Weeks passed, and I hadn’t seen Jack since the funeral when he asked the vicar to let me back into church to get my backpack.
I’d hoped he’d come back to London Lit for the final two sessions under the red ticking clock in the blue room, but although we waited hopefully for him, he didn’t turn up.
Give him time, Joan said.
So in his absence we talked about how to write a synopsis, the importance of the elevator pitch, self-publishing versus mainstream publishing and what were we doing for Christmas. We discussed the syllabus for next term and believe me, when they all signed up for it, it was as exciting as getting a second date.
I had swiftly moved out of Judy and Stephen’s – they didn’t understand it either: how could you? – and into a tiny rented studio in Kentish Town in what used to be the Old Piano Warehouse yard.
I spent the next three weeks working on an outline of Nancy and Richard’s story, and in writing it I grew familiar with what love is about; I learned that it is solid and enduring and gives vitality to life. Love is widespread, humane and not confined to couples. Nancy lived a full life and she lived it on her terms, with help at the end from those who loved her and here I include myself. Writing her story didn’t make me feel sad. It made me feel brave. It made me understand my parents better.
When the first draft was finished, I printed it up, and while it was still warm I put it in a Tesco bag and asked Jack to meet me at the Edinboro Castle, early evening.
I saw him before he saw me and I felt a sudden rush of nervous excitement. He was sitting outside in the chilly beer garden when I got there, his elbows on the wooden table, the stripy coloured scarf around his neck. The darkness was lifted by the red glow from the heater which was colouring half his profile, leaving part of him in shadow.
‘Hello, Jack.’ I put the Tesco bag containing the typescript on the table.
He smiled and looked from me to the carrier and he reached out and tapped my naked third finger which was missing a diamond ring.
‘What happened to your hero, Lana? He get eaten by a bear?’
‘No. We broke up, actually. The day of the funeral.’ I waited for a reaction. ‘This is where you chip in with some insightful comment,’ I said.
‘Why did you break up?’
‘We differed on what was important.’
He glanced up at me. ‘You differed on what was important,’ he repeated drily.
‘Basically,’ I agreed. How had we got this formal with each other? ‘How are you?’
He shrugged. ‘You know. Working.’
I thought about the day we first met. ‘Still firefighting?’
‘Yes.’ He laughed and glanced at his watch. ‘Have you got time for a quick drink?’
‘Yes, please.’
He got up to go to the bar and I couldn’t take my eyes off him as he went inside. I wanted to be with him. I loved him, I realised. I loved him. He came out with the drinks and sat down again in the rosy glow of the outdoor heater. He tapped the Tesco bag and raised his eyebrows.
‘Your book?’
‘Yes. It’s about Nancy. It was true, she did write everything down. I want you to have a look at it before I show it to Kitty.’
He looked confused. ‘I thought you were writing a romantic novel.’
I drank a mouthful of wine and shuddered. It was shockingly cold and surprisingly sour, with the flavour of an unripe gooseberry. ‘It is romantic.’
He shook his head and looked at me in cynical disbelief. ‘Yeah?’
I was so frustrated with him.
‘I don’t understand you, Jack. You think love is a waste of energy but you also said you wanted to know how our story ended – as if you didn’t have a say in it. How did you want it to end?’
‘How?’ He leant forward so that his face was close to mine. Away from the red glow of the heater, the only light in the darkness was the gleam of his eyes. He whispered: ‘Like all love stories. Happily ever after.’
‘You and me?’ I whispered back hopefully.
‘But,’ he said in his normal voice, ‘we probably differ on what’s important, right?’
I sighed, sat back and stared up at the black sky. Above us, a thin moon tipped on a cloud.
‘How could we ever have a real relationship anyway? You’ve never let me into your life. I don’t know your friends, or where you live. Was I always just Nancy’s carer to you?’
‘That’s all I wanted you to be,’ he said. ‘You’d already found your soulmate. And just when I thought we had a chance, Mark Bridges came back and suddenly you were dropping everything to be with him. You were the happiest I’d ever seen you.’
‘I know. I was wrong about him. I’m sorry I messed you around.’ Everything had changed for me, but nothing had changed for Jack. For him, love was another word for misery and pain. I wanted to pin him down now with the truth so that he couldn’t misunderstand himself out of my reach. I took a deep breath. If I couldn’t be honest about my feelings, then what was the point? I thought, folding my arms.
So I gave it my best. ‘Jack, listen to me. I love you. I love you for the way you loved Nancy and for joining the Lonely Hearts Literary Society. For being nice about my engagement to Mark even though you and Nancy hated him. And for not being surprised when I turned up at the funeral.’
Jack pondered over this speech in silence, eyes narrowed. After a moment he said, ‘Yeah, well. Actually you’re wrong, I was surprised you turned up.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘So Nancy didn’t appreciate the Mark Bridges charm, huh?’
‘Nah. She was completely impervious to it.’ I couldn’t say any more. I missed her so fiercely my eyes filmed with tears.
‘Nothing was grey with her, was it?’ he said.
The night was cold on my back but luckily the heater was so warm on my face that its glow hid my blush of shame. Well, I’d done it. I’d told him as best I could that I loved him and the conversation had altered course and he hadn’t said it back to me or even acknowledged it.
So what? I thought. I’d gambled and lost nothing but my pride. And as I’d discovered, love was worth taking a risk for. I sat up a bit straighter. It wasn’t a barter system. I could love him without him loving me.
