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43
Rebecca
I’d dressed more casually than usual, in jeans and a white vest with spaghetti straps, my hair scraped up in a bun. I always seemed to be dolled up when I bumped into Jack; he probably thought I looked smart 24/7.
When I walked back into the lounge clutching a Negroni in each hand, Jack was standing in front of the fireplace, peering at the photo of me with Mum and Dad. I was about five and we were on holiday, at a caravan park in Great Yarmouth. I had sparkling eyes and ice-cream smeared around my mouth. Mum had a straw bag over her shoulder. I always remembered her with that. She had everything in there: her diary, a snack for me, a travel pack of tissues, her unnecessarily enormous purse, the shiny coral-pink lipstick she always wore.
‘Your parents look lovely,’ he said, running his finger around the edge of the frame.
‘They were.’
‘Do you still miss them?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘Every day.’
I handed him a Martini glass full of brown liquid. It was as if we were both being very careful not to touch each other while we passed the drink from one hand to another.
‘Sorry, these are in the wrong glasses. They should be served in an old-fashioned, apparently.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a short tumbler,’ I said.
‘It smells good,’ he said, inhaling the heady scent of bitter orange and vermouth. ‘And who cares about the glasses?’
He went over to the window.
‘You were right about how different your view is,’ he commented.
It was still light, but the sky was turning a darker, duskier blue. Every so often the front door slammed; 7–8 was rush hour for Marlowe Court, with everyone arriving home from work.
‘Do you know any of these people?’ he asked, pointing to the flats opposite.
‘I feel like I do. You get to know their schedules. What time they eat, whether they work, who’s got a boyfriend, who’s split up with theirs,’ I replied, wondering if I was painting myself in the best light here.
‘If I lived on this side, I reckon I’d spend the entire time nosing out of the window,’ said Jack.
We actually had much more in common than I’d thought.
I went to sit on the sofa, squishing myself right up at one end so that when he sat down, there was a decent amount of space between us.
He had some of his Negroni and groaned, immediately taking another sip.
‘This is amazing,’ he said.
I shrugged lightly but was secretly pleased. All my practice had paid off.
I still couldn’t believe I’d asked him over. I thought it was probably the thought of him leaving in a month. The fact that I’d been thinking about him all the time, even though I didn’t want to. If he was only here for another four weeks, it was now or never really, wasn’t it?
‘How was your interview?’ he asked.
‘Good,’ I said. It actually had been. ‘I met the CEO again, who seems lovely. And the team I’d be working with. I think it went really well.’
He clinked his glass against mine. ‘I knew you could do it,’ he said.
‘I’ve not done it yet.’
‘I’ve got a good feeling about it.’
