Page 2 of The Spark

It was only later that I realised how loud we’d been. How disrespectful. That I’d given his parents another reason to loathe me, if they didn’t have enough already.

I woke late and alone. Sitting up, head thrumming, I could hear voices again. Only this time, they weren’t muffled.

Sunlight was pouring like warm water through a gap in the curtains. I craved fresh air. Jamie’s room was stacked high with half-packed cardboard boxes, the precursor to his parents’ forthcoming move to Putney. Jamie’s grandfather had died that spring, after years of needing constant care, so now his parents were fulfilling a long-held ambition to move to London.

They had wanted Jamie to move there too. But Jamie knew I couldn’t afford to go to uni in London. So he’d told his parents he wanted to study architecture in Norwich, and move into a house with me. We’d been together three years by then – but what they’d once thought adorable had turned into a cause for concern. They kept sitting him down, asking if he was sure. Chris, his dad, even took him out for beers and reminded him there were ‘lots of women’ out there. He asked Harry to talk sense into him.

I’d never asked Jamie to stay. I wouldn’t have. I wanted the best for him, too.

They had taken all his posters down. The walls were now scarred with smudges of Blu Tack. I felt a twinge of sadness that I would probably never see this room again. The room where we’d fallen in love. Where we’d spent so many hours laughing, touching, kissing. Planning all the ways in which we’d stay together for ever.

Eventually, the door opened and Jamie walked in, carrying something under his arm. He set it down, then sat heavily on the edge of the bed. I could see the back of his neck had flushed red, the way it did whenever he was upset.

I leaned over to see what it was. A painting – though I didn’t recognise it. It looked American, depicted four people in a diner after dark. It had a desolate, almost eerie aura, and I loved it instantly, even though I didn’t understand it.

‘They all waited for me at the restaurant last night,’ Jamie said eventually, flatly. His light brown hair was damp, indicating he’d already showered. He smelt of Lynx and toothpaste. ‘My grandma was there. She’d been wanting to give me this, to say congratulations.’ He gestured to the painting. ‘It was my grandad’s. He knew how much I loved it.’

I realised how it must have looked: that I’d encouraged him to stay out drinking last night. Sod your parents, scrap your plans, you only live once. Not only that, but they’d had to listen to us too, when we finally stumbled home. We’d been so thoughtless.

But the truth was, I loved Jamie’s family. I envied them. I enjoyed feeling, even for just a few snatched moments every now and then, that I was somehow a part of what they had.

‘Guess what Dad just told me,’ Jamie said.

An impossible challenge. I waited.

‘He bought a flat, a couple of months ago. In London. Soho. For me to live in.’

I didn’t say anything, though I felt ribbons of disquiet kinking through me.

‘Kind of like . . . a leg-up,’ he said.

Not to me. A leg-up was Lara being awarded money from a hardship fund so she could go to uni. Being bought a flat was... a lottery win.

They’d done the same for his brother Harry, helped him out with an apartment in Zurich, where he now lived and worked as a banker. He was ten years older than Jamie, and I’d only met him once, a few years earlier. I could only remember that he smelt very strongly of tobacco.

Still. His parents having money wasn’t Jamie’s fault. I’d known him when they were struggling financially, too.

‘A flat in Soho sounds... pretty amazing.’ I reached out and stroked the back of his neck. His skin was warm and smooth as a pebble on a beach. He arched against me slightly, the tension sinking from his shoulders.

‘Money’s not everything, Neve.’

I was pretty sure only people with money said stuff like that. But I let it slide.

‘I mean, yeah. London could be good. But they’re missing one massive thing.’

‘What?’ I whispered.

‘I wouldn’t have you.’

This could only mean that me living in that flat with him was explicitly Not An Option. Or possibly conditional of the whole arrangement.

‘I want to be with you,’ he said. ‘Let’s build a life here.’

‘Don’t sacrifice anything for me.’

‘I won’t. I’m not. I love you.’

I leaned forward and kissed him, felt him shiver. ‘What does it mean?’

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