Page 53 of The Spark

I draw in a couple of steeling breaths. She’s way too drunk to make it upstairs, so instead I fetch a blanket, remove her heels and encourage her into the recovery position. Is that what they still recommend? I fetch an ornamental bowl from a shelf – something she bartered for on holiday in Turkey years ago – and decide that if she wakes up tomorrow and discovers it’s full of puke, then that can be her punishment.

‘Duke’s back with his “wife”.’ She makes air quotes with her fingers – though I’m not really sure why, since it’s reasonable to assume the man hasn’t invented being married.

My impatience gives way to pity. Because, despite everything, I know Mum’s heart is too fragile to be dating some arsehole who thinks wedding rings are optional. Especially an arsehole who has a nickname more suited to a 1980s porn star.

‘Then he doesn’t deserve you,’ I whisper, squatting down next to her and gently squeezing her arm.

Ash reappears with a pint of water and some paracetamol, setting them down between the newspapers and unwashed mugs on the coffee table.

‘Thanks, Jamie,’ Mum says, with the heavy sincerity of the very drunk, looking up at him, eyes rolling as she attempts to focus. ‘All right if I call you Jamie?’

‘No,’ I say, sharply, ‘it isn’t.’

He reaches out to touch my shoulder, mouthing, ‘It’s really okay.’

I get to my feet. ‘I’d better stay with her.’

A beat. ‘I can stay too. If you like.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes, if . . . If that’s okay.’

I glance down at Mum. Her eyes have fluttered shut now, her breathing becoming weighted.

I realise I feel relieved. I don’t want him to go. ‘Only if you don’t mind.’

He puts an arm around me, and my heart unclenches.

My bedroom door probably hasn’t been opened since I was last here, and the space has that locked-room smell. I go straight to the window and yank it open, letting in a warm gust of night air and the faint sound of traffic moving along Earlham Road.

‘It’s a gorgeous house,’ Ash says, sitting down on the edge of the stripped single mattress.

‘Well, it could be. Or should be. She won’t let me touch it. It’s her special way of tormenting me. What would you do with it?’ I say, with a smile.

‘Architecturally? If it were down to me... not much, actually. A few tweaks, maybe. I might frame the view of the garden from the kitchen a bit differently. Redesign the lower part of the rear elevation, create a better entertaining space.’

I laugh softly. ‘I don’t think my mother needs any more encouragement to entertain.’

‘Was this your bedroom?’

I nod. ‘It hasn’t changed much since I was a kid.’

‘A Timberlake fan,’ he observes approvingly, nodding at my posters.

Occasionally, Jamie would have a go at the dance moves to make me laugh, so badly I’d always threaten to break up with him. ‘I mean, who isn’t?’

‘Well, quite.’ He leans back on his arms and smiles, looking every inch the double-O in his black tie. ‘And is that Lara?’

I follow his gaze to the photos still clinging doggedly to the wall. In every shot, we’re squeezing each other tight, our skinny arms wrapped around each other. There’s one of us in this house, downstairs in the kitchen. One on a pair of canvas chairs, at a caravan park in Devon. One at school, on our last-ever day, white shirts graffitied with messages from our friends. We’re sticking our tongues out, and for some reason they’re stained green, but I can’t remember what from. ‘Yep. That’s her.’

‘You look close.’

‘We were. We were... inseparable.’ And then, before he can ask more, I say in a rush, knowing I have to confront what happened downstairs, ‘I’m sorry, by the way. About my mum calling you Jamie. She’s just drunk.’

He nods. ‘I know.’ But I wonder if his eyes are saying, Are you only with me because I remind you of him?

I feel sure this is what he’d been going to ask me at the beach that day.

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