I’m rinsing the shampoo out of my hair when I hear the front door slam.
‘In the shower!’ I yell, stating the obvious. Our flat is small and our shower is noisy. We don’t have a bath. I have to brush my teeth sitting on the loo to avoid feeling claustrophobic: yeah, that’s how small it is. But we have perks. Our fridge has an inbuilt ice machine and our kitchen door opens out onto the low-level shared patio, making ours the only flat in this redbrick Victorian house with direct garden access.
I don’t know where Jack’s been. He wasn’t home when I got in from school a couple of hours ago and he’d left his phone by the blue Marrakech dish where we keep our keys on the bookshelf in the hall. Wherever he’s been, I hope he’s brought me a Kinder Bueno. Or a Magnum. Perfect weather for a Magnum.
I apply conditioner and leave it to work its magic while shaving my legs and under my arms. It’s a lot of effort to look effortless when it’s hot, but needs must. The whole country is experiencing a heatwave and we’re heading out to sit in the basement of a pub in Greenwich. I can’t imagine there’ll be any air-conditioning and sweat will be dripping off the walls, so I need to wear next to nothing. We’re going to a comedy night – one of the comedians on the bill is a best mate of Jack’s. I’ve not met this mate before, but apparently he’s close to the bone: you either find him hilarious or utterly offensive.
Through the transparent shower enclosure, I see the bathroom door open just a little.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I ask, making the mistake of rubbing my eyes with shaving gel on my fingertips and squirming at the sting. ‘Jack?’
Jack doesn’t respond.
I rinse my face, turn the water off and grab a towel. The bathroom door is slightly ajar.
‘Jack?’
As I wrap the towel around myself, wet hair dripping onto my shoulders, the screech of a bar stool against the laminate floor tells me he’s in the kitchen. Maybe I should drop the towel, give him a proper welcome home surprise: do a little shimmy-shake. But I expose myself involuntarily when I scream and the towel falls to the ground.
‘Who are you?!’ I hear from the man standing before me.
I scramble to cover myself, shaking.
‘Who the hell are you?!’ I manage.
He’s about twice my age, edging on seventy, but in good shape and a little taller than me. Smart, silver-haired with an impressive hairline, cleanly shaven and wearing a light blue shirt with tailored shorts, he’s pale, but doesn’t look ill. His mouth is hanging open so wide that I can see his gold and silver fillings. I’ve seen his photo – it’s on the fridge, beside where he’s standing now, held up with a magnet of the Leaning Tower of Pisa – except he’s decades older in real life. The shape of his green eyes behind his spectacles is eerily familiar. I know exactly who this man is. He’s Jack’s dad.
Gripping the towel around me with a tight fist, I wipe my free hand dry and offer it. ‘I’m Chloe.’
John seems reluctant to accept at first, and we exchange the flimsiest of handshakes as he looks around the flat at anything other than my almost naked body. His focus falls upon last night’s dirty dishes. Jack made bolognese. I’d made a lame attempt to start washing up, filling the saucepan with soapy water and letting it soak: remnants of minced beef and chopped onions float around like dead fish.
‘Sorry, the place is usually a bit cleaner than this,’ I say.
‘It’s not a problem,’ he mumbles, a soft northern lilt in his voice, although I know he’s lived the majority of his life down south. He removes his specs, rubbing his eyes with just his thumb and index finger. ‘Uh – who did you say you were again?’
‘Chloe …’
‘Ah, yes. Chloe.’
‘It’s nice to finally meet you; although I wish I was more suitably dress—’
‘Wait. I – I can’t recall knowing about a – erm – Chloe.’
‘Jack never mentioned me?’
‘He … He – erm – never …’
‘Are you okay? Mr Carmichael?’
‘It’s John. Call me John, please.’
I go to the sink, turn on the tap and fill a glass that’s been draining on the side. ‘Drink this,’ I say.
He thanks me with a nod and drinks fast, dribbling onto his shirt. I pretend not to notice and turn around to look at the photo on the fridge: Jack on his dad’s shoulders on a beach in Majorca.
‘It’s such a coincidence,’ I say. ‘I went to the same resort with me mum and dad when I was little, so I recognised that beach straight away. Jack said you stayed in a villa, but we were on a package holiday. Imagine if we were there at the same time, though. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? It was 1989, I think. Can you remember when this was taken? Jack’s rubbish with dates, isn’t he?’
‘Chloe,’ John says, solemnly. ‘Jack’s dead.’
‘Y’what?’
I’m still looking at the photo. An uncontrollable rush of giggles empties from within me. I don’t know how to stop them spilling out of my mouth. Did he just say that Jack was dead? Dead? How is that even possible when his bolognese leftovers are still stuck to the plate by the sink?
‘I’m sorry to break the news,’ John says. ‘I presume you were his – erm – girlfriend?’
‘I am,’ I catch my breath. ‘I am his girlfriend. What’s going on? And why don’t you know who I am? Is this some sort of prank?’
