Page 20 of The Spark

‘Well, I have a floorboard fetish, so let’s call it even.’

‘So, which one do you like best?’ He stepped behind me, looped his arms around my shoulders.

I pressed my back against his chest, the wall of him barricading me from the cold. ‘Any. You pick. I’d love them all.’

‘Okay. Let’s see.’ He pointed a gloved finger towards the building. ‘Well, how about... that one? Top floor, middle four windows.’

‘How are we ever going to afford something like that?’

‘Mortgage ourselves up to the eyeballs and die broke and in debt, obviously.’

I knew that would never happen. His dad was too rich. I guessed that was how he could joke about it, dabble in the notion that being poor was somehow romantic. ‘But we’ll be happy.’

He kissed the top of my head. ‘We will. The happiest.’

Chapter 10.

Now

A fortnight after our drinks at the Ribs, I meet Ash at his place for coffee on Saturday morning.

Top-floor apartment, middle four windows.

Before pressing the buzzer, I pause on the pavement, my mind electric with emotion. I picture Jamie and me coming to view this place together, if things had been different. Agreeing a price. Moving in. Might it be us living here now, in another life?

I shake it off as Ash buzzes me up. When I walk out of the lift, he’s right there waiting for me, barefoot in jeans and a dark-blue sweater. He’s got a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his face, and it looks pretty good.

As he leans forward to kiss me hello, I know from the way my stomach flexes that I’m attracted to him. I’ve been thinking about him a lot, much more than I usually would after a couple of weeks and zero official dates. But whether that’s down to how similar he is to Jamie, it’s hard to know.

Inside, Ash shows me into the main living area. The space is vast, and crisp with the lemony light of early summer. Exposed brickwork spans the room, along with runs of steel pipework, plus two enormous central steel columns. It smells ever so faintly industrial, of bricks and concrete and past lives.

I walk over to the windows, from which I can see the spot where I stood in the mist that Boxing Day with Jamie. It all looks so different today in the sunlight, beneath an unflinching blue sky.

I follow Ash around the rest of the space. It’s double-height and super airy, with heritage windows, double-stacked of course, and concrete ceiling beams. Even the floors are stunning – polished concrete in submarine grey. The lighting and electricals zone everything subtly, playing off the building’s heritage.

We return to the view. I reach out and touch one of the windows with my fingertips. The frame feels fridge-cold against my skin.

Ash is at my shoulder. ‘Incredible, aren’t they?’

‘They look original.’

He nods. ‘Just with some secondary glazing inserted behind. I grilled the agent on every last detail about the place. I’ve got... a bit of a window fetish, I’m afraid.’

I turn to him. ‘Sorry?’

He half smiles. ‘Figuratively speaking. Not an actual fetish.’

I laugh this off with a lightness I don’t feel. Am I being played here? Is the joke on me?

Are you doing this on purpose? And if so, how?

Because the man Ash so closely resembles – my ex-boyfriend Jamie – is dead. He was killed nearly a decade ago, aged just twenty, in a car accident less than two miles from where we lived. There was a vicious thunderstorm that night, and even now, I feel snakes in my stomach every time it rains.

And now – unbelievably – here is someone who is, in every conceivable way, the man Jamie was destined to become.

I turn back to the room. The space is undeniably stunning, but it is virtually devoid of any personal touches, save for a single framed picture on the far wall, above the sofa.

And it’s a painting I’d recognise anywhere. One I’ve pored over and admired for more hours than I care to remember.

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