Chapter 10.
Now
A fortnight after our drinks at the Ribs, I meet Ash at his place for coffee on Saturday morning.
Top-floor apartment, middle four windows.
Before pressing the buzzer, I pause on the pavement, my mind electric with emotion. I picture Jamie and me coming to view this place together, if things had been different. Agreeing a price. Moving in. Might it be us living here now, in another life?
I shake it off as Ash buzzes me up. When I walk out of the lift, he’s right there waiting for me, barefoot in jeans and a dark-blue sweater. He’s got a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his face, and it looks pretty good.
As he leans forward to kiss me hello, I know from the way my stomach flexes that I’m attracted to him. I’ve been thinking about him a lot, much more than I usually would after a couple of weeks and zero official dates. But whether that’s down to how similar he is to Jamie, it’s hard to know.
Inside, Ash shows me into the main living area. The space is vast, and crisp with the lemony light of early summer. Exposed brickwork spans the room, along with runs of steel pipework, plus two enormous central steel columns. It smells ever so faintly industrial, of bricks and concrete and past lives.
I walk over to the windows, from which I can see the spot where I stood in the mist that Boxing Day with Jamie. It all looks so different today in the sunlight, beneath an unflinching blue sky.
I follow Ash around the rest of the space. It’s double-height and super airy, with heritage windows, double-stacked of course, and concrete ceiling beams. Even the floors are stunning – polished concrete in submarine grey. The lighting and electricals zone everything subtly, playing off the building’s heritage.
We return to the view. I reach out and touch one of the windows with my fingertips. The frame feels fridge-cold against my skin.
Ash is at my shoulder. ‘Incredible, aren’t they?’
‘They look original.’
He nods. ‘Just with some secondary glazing inserted behind. I grilled the agent on every last detail about the place. I’ve got... a bit of a window fetish, I’m afraid.’
I turn to him. ‘Sorry?’
He half smiles. ‘Figuratively speaking. Not an actual fetish.’
I laugh this off with a lightness I don’t feel. Am I being played here? Is the joke on me?
Are you doing this on purpose? And if so, how?
Because the man Ash so closely resembles – my ex-boyfriend Jamie – is dead. He was killed nearly a decade ago, aged just twenty, in a car accident less than two miles from where we lived. There was a vicious thunderstorm that night, and even now, I feel snakes in my stomach every time it rains.
And now – unbelievably – here is someone who is, in every conceivable way, the man Jamie was destined to become.
I turn back to the room. The space is undeniably stunning, but it is virtually devoid of any personal touches, save for a single framed picture on the far wall, above the sofa.
And it’s a painting I’d recognise anywhere. One I’ve pored over and admired for more hours than I care to remember.
I go over to it. Take a breath.
Nighthawks . Edward Hopper.
‘Coffee?’ Ash asks, as I’m staring at the painting and trying to right my breathing.
‘Please.’
While he’s making it, I turn away from the Hopper and walk over to his bookcase. I can’t help myself. I need to check if they’re there. The shelving itself is laminate – an actual crime, in an apartment like this – but I can’t pay attention to that now. There’s only one thing I’m looking for.
The collection is sparse – probably no more than ten or fifteen books in total, which makes it easy to spot them. A Place of My Own: The Architecture of Daydreams . Analysing Architecture . Art and Illusion . All arranged together, in order of height.
‘Sorry,’ Ash says, from the kitchen area. ‘It’s not the sexiest book collection you’ll ever see.’
For so long, my only wish in the world has been to have just one more conversation with Jamie. To tell him how much I still love him. To show him everything that’s changed since I last saw him. To hold him and kiss him again, tell him I would have waited ten more lifetimes for another chance to see him smile.
The coffee’s ready. Mind spinning, I perch on a stool at the enormous hulk of a kitchen island, which is about the size of a ten-seater dining table. I can see the river from here, framed by the windows like a polyptych artwork.
Jamie would have loved this place.
‘So, what’s the verdict?’ Ash passes me a coffee in a satin-black mug.
‘He’d have loved it.’
‘Sorry?’
A kick of panic in my chest. I stare at him for a couple of moments.
Ash smiles, like he thinks there’s a joke he’s not getting. ‘Who would have loved it?’
A beat passes. ‘No-one. Sorry. Misheard you.’
