Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jess caught the Clipper late in the afternoon, the sky a bright blue canvas peppered with puffy white brushstrokes, yesterday’s autumn-like chill entirely forgotten. She had spent the day in a state of fidgety irritation, almost wishing Wendy had let her work on her day off, to keep her mind on something other than the scenarios playing on a loop in her head.
On the way home the night before, she had gone to Lola’s flat and waited while she burrowed through her release forms for the one Ash had filled in. His handwriting was bold, slightly spiky. There was his name, signature and, in the middle, his address. She and Lola had been silent while she’d typed it into her phone, and she knew her friend felt guilty. But Jess had also known that, if at any point while they were spending time together she had asked for his address, Ash would have told her. He’d been to her flat. On the second occasion, he’d turned up announced, so she was just going to have to do the same. What other choice did she have, if he was still refusing to answer her calls?
‘This’ll be a funny story to tell your grandchildren,’ Lola had said, as she walked her to the door.
‘I promise I won’t tell him you helped me,’ Jess had replied. ‘I’ll say I saw the stack of forms when I was here for dinner.’
‘It doesn’t really hold up, considering I announced to all your friends that I had the means to track him down.’
‘They’re all behind... this,’ Jess had said.
‘I know.’ Lola laughed. ‘No pressure, then. It’s not just your and Ash’s happiness you’re going after, but all of theirs, too.’
‘Great.’ Jess’s mouth had dried out. ‘Thanks for that.’
Now she stood on the boat’s outside deck, the wind whipping her hair, and felt like the figurehead secured to the Cutty Sark: moving forwards, but exposed to all the elements. If she wanted to get Ash back, she would have to tell him everything she was scared of, and she’d have to convince him to do the same. Getting him to let her in was the part she was most afraid of, because if he refused, there was nothing she could do.
They passed by London landmarks and under famous bridges, and when the boat went beneath Tower Bridge, with the Tower of London a hulking, impenetrable shadow to her right, Jess was crowded on all sides by other passengers eager to drink it in. From the water, the city gleamed. Buildings rose up, proud and statuesque, above the grey-green surface of the Thames.
She tried to imagine what it would be like to travel in the opposite direction, passing ships and cathedrals and towers, knowing that your dad, who you hadn’t seen for years – who you no longer knew – was waiting for you, dying slowly without anyone by his side. The fear, the responsibility, would be overwhelming. Jess pushed the thought aside, and waved at three small children in colourful sou’westers standing on the deck of one of the city’s packed tourist barges.
She walked from the Embankment up to Holborn, the streets as busy as Greenwich Market on a Sunday, flocks of workers crowded outside pubs, shirtsleeves rolled up and jackets discarded, filling the air with laughter. She checked her phone, following the gentle dings as it gave her directions to Ash’s apartment block and then told her she’d reached her destination. It was a tall grey building that must have started out smart, but now looked grimy from years of traffic fumes. But there were pollarded trees outside the entrance, woven through with LED lights, and the foyer beyond the glass door looked spacious.
Jess hovered her finger over the button to flat twenty-seven, remembering the man Ash had told her about who walked his scary dogs. She pressed it, holding it down a few seconds too long. She waited, but there was no answer. She tried again, her insides clenching at the thought that, even now, he was rejecting her.
A figure walked across the foyer, the shadowed silhouette becoming a woman in a green coat. She opened the door and then held it for Jess, giving her a warm smile. Jess thanked her and slipped inside, even though a part of her wanted to shout after the woman – tell her she could have been anyone, a thief or a drug dealer. But she was in now. She walked over to the elevators, wearing her imposter status heavily, glancing behind every few seconds while she waited for one to come.
She got out on the fourth floor and followed the flat numbers down the corridor, treading on carpet patterned with brown and grey geometric shapes. At the end there was a window with frosted glass. Flat twenty-six was on her left, number twenty-seven on her right.
She reached her fist up to knock, then paused. It was after six, but he could still be at work, or perhaps he was one of the shirt-clad drinkers outside a pub near his office. How would she ever know, though, if he didn’t answer her messages? She rammed her fist against the wood, hammering until her hand hurt.
‘Ash! Ash, are you in there?’ She paused to listen, but couldn’t hear anything from inside. Not footsteps, or the low murmur of the television. But then there was a sound behind her, a clunk, and she turned to see the door of flat twenty-six opening, revealing a tall, silver-haired man with a slight stoop and a steely gaze, wearing a merlot-coloured sweater over grey trousers.
‘Ash isn’t here, I don’t think,’ the man said, his words slightly clipped.
‘Is he usually back from work by now?’ Jess asked.
His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not his keeper, young lady.’
‘Of course not. I’m sorry. I’m – I’m Jess.’ She held her hand out, and the man’s eyes widened a fraction.
‘I’ve heard about you,’ he said. ‘I’m Mack.’
‘Oh – of course!’ She barked out a laugh, and Mack looked affronted. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘He’s told me about you, too. About your Sunday mornings.’
