Page 30 of Breaking the Dark

“Look. I’ll meet you there later, okay. But in the meantime, maybe you could write me a report.”

“A report?”

“Yeah. With words in it.”

“Sure. Yes. Absolutely. I will have a full report for you by…? When can I come?”

Jessica sits on the side of the bed and looks at the solid, beautiful expanse of Luke’s naked back as he stares at his phone. She feels, somehow, that if she were just to stay here now she might never have to leave again, that she might drift seamlessly into the next chapter of her life, the good bit, the soft bit, that the gloomy Hell’s Kitchen apartment would somehow pixelate and evaporate, that the bad thing would evolve backward to a point of nonexistence, that every dark moment of her life would collapse in on itself until there was nothing left to remember, and that she would wake up every morning in a state of fresh, untainted, dewy-eyed neutrality with Luke by her side telling her he wanted her to have his baby.

She takes her eyes from Luke’s back, and sighs. “I’m busy today,” she says to Malcolm, “but come by at five. I’ll be there.”

Twelve years ago

Portsmouth, Hampshire, UK

The strappy sandals are the least nasty pair of shoes in the shop but are still quite revolting. Trying not to sneer, the girl lets one hang from her manicured fingertip as she crosses the shop floor to the man standing with his arms behind his back staring into the middle distance.

“Hi,” she says, breaking into a fresh smile. “Do you have this in a five and a half?”

The young man snaps out of his reverie and glances down at the sandal. “Oh,” he says softly, “no, we don’t do these in half sizes. I’m really sorry.”

“A six will be fine, then!” she says. The five and a half she always asks for is something of an affectation anyway.

The young man nods and takes the sandal. “Let me just check….”

She watches him as he heads towards the stockroom. He is skinny, but tall, probably just over six foot, and could definitely fill out with a bit of time at the gym. His hair is terrible, but clean and thick and easily fixable with a trip to a decent barber. He pairs a sweatshirt with some kind of logo on it with suit trousers. Dreadful, just dreadful. But again, a simple fix. And the slightly beaky face? It’s fine. She’s seen worse.

She can do this, she thinks. She can seduce Weird Arthur from School. No big deal. She fixes the smile on her face for his return.

“We have them,” he says, holding a cardboard shoebox triumphantly, and gestures for her to take a seat on the nasty threadbare seat.

“Thank you.” She sits and, holding his gaze, slowly slips off her zip-up boots.

She sees him still for a second, like a cornered animal, his breath held.

“Could I?” she asks, pointing towards the shoebox in his hands.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Of course.”

A pale flush passes across his face; how easy this is going to be. She slides on the sandal and fastens the side buckle.

“What do you think?” she says.

“It looks nice. Here. Try the other.” He hands it to her.

She models the shoes around the empty shop, giving him ample opportunity to absorb her form-fitting skinny jeans, tight polo neck sweater, the way she’s piled her long blond hair atop her head to reveal the curve of her neck. She stands in mirrors and appraises herself, pushes out her chest, turns this way and that.

“I’ll take them,” she says.

His face brightens. “Great. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”

“You know,” she says, as she stands at the shop counter and watches him place the sandals back in their box, “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

He glances at her askance. “Really?”

“Yes. Where did you go to school?”

He produces the name of her old school, and she smiles. “I knew it,” she says. “Me too. When did you leave?”

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