Chapter 7.
We live in adjacent postcodes, so I suggest the Ribs of Beef, a pub which is halfway between us.
I get there early, because I always do. But Ash is already waiting at a table inside.
My solar plexus sees him first. His sharp profile and blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. I try not to think too hard about how attractive he is, about the girls on the next table who eye me up as I arrive and share a disappointed laugh.
As I sit down, I catch it again: Tom Ford Noir. It air-kisses me briefly, like a long-lost friend, then recedes, leaving me reeling.
‘All the tables were full outside, sorry.’ He smiles and slides a glass of wine across the table. It’s rosé, looks dry, my favourite. ‘Hope I guessed okay. I did message to see what you wanted, but... there was pressure at the bar.’
My phone’s deep in my bag. I thank him with a smile. A dry rosé is my summer drink of choice – which means either he just made a very good guess, or he has inside information on me.
I shed my jacket and adjust the neckline of my dress, feeling suddenly apprehensive in a way I haven’t in months.
I’ve been on just three dates in the year since Leo. The first arrived late and left early, the second thought he could be condescending about my job (because he was a molecular biologist), and the third I shared quite a nice kiss with and thought I might see again until he breathily suggested we do it in the back seat of his car.
Ash raises his pint of Guinness to my wine glass. ‘Nice to see you again.’
‘And you. Sorry we didn’t get to chat much last night.’
‘Not at all. It looked like you were in demand.’
‘I was sort of there as a favour to Parveen.’
He smiles. ‘Yeah, she mentioned that.’
I meet his eye and smile back. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Were you the one—’
‘—who got struck by lightning?’ He nods, but reluctantly.
I wince. ‘Sorry. You must get that a lot.’
I usually stay far away from topics that bring to mind the worst night of my life. But there’s something about Ash that reminds me so strongly of Jamie. Though I can’t quite work out why, I feel impelled to find out more about him.
‘It is kind of a weird thing to be known for,’ he says, sipping his pint. ‘I don’t feel the novelty factor in quite the same way as other people.’
‘I get that,’ I say, wishing now I’d not brought it up. ‘My mum knows a guy that got attacked by a crocodile. He’s pretty much known for having a massive bite mark on his arse.’
Ash smiles. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
I shut my eyes briefly. ‘No. Sorry. Absolutely making it worse.’
Beneath the table, I feel his knee nudge mine. There’s no way of telling whether it’s accidental.
‘So, how is it, working for Kelley?’ he asks. ‘She’s got a pretty fierce reputation.’
‘Actually, I love it. She’s basically my idol. Though she would frown on this.’
‘Us . . . having a drink? Why?’
‘She’d say it was unprofessional.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘So why did you suggest it?’
I meet his gaze across the table. His eyes are inky blue, the colour of the sky at night. ‘I was curious,’ I admit. ‘You remind me of someone.’
He waits, presumably for me to elaborate.
‘Someone I knew . . . a long time ago.’
He looks intrigued. Maybe he suspects I’m referring to an ex. ‘You’re going to have to give me a bit more than that.’
I glance briefly out of the window. The setting sun is scorching the rooftops. The horizon is burned red.
‘What made you want to become an architect?’ I’m pretending to change the subject – though of course, I’m not really, because Jamie was an architect too.
Ash tips his head back and forth almost imperceptibly. ‘Well, after my accident, I wanted a change of direction. I was training to be a doctor before. I guess I just... didn’t want to waste any more time on things I had no passion for.’
‘Had you always been into it? Architecture?’
He smiles. ‘No, and... this might sound a bit... But it just kind of hit me while I was in hospital, that architecture was what I really wanted to do. Something inside me sort of clicked, out of nowhere. It was weird, but it was also the best decision I ever made. Maybe it was divine intervention, or something.’
I stare at him, my heart a series of misfired beats. ‘Who’s your favourite? Architect, I mean.’
‘I’d probably have to say Norman Foster. You’ve got to love the Gherkin.’
‘Got to,’ I say faintly.
‘Anyway. Enough about work. I would ask what you do for fun, but that is officially the world’s worst small-talk question.’
I smile. ‘Yep. Hate that too.’
‘Right? If someone says “fun” that’s supposed to mean bungee jumping, or skydiving, or go-karting, or waking up naked on the ferry halfway to Rotterdam.’ He laughs. ‘Actually, I was that guy, back in the day. Before my accident. I was all about the fun. Call Ash if you want a fun time. Everyone used to call me a “livewire” but I really think that was just a polite word for twat.’
‘You felt different, then? After the accident.’
He nods.
I sip my wine, slowly, carefully. ‘In what way?’
