Page 67 of The Spark

I had no evidence for any of this, of course. But I distrusted him deeply, and found that hard to hide. So whenever Jamie mentioned him, I would change the subject. And every time he went to visit him – which he’d done a few times recently, spending several weekends in Putney in the four months or so since his internship had ended – I’d started to feel not disappointment, but relief, that we’d both begun to assume he would make each trip alone.

‘Don’t you want to?’ Jamie said now.

‘Don’t I want to what?’

‘Go abroad.’

‘I can’t afford it.’

‘Forget the money.’

‘Only people with money say, Forget the money.’

‘I mean, theoretically. If you had the money, would you go?’

On holiday with you? In a heartbeat. ‘Obviously.’

He broke into a smile. ‘Okay. Get a passport, and we’ll catch a plane somewhere for a long weekend.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Yeah. Just like that.’

I loved how easy he always made life sound. Nothing was ever a barrier, no suggestion too much trouble. Which largely came down to being rich, of course. After all, as Lara would say, optimism was easy when you could pay your way out of pretty much any problem.

From downstairs, the timer started to sound on the oven. The lasagne he’d made us was ready.

He got up, then leaned down to kiss me. ‘I’m serious. I love you. Let’s go somewhere.’

‘You just told your dad you couldn’t go on that cruise. He won’t be too impressed if you turn around and—’

He paused by the door. ‘For the last time. I don’t care what my dad thinks.’

But you do. You care a lot.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah. I’d love it. Wouldn’t you?’

I’d mini-break to a war zone, I thought, if you were by my side.

A month or so later, I was working on a uni project, creating sketches for upholstery using Islamic pattern structure. I was fully absorbed, switching smoothly between compass and ruler, virtually meditating. It was probably the project I’d loved the most since starting my course.

Jamie walked into the living room. ‘Shut your eyes and hold out your hands.’

This wasn’t a good way to distract me from my sketchbook. My dad used to play this game, insisting the surprise would be good, and when I opened my eyes there would be a cold clump of soil in my palms, alive with wriggling worms, or a meaty tangle of last night’s spaghetti. I always fell for it, let him persuade me that this time, I could trust him.

That was one thing I didn’t miss about my father – the way he sometimes liked to toy with me. Press buttons I didn’t know I had.

‘This is a very intricate project, actually. I can’t shut my eyes.’

‘All right. Then just... look at me for a minute.’ So I did, and Jamie held up a piece of paper. ‘I booked it. A long weekend, this September.’

I discarded my sketchbook and got to my feet. ‘Are you serious? Where?’

‘Amsterdam.’ He was beaming. ‘We can fly from Norwich. Harry’s been, he says it’s ace. I know it’s a while off, but you get a better hotel if you book ahead.’

I put my arms around him, burying my face in his neck. Visions of canals and gabled buildings, of cobbled streets filled with bikes and flower stalls and pavement cafes were already reeling happily through my mind.

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