Chapter 38.
Now
I grieve for every part of who we were. For the hearts drawn in shower steam, and the evenings in dark bars with espresso martinis. For walks through the city late at night, his hand in mine. For the cheese toasties in bed, and weekend coffee. For the trips we’d started to plan (a week in Iceland? Or maybe New York). For coming home from work at ten o’clock to find he’d cooked me dinner. For the steady tempo of his breath as he slept. I even miss how he’d watch me steaming the creases from my bedsheets, not laughing, but looking at me fondly, as though it was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. For the painful poker losses, and the hours spent in bed on Sunday mornings, experiencing a different kind of agony, one that was addictive and beautiful. For our future plans. For all my private dreams about housewarmings and promotions and – who knew? – maybe one day, even a family of our own. For every adventure to come.
One minute, the future felt like solid ground. The next, it was litter on a wave.
Before that night at his parents’, I’d started sorting through my things, seeing what I might be able to donate to charity, or stow in the loft, to make room for him. And so my house is filled with boxes and piles of stuff that I need to unpack again, a task I’d normally enjoy. But now I can’t even look at them.
I am reminded, sharply, of the early days after Jamie died. Of the double-takes my brain kept doing as it tried to retain the fact that he wasn’t coming back.
I tell Parveen it’s over. When she asks why, all I can say is that it’s complicated, but I’ve messed up monumentally. ‘But you were so good together,’ she says, her eyes going glossy, which makes me tearful too.
For maybe the first time ever, I start to experience something resembling resentment towards Jamie. It’s almost as if he has sabotaged Ash and me, deliberately stood in our way. On more than one occasion, I find myself staring intently at the print of Nighthawks above my bed, thinking, You weren’t wrong about coming back to haunt me, were you?
And yet. Late at night, the thought still – even now – nags at me that Jamie’s spirit, somehow, set up home in Ash one night a decade ago. That it came to shore in his blood, his bones. That it altered his chemistry, infiltrated the essence of him. That Ash is a hybrid of my past and my future, and I have no way of telling which is which.
My mother calls to say she has two almost-expired passes to a day spa, but she’s come down with flu, so do I want them?
I don’t, because I never did quite get the hang of spas. I’m just not very good at lounging about. My mother, on the other hand, could probably live in a spa, wafting around in a towelling robe and having people bring her things on trays.
But it’s a posh place, and it’s free, and it’s Lara’s birthday soon. So I could take her for an early treat, I guess. My first gift to her in nearly a decade.
Plus, the more distraction from missing Ash, the better.
I call Lara to ask. She sounds so touched I half expect her to burst into tears.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she gasps, rushing into the lobby where we’ve agreed to meet. (She’s only ten minutes late, but I guess she still remembers that I am almost pathologically punctual.) She’s out of breath, clutching her phone, manic-eyed. ‘I let my flat out to friends of a friend while I’m here, and... long story short, they’ve dropped a bottle of red wine on the floor.’
I wince. ‘Carpet?’
Her face darkens. ‘Solid oak parquet.’
‘Oh God, when?’
‘Last month . They’ve only just got around to telling me. And I don’t usually get excited about things like floors, but my heart is hurting a little bit because mine was beautiful , Neve.’
‘Have they tried to get the stain out?’
‘Oh yes. You’ll love this – I’m not joking: they tried the white wine technique .’
I cover my mouth.
‘Upturned half a bottle. I mean, seriously.’
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.
‘Was that why you were crying? Was it to do with... you and me?’
She takes a breath, as if we’re about to really get into it, then seems to change her mind. ‘No, it... Like I said. People get emotional when they’re being massaged. It’s something to do with all the toxins, apparently.’
She’s clearly not ready to open up, which I can’t really blame her for. Besides, this hardly feels like the right moment, on what is supposed to be a pre-birthday treat – not to mention the space we’re in being quieter than a library.
‘I think we should talk. About Jamie, you and me, everything,’ I say. ‘But this... doesn’t feel like quite the place to do it.’
She smiles. ‘Agreed. I heard someone fart earlier and it was louder than a jumbo jet.’
Our drinks arrive.
‘What are you doing for your actual birthday?’ I ask, taking a sip of prosecco. I don’t usually drink during the day, and I feel the alcohol spin straight to my head.
‘Felix is taking me to Rome,’ she says, slightly bashfully.
‘Wow, Lar. That’s exciting.’
‘I know. I’ve always wanted to go, properly. I worked there on a TV show when I was starting out and never really got to enjoy it, so it’s always been kind of a bucket-list place for me. Spanish Steps, Colosseum, all that history and romance and culture. We’ve got tickets to the opera. And our hotel room has a private terrace and the most insane views...’
‘Sounds incredible.’
‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘What am I thinking?’
‘That he’s flash, all about the money.’
‘I wasn’t thinking that,’ I say, even as I’m wondering, Was I?
‘You’re wrong, anyway.’
I shake my head. ‘Lar, he’s your boyfriend, he’s spoiling you. Why shouldn’t he? It’s romantic.’