‘It’d be a pretty cruel prank, my dear.’
I must turn around. I must stop looking at this fucking photograph.
But when I do, I don’t like what I see in John’s face. It’s broken. And this is nothing to do with age. Tears are streaming from beneath his specs, rolling down his cheeks. He dabs them with a white cotton handkerchief. I love how men from that generation always have a handkerchief.
‘Jack’s dead?’ I ask.
John nods.
‘I promise I didn’t mean to laugh just then.’
John nods again. He knows.
A breeze floats in through the open window above the sink. On a day as hot as today, it should be embraced, but I begin to shiver. John steps forward – perhaps to try and comfort me, or maybe he’s decided to close the window – but his foot knocks one of the two bar stools. A stack of textbooks lying haphazardly on the seat falls to the ground between us, loose papers fluttering down in slow motion like white birds. I go to pick them up, but hesitate to ensure my dignity is intact. John gets to the books first. He lays them on the breakfast bar, one by one, reading the titles quietly aloud.
‘Macbeth, Blood Brothers, An Inspector Calls …’
‘They’re mine,’ I tell him. ‘For work.’
‘You’re an actress?’
‘No, a teacher.’
‘Ah, English literature?’
‘Drama,’ I say, apologetically. I don’t know why. ‘I’m covering someone on mat leave.’
John puts the books into a neat pile and hands them over to me, but I don’t accept them, keeping my hands tight onto my towel. He returns them to the stool. Every second that passes feels like an hour, a year.
‘So, how did …’ I attempt, but I can’t find the words to continue.
‘An accident. Hit by a van.’
‘Oh!’ I laugh again.
‘It happened on this road, just a few yards from here.’
‘But, how? I mean, Jack’s unmissable. He’s a massive, hairy bear.’
An almighty din startles me and I gasp, my heart now plunged into the pit of my stomach. My phone is ringing. It’s on the breakfast bar, dancing to the vibration. John and I both stare at the device like an alien has invaded, the single word ‘Mum’ lighting up the screen. It rings and rings and rings, and then it stops. I release a sigh, as does John, who looks as if he’s about to say something. Then a message alert interrupts him.
‘Sorry, John,’ I say, snatching my phone.
The message contains a photo of a wicker laundry basket lined with beige gingham cotton.
Isn’t this lovely? Shall I get it for your new flat? Mum x
My flat isn’t new. My mum hasn’t been to visit yet because she lives in Liverpool and I only recently moved in. My suitcases aren’t even fully unpacked yet: the Ikea drawers we purchased last weekend are still flat-packed. Jack, however, has been living here for three years. He has the laundry sorted. Had the laundry sorted. Fucking hell, must I resort to past tense already? Over a wicker basket?
I type back.
Thanks Mum but we’ve got one. Xx
She replies straight away.
It’s only 8.99 you know.
Caught in a freakish crossover of past and present, I ignore my mum’s persistence and notice that another message looms for me, unread, received at 11.33 this morning. It’s from Jack.
Pizza at Dough-Re-Mi before the comedy? X
Yes, I want to reply. Yeah, definitely. But Jack’s phone is on the bookshelf in the hall and he has no way of coming home to get it because he’s been—
‘Hit by a van?’ I ask John. ‘Seriously?’
‘Shortly after lunchtime.’
‘Why has nobody told me until now?’ Why does my voice sound so normal?
‘We didn’t know about you.’
And yet I know about John. About how he grew up on a farm in Lancashire and moved to London when he was twenty-two. He married his wife, Trish, and they settled in Berkshire, had three sons, Jack in the middle. I know that he’s retired now, but he used to own a company that made stationery. He sold it for a good amount, but not as good as he’d hoped for. I know that he supports Manchester United, although, unlike Jack, he’s never been to a game, and that he’s a huge Barry Manilow fan – like, borderline obsessed.
But John – he didn’t know about me. Seems Trish didn’t – well, doesn’t – either.
‘Jack’s driving licence still has our house as his permanent address,’ John tells me. ‘I was home today when the police came to inform us. He was killed on the scene.’
This can’t be true. We’re going to a comedy night.
‘I’m here to find Jack’s phone,’ John continues. ‘His work, his friends need to – erm – know.’
‘I was hoping for a Kinder Bueno,’ I think, perhaps aloud.
‘Sorry?’
‘Or a Magnum. Perfect weather for a Magnum.’
I stare at my phone, at the last communication I’ll ever receive from Jack; except it’s interrupted with another message from my mum, followed by another photo.
Chloe look! Cushion covers to match the wicker basket. Aren’t they lovely?
My phone slips out of my hand and crashes to the floor. John’s arms envelop my bare shoulders and I freeze, allowing this stranger’s embrace to hold me together so I don’t crack. I’m completely naked beneath this towel and I can hear Jack’s king-size laugh bouncing off these basement walls at the sight of his dad and his girlfriend being pelted head-first into a top-notch awkward moment.
Except I can’t hear Jack’s laugh, can I?