Page 88 of The Spark

I felt myself burn with sadness for Jamie – my good, sweet boyfriend, who loved and respected his parents, who would have been devastated to hear the words coming out of Debra’s mouth.

It was a gamble on her part, I could see that. If I told Jamie what she’d said, there was a chance he might never speak to her again. But Debra was obviously no stranger to manipulation. She was banking on me loving her son too much to break his heart so completely. She was sure I would take this secret to my grave.

‘This is your grandchild,’ I said softly, placing a hand on my stomach, hoping to shame her back down to planet earth.

It didn’t work. She shook her head, disturbingly focused. ‘Just name your price,’ she said, one last stab at exerting her control.

I could have walked away, then. But instead, I imagined what Lara would say – You’re better than being treated this way, Neve – and in that moment, I knew I could channel some of her assertiveness.

I took a single step forward. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Debra, that some things in life are more important than money.’

I walked back to the table then. She followed a few moments later. By now Jamie and Chris were laughing about some friend of the family, merry enough not to notice that Debra and I had become pale and voiceless, utterly absent for the rest of the night.

Chapter 38.

Now

I grieve for every part of who we were. For the hearts drawn in shower steam, and the evenings in dark bars with espresso martinis. For walks through the city late at night, his hand in mine. For the cheese toasties in bed, and weekend coffee. For the trips we’d started to plan (a week in Iceland? Or maybe New York). For coming home from work at ten o’clock to find he’d cooked me dinner. For the steady tempo of his breath as he slept. I even miss how he’d watch me steaming the creases from my bedsheets, not laughing, but looking at me fondly, as though it was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. For the painful poker losses, and the hours spent in bed on Sunday mornings, experiencing a different kind of agony, one that was addictive and beautiful. For our future plans. For all my private dreams about housewarmings and promotions and – who knew? – maybe one day, even a family of our own. For every adventure to come.

One minute, the future felt like solid ground. The next, it was litter on a wave.

Before that night at his parents’, I’d started sorting through my things, seeing what I might be able to donate to charity, or stow in the loft, to make room for him. And so my house is filled with boxes and piles of stuff that I need to unpack again, a task I’d normally enjoy. But now I can’t even look at them.

I am reminded, sharply, of the early days after Jamie died. Of the double-takes my brain kept doing as it tried to retain the fact that he wasn’t coming back.

I tell Parveen it’s over. When she asks why, all I can say is that it’s complicated, but I’ve messed up monumentally. ‘But you were so good together,’ she says, her eyes going glossy, which makes me tearful too.

For maybe the first time ever, I start to experience something resembling resentment towards Jamie. It’s almost as if he has sabotaged Ash and me, deliberately stood in our way. On more than one occasion, I find myself staring intently at the print of Nighthawks above my bed, thinking, You weren’t wrong about coming back to haunt me, were you?

And yet. Late at night, the thought still – even now – nags at me that Jamie’s spirit, somehow, set up home in Ash one night a decade ago. That it came to shore in his blood, his bones. That it altered his chemistry, infiltrated the essence of him. That Ash is a hybrid of my past and my future, and I have no way of telling which is which.

My mother calls to say she has two almost-expired passes to a day spa, but she’s come down with flu, so do I want them?

I don’t, because I never did quite get the hang of spas. I’m just not very good at lounging about. My mother, on the other hand, could probably live in a spa, wafting around in a towelling robe and having people bring her things on trays.

But it’s a posh place, and it’s free, and it’s Lara’s birthday soon. So I could take her for an early treat, I guess. My first gift to her in nearly a decade.

Plus, the more distraction from missing Ash, the better.

I call Lara to ask. She sounds so touched I half expect her to burst into tears.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she gasps, rushing into the lobby where we’ve agreed to meet. (She’s only ten minutes late, but I guess she still remembers that I am almost pathologically punctual.) She’s out of breath, clutching her phone, manic-eyed. ‘I let my flat out to friends of a friend while I’m here, and... long story short, they’ve dropped a bottle of red wine on the floor.’

I wince. ‘Carpet?’

Her face darkens. ‘Solid oak parquet.’

‘Oh God, when?’

‘Last month. They’ve only just got around to telling me. And I don’t usually get excited about things like floors, but my heart is hurting a little bit because mine was beautiful, Neve.’

‘Have they tried to get the stain out?’

‘Oh yes. You’ll love this – I’m not joking: they tried the white wine technique.’

I cover my mouth.

‘Upturned half a bottle. I mean, seriously.’

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