Happy Endings... (Jarvis/Pulp)

by The Pumpkin Coach

And I know no one can ever know which way to head
but don't you remember that you once said that you liked happy endings?
And no one can ever know if it's going to work
but if you try then you might get your happy ending...

"Matthew!" I paused long enough to hear the music continue to blare out of the hidden speakers in the corner of my office. "Matthew!" Where the fuck was he? Must be his sick idea of revenge. I stormed into the outer office to find it empty. Well, practically empty. A leggy model stared at me from her perch on the couch where she seemed to be carrying on an intense conversation with a potted plant. Sounds about right. I tried not to smirk at her, but I know I didn't succeed. I never did. Matthew was always letting it drop that so-and-so wouldn't work with me because of my attitude. Fuck them. When they started to pay me 10,000 pounds to pout and look half-dead for the camera, then I would give up my "attitude."

Why was I standing here?

I heard the last strains of Jarvis' voice from the speakers and slammed my hand down on the "off" button. I would not let him ruin my day. No. I was a grown up, right? Relationships ended every fucking day, why did mine have to be any different?

But that damn song was stuck in my head. Happy fucking endings, indeed. Jesus. I turned to the blonde sitting on my crushed velvet couch, "Do you believe in them?"

She stared at her fingernails as if they could tell her the answer. Hell, maybe they could.

"Of course you do. You can."

I turned on my heel, sulking into my office and slamming the door.

Well some sad people might believe in that I guess but we know better don't we?
We know all about the mess.

Mess. Now isn't that a polite word for it? Why then did I feel like someone was slowly suffocating me? And more importantly, when would that feeling end? And where the hell was my assistant?

"Kate? Rough Trade on line 2. Do you want to talk to them?" Matthew's crisp London accent interrupted my quickly emerging panic attack.

I pushed down on the intercom button, "Where the hell were you?"

"What? I was getting coffee. You wanted coffee, right?" Did I? Probably.

"Yeah... sorry, Rough Trade. Alright. Oh, Matthew. I never want to hear Radio One in here again."

I didn't let him answer, but picked up line 2 instead. They were calling to inform me that Pulp wouldn't be available to provide music for my runway show next week. I half listened to the voice on the other end of the line as I considered my leg, straightening the seam on my stocking and wondering if she had better legs than I did. Probably.

Management and Pulp were sorry for the short notice... the friendly voice on the other end of the phone cooed... blah, blah, blah, and certainly I would understand, blah, blah, blah.

I'd seen a picture of "her" in the tabloid. Page one: "Jarvis Leaves Legendary Love." It was "girlfriend," idiots... "Legendary Girlfriend." That's what the song said. After 9 years I was cast as the jilted lover in a tabloid headline. My how success can change you.

The Rough Trade secretary mumbled something about a tour of America and I just waited for her voice to trail off, being otherwise occupied by my own jealousy to really care. "I understand," I interrupted, "A call wasn't really necessary." I hung up a little stunned. Of course I didn't expect Jarvis to keep his promises. Why should he start now?

But still, I had never shown a collection in London without him and it was hard not to feel that stab of pain when I thought about it. He was everywhere I turned lately. On the cover of the Sun, News of the World, even the Evening Standard had covered the Brit Awards fiasco. And that didn't even include the music magazines. Hell, I couldn't turn a street corner without seeing his eyes staring back at me or turn on the radio without hearing that voice in my ear.

But I couldn't avoid the newsstands and ban Radio One from every shop in London now, could I? No. But today I felt like I could. I grabbed my bag and flung open my office door, almost running into Matthew and two cups of steaming coffee in the process. Two sugars and lots of cream. He really was a doll, wasn't he?

"Are you leaving because I left Radio One on?"

"Please don't smirk at me, hon, I own the shop. I'm going home or shopping or something... I can't just wait in there for people to call offering their condolences. No one died!"

Perfecting the art of getting in the last word, I slipped out the door and Matthew's rebuttal was lost on me. I had to get out in the open and away from the radio and phone and anyone who knew what had happened this week. I had to live my life and I didn't want to spend every waking moment recounting it with everyone I knew. Today I just wanted to sulk.

I ducked into the tube station on the corner, not caring which train I found myself on. I watched the passengers on the car with passing interest, catching glimpses of them in the reflections on the window.

