My mum and dad – to my relief – are in bed.
Earlier, my dad had had some wild idea about staying in a hotel around Park Lane, finding a last-minute deal. ‘When in Rome,’ he’d said. I’d said, please, sleep in the bed, I was more than happy to sleep on the sofa. I didn’t tell him I sleep on the sofa every night.
I’m tipsy and tired. Full from the feast.
But I’m not sad.
Wait. I’ll rephrase. I’m less sad.
Now, this could be the wine.
I take my boots off by the door and tiptoe along the hallway. My mum has tidied up, even folded the tea towels into neat squares beside the sink. There’s a lamp on beneath the mugs cupboard which has never worked since I moved in. My dad’s fixed it. The light creates a pool of calm and makes the kitchen seem more spacious. I smile at the man sat in the shopping trolley, a great centrepiece. The image is so sharp; it’s still incredible to me that it was taken – hungover – on Jack’s phone. I can see us there, feel the sticky heat, the grimy city dirt between my toes in my flip-flops.
I get a pint of water, lean against the sink and down it.
Hugging the empty glass to my chest, I look at the fridge opposite, vibrant and busy. All of the should-have-beens and to-dos: ready-made plans, stuck in a time warp. I step forward, remove the Antonella business card from beneath the flip-flop magnet, hold it between my thumb and forefinger.
‘We did it,’ I whisper.
And instead of throwing the card away, I slide it into my purse. A keepsake.
Unlike going to the theatre with Si and paying that bloody gas bill, tonight feels like an achievement. Jack was so vivid. It was tough, but God, given the shit hand of cards I’ve been dealt, I’m glad I was there over any other place in the world. I had a good time. I did. A good time.
So what else can I do?
The estate agent’s card could come in handy when Jack’s brother moves in. But we missed Ross Robson’s gig. And as for the skiing lesson – well, I never had any desire to do it anyway. The tiny Vietnamese bowl of noodles sparks an ache in my chest. A trip we’ll never take.
‘Jack?’
It’s easy to imagine him here. Bloated; hiccups. He always got hiccups when we came home from fancy restaurants. He wouldn’t be staring at the fridge with me. No. His focus would be past my head, towards the wall. He’d be playing his favourite silly game.
‘What’s behind the picture?’ I hear him ask.
I turn around and face it myself. ‘What is behind the picture?’
The man’s eyes stare intently into Jack’s camera lens. Ronald McDonald stands behind the shopping trolley, a terrifying clown-god, a reminder of all things delicious and disgusting. I can taste the salt in my mouth; the sweet and sour tang of the dip. I can hear the buzz of the shopping mall, the bustle of the street. The man had sighed, and yet he was in no hurry to move. I’m there, too, now; I’m transported. And I want to answer Jack’s final question to me. I want to find out what’s going on; what’s really behind the picture.
‘We always said we’d go back there one day,’ I say, calmly.
‘And find him, Chloe. Ask him what he was doing.’
*
I wake up on the sofa to the world’s greatest smell: crispy bacon. My dad’s buttering bread and hum-singing ‘Hotel California’. My mum enters with her hair washed and styled and a full face of makeup on. Her clothes are ironed and she smells like the ground floor of John Lewis.
‘Oh, Jesus. You didn’t sleep in your mascara did you, Chloe?’
‘Morning, Tilly Mint!’
I sit up, still wearing my tiger-print dress, and smile.
‘I’m going to Bangkok,’ I tell them.
‘Y’what?’ they screech in unison.
School finishes for the summer hols this Friday. I’ll fly out on Saturday.
‘Thailand. Bangkok.’ I look past my dad and give the man in the shopping trolley a firm nod. ‘Yeah. I’m gonna go.’