Page 26 of The Spark

‘Yes,’ I say, because I’ll never forget that night. How it sat in my stomach for weeks afterwards, the way close calls usually do.

‘Well, you told me that night that I deserved better, that I deserved someone who knew my worth, and... I never forgot it, Neve. I thought about it for years afterwards, and... Felix was the first guy I met who truly fitted that description. So.’ She holds my gaze for a couple of moments, and I am taken right back to that horrible night, the way she cried and doubted herself, and the fury that flared inside me on her behalf.

‘And you?’ she says. ‘Are you seeing anyone? What about work? I want to know everything.’

I tell her about my job, that I’m hoping to be promoted, that I’m probably borderline workaholic but wouldn’t have it any other way. I describe my house, all the work I’ve put into renovating it over the years.

‘Oh,’ she says, her eyes lighting up. ‘You’d love Felix’s place. It’s a designer’s dream, honestly. It overlooks Monterey Bay. It’s completely insane.’

She gets out her phone to show me, and as I look through images of the panoramic views and pool, of the walk-in wardrobes and floating staircases, of the wine cellar and movie room – the calibre of interiors, frankly, I could only dream of having the budget to execute – I realise this man is rich. Like, off-the-charts wealthy.

‘Lara,’ I say, looking at her.

She makes a face. ‘I know. Sorry. I’m honestly not trying to brag. I had no idea when I met him.’ She puts her phone away. ‘Anyway. You never answered my question.’

‘What question?’ I say, though of course I know.

‘Are you seeing anyone?’ She speaks tactfully, like an addiction counsellor trying to discern whether or not I’ve fallen off the wagon.

I swallow. ‘There’s someone... I like. Through work. But it’s not... turned into anything yet.’ I don’t mention, of course, how much this person resembles Jamie. That there are so many similarities between them, it’s starting to feel weird.

She smiles, says something about a boy from school I don’t quite catch because I keep getting distracted by the fact that we’re sitting in this cafe, chatting as if we’re spin class buddies, as if we have no history, as if we don’t know the meaning of tragedy. Fear keeps rising inside me in waves: did I make a mistake by cutting her out of my life? Was I too stubborn, too unreasonable? But then I remind myself of what happened that night, and the queasiness of doubt subsides.

If I’d known talking to Lara would feel this physical, I’d have forgone the espresso.

‘So tell me about this guy,’ she says, but suddenly it’s too much, this muddle in my head of Ash and Jamie and now Lara being back... and I have no idea how to feel about any of it.

‘Actually,’ I say, checking a watch that isn’t on my wrist, ‘I really have to go.’

‘Please give me your number,’ she says, like she’s been fully expecting me to try to leg it. Across the table, she covers my hand with hers, and it feels nice and absurd all at once, a bit like it does when my mum tries to touch me. ‘I really want to see you again, Neve. It’s been way too long. Please.’

I hesitate, then make the mistake of looking right into her eyes. They are the beautiful, depthless blue of Californian skies, and I have missed them. ‘Okay,’ I say.

She passes me her phone, and I tap in my number, then pass it back to her. Straight away, I hear my own phone buzz.

She meets my eye and smiles. ‘Just wanted to make sure.’

I nod, and pull on my jacket, grab my bag.

‘This was nice,’ she says.

At this, finally, it ignites inside me: the anger and indignation, a white-hot flare of fury. Do you think because we’ve had coffee, all is forgotten? Do you really think this is all it takes?

‘I know you don’t want to talk about that night,’ Lara says, ‘but I have to say this to you, before you go. I’m so sorry, Neve. I’m so sorry about what happened.’

I just stare at her. She’s told me this before, of course, but maybe this time – maybe – I am finally ready to hear it.

Chapter 12.

Late morning on Monday, Parveen returns from an on-site meeting at Millbrook and strides straight over to my desk.

‘I need to brief you on something.’

I’m absorbed in adding notes to a presentation for the design of a wellness spa in the basement of a house in Cambridge. It’s one of those dream projects that gives you rare licence to really indulge (hello infrared sauna, sun tunnels and Roman bathhouse tiling) because the owners have a ridiculously roomy budget and want high-end everything, no expense spared.

‘Now?’ I ask her, suspecting this might be to do with Ash.

‘Now.’

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