The immaculately dressed couple in the corner were on their way home for an afternoon roll in the hay, I suspected. He wore dark sunglasses which hid even the hint of an expression and she wore a skirt slit up so high that when she crossed her legs, one could see the top of her suspenders. He whispered something in her ear that made her blush before his hand disappeared between her thighs. He glanced at me and I turned my attention to the advertisement above the window like it was the most interesting thing I had seen in my life.

An advertisement for the Glastonbury Festival.

I exited at the next stop and ducked into the first cafe I found. Rummaging in my bag for my cigarettes I felt the leather binding of the blank notebook. I ran my fingers along the soft leather feeling the initials engraved on the cover: KAS.

He had given me the book last week, woke me with breakfast in bed and told me he'd found it in a bookshop round the corner from our flat. They were going to be touring most of the summer and he wanted me to use it to record everything I wanted to share with him while he was away. If he had to miss me, he said, he didn't want to miss my thoughts. We could reconstruct conversations. Stay connected.

Connected. Funny, that.

I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His brand, of course. The taste and smell was familiar and somehow comforting. We're creatures of habit now, aren't we? I wondered if he went off to shag her after leaving me alone with my breakfast in bed. Stop it, Kate.

I looked down at the book lying on my lap. How would he start? I could feel the muscles tighten in my chest as I bent the leather binding back, opening the journal to reveal page after page after page of emptiness. Silence. The blank pages reminded me of the silence that falls once you've finished making love for the first time. Silence so heavy and meaningful that it dares you to breathe loud enough for the other to hear. The silence of anticipation -- those first words weighing on you with all the meaning of the world.

God, how I hated silence. And empty pages. But here I was, wasn't I? I didn't know what to say. I still had that damned song running through my head -- over and over like a carousel horse at a carnival.

But if you try you might get your happy ending... 

God, I'm sounding like a jilted lover, aren't I? Worse than that, I've become one of his fucking characters! I put down the cigarette and picked up my pen, writing at the top of the page: December 10, 1984. December 10th, the day we met. The day he saved me from drowning in the English rain.

The dark English sky opened and the rain began to fall in torrential downpours. Fuck all. The perfect climax for my rotten day -- and I knew that the worst was yet to come.

I was in London for the first time to show my collection for the European market and everywhere I turned I saw "him." His emerald eyes stared back at me from underneath tabloid headlines. Luckily most of them told me that he was in the South of France with his band. They were the next big thing in England and France and all of Europe and most of North America, really. God, I hoped this time the newspapers had it right, all I needed was to run into him...

Kate, quit dwelling on Nick. He's ancient history. Ancient. But he's easier to think about than Jarvis, right? There's a difference? Pop star to pop star. What difference did a decade make really? I lit another cigarette and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the plate glass window. Twelve years ago? Did I look that much older, I wondered. My hair was longer and I'd gained some weight, I supposed. Life will do that to you.

When I started out I was 17 and ripping up clothing for a living -- helping rock stars achieve that perfect "punk" look. I spent every extra cent on thrift store finds and pulled them apart, sewing sequins onto t-shirts and using safety pins as fabric. I smiled at the thought as my hand absentmindedly ran across the slight curve of my stomach. I guess I'd matured along the way. Whose reflection was that in the glass?

A double-decker bus rounded the corner in front of the shop and I looked back down at the half-empty page...

Matthew had warned me that it would probably rain. We stepped out of the hotel that morning and he said the "sky looked like rain." Now what the fuck did that mean? It looked like a sky. Like skies should look. Clouds. Patches of blue-ness. A fucking sky.

I've never been one to trust anyone's intuition, least of all mine. So I pulled on my coat and laughed at him while the attendant called a taxi. Rain? It's December for christsake, if it does anything, it will snow. I didn't let the small fact that Matthew grew up in England deter me. My American sensibilities told me that it was December -- in New York it was snowing.

But right now in London it was definitely not snowing. I stopped to growl at the sky and was almost hit by a bus. Seriously. A big, red, touristy-type bus came speeding round the corner and almost up over my toes. I kept forgetting they drove on the wrong side of the road. And even as I had the thought, I heard Matthew in my head, "different, Kate. Not wrong." Yeah. Whatever.

What the hell?!?!

