Page 89 of The Spark

I smile. I can’t help it. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not funny.’

She smiles back at me. ‘No, it kind of is.’

Our eyes meet, and the moment of shared amusement-slash-horror feels oddly emotive.

I shake it off. ‘You’ll need a specialist. I know a good floor guy. I’ll ping you his number.’

She looks relieved. ‘Oh God, yes please.’

‘I assume you’ve unleashed the requisite wrath?’

‘On the lodgers?’ She smiles at me faintly. ‘Actually, believe it or not, I’m a lot more zen than I used to be.’

Lara has this spa thing down. We get a free treatment each, so she suggests we do those first, for a quick dopamine hit, before spending the rest of the day between the pool and the ‘relaxation zone’. (Though this phrase alone makes me prickle: to me, zones infer activity. I already feel as though I should be checking my emails, or doing a spin class.)

In the lobby, a group of shiny-faced people walk by in robes, carrying glasses of prosecco. To be fair, they do look like they’re having quite a good time, being lazy just for the hell of it. In fact, they all have that glow that spas keep waffling on about being good for. Maybe I have been getting relaxation wrong over the years after all.

Lara doesn’t want a treatment that lasts too long, or she says she’ll get twitchy, so we book a basic back massage each, and agree to meet afterwards in the conservatory.

I wait for her for what feels like ages. But just as I’m starting to worry we got our wires crossed about where to meet, she appears.

She’s dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

‘Lar?’

She sits down on the sofa next to me, arranges her robe across her knees. It’s clear she’s been crying.

‘What happened?’ Out of nowhere, I start to have visions of her having been body-shamed by the therapist.

‘Oh God, nothing.’ She blows her nose, forces a smile. ‘The masseuse said it happens all the time, people bursting into tears for no reason.’

‘Did she? Does it?’

Lara shrugs. ‘Apparently. Did you?’

‘No, I nearly fell asleep. It was nicer than I expected.’ (I surprised myself, actually. I can’t remember the last time I shut my eyes in the middle of the day and stayed put for longer than five minutes.)

Lara catches the eye of a passing server. ‘Drink?’

‘Shall we have prosecco?’

She makes a face. ‘Ah... I shouldn’t. You go for it, though. One prosecco and one sparkling water,’ she says to the server.

Felix floats into my mind again, and I wish he wouldn’t, because I have no real evidence for any of my doubts about him, or the way he is with her in private.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask her, gently. ‘I wish you’d talk to me.’

She turns to look at me. Her eyes are still pink from crying. ‘Do you?’

‘Of course. I want to help.’

She hesitates for a long time, then says, ‘Thank you. But if I’m honest, I... don’t know where I stand with you, Neve.’

I look down at my lap. ‘I know.’

‘I mean, we didn’t speak for nearly a decade. And don’t get me wrong, I am so, so happy to be back in your life, but... that anger didn’t just disappear, did it? I know it’s still there. I see it in your eyes, sometimes.’

She’s right, of course. The anger’s been with me ever since that night. In some ways, it’s always felt like the easiest emotion to reach for, whenever I think of Jamie’s death.

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