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51
Rebecca
‘Let me get us a top-up,’ Jack said, disappearing out to the kitchen.
While he was gone, I went over to the window and looked out at the view for what was probably the last time. If I lived on this side of the building, I’d miss the heath, the way the landscape changed right in front of your eyes. How the light was hazy and bright now and seemed to go on forever in the summer months. But what I was really going to miss was seeing Jack (or hearing him, at least) every day.
He came back and refilled our glasses.
‘So,’ he said. ‘I know you can see boxes everywhere, but I’m not actually moving out as such.’
‘You’re not?’ I asked, resisting the urge to whoop with joy. It wouldn’t have been the same at Marlowe Court without him in it, but it was more than that. My life wouldn’t be the same without him full stop.
‘I’m moving into Clive’s.’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry, what?’
Jack smiled. ‘Your PR campaign for Greenhill Lodge worked wonders. He’s moving in there in a couple of weeks. He’s asked me to live in his flat for the time being and only wants money for bills, or so he says. I’m going to sneakily find some way of getting some rent money to him, though.’
I swallowed. ‘So you’ll be living downstairs?’
He nodded.
‘You do realise we’ll have the same view, now?’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, moving closer to me. ‘And when I look out of the window, I’ll be able to picture you, two floors above me, looking at exactly the same thing.’
I held my breath, watching him. He put his glass down on the windowsill and then he took my head in his hands. It felt as if everything was finally fitting into place.
‘I got that job, by the way,’ I said.
‘I knew you would,’ he said, kissing me.
I pulled off his T-shirt. He slipped his hands under my top, easing it over my head.
One advantage of being at Jack’s was that this time I didn’t need to worry about who might be watching us through the window, but, in truth, I didn’t care anyway. All I knew was that I never wanted to let him go.
Afterwards, we finished the wine and sat around, him with his boxers on and me in just his T-shirt. I wasn’t feeling the urge to bolt, which was promising.
‘Haven’t you got anything colourful in your wardrobe?’ I asked, laughing.
‘I don’t think so,’ he replied.
My stomach rumbled.
‘You’re hungry,’ he said.
‘I wasn’t, but now I am.’
‘Shall I make you something?’
‘You’d really do that? For me?’
He nodded. ‘Course. I love cooking. I’ve always got stuff going on in my head – other people’s words, or regrets about stuff, or rehashing old auditions I’ve had and didn’t get. Sometimes it’s a bit much, but when I’m cooking, I forget all of that and just focus on the recipe, on following the method. And I love food, so …’
‘I don’t really cook,’ I said.
‘I thought not.’