And the rain stopped. I was soaking and freezing and I could see the sheet of water in front of me, but it wasn't falling on my head. Confused, I looked up and up and up into the eyes of a rather tall man dressed in a black overcoat holding a large black umbrella over my head.

"You aren't English, I suppose?"

His thick glasses were splattered with rain and his hair was starting to get wet. He had a soft English accent and a kind look in his eyes as he smiled slightly at me. I don't think he expected me to return his gaze because he quickly turned to look down the block, attempting to shield himself from the rain with his copy of NME.

"How about we get a spot of tea and let the rain stop?"

I nodded slowly and he pulled on my arm. I let him lead me into a cafe not three steps from the corner where I almost died. I went in quickly, brushing the raindrops off my coat in a futile attempt to appear dry. Futile.

He followed me inside, dropping his umbrella into the brass stand without a thought. The English. So trusting, really. "Let's get you out of that coat, you're soaking wet."

I must have been shell-shocked because I couldn't respond. I just stared at him. Why was he being so nice to me? Did I have "helpless American" written on my forehead or something? But I didn't have the energy to fight it. It was nice to have someone besides Matthew actually caring about my welfare, even if it was only for a few minutes.

"Gonna follow me to the table, love?" His voice was right by my ear, barely a whisper, and I felt a chill run down my spine. I was a million miles away again. Lost in my thoughts, staring at the pictures on the wall of the cafe and wondering if Nick had ever been here. It was only a few blocks from the studio where I had heard they recorded their first album...

"What?" The tall man smiled down at me, his hand encircling my arm lightly, telling me to follow. When we were safely at a table, he hung my coat on the hook above. We stared at each other in silence until a slim blonde woman came over and smiled openly at my raintime companion. She must know him. Maybe I'm safe, then?

I ordered a regular coffee and he winced, "American... I should have guessed."

English snob. What was so wrong with preferring coffee over tea? I'll never understand this country.

"So," he leaned forward in his chair after the waitress left us, "do you have a name, then?"

I was jolted back into reality by his question. Do you have a name? Simple enough. As if on autopilot I smiled sweetly, "What do you want it to be?"

The sound of my own voice shocked me. I haven't used that line in ages, where did it come from? I collected my thoughts and stammered, "Ummm.... Kate. Kathleen, actually, but everyone calls me Kate."

"Well, then Kate. I'm Jarvis. Everyone calls me Jarvis." He looked relieved when I smiled at him and leaned back a bit in his chair.

"Well then, Jarvis, do you always save women from the rain?"

"Why do you think I carry an umbrella, love?" He laughed at himself before adding, "You looked like you could use a friend -- and an umbrella. Was I right?"

I shrugged as the waitress returned with our order. We both reached for the sugar and our fingers touched. He quickly withdrew his hand allowing me to take the container first. What a gentleman.

"So Miss Kate, what are you doing in London, unprepared for the climate?"

God, his voice was soothing, wasn't it? He spoke softly but I had no trouble hearing him in the crowded cafe. No trouble at all.

"Ummm... I'm in London on business, actually. Have you got a cigarette?"

"A fag, you mean..."

I did a double-take and he lifted his eyebrow, producing a pack of cigarettes.

"We call them fags, you know."

Catching on, I smiled.

"Funny, that's what we call gay men. Well... some of us. Can I?"

He nodded and took out a cigarette, holding it out for me. I was mesmerized by his hands -- long and thin, delicate yet strong. Nick had those hands. I inhaled deeply on the cigarette, letting the smoke settle into my lungs before exhaling deliberately. "You're a musician, aren't you?"

He leaned back in his chair and held his tea up to his lips, peering at me over the cup before answering. "Why do you say that?"

He wasn't giving me anything. Nothing. I leaned forward and took one of his hands in mine. Staring down at it, I ran my index finger across his knuckle, thinking about the many nights I sat across from Nick this same way. Wanting desperately to touch him, hold him, kiss him... but I never did.

He was the one that got away.

We met during my stint as wardrobe assistant on their supporting tour of America. We spent many long evenings talking about music and art and how his little band would conquer the world by 1984. He got away... and conquered the world, in fact.

My thoughts were getting the better of me. I took another drag on my cigarette and looked back up at my tea time companion.