‘He’s a kind young man. He takes the time to check on me, to make sure I have all I need. I may look as strong as an ox, but two hip replacements means walking to the newsagent is a trial, rather than an amusing jaunt.’
Jess nodded. ‘I know he likes spending time with you.’
Mack waved a dismissive hand. ‘He thinks of it as a duty. Perhaps he’s come to be fond of our time together, but he’s very big on duty, isn’t he?’
The way he said it made Jess think Mack knew everything, but she didn’t want to betray Ash’s confidence if she was wrong. ‘He is,’ she said. ‘And you... you don’t know where he is right now?’
‘I’m afraid not. And he didn’t come for his Sunday coffee. I had a message, crying off with no explanation.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘He’s been telling me about the market, about you and the woman living in that grand old house consumed by decades’ worth of clutter.’
‘Oh.’
‘So, yes, it was unlike him to be so unforthcoming. I haven’t seen or heard from him since then. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.’ He said the last part gently, as if he could sense how desperate, how unhappy, she was.
‘You’ve been kind to talk to me at all,’ she said. ‘I snuck in, I’m afraid.’
Mack rolled his eyes. ‘Some of the residents of this block are far too trusting, or simply have their heads in the clouds. It’s not your fault.’
‘Thank you. And—’
‘If I see him, I’ll ask him to call you.’
She nodded.
‘I’ll tell him,’ Mack continued, ‘that you made the effort to come all the way here, and that the least he can do is give you a few minutes of his time.’
She managed a smile. ‘Thank you, Mack. Is there anything I can get you? Do you have everything you need?’
‘I have a few backups when Ash isn’t around, so I’m fine, thank you. It pays to still be this handsome at seventy-five.’
Jess laughed. ‘I’m glad,’ she said, and turned to leave. Mack squeezed her wrist, so quickly she thought she’d imagined it.
‘He cares about you,’ he said. ‘Whatever’s happened, I know that much.’
‘Thank you,’ Jess said again, and wondered if, from this point forward, her vocabulary would be at least 50 per cent sorry and thank you. She walked away from him down the corridor, and heard Mack’s door snick quietly closed behind her.
It rained hard that night, grey cloud sweeping in to obliterate the blue. Lola had messaged her to ask how it had gone, and she’d replied with a simple:
He wasn’t there so, no luck.
But she realised, as she lay on her bed, her fairy lights pulsing from pink to gold, hugging her lilac yeti cushion, it wasn’t about luck. It was about her destroying a relationship that she’d valued. Perhaps she had been blasé because of her parents. It didn’t matter how much she pushed them away, how often she refused their invitations to go round for dinner, they had never disappeared on her. She had taken that for granted.
She fell into a fitful sleep, the rain drumming against the glass like small hands trying to get in, the air humid despite it. She dreamed of Ash in the places they had spent time: onthe bench in Greenwich Park; surrounded by all that space on Blackheath; at Felicity’s house. Then she dreamed of him in places they hadn’t been together: her beloved Waterstones; the long table in a shadowy corner of the Gipsy Moth. On the street, a few steps ahead of her.
She startled awake, glanced at the clock and saw it was only five past midnight. She’d been asleep for less than an hour. The heat in the room was almost unbearable, and she got up, pulled back the curtains and opened the window. The air, when it met her skin, was stultifying, but the raindrops were cool and she leaned out, letting them hit her bare arms, her shoulders.
And then she saw him, standing near the kerb, half hidden behind a van that was parked haphazardly, its front wheel up on the pavement. He had the same dark, ruffled hair, the same lean figure, but he was too far from the glow of the street light, a collection of black and grey shapes masked by the rain. It was only the tightness in her chest, the certainty in her bones, that convinced her it was him.
‘Ash?’ She called out, and he moved. But he didn’t look up; instead he turned, quickly – unsteadily? – and walked away. ‘Ash?’ A few more steps, and then he was gone from her view, even when she leaned as far out of the window as she dared. She rubbed her face and then, leaving the window open, went back to bed, lying on top of the covers.
The dawn light was grey, and Jess woke to a damp breeze caressing her skin. She thought there must have been a thunderstorm in the night, though she hadn’t heard it. She got up and walked to the window. The van was still there, parked like someone had been running late or looking at their phone, then not bothered to correct their position.
She had been dreaming about Ash a lot, but she couldn’t work out if last night had just been more vivid than the rest, or if he’d really been there, in Greenwich, standing outside her window. By the time she’d showered and dressed, had toast and jam for breakfast and was on her way to work, she decided it had been a dream. It was such a long way for him to come, so late at night, and she didn’t know if the DLR ran that late – the Clippers certainly didn’t. And if he hadmade the journey, like she’d done earlier that day, then why hadn’t he called up to her, pressed the doorbell? She’d checked her phone as soon as she was awake, but there were no missed calls or messages. No hint that he’d changed his mind about getting in touch.
She decided, as she walked to No Vase Like Home, that she was going to have to do something about this. No good would come of having such vivid dreams about him, especially if he was really gone from her life for good.