Standing outside our flat now, that same key in my hand, I hesitate to open the door. Jack didn’t own this flat; he rented it. From his parents. I was due to contribute to the rent and bills, starting from this month, and my landlords were to become the very people who are inside right now, perhaps watching the telly, taking a shower, making a coffee. The people who never knew I lived here.
A warm glow filters from the tall lamp in the lounge out onto the flower bed beside the driveway, yellow and purple petals highlighted like miniature stepping-stones. Our neighbours, the couple who live in the second-floor flat, are the keen gardeners, not me or Jack. They keep the front of the house looking delightful with hanging baskets and kindly mow the communal back lawn, too. I wonder if they know about Jack yet. There’s no flicker from the telly or noise that I can make out, so John and Trish must be in bed. Our bed. My bed.
I check my phone is on silent and notice a reply from Beth. I’d sent her a message after subconsciously arriving at the tube station, telling her I was sorry for running off like that but that I just wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.
I understand babes. I’m here for you whenever the time is right. Love you xxx
I slide my key into the door and open it with minimal disruption.
He’s there; everywhere. Jack.
The musty smell of his parka. The dried mud from his giant wellies that he never cleaned after last year’s Glastonbury. The hints of aftershave that always linger from his overspray in the morning, leaving me to get dressed within a cloud of manly spice. The lemongrass candle from Thailand that we only light on Friday nights when we’re both home.
He’s just here.
I tiptoe along the narrow hallway in the dark, cursing each creaky floorboard beneath the weathered Persian carpet runner. The bedroom door is closed, so I turn in to where the lamplight greets me. The small lounge and kitchen are open-plan, separated by the breakfast bar. This room is one of the things I love about this cosy place. I throw my satchel onto the L-shaped sofa and notice an imprint in the seat belonging to Jack. It’s too big to be John’s and although I haven’t met Trish, I know she’s a petite woman. She happens to be a celebrity journalist and I’ve seen her on the telly, talking on panel shows.
‘Where are you?’ I whisper. ‘I know you’re here. You have to be here.’
I kick off my Converse. There’s a chill in the room, a reminder that the heatwave is temporary and summer will be inconsistent as usual. I pour myself a glass of water. I drink it thirstily in one go and catch a glimpse of the canvas print hanging above the cooker; the man in the shopping trolley.
It seems mad that only this morning, Jack was staring at this man’s nonchalant face as he ate Rice Krispies without milk. Neither of us remembered to buy milk yesterday. He was spouting off, delving into all kinds of deeper reasons why the man was sat there, refusing to believe he was just a fella sat in a trolley. He said how one day we’d go back there, find him and ask him. Of course, I was unaware that Jack’s last words to me would be, ‘What’s behind the picture?’ All I’d replied with was, ‘Gotta dash. See ya later.’
I place my glass down and see the sink is clean and empty. The dishes have been done. They aren’t even draining: they’ve been tidied away, meaning there isn’t a trace of Jack’s bolognese remaining.
‘Agh.’ A painful, single cry escapes me.
I clasp my hands across my mouth. The beat of my heart is heavy: a dull bassline, drowning out the natural rhythm of the night. My eyes are closed, fighting back tears. If I cry, I’ll be admitting defeat, buying into this ridiculous notion that Jack is no more. He’s here. I can feel him.
I grip the edge of the sink; take a deep breath; turn around.
And smile.
I can see Jack as clearly as I’d seen him this morning. He’s wearing the shirt he wore the day he gave me a key. It’s off-white and baggy, hanging out loose over jeans. His beard is wild, his hair in need of a trim; exactly how it was this morning. His presence in the kitchen is huge as usual, in this tiny flat. He looks at ease; at home.
‘I knew you were here,’ I mouth.
He points to the sofa and I nod. Taking the red bobbled throw, I wrap it around me like a giant shawl and curl up. I rest my head on the cushion shaped like the head of Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer. I know it’s not Christmas, but this cushion is so soft, so dreamy, that Jack considered it a crime to keep it hidden for eleven months of the year.
Closing my eyes, I will Jack to lie here beside me: to smooth down my hair; to stroke my cheek. I’m expecting him to suggest we watch another episode of the true crime documentary we’re currently bingeing on, although he’ll fall asleep within the first ten minutes and I’ll have to re-watch that ten minutes all over again at the next sitting. Unless we’re at the pub, he can’t keep his eyes open beyond nine-thirty. Rudolf always gets the blame.
‘Jack?’ I whisper.
I can feel him. He’s here.
He’s definitely still here.
4
I open one eye, and the wall clock above the telly tells me it’s just after six.
The hissing chatter in the kitchen didn’t wake me up, though. I never truly slept: the events of yesterday pressed hard into my subconscious and wouldn’t let me drift off. But they think I’m asleep, John and Trish. They think I can’t hear them.
‘Did you know she was coming back?’ Trish is saying. Even in a whisper I’d recognise that biting tongue; that clipped, over-articulated, media-trained voice. You can almost hear her saliva singing.
John is grumbling and inarticulate.
‘Oh, Johnny, I can’t deal with this right now. If she’s got a key to let herself in whenever she fancies, how many more are there? How do we know Jack didn’t dish out keys to all his friends? All his girlfriends?’
I close my eyes tight like a child wishing to turn invisible.
‘Jack wouldn’t do that, love,’ John says. ‘Not in his nature.’
‘What isn’t? You’re forgetting what happened with Florrie!’
I open my eyes. Who the fuck is Florrie?
‘He was young,’ I hear John saying.
‘Don’t make excuses. He knew how to control himself, Johnny.’
‘Keep your voice down, love. She’s asleep.’
‘She has a name … What was it again?’
‘I can’t remember, love. Erm – Clare?’
‘Well, how do we know that Clare was really his girlfriend? It can’t have been serious, Johnny. Jack would’ve introduced us before shacking up with her.’
‘Would he?’
‘Don’t act as if I don’t know my own son, Johnny!’
Now this is great. Jack’s parents don’t want me here and I really need to wee. Obviously I’ll have to get up at some point. I can’t just stay on the sofa like a fat cat. But I don’t know – should I wait until after I’ve used the toilet to tell them that my name isn’t Clare? Or stand up and tell them right now that erm, sorry, but my name is not fucking Clare?
‘Did you see the suitcase, Johnny?’ Trish spits. ‘Doesn’t feel very serious, does it?’
She’s upped the volume slightly because the kettle is boiling and it would be a travesty for John not to hear her every word. Wouldn’t it?