"I knew a musician once and he had hands like yours. Long fingers, but strong. You play guitar or piano?"

"How do you know I'm not the drummer?"

I met his smile, "Not enough callouses."

He nodded and took his hand back. "Very good. Guitar. But I'm not all that good, to tell you the truth. I sing and write mostly. Got a band in Sheffield -- that's north, you know."

"Yes, I know a bit about English geography. I'm just no good at predicting rain in December. It would be snowing in New York."

"New York? Here on business... do I get a turn at guessing, Miss Kate?"

I sipped my coffee to avoid answering. I knew he would. Something told me that Jarvis almost always did what he wanted.

What came next?

I looked out the window of the cafe now and there was no rain. It was June and the flower boxes were in full bloom. The sun was shining. My cigarette had burnt out and I lit another one and ordered tea. Tea. I would never had done that when I first came to London.

Twelve years. More than a decade. A lifetime, really.

Is that my handwriting? Two, three, four pages. Recounting everything I could recall of that first "date" when Jarvis had saved me from walking in front of a bus or drowning in the English rain.

I couldn't remember what else we talked about, but we sat in that cafe for over an hour. He told me about the latest formation of his band and I ended up inviting him back to the club where we were preparing for the show. He played their demo tape for me and it quickly replaced the music I had intended on using that evening.

My first fashion show in London. Nervous backers hovering around my every move and bored models filing their nails all over my new designs. God, I loathed models. I really am in the wrong business.

If fashion is your trade then when your naked I guess you're unemployed yeah. 

I should have known that our relationship was over, really. I mean how many times did I hear him tell interviewers and fans and every fucking person on the planet that he'd never write songs about relationships he was currently engaged in? And I was all over that fucking album.

I pulled the CD off the shelf and opened the case. I loved the art on this one, so detached and voyeuristic, really. He had always been so good at seeing into others people's lives -- dissecting their world, turning their reality into his fiction.

Their videos were always so smart, but now they had finally got the whole style perfected. Of course they were going to hit in England... their packaging was complete.

Pouring another glass of wine I sat down in my favorite chair. It was the one by the window, where the cat could sit in the sill and nudge me every few minutes if she wanted attention. I drew the curtain closed and folded my legs underneath me, sipping the wine slowly and reading. I wasn't listening to the recording, so odds were in my favor that the Pulp-police wouldn't get me.

I'll be around when he's not in town, I'll show you how you're doing it wrong.

I put down the cd book and picked up my pen again. Turning to a blank page, I wrote at the top: June 1987.

"How long is he going to be gone this time, Kas?"

I rolled my eyes and looked at Jarvis from around the edge of the newspaper, "Don't call me that."

"Why not? It's the new you... you're such a good American. Either shagging your rock star or holed up in the sweatshop. I never see you anymore. Work work work work. Why not rechristen yourself?"

"Then I can call you Pulp? I seem to recall someone standing me up for a lunch date last week to meet with a manager. Pulp does have a lovely ring to it. Perhaps you can name your first born Arabacus. Unique."

I batted my eyelashes, pretending to be an innocent and he knocked the paper out of my hands, falling on top of me in the process.

"Jarvis!"

"That's Mr. Pulp to you! Kiss me."

"You're mad... Nick just left. Jesus."

I tried to push him off, but he wouldn't budge. His hazel eyes were searching mine and he moved his hand to cover my breast. God. I hated it when he was between girlfriends. It gave him too much time to dissect my relationship and I told him so.

He changed positions quickly, sensing that the moment had passed. He used my lap as a makeshift pillow, letting his long legs dangle over the side of the sofa, "Would you really call it a relationship, Kate?"

I smiled when he used my real name. A small victory, but mine nonetheless. "Well I get chocolate boxes and roses and the occasional orgasm. Yes, that qualifies. What would you call it?"

"Exploitation."

"You're kidding?" I squealed in disbelief. But he didn't even blink, he was serious. "He pays for this very flat that you practically live in between girlfriends you know!"

"That makes it right?"

I stood up without warning and his head fell against the cushions with a thud. "I don't want to discuss this with you."

My first showing in London three years ago had gone well. So well, in fact, that I received that proverbial "offer I couldn't refuse." I didn't have much waiting for me in New York, so I moved. Packed up my assistant, Matthew, and my few worldly goods and found a flat in a trendy low-rent neighborhood.