‘You’re smiling,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I said, suddenly all business. ‘Why wouldn’t I? I’m finally writing again.’ The rest of the wine tasted mellow as I finished it off. ‘Let me know if there’s anything in it you want me to change.’
I stood up, said goodbye and caught the bus home.
When I hadn’t heard from him after a few days I emailed the typescript to Kitty.
A couple of days after that I got a phone call at eight thirty on a sunny Friday morning while I was eating my porridge in my dressing gown. I assumed it was her.
It was Jack.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked abruptly. No preliminaries.
‘Nothing,’ I said warily, putting my spoon down. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve read it.’ He paused. ‘And I get it.’
My heart jumped with relief. ‘Oh! Great.’
‘I’ll meet you in Starbucks in Parkway at nine. Wear comfortable shoes.’ He hung up.
I looked at the time. Thirty minutes! Thirty minutes to get ready, made-up and get to Camden? Comfortable shoes?
I got dressed and looked at myself in the bedroom mirror. Yeah well.
It’s a bad time of the day for traffic, so I half-jogged, half-walked to Parkway and Jack was standing outside Starbucks, waiting for me. Black jeans, black coat, turquoise T-shirt. He looked tired, but sort of – different.
I greeted him cautiously. ‘Is this about the book?’
‘It is. Okay, Lana,’ he said seriously, ‘this is Starbucks. This is where I get my coffee every morning. I have a black Americano with one sweetener in it, which I order on the app.’
Obediently I went inside and we picked up the coffees.
‘Carlos, this is Lana.’
‘Hey!’
‘Hi! Thanks! So where are we—?’
‘Come on.’
Jack took me past the ladies’ toilets, across the road, past the HSBC, past the Camden Eye, past Sainsbury’s, scattering pigeons as I hurried to keep up with him, holding my cup aloft. We weaved through the bus stop queue, crossed Camden Street and went past Costa where he’d bought the bike from me, turned right into Royal College Street. We stopped outside a modern office building and went inside. Jack signed me in and we went to the first floor in a lift.
‘In here,’ Jack said when the lift stopped.
It was a large, air-conditioned office that I recognised from the website. A white Christmas tree decorated with memory sticks stood in the corner. People were working at tall desks you can stand by. Some looked over from their computers and smiled and said hello, one was making a coffee, one was on the phone. But Jack wasn’t finished. We went into an office.
‘This is Joe, my partner in the business.’
Joe, handsome, bearded, got up to shake my hand. ‘Hey, Lana! Nice to meet you at last.’
‘You too.’
‘And this is Alaska.’
‘Hi there! We’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘And this is Ben.’
‘Hi, Ben.’
‘This here is my office,’ Jack said, holding the door. Huge desk, four monitors, a black leather ergonomically designed chair.
Then we left the office with a wave and went back onto Camden Road. We passed the chemist, went over the canal as we headed back to Camden and Jack pointed out the dry cleaners.
‘This is where I get my shirts done.’ He pushed open the door. ‘Menna, this is Lana.’
She smiled, looking bemused. ‘Hello! Pleased to meet you!’
And further on: ‘This is where I have my hair cut. That’s Raj, the barber. And here, Rawhide, is where I get my shoes mended.’ We crossed Camden High Street again and walked back up Parkway. ‘That Co-op is my nearest food store, and Whole Earth, for vegetables.’
We turned left by the Edinboro Castle and Jack was still striding ahead of me as if he had a schedule to stick to.
We were walking along Mornington Terrace and halfway down he stopped at a terraced flat with terracotta-tiled steps.
‘Come on in. This is my flat.’ He took me inside – pointed out rooms in the desultory manner of an estate agent who’d failed to meet his monthly target. ‘Study, bedroom, bathroom.’ It was airy and modern. ‘The kitchen’s through there.’ A blue mug upside down on the draining board.
In the lounge he stood in front of a pebble-stacked fireplace and faced me with folded arms. The draft manuscript was on the sofa. Jack’s stubble glinted in the sunlight, his short hair gleamed. Under the straight, dark eyebrows his clear grey eyes were totally focused on mine.
‘Let me tell you about myself, Lana. Sometimes I don’t shave,’ he said. ‘I wear casual for work, unless there’s a meeting. I’m untidy but I eat my five-a-day. I work hard. I have holidays. I enjoy my time off. You know where I live and where I work. This is my life. This is me.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good, because I want to share it with you. But you should know I’m not so keen on independence. I’m not like that. I like being able to depend on people.’ He was quiet for a moment and his gaze locked on mine again. ‘I know without a doubt I can depend on you,’ he said. ‘And I want you to know you can depend on me.’
I started to cry and covered my mouth with my hand. They were the nicest words that anyone had ever said to me, and he’d said them.
‘Come here,’ he said, holding me tight and stroking my hair. ‘I appreciate the whole hero thing you did on my family, by the way. What’s that called again?’
I wiped my tears and looked up at him. ‘Characterisation.’
‘That’s it. Characterisation. The point is, now I’ve read the book, it’s clear to me that I love you.’
Heat flared through me. ‘Is it?’
‘Yeah, see …’ Jack laid his hands against my cold cheeks; his hard palms were warm and smelled of aftershave. ‘I didn’t understand it before. I didn’t recognise the positives of love. I didn’t realise what love was all about. But I do now.’ And he smeared my tears away and leant forward and kissed me, his lips soft on mine.
Happiness soared in me like delirium or the best stage of drunkenness, that moment before you reach for another glass and it all starts going downhill.
He kissed my eyelids, my lips, my throat.
His short hair was like velvet under my fingers.
And for now, that’s how it ends.
Almost.