‘On one condition,’ I say, standing up too quickly and steadying myself on the table. ‘That you don’t mention me “not knowing” Jack, or the relationship being “too short”, or any of that bullshitty bollocks the world’s harping on about.’
‘So long as you don’t mention Fergus. Or me ovaries.’
Another bottle of wine later and we’re desperate to crash. We find a twin room above a different pub in the same village and Beth makes the most of it, running a hot bubble bath for herself, nipping downstairs for a cappuccino. Not wanting to prolong today any longer than necessary, I dive under the covers of one of the beds, not even attempting to remove my black clothes or put the telly on. I pretend to be asleep when I hear Beth pottering about, and somehow it works. I sleep.
11
As we drive back to London the next morning, we listen to Graham Norton on Radio Two. Beth doesn’t pry or poke me into talking much and I’m glad. My whole body aches from a pain I can’t pinpoint.
There’s a bouquet of flowers waiting for me on the doorstep.
Wildflowers: beautiful; not your average online purchase. These were either bought in a specialist local shop or handpicked from some glorious field. A small card sits amongst the lilacs and yellows. To Chloe. It’s with love from Giles and Ingrid, the couple on the second floor. They know.
How do they know?
Trish and John must’ve told them.
They’ll be looking for a new tenant. It’s only polite to inform the neighbours.
I stand in the hallway, chuck my keys into the blue Marrakech dish, miss, and watch them fall to the carpet. I drop my cardigan; my heels; the flowers, too. I walk through our flat, brushing my middle fingers along each wall. A pair of Jack’s trainers obstructs the small space between the coffee table and the telly. How have I only just noticed that?
I open the fridge and stare at the sparse shelves: butter, an old onion, a splash of tonic water that’s gone flat. No grapes. The funeral plays over in my mind. I fast forward the worst parts, rewind the lighter moments. During the video montage, the volume of the (inappropriate) Queen song had dipped so the mourners could endure Jack’s Ali G impression, caught on an old camcorder. How I’d cringed in that back pew.
Sorry, Jack.
‘Who was that guy?’ I ask the ceiling, as you do. ‘Because he wasn’t you.’
And Florrie. That hat.
I’d been open with Jack about my previous relationships; trial and error, I’d liked to call it. I’m no hopeless romantic but in the last few years, I’d started to become intent on finding a partner in crime. Maybe it was seeing my brother happy, his wishes coming true. Maybe it was biology. I dated. Lots. Even at work, I’d engage in a staffroom flirt over instant coffee. Last year, chaperoning a Duke of Edinburgh trip, I snogged my colleague – a Geography teacher – once torches were out and teens were (apparently) asleep. My mind and heart were open to finding love; any time, any place. I had no experience of heartbreak, only disappointment. And a fair few dry, lonely spells. Jack knew all this: I hid nothing from him. Well, I had nothing to hide.
And Jack?
‘Plenty of flings,’ he’d said. ‘But I’ve never been in love.’
When I asked him if there were any skeletons in his closet, he told me about a girl he fingered in an actual closet, dressed as a skeleton. He was sixteen: a Halloween party at his mate’s house. We rolled about laughing, exchanging horror stories of our youth. We didn’t backtrack.
But Jack and Florrie – what happened between them?
‘I guess we were only five months in,’ I say, matter-of-factly, leaning back against the sink. ‘We still had plenty to discover.’
The fridge door looks back at me, a glorious mishmash of memories and plans. It’s so alive. To my left, I can see Jack popping his head out of the kitchen door, checking to see if it’s warm enough to have a beer outside. To my right, he’s there again, hanging his wet socks on the radiator.
‘Who was that man whose funeral I attended yesterday?’ I cry. ‘Who? He made people cry and cheer and laugh and applaud and hug and unite and I don’t know him. I’ll never know him. Because I know you! And you’re not here anymore!’
I check my phone for distraction, slumping down onto the kitchen floor.
There are two messages from Gareth, our Kit’s fiancé. One is just checking in, sending his love. The second is a YouTube link to some political satire. He sends these often. I’ve got a message from Beth, too.
My sis just announced baby number 2’s on the way. I’m happy for her. I don’t want her baby. I want mine. But still. FFS. Xxx
I send back a crying face and string of red hearts.
I never asked Jack outright if he wanted kids. I didn’t need to. We were always playing the name game; it was a habit that developed quite early on. Even when he was cooking the bolognese, the night before he died, he said, ‘I like Lily for a girl. Not Lilian. Just Lily.’ It was a breath of fresh air, since he’d recently declared our son would be called Wild. Now, I’m all for alternative names, but Wild? Nope. My argument was that we can control our kid’s name, but not their personality. What if he was naturally tame? At least a Joe or a James can be anything they want without judgement …
Hold on.
Could it be possible? Could I …
I scroll through my phone; look at the calendar. I’ve never been one to chart, keep up with dates about what’s going on with my body. I’ve been on the pill for years. But I read a negative article a couple of months ago and decided to stop taking it. Jack and I were careful, most of the time.
I count the days.
And count again.
So I won’t know for sure until next week, when my period is due.
But, oh my God. I might be pregnant.
12
‘Miss Roscoe?’ Si Sullivan calls. ‘A word, please.’
The bell has shaken us out of our first lunchtime rehearsal. I didn’t have to do much – Si was the one on the piano and teaching the song. Layla Birch didn’t show up. I wonder if she’s rebelling because she didn’t get the lead.
Si reaches into his anorak pocket and pulls out two West End theatre tickets.
‘Say, whaaaat?’ He attempts a terrible American accent.
‘Surprise!’ I say.
I had been supposed to be going to see Mamma Mia! tonight with Jack, who, to my ultimate shock, had been keen on going. He said his boss raved about it and his mum hated it, so he was interested to see whose team he’d bat for. This morning, I’d left the tickets in Si’s pigeonhole with a note saying Yours if you want them. It seemed a shame to leave them stuck to the fridge, going to waste.
Anyone would think I’d just handed him a cheque for a million quid.
‘They were a raffle prize,’ I tell him.
‘And you chose me to accompany you?’ I think he might cry.
‘Oh no. I can’t—’
‘But you’re my partner in showbiz crime, Chloe! Please say yes, please,’ he begs, fluttering his eyelids. He’s not pretty; rather he’s petite and, well, pointy. His nose, his cheekbones, his chin are all at a sharp angle, matching the pointed quiff in his hair. There’s always a twinkle in his eye though, a live wire keeping him buzzy. Very, very buzzy.