He takes a moment to answer. ‘I don’t know why exactly, but suddenly I just... wanted to stop all the craziness and climbing up lampposts and getting arrested for breaching the peace. No more wild nights out ending with me waking up in ditches or train depots. Much to the disappointment of my friends. They all thought I’d been taken over by aliens.’
‘So, you had a near-death experience and then...?’
‘Well, exactly. It changed me.’
‘Just like that?’
He nods softly. ‘It was a wake-up call.’
Something about this doesn’t feel quite as straightforward as he makes it sound, but I decide not to push it. ‘So, what do you do for fun these days?’
‘I thought we’d agreed not to ask that question.’
‘Pleasure, then. What do you like to do for pleasure?’
Our gazes grip tight for just a moment. ‘That’s better.’
‘Go on.’
He groans.
‘Okay, I’ll make it easier. Let’s see... Secret skill?’
‘I’m actually a demon at poker.’
I swallow. ‘For money?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Standard lads’ night out?’
‘Pub, pool, kebab.’
‘Odeon or . . . arthouse?’
‘Arthouse.’
‘Cook, or order in?’
‘I cook, actually. Promise I’m not just saying that.’
My heart rate picks up. I have overheard a version of this conversation before, many years ago. And all the answers are the same.
‘Beach, or city?’
‘God, beach.’
‘Cats, or dogs?’
‘Does anyone ever say cats?’
‘Idea of a great date?’
His gaze fuses with mine. ‘Let’s see. Maybe just... one of those long nights drinking and talking crap and forgetting what the time is.’
‘Best hangover cure?’
He starts to speak, then changes his mind. ‘Ah, I can’t tell you that.’
‘Go on.’ The way Jamie and I always solved hangovers was with sex and coffee, lots of both.
He hesitates, then, ‘Strong coffee and... you know. Good company.’
I feel tears in my throat.
‘Sorry. That was a bit TMI.’ He examines his glass. ‘Am I drunk?’
Despite myself, a laugh slips free. ‘Let’s hope so.’
I get another round in. Ash asks more about what I do and where I live, and I tell him about renovating my house, how much love I’ve poured into every last brick of it. But then, as he starts to describe his place – even though I think I know what he’s about to say – disbelief blows through me.
‘It’s nice. It’s on the river, actually. High up, really great views.’
I grip my glass, worried that if I don’t hold on to something, I might start to shake.
Top floor, middle four windows .
‘Is it one of the . . . converted factories?’
He nods. ‘The Old Yarn Mill. Do you know it?’
In my mind, I journey back to Boxing Day nearly ten years ago, when Jamie and I stood on the riverbank, staring up at the Old Yarn Mill. If someone told you they’d just bought an apartment in that building, and they wanted you to design the space and make it beautiful, how would you feel?
‘I do,’ I say softly. ‘I bet it’s gorgeous.’
‘Well, it could be. Though, it turns out I can do space planning and compliance and lighting and joinery, but when it comes to furnishing, I have a bit of a blind spot. I struggle when it comes to colour and fabric palettes and styling and stuff.’
I observe him for a couple of moments. His hair is definitively dark, where Jamie’s was lighter, closer to bronze. Jamie’s eyes were brown, but Ash’s are the deep, rich blue of open oceans. Ash is taller, I think, and I’m guessing he might have an athletic physique, where Jamie was always quite soft around the edges.
Still. He resembles Jamie so closely. In every way but looks, he could almost be him. The things he said about his personality changing after his accident niggle at me too, but I can’t quite figure out why.
‘Neve?’ Ash says gently.
I snap back to the conversation. ‘I could help, if you like. Give you some design pointers.’
‘Serious?’
‘Yes, I’d love to.’
‘That’d be great. I’d pay, obviously. I wouldn’t expect you to do it for free.’
‘No need. I’d love to. Whenever you like.’
‘I’m away next weekend, but... the Saturday after, if you fancy it?’
I exhale. A fortnight for me to figure out how I feel about this guy, who resembles the love of my life in a labyrinth of ways. Tonight has been like going back nearly a decade in time and sitting in the pub with Jamie again.
‘Great,’ I say.
He extends his almost-empty pint glass for me to clink. ‘Looking forward to it.’
We part ways on Fye Bridge with a hug and a peck on the cheek. But on the way home, I feel a clot of fear forming in my chest. The similarities between Jamie and Ash are... so, so bizarre. No, more than bizarre. Does he know about Jamie, somehow? Is he trying to impersonate him? Is he an old friend, or enemy, or even some kind of troll – has he looked him up online?
I message him as I walk home.
Meant to ask... have you ever known someone called Jamie?
I know two actually (and a half)
My heart somersaults. What is the half code for?
???
Half = ex-work colleague who I never see. Surname?
Fraser
His reply is instant.
Nope. Should I?
This is too messed up . I should just cut off all contact with Ash and forget I ever met him.
And yet.
No worries, mix up.