She smiles faintly. ‘Yeah. Anyway. It wasn’t so long ago that Ash was sweeping you off to Europe on a romantic break.’
Even his name feels like a corkscrew to my stomach. ‘Actually... Ash and me... We’re not together any more.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Ah, it all came out. About Jamie.’
She releases a long, disappointed breath. ‘He didn’t take it well?’
‘Let’s just say my delivery could have been better. I didn’t actually tell him directly. He overheard me talking to his mum about it.’
Lara looks mildly horrified. ‘His mum ?’
‘There was prosecco.’ Sheepishly, I lift the glass I’m drinking from. ‘And it was a family dinner. Although to be honest, it felt more like a funeral by the time he threw me out.’
I can’t bring myself to mention that Juliet practically dragged it out of me. Because it wasn’t her fault. I didn’t have to say a word.
Lara makes a face like she’s watching a road traffic accident in slow motion. ‘So, he overheard you telling his mum... then what?’
‘Well, he kind of lost it, then ended it.’
She swears softly. ‘When was this?’
‘Last weekend.’
I see her take this in: seven whole days. In another life, I’d have been messaging her from Juliet’s front porch while I was waiting for the cab.
Beyond the conservatory window, a cluster of clouds moves across the sun, and for a few moments the air turns cool.
‘Has he been in touch?’
I shake my head. ‘No, and I actually think... he doesn’t want to work things out. And I can’t exactly blame him. He says he doesn’t believe in reincarnation or the afterlife or ghosts, so he’s definitely not buying my theory. He called it malarkey and claptrap .’
Lara’s eyes narrow. ‘Does he also say things like codswallop and brouhaha ?’
I smile, despite myself. ‘No.’
‘All is not lost, then.’
It is, actually . ‘He was so angry, Lar. He said it was like I’d been cheating on him. Which given what happened with Tabitha, is probably the worst thing he could think about me. But the thing is, I really did love him.’ I shake my head in frustration as a wave of sadness crests in my chest. ‘ Do love him.’
She leans forward, puts a hand on my knee. ‘Okay, I’m going to ask you something now. Promise not to get offended?’
I smile faintly. This is the kind of question my mother usually opens with when she’s about to lay into my life choices.
‘Do you really love Ash? Or do you love him because you think he’s Jamie?’
‘That’s what he said.’
She holds my gaze. ‘Well?’
‘Both. Is that possible?’
‘Not really.’
I sigh. ‘Ash said I should see a therapist. He thinks this is... unresolved grief.’
Lara just nods, then waits.
‘And ordinarily, I’d agree, but... I still can’t get past the facts. There are too many similarities. Too many coincidences. There are just... too many. And every time I read about the walk-in theory... it’s truly the only thing that makes sense.’ I shake my head. ‘Even down to little things, like... Ash would always kiss that same bit of my collarbone that Jamie liked to kiss. The exact same spot .’
Lara raises an eyebrow. ‘Not to be captious, but Felix likes to kiss that exact same part of me, too.’
As she says this, an elderly couple shuffle past in their robes, slippers slapping against the tiled floor. The woman glares at us, then looks at her husband and shakes her head.
Lara laughs as they walk off. ‘Wow. It’s been a long time since I’ve been the most salacious person in the room.’
‘So, what are you saying?’ I ask her.
‘I’m saying, maybe speaking to a counsellor isn’t such a bad idea.’
‘You think it’s all in my head?’ I’m not accusing her. I genuinely want to know.
‘No,’ she says, equably. ‘I think what I’ve always thought – that we have no idea what happens when someone dies. But I do know that you and Ash had – have – something worth fighting for, and a counsellor could help you figure out how to do that.’
I picture the way Ash looked at me last Sunday. The love had drained from his face and eyes, replaced by cold indifference.
‘And look – maybe you just need to force him to sit down and talk to you. Maybe you just need to thrash this whole thing out. Maybe... you just don’t give him the option, Neve.’
It’s only when she looks up and I meet her eye that I realise it’s possible we’re not talking about Ash any more.
When I get back home, still smelling faintly aromatic from the massage oil, I consider how a day can be pleasant and weird all at once. Even now, I’m so base-level angry with Lara, yet it’s been surprisingly easy to resurrect something bearing all the hallmarks of friendship. Because the shorthand, the history, the groundwork, is already there. I never have to explain myself to her. She knows me inside out, as I do her, despite that missing decade. Which makes the illusion deceptively easy to believe.
But just because something’s easy, doesn’t mean you should do it. Maybe, in fact, the opposite is true. It’s a bit like getting back into bed with an ex. Easy because it’s comfortable, safe, effortless. But usually a bad idea.
She pulled me into a hug as we parted ways in the car park earlier. ‘When I’m back from Rome, you and I need to talk. Properly. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I said. But something about the intense way she looked at me struck a strange chord inside me. A jumble of notes clashing deep in my belly. The chime in a film score that tells you to panic; the moment when everything changes.