He appears to shake it off, then tries again. ‘Verdict on the décor?’
My eyes alight on a copy of the River Cafe Cook Book . I blink back memories of Jamie’s copy, sauce-splattered and dog-eared, back at Edinburgh Road.
Come on, Neve. Pull yourself together .
‘Well, that depends,’ I say, sipping my coffee, which is just how I like it, strong and smooth. ‘How much are you looking to spend?’
He grimaces. ‘Not a fortune, sadly. I spent enough buying it in the first place.’
How are we ever going to afford something like that?
Mortgage ourselves up to the eyeballs and die broke and in debt, obviously.
But we’ll be happy.
Ash misinterprets my expression. ‘I inherited some money from my grandmother. Could never have afforded it otherwise. As it is, I’m mortgaged up to the eyeballs.’
I open my mouth to tell him I wasn’t making assumptions about his finances, but he’s already moved on.
‘It all depends on what you’d suggest.’
‘Well, we’re definitely not talking about spending a fortune. First, I’d say you need to energise the space with some colour.’ I get up with my coffee and cross the room towards the sofa – a blank block of charcoal grey, no cushions, no pattern. ‘But you don’t want to overcrowd it, or complicate it. You just need a few well-judged additions.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, most people would be tempted to buy everything vintage, but you need to work some modern pieces in too or it will end up looking... too theme-y.’
‘Theme-y. Exactly. I was worried about that.’
‘But you can nod to it. Don’t be afraid of vintage, but don’t flood the place with it either, you know? You could go for some reworked industrial pieces, which will give you enough of a modern twist.’
He is frowning, nodding. ‘Reworked pieces. Yes.’
I press my palm against a warm patch of sunlit brickwork. ‘And brick’s a gift, actually. It can carry bright colours really well, so don’t be afraid to be bold. It’s all quite monochrome in here. Plus, brass and steel always make a good textural contrast to brickwork, which you could achieve with lamps or picture frames.’ I glance at him, and he’s smiling. ‘What?’ I say, smiling uncertainly back at him.
‘No, it’s...’ He shakes his head. ‘I love how passionate you are. Carry on.’
‘Well, I always advise clients to experiment with texture – if you use different materials, it can help the place to feel cosy, even though it’s a big space.’ I spin round, taking in the scale of the room again. ‘So, you could use curtains in here, instead of blinds, for example. Oh, and you need a few lamps, to create a softer ambiance... and you could actually ask Parveen for ideas about art. She’s kind of our in-house expert.’
‘I could just buy more Hopper.’
I smile. ‘Definitely not. That much I do know. You need to mix it up.’
Ash walks over to the pendant lampshades suspended over the table and kitchen area. They’re a strange shade of bottle green that’s far too heavy for the airy space. ‘What about these?’
‘I’d actually recommend glass.’
‘The filament-style ones? I quite like those.’
I shake my head. ‘Too much. I’ll find you some good ones.’
He tops up our coffees and we go outside onto the balcony. The punchy scent of river water is drifting up towards us, mingled with the fragrance of blossom.
‘So, where did you live before this?’ I ask.
‘Actually, for a while... Airbnbs. Friends’ sofas. My parents’ place, for a few months.’ He lets out a breath. ‘My girlfriend and I were sharing a place together, but...’
I wait for the pause to unfold.
‘I found out... she’d been seeing someone else.’
‘I’m sorry. How long had you been—’
‘Two years. Missed all the signs.’ He shakes his head, sips his coffee. ‘How about you? Do you... live with anyone?’
‘No. I’ve... been focusing on work recently, really. I broke up with someone last year.’ I throw him a look of solidarity. ‘He was seeing a friend of mine, I think. They’re getting married now. He rang me a couple of weeks back, to tell me.’
Ash looks appalled. ‘God. That’s brutal. At least Tabitha had the decency to slink off and never contact me again.’
‘It’s fine,’ I assure him, with a smile. ‘I don’t think by the end I was really in love with him anyway.’
And then – maybe it is something about the way Ash returns my smile, that kilowatt gaze of his, that makes my mind pivot back to Jamie. I still can’t work out why Ash resembles him so closely. Is it linked to the accident, his lightning strike? I don’t see how it can be, and I have no idea yet how the dots join up. But something about it all is nagging at me. The personality change he says he went through.
