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‘Pass,’ says Owen, and when I look at him, he gives a tiny, weak smile. ‘Wasn’t expecting to see you here.’
‘Minutes,’ I say. ‘Michael wanted me here.’ And really, that last piece of information isn’t relevant, and not strictly true, but I want him to know. I want him to know I have that something he was sure I didn’t have. Ambition. Brains. Beingmore.More than just clumsy, chaotic Millie who gets up too late. He still has this way of making me feel like some sort of clueless sidekick, who doesn’t really know what she’s doing.
‘Oh, yeah?’ he asks. ‘And how’re you finding it? The game days .?.?.’
‘Great.’ I force a smile, and so does he. This. Is.Awkward.After fleeing from him at the party, after wriggling out of his grasp, I was sure he wouldn’t want to talk to me again.
Owen ducks slightly, but he doesn’t drop his voice like I expect him to. Not enough to conceal what he’s saying anyway. ‘I hope it’s OK, but – I spoke to your dad again. To check in on him. ’ And there’s that slight jolt of something again, pinging through me, like a pinball, flicked. Unease. That nostalgic, nerves feeling again.
‘Did you?’ and I do whisper, hoping he will follow suit. But he doesn’t. He’s doing that thing he does sometimes. That theatrical, slightly performative, almost self-conscious gesturing, his voice, slightly more well-spoken than normal. Like he’s conscious of being watched.
‘He called. We had a nice chat. But I wanted to mention it to you because – I don’t want you to think I’m .?.?. encroaching, or—’
‘And was he OK?’
‘He seemed it,’ says Owen, with a smile. ‘In quite good spirits. You know how he is, the old boy, bless him.’
‘Right. Good.’ It’s weirdly familiar, his language. Like we haven’t been broken up for over two years. Like he didn’t leave the daughter of the man he’s talking about, heartbroken and in pain.
‘And you know, if you need anything else.’ Owen’s knee touches mine. ‘We’re all adults here, right? Enough water has passed under the bridge .?.?.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘Yes. Thanks, Owen.’ But rather than feeling comforted, that I have someoneelsein all this, who knows us, especially with Kieran, oblivious and cotton-wool-wrapped, oceans away, I feel unsettled. My family is shaken up. Do I really need Owen slotting himself in the middle of it? He may just be trying to help but .?.?.is he actually? I’m sure anyone eavesdropping would agree; say ‘Yes, he’s being civil. He’s being kind. You heard the man, you’re all adults.’ But then, what about those words he spoke at the party, by the lake?A part of me still loves you.If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he wants people to hear him, right now; see us.
‘Right! Shall we begin?’ claps Paul, from the front of the room.
And as I sit up, pen poised, Jack looks over his shoulder at me, then away again.
Chapter Twenty
Text message from Jack:Hey. Still free?
Text message from Millie:Haha, well, it’s 10 p.m. on a Wednesday night, what do you think?
*
I’m in bed watchingBelow Deckwhen Jack texts, and trying to embroider a picture for Cate for Christmas – a cat wearing a Christmas tree hat, although so far, it looks more like a little one-eyed goat with a head full of vegetation. And I’m still there, ten minutes later when he follows it with a call.I sit bolt upright, like a vampire in a coffin, and stare at the screen.Jack Shurlock calling .?.?.My cheeks flood with warmth, a Pavlovian (or Shurlockian) response.
‘Hello?’ I answer, in the way you might when you’re sure it’s a butt dial.
‘Hey,’ he says, a smile in his voice. ‘What’re you up to?’ His voice sounds even deeper, huskier on the phone.
‘About the same as what I was up to ten minutes ago,’ I say. ‘Expertly screwing up a craft project and watching TV in bed. You?’
‘In bed, eh?’ he asks. ‘I’m sitting here, on my sofa. Just got home from playing five-a-side.’
‘In this rain? In themud?’
‘Iwascovered in mud, yeah. I’ve just showered,’ he says, and I am now, of course, imagining him on the sofa, a towel around his muscular hips .?.?. ‘Anyway, if you’re still free, I wondered if you wanted to – what is it you said? Step into the vortex?’
I laugh. ‘And what exactly does that entail?’ and for a moment, I wonder – is this a .?.?. booty call? It’s certainly the time for it. And do I want to respond to said booty call? (Er.Yes.)
‘Driving for half an hour,’ he says.
‘Driving?’ Okay, perhapsnota booty call.
‘Yup. To somewhere that I know you’ll love.’
I flip the duvet off my legs. One-eyed goat cat goes flying in the air, lands on the carpet. ‘Now?’