It was only a matter of time until my path crossed with Nick' again. Only a matter of time before we started spending evenings at galleries and hotel rooms. Alone. Then I found out he was going to marry the woman he took out in public -- to openings and industry parties. An heiress and sometimes model -- legs up to her neck and an attitude to match. I think that's where my loathing of models began...

That's also when I found myself in that no-rent flat with the occasional visitor. And Jarvis.

Turned out that Jarvis had known Matthew since childhood. I quickly learned that even the most innocent encounter with my Jarvis was almost always planned. I think he spent hours in front of the mirror practicing his next conversation, toying with new expressions and gestures.

It's not that Jarvis thought my "arrangement" with Nick was immoral really. He just saw me when Nick left or when he didn't call because he and his wife were spending time together.

Jarvis accompanied me to a movie premiere a month later and we ran into them. He never said anything about it, of course, just smiled and held my hand so tightly that I thought the circulation would stop.

We had a lovely time, actually, pointing out ostentatious outfits and giggling over the free champagne. Some things will never become common, you know? And when he walked me up to my door we both saw them at the same time -- flowers.

Nick' signature: a bouquet of irises with a single red rose.

This time it was too much. I didn't want flowers, I wanted him.

The crystal vase shattered into a hundred tiny pieces when I threw it against the foyer wall. The flowers scattered everywhere and the water collected in puddles on the hardwood floor as it ran down the wall.

Without thinking, Jarvis pulled me into his arms. I was shaking. I don't know why. Was I angry at Nick or myself?

I found myself lost in the sound of Jarvis' soothing whisper against my ear as he held me closer, his hand resting on the nape of my neck to keep me there. "Kate. Kate. Kate." Over and over I heard my name on his lips. His tall frame easily enveloped my smaller one, making me feel safe. I looked up and his eyes were closed, his mouth still forming my name but no sound came out. I pulled myself up until my lips found his. He didn't need any coaxing. He pushed me against the door, covering my body with his and forcing my mouth open with his tongue. Was this my Jarvis? Oh, god.

I let him hold me there, covering my face with warm kisses and telling me how much he wanted me. But when I closed my eyes I saw Nick and his model. Nick in my bed. Nick.

"Stop... Jarvis, please."

He only kissed me harder, moaning his pleasure into open mouth until it became a part of me. His hand caressed my breasts over the fabric of my dress as his leg pushed my thighs apart. Part of me didn't want it to end. It felt good to be wanted.

"Jarvis... stop..." I sighed as he ran his tongue along my neck, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine.

"I know you want me, Kate. Please, just once."

I really love it when you tell me to stop. Oh it's turning me on...
So just lie against the wall and watch my conscience disappear. 

I did want him. God help me, I did. I pushed him away, though, and ran into the living room. Everything I saw reminded me of Nick. Vases he'd sent full of beautiful flowers when he broke his promises. Frames which held pictures of the places he'd gone with her and things he saw on tour. He was a photographer but there wasn't a single picture of him in the flat. No incriminating evidence to be found.

I walked over to the piano in the corner and with one sweep of my arm, all the glass trinkets fell to the floor. Things Nick had given me. As each piece shattered I felt as if I could breath a bit clearer. I went to the mantle and picked up an expensively framed gold record. His band's first. I threw it into the fireplace and searched the room for more objects to hurl, more memories to shatter.

Jarvis stood stationary in the doorway. His hazel eyes following my every movement. I don't remember screaming or crying or doing anything over-emotional like that. Just destroying everything I could reach -- until Jarvis' hand stopped me.

I looked up, searching his face for sympathy or empathy... something... anything. He lifted my small frame into his arms and carried me up the steps to my bedroom. His eyes found mine and I couldn't catch my breath. Did his eyes always have that tint of green along the edges? Did his hair always fall on his face that way, barely covering his eyes? God.

I didn't want to think about anything and I knew if I prompted, Jarvis would stay. Sleeping with other men's wives and girlfriends seemed to be his only passion. That and music. Always music.

"Sing me a song?"

"You want me to stay?"

I nodded slowly and he bent down, allowing me to fall onto the unmade bed. His mouth was so close, his lips practically touching mine. "Did you make love to Nick here?"

