Page 41 of The Spark

‘She’d love that. Thank you.’

She asks how it’s going with Ash. I tell her good, but that it’s still early days.

‘Hey,’ she says, ‘I don’t know if it would be too soon... but it would be great to have dinner. The four of us, sometime? I’d love you to meet Felix properly. And it would be really nice to get to know Ash, too.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to see how it goes.’

We’ve hardly made a dent in the picnic. And there is so much still left unsaid. But for now, today, maybe this can be enough.

Chapter 19.

A full working week has passed since that dynamite kiss with Ash. We both have crazy work schedules: Ash is deep in securing planning and building control consent on a split residential plot in the city, and I’m pitching to win a hefty design contract for a set of holiday lodges in Suffolk. He has some sort of pool league thing going on too, and on his only free night – and mine – I’m seeing the new Greta Gerwig film with an old work friend.

Maybe, on some level, I’ve resisted making time for him because of what I think I know. That on the night of Ash’s accident, Jamie took over his body somehow.

Every time I contemplate it, it sets my mind spinning. It makes me feel out of control.

And I can’t imagine continuing to think all this as Ash remains oblivious.

But we agree to meet on Saturday morning. Ash picks me up. I invite him inside, and give him a tour of the house. He takes time to admire the pristine paintwork, the moulding and cornicing, the waxed floorboards, the flow of the rooms.

‘I’m getting proper show-home vibes here,’ he says, with a smile.

I return his smile and tell him I’m not really here enough to mess it up, which is only partly true, but I don’t want to major on the fact that I like to clean as a way to unwind. It’s my dirty secret, I guess. It’s definitely the least cool thing about me.

In the living room, he peers forward to examine the framed photos on my mantelpiece, and I curse myself for not having thought to take them down.

He turns to look at me, asking the question without words.

‘A friend,’ I say. ‘He died.’

‘I’m sorry.’

I smile. ‘Thank you. Shall we go?’

I can’t help but hope he felt a flicker of recognition when he looked at the photos. Or at the bronze N and J bookends nearby. Or at any of Jamie’s old possessions I still keep around my home.

But if he did, he doesn’t let on.

As we reach the front door to head out, we both pause, and then he leans forward and kisses me. It hits as fiercely as a flame leaping to life.

It was my suggestion to go to Wells. It’s a perfect June morning. The air is warm, heat rising from the sun-baked sand. The beach is busy, but not heaving. Seagulls soar through a blue-domed sky, riding a breeze scented with saltwater and seaweed.

We didn’t stop talking the whole way here, about houses, and work, and how badly we are both aching for promotion. Ash wants to be made an associate at his firm within the next couple of years; I’m aiming for head designer, a position Kelley’s been threatening and failing to create for years. But this year, with all the hours I’ve put in and the positive press and winning feedback from clients, I’ve never felt so close.

‘Neve,’ Ash says now, as we start to walk. I don’t know where we’re heading. Just the open mouth of the horizon, I guess. ‘I should probably tell you, I... Googled Jamie Fraser.’

My stomach pitches sharply. Did he have a sense, somehow, of what I’ve been thinking this past week? Or did Jamie’s name sound inexplicably familiar?

‘It was after you asked me about him. I was just curious, I guess.’

I nod. It’s fair enough: I idly searched for Tabitha the other day while I was waiting for a client. She’s beautiful, of course, works as a personal trainer. Has nearly fifty thousand followers on Instagram. Though a part of me felt slightly sorry for Ash, because even watching a couple of her reels left me feeling like I needed a lie-down.

We keep walking.

‘Jamie Fraser is the same guy that’s in the photos on your mantelpiece.’

I swallow, feeling suddenly hot, despite the coastal air. In any other situation, I’d get up and walk away, escape the sensation of scrutiny. But I can’t walk away from this.

---