Page 38 of The Spark

‘Come on. Ghost sex with me would still be better than sex with anyone else. Right?’

Well, I wasn’t going to argue with that. It was impossible to imagine anyone being better at sex than Jamie. But still. ‘Stop saying ghost sex.’

‘Not until you agree that if I die, ghost sex with me will top any other sex you have.’

‘If I do, can we please stop talking about you being a ghost?’

‘Only if you say it.’

‘All right. Ghost sex with you, Jamie, will always be the best.’

‘Promise? No-one else will come close?’

‘I promise.’

He laughed, and kissed me, and we carried on walking.

Chapter 18.

Now

The idea of Lara has been shimmering at the back of my mind since our coffee last week. I can’t relax, knowing she’s just down the road. Over the years, there’s always been an outside chance of bumping into her without warning, given her parents still live in the area. But that risk has been minute, the odds reassuringly low. Not enough to keep me awake at night.

But now she’s back, and the unsettling thought keeps coming to me – I want to see her again. For so long, I’ve felt so angry with her, so certain I wanted her out of my life for good.

So when she messages to suggest we get together, just the two of us, the feeling is both wrong and right. It’s something I half want, but know I should probably steer clear of.

We meet at the picnic meadow at Whitlingham Country Park. Lara brings a hamper packed with M&S goodies, and glass bottles of rose lemonade.

‘This is all very Famous Five,’ I say.

‘I know. Never thought I’d be a picnic meadow kind of girl.’

‘I never thought we’d be nearly thirty.’

We spread a rug across the grass. Above our heads, the sun burns a perfect circle in a sky the colour of cornflowers.

I ask Lara where she and Felix are staying at the moment. I’m assuming they’re crashing with her parents, that Felix hasn’t flexed his wallet on some city centre penthouse since they got here.

Lara stretches out next to me, propped up on one elbow. She has shades on, so I can’t quite read her expression, but when her lips tighten slightly, I know it’s bad news.

‘With Mum,’ is all she says.

That can only mean one thing. ‘Oh, Lara.’

‘Dad died. Five years ago.’

I feel the shock as keenly as I would have back then. No. Not Billy.

My mind becomes a squall of dismay and sadness. Billy – who’d always welcomed me into his home as though I were his second daughter, giver of unlimited hugs, who filled the gap my own father had left in so many ways – is dead.

I think of Corinne, of how deeply she loved him. Life wasn’t always easy for Lara’s parents, but they were each other’s North Star. Once, staying over, I came downstairs for a glass of water in the middle of the night and found them dancing together in the kitchen, turning slowly to the Etta James version of ‘At Last’, eyes shut, heads resting on each other’s shoulders. I remember just staring at them, cemented to the spot, thinking, Oh. So this is how love looks. It’s not about PDAs at weddings or parties. It’s dancing together in a cold, dark kitchen when you think no-one is watching.

I slip my hand across the picnic rug and into Lara’s slender fingers, because it is the only thing I can do. ‘God, Lar. I’m so sorry.’ Offering my condolences feels a little off-key, given everything that’s happened between us. But I knew and loved Billy before all of that.

Still. I know words are inadequate. That they can’t so much as touch the edges of how Lara must feel, what she must have been through. Words could never soothe the anguish of losing smiling, full-of-love Billy.

‘What happened?’ I ask.

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