His words wrapped around my body like a blanket. Yes. This morning Nick was here. Right here. Like this.

I leaned my head back on the mattress and closed my eyes. My hands found the tiny buttons on my dress and slowly I undid them one by one until Jarvis could push the fabric away from my skin effortlessly. Engulfed in darkness, I could feel his fingers exploring every part of me. His breath was warm against my skin and I stifled a moan as his tongue touched my breast for the first time.

Opening my eyes finally, I sat up so I could reach him. I ran my fingers along the sides of his face and pushed off his glasses.

"But I can't see..." He whispered, half seriously.

"I know."

I felt safe that way. Away from his close scrutiny. I pulled away briefly, throwing what was left of my evening clothes into a ball on the carpet. I laid down beside him and moved his hand to rest flat against my stomach.

"Make love to me."

He covered me with his kisses and his hand ran down the outside of my leg. I shivered and he moved on top of me as if shielding me from the air around us. His mouth finally found mine and I opened it hungrily, moaning loudly as he slowly pushed one finger inside me.

"Like this..." He breathed into the space separating us.

Farther.

"Does Nick make you scream?"

"Oh God, Jarvis," I managed to utter, "Don't tease me like this."

And he smiled at the control he had. I arched my back and tried to scream, but I couldn't. He ran his tongue along my jawline slowly. Fuck. He did everything deliberately, didn't he?

I found enough control to untuck his shirt from his pants and ran my hands up his back, causing him to press himself against me harder. I forced him to stop kissing my breasts just long enough to pull his shirt over his head. He smiled down at me and I wondered if he could see me at all.

Not that it mattered. What mattered was that I didn't see Nick's face above me anymore. Didn't see his face when I closed my eyes.

Jarvis' hips were crashing into mine and I couldn't react quick enough, "I'm going to... Please."

I felt him roll off me and my eyes flew open. Where'd he go! Towering over me, his hair fell in his eyes and obscured my view of his face. He reached into his pocket and threw several condoms at me, smiling.

"Come here," I pulled him back on the bed and fumbled with his jean's zipper. Fuck.

He pushed me back gently, "Let me, Kate."

I loved the sound of my name as it rolled off his tongue. Hell, I'd love anything he uttered at this particular moment. He slipped out of his jeans and I handed him a condom, "I don't think you want me doing that..."

He grinned, "No."

The beep of the ansaphone jolted me back into reality. I hadn't heard the phone ring. I glanced toward the table and saw the light flashing, but I didn't want to talk to anyone. I wanted to sit in my chair by the window and smoke or drink myself into oblivion. My day of sulking was not nearly done.

But my cat had other plans. She meowed from her perch on the window sill and batted at me with her paw. "Do you need food, Lipgloss?" I swear she smiled as she jumped down. I didn't get up immediately and she turned back towards me and meowed again.

"I guess that's a yes."

I padded into the kitchen and found her food bowl empty. Luckily we had an extra box of food in the cupboard and she purred loudly as I refilled her bowl.

God, it was easy to make her love me.

I looked around the kitchen and noticed the half-dead daisies above the sink. I took them down and gave them water. Daisies were Jarvis' flower.

After that first night, I made him promise never to buy me flowers. Nick had given me flowers on every missed anniversary or broken promise. I wouldn't do that again. I didn't have to be the love of his life, but I wouldn't be lied to.

And Jarvis kept his promise. He brought me chocolates and picked flowers from the public gardens round the corner from our house, but he never bought them. Sometimes they were half-dead, even, but I didn't care. They reminded me that nothing was perfect.

We spent every moment of that first week together talking about things we had never shared with a soul. He lost his virginity on a patch of grass in Sheffield when he was 19. I lost mine to a man who gave me a night's lodging in exchange. I was 15. I'd never even told Nick about that.

We talked about love and marriage and children -- none of which we had any faith in. Jarvis thought monogamy was impossible and I thought it was a male construct that kept women from asserting any independence.

It was over our second bottle of wine that evening that we first talked about our relationship. Jarvis didn't believe in everlasting love and I didn't want to feel like I was being owned so we struck a deal. I felt a bit like a solicitor negotiating a partnership agreement, but in the end there were no papers to sign. Only keys to be handed back to Nick.

