Page 46 of The Spark

It was full on: as well as the requisite coffee runs, diary-organising and photocopying, I helped to create presentations and fly-throughs, liaised with clients and architects, attended pitches and project meetings, and assisted with budgeting. I loved it, and realised I was thriving, even as I was doing it all on top of part-time shifts at the pub. Meanwhile, Jamie was working hard in London, and Lara was on night shifts at a care home while she interned for a local TV production company.

Jamie and I tried to FaceTime a few times a week. He was working long days, too, being paid an astoundingly high wage for someone with no qualifications, and they expected him to graft hard in return. And he was out most nights socialising, at rooftop drinks in the West End, flashy client dinners, secret gigs in Shoreditch. I missed him a lot. Every time we spoke, my stomach felt like it was hitched right up against my heart.

‘Designed the next Gherkin yet?’ I would ask him, with a smile.

‘Working on it,’ he’d always say back.

He’d been in London five weeks before he invited me to visit. Luckily, I was able to swap my pub shifts so I could stay with him for the whole weekend.

I admit I was slightly jealous, when I walked into that flat in Soho for the first time. Yes, it was tiny – probably even smaller than the ground floor of our house in Norwich – but it was stunning. All sleek lines and shiny appliances. Mini chandeliers, remote-controlled lighting. High ceilings and polished floors. A leather sofa I could tell without asking had cost thousands of pounds. I couldn’t deny, in that moment, that I wanted what Jamie had – parents who could spoil me and make things happen and open doors for me.

But ultimately, I knew Lara was right. If I didn’t have parents who could do all that, I had to be able to do it myself.

Jamie poured us some champagne. Moët, of course. I guessed he had a preferred brand of the stuff, now. The glass was thick-cut and weighty in my hand.

I took a sip, then pulled him close and kissed him.

‘God, I’ve missed you,’ he groaned. ‘This week has been long.’

I thought we might have sex right then and there, perhaps even on the shiny kitchen floor tiles of his dad’s flat – which I couldn’t deny would have given me immense satisfaction on multiple levels – but we didn’t. Maybe that was another mark of his new-found maturity. Instead, we finished the kiss, then took the champagne and went to stand demurely out on the tiny balcony that led off the living room. There wasn’t really a view from it – it faced onto the back end of other buildings – and noise spat up at us from all directions: traffic and doors slamming, the occasional blast of music, conversation and shrieks of laughter.

‘It’s more frantic here than it is at home,’ he said, as we sipped our champagne like we were looking out over Hyde Park or Lake Garda, rather than at soot-stained roofs and grubby brick walls. ‘But in a good way, you know?’

‘Yeah.’ I didn’t ask if he was having second thoughts about choosing not to study in London. He’d referred to Norwich as home, and that was good enough for me.

Jamie had bought tickets to see Mamma Mia! and had booked a table at a fancy restaurant on Charlotte Street. He wore a shirt with a Ralph Lauren logo. I couldn’t work out if it suited him. Still, I was pleased he’d made an effort, as I’d bought a tiny black dress I couldn’t really afford on an emergency late-night shopping spree with Lara earlier in the week, after Jamie had told me we’d go out somewhere nice.

We played make-believe all night – imagining we were ten years in the future, out in the West End together, theatre-going, drinking champagne, dining in a high-end sushi restaurant. I kept looking over at him and thinking, Yes. This is exactly how it’s meant to be.

In the cab home, he leaned over and whispered, ‘You look incredible, but I cannot wait to get that dress off you.’

Jamie didn’t normally say stuff like that, but I didn’t dislike it. ‘Actually, I think I might keep it on,’ I teased.

‘Fine by me,’ he replied, his voice practically gravel.

I kissed him in the lift up to the apartment, unable to wait. He kissed me back, then slid a hot hand up my dress.

I laughed, pushing him away despite my pounding heart.

He laughed too, leaning back against the lift wall. ‘I quite fancy doing it in a public place, actually.’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t you?’

I thought for a moment. ‘We could have done it at the restaurant. Those loos were pretty luxurious.’

The lift doors pinged. ‘Next time,’ he said, with a smile.

When we got inside, I thought we might go straight to bed, but Jamie shot me an apologetic grimace. ‘Just got to call Mum quickly. See how she is. I haven’t spoken to her for a couple of days and Dad texted just now, so...’

‘Your mum?’ I was confused.

‘Yeah... I was meant to be seeing them tonight. But she broke her ankle, so...’ He trailed off then, realising what he’d said. The words had slipped out, his voice a slope made smooth by alcohol.

I was too surprised to express my sympathies, or ask how his mum had broken her ankle. I sat down heavily on the sofa. Beyond the window, the sheer curtains had turned the glow of the city lights into a hazy solar system. ‘What?’ I said, eventually.

Still on his feet, Jamie stared at me.

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