‘Can I ask you something? If you don’t mind talking about it.’
‘Sure.’
I try not to picture Jamie, his twisted body in the road, being pummelled by falling rain. ‘What... happened on the night of your accident?’
He sips his coffee, takes a few moments to answer. ‘I don’t have massively clear memories of it, actually. But from what I can remember, and the stuff I’ve been told, it was this insane weather, like... the most apocalyptic storm you’ve ever seen. And I was at a mate’s flat, and he had this little balcony, and being the idiot I was, I thought I’d go outside and—’ He breaks off, shakes his head. ‘Actually, I honestly don’t know what I was doing. Squaring up to the lightning, or something.’
Despite myself, I smile. ‘Wow. Picking a fight with a thunderstorm?’
‘Like I said. I was an idiot back then. Anyway, that was when... I was hit.’
‘What did it feel like?’
‘No idea, thankfully. I can’t remember.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘I was in hospital for a week.’
‘Were you injured? Physically, I mean.’
‘Some burns. And broken ribs from the CPR.’
‘CPR? You mean—’
He nods. ‘Yeah. My heart did actually stop beating. They had to bring me back.’
‘That’s crazy,’ I say quietly.
‘Yeah. I’m... insanely lucky.’ He lets out a breath. ‘What else? I have some scars on my chest.’
‘From the lightning?’
He nods. ‘I’m like, a much cooler Harry Potter.’
‘Is that how you introduce yourself to girls in bars?’
‘Oh, so that’s where I’ve been going wrong.’
I smile. Then I take a breath, start to probe again in a way I know I probably shouldn’t. But I feel a deep, elemental need to know. ‘And mentally... you said you felt different too? Like you’d had a personality change?’
‘Well, the best way to describe it is as though I’d had this bolt of clarity. Like I’d been sleepwalking up till that point. That was when I quit medicine, moved to London to train as an architect. Everyone around me thought I’d lost my mind, obviously. They all thought I had a brain injury or something.’
‘And... did you?’ I ask, as delicately as possible.
‘Did I what?’
‘Have a brain injury.’
He shakes his head. ‘Thankfully, no. Given that most people in my position – they wouldn’t have survived. Or they’d have had severe brain damage, or been in a coma, or had long-term neurological issues. I mean, I do get occasional nerve pain, but nothing like what I could be living with. That’s why I find the whole “lightning strike” thing a bit frustrating. The novelty factor. Because actually, it can destroy lives. Has destroyed lives.’
‘And your family and friends,’ I press. ‘You said they think you’re like a different person?’
He nods. ‘Yeah. I guess because after it happened, I seemed to have this sudden sense of... disconnect from them. Like the people and things I’d known my whole life felt... I don’t know. Alien. Like they were nothing to do with me. And my memories from before the accident became patchy. I could only seem to remember stuff when people prompted me. I had this very definite sense of... being dropped into a life I didn’t recognise. And that was upsetting for everyone.’
‘But for you?’
He takes a couple of moments to consider this, as though it’s the first time anyone has asked. ‘Not... so much. People kept telling me I’d changed, and I knew it objectively, but I couldn’t feel it, you know? And the thing is, leaving my old life behind actually felt good. Because people change all the time, right? They grow, become better versions of themselves.’
I nod. They do, but... ‘Didn’t you ever think it was strange, though? Didn’t you want an explanation?’
He shrugs. ‘No, because it wasn’t medical. Looking back, it was more like... a life stage. A wake-up call.’
‘But your family never accepted it.’
‘No. And it is hard for me to think they still pine for the loud-mouthed idiot I was back then. But it’s been nearly nine years. I guess as time moves on, I’m hoping they might forget who was I before and concentrate on who I am now.’
He tells me about his twin sister, an anaesthetist who lives in Norwich. But he says they don’t hang out much.
‘We don’t have... loads in common any more. She’s still a bit of a wild child, I guess you could say.’ He shakes his head. ‘I know I’m supposed to miss Gabi, and the bond we used to have, but... I guess I’ve just moved on.’
‘Sorry. Feel like I’m grilling you a bit.’
He smiles. ‘I do normally have to be a couple of whiskies down before I get into stuff like this, but with you... I guess not.’ He tips his coffee cup to me in a kind of toast as I feel his ankle find mine.