Jarvis moved to London to go to film school and we found a flat half-way between my shop and St. Martin's. Perfect. No strings, only comfortable companionship.

"Jarvis!"

We heard Mary's familiar voice and he smiled immediately. I put down the box I was carrying into our new flat and took his from his hands.

"Go talk to your adoring public," I teased. Mary had been to practically every Pulp show since... since I'd known Jarvis, actually. She was more a friend now than anything else.

He yelled to her from the front door and I heard them giggling as they ran inside. I was trying to stack boxes marked "his" and "hers" neatly in the appropriate rooms when Jarvis pulled me around.

"Mary's brought us a housewarming gift!"

He smiled at me and I looked past him to see a tiny kitten sleeping peacefully in her arms.

"A kitten?"

She smiled, unsure of my reaction, and held out the delicate animal to us. Jarvis took her, holding her in one hand and she barely stirred, "She likes you, Jarvis."

He nodded and held her out to me as if to ask, "can we keep it?"

"Does she have a name?" I inquired to Mary. She just shook her head.

"I don't know... are we ready for such a responsibility, J?"

He blushed, hating it when I called him "J" in front of anyone. I laughed and moved forward to pet our new kitten. She had long white fur with a small black patch on her tummy. I was instantly in love as she opened her eyes and yawned.

She was christened "Lipgloss" right there amongst the moving boxes and used furniture. It was the only thing I can recall Jarvis and I doing without any apparent reason. He liked the way it sounded and it reminded me of being 10 years old and playing dress up with my mother's clothes.

The wilting daisy came with a hand written card, "My legendary girlfriend, she is crying tonight."

I smirked at Matthew and threw them across the desk at him, turning back to the magazine layout we had just been analyzing. "I thought he would be too busy to remember," I said under my breath.

"Remember what?" Matthew countered.

"Our anniversary. Nine years of fucking. Quite an milestone, don't you think?"

"Sure," Matthew shrugged, removing the flowers from my desk and hiding him behind his back. I think he still wasn't sure that I wouldn't go off on him like I did yesterday -- without warning. "No diseases or visits from the stork. I'd say this was a great moment in heterosexuality, love."

I had to laugh at Matthew's attempt at humor and his posture relaxed a bit.

"Maybe they should give me a medal or something."

"What, for putting up with me?"

The pen I was holding slipped carelessly across the page at the sound of his voice. That voice. Fuck! I was not prepared to see him. Not so soon.

I rose my head slowly, allowing my eyes to survey his lanky frame. Shoes we found in Paris. Jeans from the corner shop. A shirt I'd salvaged from the thrift store in the West End. His favorite. He hadn't shaved in a day -- maybe a day and a half -- and his hair was haphazardly pushed off his forehead to keep it off his glasses so he could see. No contacts today.

He looked like hell and I wanted to run into his arms and pretend that nothing had happened. Then I heard his voice inside my head, "I have needs, physical needs."

Fuck all. And I didn't? I was in New York for a month and the pressure of being England's darling without a steady lay was too much to bear?

I had heard about other "companions" to be sure. Rumours started when His 'n' Hers hit. Jarvis was all over London with a myriad of different women. He didn't even have a type.

But he told me and that was the deal. I didn't expect to be the love of his life, the true eternal love that would make him shun all other women. I didn't have an ego that large. We were more about friendship and trust than love. Always had been.

Matthew cleared his throat and I looked back to him. I was gone again. Lost in my thoughts and they both knew it. They knew me too well.

"Hello, Kathleen." He spoke again, "And Matthew."

Matthew nodded at him firmly before placing a steady hand on my shoulder. I turned to my assistant and forced a smile, "Why don't you give us a minute, Matthew?"

I walked into my office, leaving the door ajar for Jarvis to follow. God, please don't let my legs be shaking. Please. I don't want him to know it's bothered me that much. Let him think it, fine, but don't let his suspicions be confirmed.

He followed of course, closing the door behind him. I sat down at my desk and lit a cigarette. Best to have a solid object between us. Yes.

But he came over and ran a long finger purposefully across the polished oak edge, then considered me before sitting down on it.

"Remember buying this desk, Kate?"

