Page 52 of The Christmas Letter

‘I . . .’ She looked up at him out of those blue eyes, then looked down at the floor, blinking. ‘Never mind.’ She gave his shoulder a squeeze, still not looking at him. ‘Goodbye, Jack.’

‘Yeah.’ He opened the door, looking back at her one last time. ‘Bye, Ness.’

His phone rang as he headed out onto the street.

‘Why aren’t you in the office?’ Ed demanded when Jack picked up.

‘Vanessa wanted to meet,’ Jack said, his voice more tired than it should be for the middle of the day. ‘So I took the day off.’ And she was a social media manager who worked from home, meaning her hours were of her choosing.

‘Ah. How’d that go?’

‘Well, it went.’ Jack headed for the train station automatically. ‘Anyway, you need me?’

‘Nah, mate, it can wait.’

‘Ed,’ Jack said sternly.

‘Jack,’ Ed said just as firmly. ‘I am not asking you about work when you’ve just gone and seen your soon-to-be-ex-wife for the first time in nine months.’

‘I suppose work can wait. And it’s just ex-wife now. It’s official.’

‘Is that so? How are you feeling?’

‘I don’t know. Weird.’

‘Are you on your way back home? Why don’t you take a detour? We can meet for a pint or two, and I can tell you all the things you have to look forward to as a single man.’

Jack was on the verge of agreeing, thinking that he really didn’t want to go back to his depressing little flat right now. But the conversation with Vanessa was replaying on a loop in his mind – and one bit was sticking out, getting louder and louder each time.

She was in a bit of a temper, the way only certain things can fire you up.

‘Actually, do you know what?’ he said decisively. ‘I’ve got plans.’

‘Have you?’

Jack tried not to be offended by the shock in Ed’s voice. ‘Yeah.’

‘You didn’t have plans when I asked yesterday.’

‘Well, call me spontaneous.’

‘Mate, no one has ever called you spontaneous in your life.’ There was a pause. And then, ‘Does this have anything to do with that woman who showed up a few weeks ago? The hot redhead who you spent the whole weekend with and then pretended was a figment of my imagination?’

How? How had Ed guessed it in bloody one? ‘Ah . . . maybe. How did you . . . ?’

‘Because, Jack . . . You are not spontaneous, but you asked her out on the spot.’

Jack shook his head as he turned into Balham station. From here to Clapham – and from Clapham to Windsor. ‘Well, if it makes you feel any better, the spontaneity was three years in the making.’

Chapter Seventeen

Within two hours, Jack was standing outside a sixth-form college, feeling like a total idiot. He was hovering near a bench on the grass on the outskirts of the car park, trying not to look odd or out of place, but feeling too uncomfortable to go into the school and ask for Holly. It didn’t help that the building itself looked like it could be some sort of bloody country hotel, with big pillars either side of the entrance to what he presumed was reception, a clock tower extending above, the red brick of the rest of the building bright in the June sunshine. A far cry from the secondary school he’d attended in Plymouth.

It was four thirty p.m., and the end of the school day: hordes of teenagers were swarming out of the building and heading towards the car park. No sign of any teachers, though. Maybe they had a different finishing time? He had no idea how it worked. He’d never paid that much attention to what his own teachers had done – he’d put his head down, worked hard to get the grades, but generally got out of there as soon as possible at the end of each day, like everyone else.

He was just thinking that maybe he should give up, when he saw her, coming out between the pillars, the sunlight glinting off her hair. He felt the flash of heat running down his spine, told himself it was just the warmth of the summer’s day. She was walking side-by-side with a woman with chestnut-coloured curls, the kind that bounced when she walked, and a skinny man with blond hair that was thinning out on top. It was Holly he couldn’t stop looking at, though. She was wearing a short-sleeved, bright-blue shirt and a black skirt, with white pumps. Her arms were bare, though she was still as pale as he’d seen her in March. There was no reason, none at all, for the completely teacher-appropriate outfit to look sexy, yet somehow it did. It was the colour, he thought. The way it offset that quick, vibrant way she always moved, making her seem somehow . . . electric.

He didn’t have to wave or shout to get her attention. He saw it, the moment she clocked him. He saw her stumble, tripping over her own feet as she came to a stop. Saw the way her eyes widened, then flickered to either side of him, as if looking for an explanation. He straightened, coming out from beneath the shade of the nearest tree, stepping from the grass to tarmac, in between two parked cars.