Page 11 of Days You Were Mine

‘Come on, then. Show us your etchings.’

I open up the sketchbook halfway through. I won’t bore him with the early staged tableaux: the solitary pear on a carefully pleated tablecloth, the vase of flowers, the basket of apples. As it happens, the page I show him is a portrait of Rick, drawn in the first week at college. He is sitting at his desk, chin propped in his hand, staring straight at me; it makes me smile just to see him.

‘Your friend is right. You’re very good. It’s exactly like him.’

‘It’s the first time I drew him and still the one I love best.’

‘Really not your boyfriend?’

‘No. Everyone thinks we’re together, but we’re not. Sometimes I wonder if Rick might be gay.’

It comes out before I can stop myself.

‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Why? I don’t care.’

‘I might be wrong. I probably am.’

He smiles and says, ‘Alice, I believe you,’ and I feel foolish for protesting so much. But I am as confused as everyone else thatnothing has developed between Rick and me. He’s indisputably handsome, he is the funniest, kindest person I have ever met and since day one we have been inseparable. We are as close as any lovers but, so far anyway, without even the tiniest spark of chemistry.

Jacob flips a few more pages and then he comes to my oak tree.

‘A tree that’s actually a man. Or a man that becomes a tree?’

And suddenly I’m telling him about my fascination for all trees, but particularly oaks. When I was a child, growing up in Essex, I spent every spare hour in the fields behind the house. And the trees, especially in the dusk light, seemed to take on their own characters. I don’t feel stupid telling him that they were like my friends. Or that even as I’ve grown older, the character of a tree – the oaks in Battersea Park, the cherries and limes lining the streets of Notting Hill – has remained visible to me, as if I perceive trees in a way that no one else does.

Luigi arrives with our coffees.

‘Cappuccino for the young lady. Espresso for you.’

I’ve had proper coffee before. My parents were devotees of Rombouts; they treated themselves to one of the little plastic filter cups every Sunday after lunch, although I wasn’t always offered one – it depended on my father’s mood. This is something different.

Jacob watches me while I take my first sip.

‘God. It’s delicious.’

Another sip.

‘It’s like – well, I’ve never had nectar, so …’ What would be the most accurate description of this creamy, mouth-exploding taste? ‘Hot ice cream.’

Jacob laughs.

‘That’s exactly what it’s like.’

I tell him about the Rombouts coffee. My father deciding whether or not I’d earned the right to one depending on my behaviour that week. Homework done the day it was set. Dressing properly for church. Being on time. A whole mental checklist for him to riffle through each week.

‘He sounds like a bit of a jerk.’

‘He’s a canon at our local church.’

‘There you go.’

‘I don’t like him very much. He’s not nice to my mother. He preaches about human kindness in church and then treats her like she’s a slave. He has a vicious temper and you never know when he’s going to lose it.’

‘Sounds like it was time to get away.’

‘I’d like never to go back.’

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