Of course I remembered. Fuck all. How could I forget? In the showroom surrounded by Sunday shoppers I sat on top of it with him in the chair before me. He slowly ran his finger along the wooden edge until he came to my bare leg. His hand ran up the inside of my thigh and the last thing I was concerned about was buying a damned desk. I called the salesman over and Jarvis smiled devilishly as I paid for it as quickly as possible. Delivery on Tuesday? Huh? Fine. Sure. Bye.

God.

He smiled. Why the hell did I ever let him know me this well?

"Did you come here to play This is Your Life, then?" I spat at him.

He took another drag, exhaling slowly and considering me, "No. Woke up this morning and couldn't stop thinking about you."

"Spare me, J. Spare me the play for sympathy. Did you wake up alone and shattered?"

"Not alone."

The tension was building as he studied my face for a reaction. I didn't give him one.

"Come on, Kate. You won't take my calls or see me."

"I'm looking at you now," I countered with the most detached voice I could manage.

He sighed and lit another cigarette. I'd be damned if he was going to get a rise out of me. He started this whole fucking thing, I wouldn't let him sweet talk his way back into my life like this. Hell, I didn't even know why he was here. Maybe he was just used to my attention. Certainly the bleached-blonde was only good for 20 questions.

"I thought you understood, Kate. We had an agreement about us, didn't we?"

"Yes, we did. My being called in the middle of the night by a fucking reporter to comment on your flavor-of-the-month who you were practically living with was not part of the deal! No! You fucking asshole -- stop sitting there so fucking smug!"

"Kate, honey, there's no need to get so upset."

He was standing in front of me, his hand on my arm attempting to calm me. I took a sharp breath and closed my eyes.

"You're right -- you aren't worth it, are you? Shit. It took me 12 years to see you, didn't it?"

He leaned back against the desk, "I'm not the only one at fault, Kathleen. They were following me, spying on me. You know I would have told you."

"That's not the point, Jarvis. You were supposed to tell me before. Before. Even the next day would be fine. But you'd been seeing her for a month, right?"

I was screaming and he didn't respond, just stared at his shoes.

"RIGHT?! It was a fucked up arrangement, but it was our agreement."

There was a moment of silence while he chose his words, "And if Nick showed up tomorrow on your doorstep..."

How dare he bring him into this after all these years? Ancient fucking history. Is he always going to be my weak point? The spot that Jarvis can apply pressure to when he wants something bad enough?

I looked up at him and I could tell he regretted it the moment the words passed his lips. I stopped to consider him for a moment. He did look like hell. Was he sleeping at all? Our eyes met and I felt like he could see into my soul. I know I saw his. I had to remind myself to breathe.

"So, what now?" He whispered.

So what now? The words echoed in my head. Was he standing here in front of me because he really loved me?

Love -- that wasn't a word either of us knew. There was friendship. Convenience. Need. Desire. Sex. Companionship. But never love.

I guess they all implied a type of love, didn't they? He didn't wake up alone... but shattered? After 17 years of trying was fame not what he expected?

The questions were flooding my mind and I couldn't think clearly.

So what now, indeed.

I had to be honest. It was all we ever were to each other. Honest.

"I don't know, Jarvis. Please leave."

I wanted him to leave not so he didn't see the tears that I could feel starting in my chest, but because I didn't know how to have this conversation with him. After 12 years as friends and 9 as lovers, I didn't know how to share these feelings.

He lifted my hand to his lips briefly, then turned and wrote something on the back of his pack of cigarettes. He pushed them over the polished wooden surface to me before leaving.

We were honest. And we knew when to quit. It meant you wouldn't get hurt.

Up to now.

As I wrapped my fingers around the half-empty cigarette box my heart started pounding faster. Turning it over, I read his message to myself, "Don't you believe in happy endings?"

I don't know, Jarvis. I don't know.

The aftermath of our affair is lying all around and I can't clear it away. No.

(c) 1997, The Pumpkin Coach

Tragical Fiction Tangents...

Happy Endings (Jarvis/Pulp) by The Pumpkin Coach

Pretty Flowers (Alex/Blur) by Paperbag Princess

Note: Links below are hosted on another site (Lovely Blue Planet of There)

Happy Endings: Prequel (Nick/Duran) by The Pumpkin Coach/KASsandra

Lonely In Your Nightmare (Simon/Duran) by Paperbag Princess

Smile... She's Got Pearls (Nick/Duran) by The Pumpkin Coach

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