Page 98 of The Spark

He nods, then – to my immense relief – shuffles aside to let me in.

I follow him slowly through to the living area, removing the brandy bottle from my bag and placing it on the kitchen counter. ‘For whenever,’ I say.

‘How about right now?’

I feel a lick of relief. He is calling a truce: we can share a drink, maybe talk. I follow him to the sofa with the bottle and two glasses.

Being here is bittersweet, though. I have missed this apartment – albeit it’s not quite the sanctuary I remember. Everywhere smells slightly stale. Surfaces are strewn with takeaway cartons and unwashed plates, empty mugs and grubby wine glasses. A lot of his stuff is still in boxes: things he’d packed up for bringing to my house before we parted ways. He clearly hasn’t touched them again in the weeks since. I have no idea how to interpret that. Is there still hope for us? Or has he just not been able to face it?

And the Edward Hopper’s nowhere to be seen. I wonder if he’s got rid of it – offloaded it to a mate, or chucked it in a skip.

‘Sorry. Bit of a mess in here. I wasn’t expecting... Would you mind...?’ he says, indicating the newspapers and bowls and jumpers and socks strewn across the sofa.

‘Sure,’ I say gently, picking up the stuff and clearing a space for us both.

I hate to see him like this. For the first time since knowing him, I am glimpsing what I can only assume is the person he used to be – chaotic and impulsive, someone who careers from day to day, who makes poor choices and bad calls, then has to suffer the consequences.

I pour us each a double brandy, then tentatively hold my glass to his. ‘To your health.’

He laughs, but like it’s slipped out unintended.

Without looking at each other, we both half drain our glasses. The liquid torches my throat, fireballs its way to my stomach.

‘You smell nice,’ I tell him, because he does, despite the dishevelment. It’s a scent I don’t recognise, fresh and sweetly aquatic.

‘Thought I’d take a break from the Tom Ford,’ he says gruffly.

Oh God. I must have told his mum that he and Jamie smelt the same. I don’t even remember saying that.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask him, feeling chastened. ‘Physically, I mean.’

‘Ah, fine. They fixed my leg, reinflated my lung, told me off for walking into traffic. It could have been a lot worse.’

I swallow and nod. ‘Apparently everyone was worried you were... you know. Dead.’ It’s hard enough to think it, let alone say it out loud.

A brittle smile. ‘Ah, the good old Norwich grapevine. Can nobody get wasted and pick a fight and get hit by a car in private any more?’

I smile faintly. ‘And you made the paper again.’

‘I bet I did.’

‘Who was the fight with?’

He rubs his face. ‘No idea.’

‘I came to the hospital.’

He nods. ‘Gabi told me. You should have stayed for a drink. The tea in that place is pretty special.’

‘Maybe next time.’

He meets my eye. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘How long till you’re back on your feet?’

‘A few months, they think.’

‘What about work?’

---