I follow him, attempting not to ogle the gorgeous swell of his bum in his jeans. It’s a losing battle and one I’ve fought since I was eleven and eating soup in the kitchen of my family home. Young Arlo had looked up and seen a vision at the door—Jack in sweaty football gear that clung to his fifteen-year-old body like glue. And then Young Arlo had promptly had several revelations about his sexuality. He’d had to shelve thinking about them for a few hours, however, because he inhaled a crouton and, while choking, fell over and knocked himself out on the kitchen table.
Not my finest moment, but looking back, not my worst either.
That summer, I spent several months following Jack and my brother around, much to my brother’s mystification, as we were at that point in our relationship where he frequently wanted to batter me. I ceased my youthful pursuit of Jack when two things happened. The first was that my brother threatened to pull off my arms and legs slowly and then tell mum, if I didn’t stop following him and impeding his wooing of his crush at the time. The second was that Jack got himself a girlfriend—Samantha Hampson. I’d wallowed in misery for at least a month, and then my natural optimism surfaced, telling me that he’d notice me soon and that Samantha was a total ho and unworthy of my beloved.
He never did notice me, of course. Samantha went the way of many of his girlfriends, and then, after he came out as bisexual, his boyfriends. They were all perfect-looking, and they dated exclusively and generally looked like something from toothpaste commercials. But invariably something went wrong, and they’d vanish, only to be replaced by the next perfect specimen.
I curl my lips at the thought of his latest one. Steven, who is spectacularly good-looking but also a complete twat. He’s cold and deeply possessive of Jack’s time, but Jack never seems to notice. My stomach roils a little at the thought that Steven has lasted longer than anyone else. Maybe this is it. They’ll get married and settle down and raise children or penguins, or whatever people in perfect relationships do.
Not that I’d know. My love life is as scatty as my timekeeping, and my partners have all largely become the stuff of family legends—hilarious stories to be related at family parties to newcomers, like the time my boyfriend from university got stupendously drunk and refused to talk to anyone apart from our family dog. After a full weekend of deep and meaningful chats, Fee-Fee looked like she was glad to see the back of us when we went back to uni.
I don’t think I ever expected Jack to look at me, though. I’m his best friend’s little brother. The nuisance whose knees he patched up after a fall and who he tried to teach how to fish until he had to give up when I fell in the river. He’d never look at disastrous me.
Unfortunately, even with this knowledge, I’ve never been able to completely shelve my youthful infatuation. Maybe because it was first love—intensely painful when it happens to you, like slamming your head into a kitchen table, but bits of it linger in lines on your heart. Maybe it’s also because he’s a genuinely lovely person, inside and out. He’s kind and thoughtful and clever and has never talked down to me.
We make our way over to the bank of seats near the huge window. I determinedly turn my gaze away from the view of the planes waiting outside. There’ll be plenty of time to think about flying later. I focus my interest instead on Jack, who is stripping off his jumper to reveal a white T-shirt that clings to his chest and highlights his bulging biceps. His skin is a lovely clear olive, and, as he folds his jumper into his bag, the veins in his forearms flex.
We sit for a few minutes in a comfortable silence as he drains his drink and surprisingly doesn’t look like he’s going to vomit afterwards. Then he makes sure the teabag is neatly set inside the cup before fastening the lid back on as thoroughly as any barista. I watch him affectionately. Jack gives new meaning to the word careful. He’s a perfectionist through and through, which in his job is good, because who wants an architect who gets a bit distracted and forgets to include the roof on a house? However, I’m not sure his carefulness is good for him in his private life. He could really do with letting go a bit.
He gathers my empty cup, which looks distinctly grubbier than his own, and vanishes to place them neatly in the rubbish bin.
I smile at him as he comes back. “Why didn’t you travel with everyone else? East Midlands Airport is a bit far from London.”
I’m on a one-year contract to cover maternity leave at a private school in Derby, but the rest of my family and friends are in London.
“Disappointed?” he asks.
I laugh. “Of course not.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”
“Why on earth would I?” I ask, mystified.
“I was visiting my parents, so I said I’d catch the plane from here instead.”
I grimace before I can help myself and then pretend to cough as he looks at me curiously. I fucking hate his parents. They are, in my opinion, responsible for the way Jack is so obsessed with perfection. He’s their only child, which was probably a blessing for all other potential children, but it meant that they focused their full attention on him. He had to dress the best and be the best at all times. There was no time for youthful indiscretions when there were A-Levels to be taken in the future and sports to come first in. And that was when he was seven. It’s a testament to Jack’s inherently sweet personality that he didn’t turn out like Attila the Hun with those parenting techniques.
“How lovely,” I say faintly, and he watches me with humour twinkling in his eyes. “How are Derek and Barbara? Did they enjoy the move?”
His parents moved to Eyam a few months ago, a tiny village in Derbyshire whose last natural disaster before Derek and Barbara was the Black Death.
“Much the same as usual.”
“That bad, eh,” I say carelessly and then blanch. Shit.
Before I can apologize, he laughs and says, “Probably. Especially after I shared my news.”
Oh my God, he’s engaged. I stare at him, aware that I must look like I’ve inhaled cat sick, but I can’t stop myself.
“You okay?” he asks, looking torn between patting me on the back or performing the Heimlich manoeuvre. He’s had to do both for me over the years.
“Fine, fine,” I say heartily. “Erm, what news?”
He grimaces. “Steven and I split up.”
“Really? That’s amazing.” I say this way too loudly, and the couple next to us immediately look up. I frown at them repressively while getting my jubilation under control. When I’m satisfied that I’ve done it, I pat his arm. “I’m so sorry. How awful for you both.”
“Really?” The incredulity is loud in his voice. “You couldn’t stand him.”
“That’s just not true. Where on earth did you get that idea from?” I ask heartily.
“Erm, you told me.”
“Really?” I wrack my brain. “When did I do that?”
“When you were drunk last Christmas.”
“Oh. Oh dear, I’m so sorry.”
He laughs. “Why? You were being honest. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”
“Really?” I sound as breathy as Marilyn Monroe in her heyday. I really want to know what other things he likes about me, but I settle for asking, slightly uneasily, “And what else did I say? Because I have no memory of this conversation at all.”