and the three of them had spent the evening together, the football forgotten. It felt almost ridiculous to remember now that it had been one of the best nights of Rupert’s life – a simple evening where he could forget lectures and seminars, studies and exams, just for a few hours. He had felt as though he was part of something important, surrounded by love. He had felt as though he had seen a glimpse of his future that night, but that future had been pulled away from him when Ed died.

      There was so much he wanted to say to Jess now about the summer her father had died, but he didn’t know where to start.

      ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ he said instead. ‘Do you ever wonder what would have happened if things had been different, if we’d kept in touch, if …’

      ‘But we didn’t,’ she interrupted. Her tone sounded harsh, far removed from the gentle nostalgia of a moment ago. ‘Those things did happen and our lives went in different directions. It felt as though we weren’t part of each other anymore.’

      ‘And yet here we are again,’ he said quietly, turning towards her, trailing his fingers gently over her bare shoulder. She shivered and he took off his jacket, wrapping it around her.

      ‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,’ he said.

       10

       JESS

      As he said it his fingers found mine. When he squeezed my hand, I was back at my grandmother’s funeral remembering how I used to think we’d always be together. His jacket felt heavy on my shoulders, his presence next to me almost intoxicating. He had walked away from me the summer after my father died. There had been a time when I never thought I’d forgive him for that.

      And yet, here we were.

      ‘I can’t stop thinking about you either,’ I said, not letting go of his hand.

      ‘Tell me something I couldn’t possibly know,’ he said.

      I smiled. This was a game we used to play as children. When he came home from boarding school for the holidays we’d tell each other things we couldn’t possibly know because we’d been so far apart for so long. But there was so much to tell him this time that he couldn’t possibly know, and I didn’t know where to start. There were things I didn’t want him to know.

      I felt his hand shift slightly in mine, his thumb tracing my knuckles. There was something I could tell him, something I could trust him with.

      ‘Have you ever heard of the author CJ Rose?’ I asked.

      ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I loved both of those books and I can’t wait for the next one. They reminded me of you actually.’

      ‘In what way?’

      ‘The fact that they’re set in Ancient Greece.’ I’d loved Classics since I was a child and read my degree in it. It’s why I chose to set my books in the fourth century BC. ‘But you’re meant to be telling me something I couldn’t possibly know, not quiz me about what books I like.’

      ‘Have you ever wondered who CJ Rose is?’ I asked.

      ‘Doesn’t everyone wonder who CJ Rose is?’ he said. He sat up straighter then, looking at me. ‘Oh, do you know?’ he said, excited for the gossip I might impart. ‘Tell me!’

      ‘Do you remember my middle name?’

      ‘Of course I do, it’s Rose …’ He stopped for a minute. ‘Jessie?’

      I grinned. I couldn’t help myself. While I loved the subterfuge and didn’t really want anyone to know who I was, I also loved it when people found out.

      ‘Jessie, are you CJ Rose?’

      ‘Yup!’

      ‘So this is what you meant by freelance writing?’

      ‘I came up with the idea when I was sick. It took forever to write that first one but I got there in the end.’

      ‘My God, Jessie, that’s incredible! Wasn’t the second one shortlisted for an award?’

      ‘It was,’ I replied. ‘I’m hoping the third book will win one.’

      He let go of my hand then and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me towards him. It felt good to be so close to him after all these years, as though we were two jigsaw pieces fitting back together again.

      ‘You have to promise you won’t tell anyone,’ I said pulling away from him, panicking suddenly.

      ‘I promise,’ he said, placing his hand on his chest. ‘Cross my heart.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘But why is it so important?’ he asked. ‘It’s such a huge achievement, why don’t you want anyone to know?’

      ‘The people who matter know,’ I replied. I wasn’t ready to answer his question. I wasn’t ready to tell him that when my agent initially showed an interest in the first book, I was too ill to leave the house and that I’d written the second book before she and I finally met in person. When a publisher first made a tentative offer on the book, my agent had the idea to put it out under a pen name so I didn’t feel pressured to do interviews or book signings. Over the last three years CJ Rose had become quite the enigma. I sometimes wondered if it was the mystery that sold the books rather than the writing.

      Rupert smiled at me. ‘Does that mean I’m someone who matters?’ he asked.

      And then the ice was broken and the awkwardness seemed to disappear. We sat on the bench and talked and talked while the twilight turned to night around us and the sounds of Gemma’s wedding reception continued in the background. He asked about my books and I told him how I came up with the idea of a detective novel set in Ancient Greece one rainy Sunday afternoon in Highgate and how, once I started thinking about it, I couldn’t stop. I told him about my agent and how she’d signed me on the strength of my first three chapters and I told him about the long agonising wait for a publisher. We laughed to discover that our books were published by different imprints of the same publisher. All these years and neither of us had known.

      We talked about people we used to know in Cambridge and what they were doing now. I told him about Caitlin’s family and Gemma’s husband and he told me that his best friend John was still in Cambridge, married with three children and a job in IT that Rupert didn’t understand; that they met for a beer whenever Rupert went back to visit his parents, which I guessed wasn’t very often. He didn’t talk about his parents

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