Page 75 of The Spark

Norwich was blooming, the trees fat with leaves and frizzing with blossom. We had house sparrows nesting in the eaves that year. Starlings were frequent visitors to our tiny knotted jumble of back garden. The evenings had got lighter, the jasmine-scented hours long and golden, the nights swimming-pool warm.

One lunchtime, Lara came home and found me curled up on the sofa. I should have been at uni, putting the finishing touches to my second-year written project on textile waste. But instead, I was watching Gavin & Stacey in my pyjamas beneath a blanket, despite the warmth of the day outside.

‘Oof,’ Lara said, when she saw me there, not moving. ‘I told you never to mix ouzo with... well, you.’

She sat down next to me. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her skin from her walk home. Her summer freckles were kicking in.

On screen, Nessa was berating Smithy. Lara exhaled happily. ‘My queen.’

I smiled weakly. ‘Yeah. Pam’s still the best, though.’

I’d always wished I had a mum like Pam.

We watched together for ten minutes or so before I said, ‘It’s not ouzo, by the way.’

My voice sounded offbeat, even to me. Lara picked up the remote and muted the TV.

A few seconds passed. She took me in. ‘Talk to me,’ she said, eventually.

‘I’m late.’

‘How late?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘What?’

I knew I didn’t need to repeat myself.

‘How the hell did you not notice?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve just... been thinking about other stuff, I guess.’

‘Wow. Okay. What stuff? Well, let’s get a test.’

‘Three weeks is a really long time, isn’t it?’

She met my eye. ‘Have you told Jamie?’

It will be all right, I thought. Lara is here.

‘Not yet.’

‘Good. Come on. Let’s go.’

‘I don’t think I’m ready.’

‘Screw ready,’ she said. ‘It’s been three weeks. We’re going.’

We got the test from the supermarket on Earlham Road. That day was the only time I’d ever left the house in my pyjamas, except for maybe when I took the bins out, which didn’t count. I thought about what Jamie’s mum would say if she could see me, and felt a flash of petty, teenage-like triumph.

I suggested getting more than one test, just to be sure, but Lara said taking lots of tests was just something they put in films and TV shows to keep us all captive to capitalism. ‘As if they’re not enough of a rip-off already,’ she muttered loudly, right in front of the checkout guy.

At this, a woman behind us in the queue laughed. ‘A high like that usually costs way more than six quid. Believe me. Best money I ever spent.’

‘Do you think she was positive or negative?’ I asked Lara, as we left the shop.

‘Not sure,’ Lara mused, frowning. ‘But someone should probably tell her she’s taking the wrong drugs.’

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