Page 9 of The Spark

‘Sadly, no. And Mum knows there’s nothing I hate more than a vapid little soundbite. I’d rather have had the cash.’ She looked at me. ‘I bet your mum just slipped you twenty quid and a packet of cigarettes, didn’t she?’

Lara and I had been friends for fourteen years at that point. There was nothing we didn’t know about each other. I had seen her drunk, high, ravaged by despair, and hyperactive with joy.

What I loved most about her was that she was tender beneath her toughness. She was the kind of person who’d be first to fetch a plaster if you’d cut your finger. Who would make sure you’d drunk a full pint of water and popped two Nurofen before bed after a heavy night.

When I first fell in love with Jamie, I had no idea what to do about Lara. Because there were suddenly things I wanted to do alone with Jamie – trips to the cinema, listening to music in my bedroom, walks around town and dinners in Pizza Hut. But Lara never bitched, or made things awkward. Instead, she simply slotted in beside us when it felt right, and stepped back when it didn’t. We never talked about it, because it never seemed like we needed to.

She must have known, I guess, that he was a boy worth loving.

But I still needed her. So when she decided to stay in Norwich, and even share a house with us, I was almost euphoric with relief.

She made other friends instantly. She found it easy, always had. By the following night, a lad had already invited her to a house party on Angel Road, and she insisted Jamie and I go too.

She disappeared the moment we got there, swept up into a crowd of new acquaintances. Jamie and I sat on a sofa together. There was house music playing, a relentless, drilling beat.

After an hour or so, I disappeared to fetch more drinks. When I returned, I paused in the doorway. Jamie was talking to a girl – blonde, smoky eyes, endless legs emerging from a pair of tiny black shorts.

Jamie was drunk, by then. He could no longer detect when he was being flirted with. His face was flushed, hair flopping over his eyes.

I stood where I was, listening. The girl hadn’t seen me, was focused wholly on Jamie. She seemed to be asking him a series of questions.

‘All right then. Secret skill?’

He considered this. ‘Poker.’

‘Favourite thing to do on a Saturday night?’

‘Pub, pool, kebab.’

‘Favourite film?’

‘Anything with subtitles.’ (Jamie liked to think of himself as something of a world cinema expert. It came from his brother, I think, who was always referring offhandedly to things like Taiwanese New Wave, or Italian Neorealism.)

‘Do you cook?’

‘Yep.’ (Another truth. His mum had taught him well: he was much better than me.)

‘Best way to spend a Sunday?’

A beat. ‘Go to the beach, then... come home and drink whisky and talk crap and make out and forget what the time is, you know?’

At this, she appeared so enchanted, she set a hand on his leg, which meant I was going to have to step in.

‘Okay, last question. This is the most important one. Are you ready?’

‘I’m ready.’

‘Cats, or dogs?’

‘Dogs, obviously.’

She squealed with delight. I noticed her grip tighten.

I leaned down to pass Jamie his refill.

She looked up at me, and blinked twice, like, Can we help you?

‘Here you go,’ I said.

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