I scroll through my phone’s photos. 3,784 images. 23 images of Jack, 16 with his eyes closed, mid-blink. A grand total of five selfies with him, four of them pretty awful. The decent one, taken in the beer garden of our local pub on the May bank holiday, is my screensaver. So, word of warning to anybody who – like me – has fallen into the habit of taking photos of a rainbow salad; two wine glasses by candlelight; fucking feet on a fucking beach: don’t. Take photos of people. You will never, ever, ever care about your toes painted neon pink on the sand, ever. But you’ll wish you had more photos of the person you loved. Seriously, I’ve got a video of a plane taking off from Gatwick airport and I don’t even know where that plane was heading. But the only video I have of Jack is a boomerang of him buying boxer shorts at Patpong market.
My phone pings.
You rang?
It’s our Kit, my brother. He’s noticed the missed call from me this morning. I start to type a reply along the lines of needing to speak to him, but the words fail me. I try again.
Kit, I’ve got some bad news … Nope. Delete.
I can’t get into this on WhatsApp.
Ring me back when you get a mo
I’m in Lisbon. You ok sis? X
Shit. I totally forgot. It’s his stag weekend.
All good! Just wanted to tell you to HAVE A BALL. Love you.
Love you more. X
I down my glass of Shiraz and look at the spring rolls, seeping with grease in their plastic container. I should eat one, line my stomach. Biting it in half, the cold beansprouts and chicken spill into my mouth, making me gag. There’s no taste, just mass. Chewing is a gigantic effort I can do without. I toss the uneaten half onto the floor. Then I grab the bag of prawn crackers and hurl it against the wall.
Agh, so what?
Nobody’s here to stop me.
I’m new to London, aren’t I, so unlike Jack or Beth, I don’t have a circle of friends yet. Beth’s in Liverpool for the weekend at a family do. She insisted that I tag along, but I was firm with my, ‘no’. My mum’s gone quiet – thank God, because I can’t face giving her the news yet – and I presume it’s because she’s assigned herself a task for our Kit’s wedding. He isn’t getting married until August, but my mum’s been collecting jam jars for years – you know, just in case. So either Kit’s finally succumbed to her putting them to some decorative use, or my nan’s sick. My mum only ever tells me that my nan’s been sick once she’s well again.
I open a second bottle of wine and make a start on the Ikea drawers. Jack’s mum’s words rattle around my head: ‘there’s nothing at all that suggests she’s a permanent fixture around here’, and I imagine her sat on a Channel 5 panel, discussing the headlines, daily politics, and me, her disgust at my existence clear to the nation.
Listen, Patricia. I’ll give you permanent.
I drag the flat-pack box into the hallway, open it and browse the instruction pamphlet. I instantly feel tired and shiver, my sockless feet ice cold. Reaching up to the coat rack, I pull down Jack’s parka, slip my arms into the heavy fabric and inhale deeply.
‘Were you murdered?’ I cry out. An Allen key drops, clattering louder than I expect. ‘Like, were you involved in something – I dunno, like, illegal? I mean, maybe I’ve been naive. Maybe I don’t know you as well as I thought I did. Maybe …’
I can picture Jack laughing at me, mockingly taking a stance like a tough guy, a drug dealer, a money launderer. But I’m only trying to rationalise the situation. In London, the traffic moves no faster than twenty miles an hour. There’s speed cameras everywhere.
‘How the fuck did a van hit you going more than fifty?’ I yell. ‘How? Why? I waited thirty-six years to meet you!’
Which isn’t completely true. Yeah, I’m thirty-six, but I didn’t grow up dreaming about Mr Right and weddings. No, that was my brother. It was cruel that he’d had to grow up in a world where although he wanted those things, some law told him they weren’t for him. Honestly, I’d much preferred flatmates to boyfriends. Impromptu parties, hangovers with Domino’s and marathons of Friends. Bingeing on 24 after work shat all over an awkward date with some guy I could only have sex with if I got bladdered.
But when I hit thirty, flatmates became engaged, or property owners, or parents. Some scored the treble. I progressed to my own flat, embracing the true value of space. I loved my framed posters of The Sound of Music and Singin’ in the Rain hanging up in whatever room I desired, and my bulging mess of a wardrobe that no fucker was going to judge me for. Nobody was stealing my Brie. I only had myself to blame if I ran out of loo roll. Loneliness, however, creeps in when you least expect it. Everybody wants somebody, as the song goes. Dating seemed like a necessity, but a labouring chore. Until Jack. And it was easy. Easy like Sunday morning. Ye-ahh, ye-ahh …
I’m standing with two pieces of Ikea wood in my hands.
What the fuck am I doing?
Only a matter of weeks ago, I moved in with my new boyfriend. This fact cannot be suddenly wiped out. Nothing just stops, no matter how hard a van hits it. I found a pair of his dirty undies beneath one of my Converse today, for God’s sake. Do I wash them? What the hell are you supposed to do with the dead’s dirty undies?
The flat looks a mess.
The bins are overflowing, uneaten bananas are blackened and smelling, ripped cardboard and loose screws are taking over the hallway. The only corner of serenity is our bed. The pillows are plumped and the sheets are so straight – good enough for a hotel penthouse suite – that I’ve been wondering whether Trish (or John) ran the iron over them before they left. Needless to say, I haven’t been sleeping in our bed, because I haven’t really been sleeping. The sofa has more appeal: the red throw, the Rudolf cushion, the sense of never ending a day or starting a new one.
Right, where’s that other screw?
Shit. I spill red wine onto the carpet. I’ll never understand why anyone buys cream carpets, although I can imagine it looked lovely when John and Trish had this one fitted.
‘I nearly died once, you know,’ I say – to Jack, to nobody – tightening the screw. ‘I was only little, about three or four. Me dad was making tea and toast before bedtime. He likes it burnt, black, except I have a theory that he can’t make it any other way. God, I wish you’d met him, had the chance to go for a pint with him. Anyway. As me dad was buttering the toast, me grandad came rushing in, panic stricken, and he said, “Chloe’s choking”. Me dad dropped the butter knife and ran upstairs, burst into me room. He found me red-faced, eyes watering and struggling to breathe. He dangled me upside down by me feet and shook me, whacking me back – not the most elegant or correct manoeuvre. Whatever he did, though, it worked. And do you know what it was? A Polly Pocket. I’d taken the toy to bed and God knows why, I’d put one of those teeny, tiny plastic dolls into me mouth. Me grandad’s warning saved me life that night … Except me grandad died before I was born.’
I said that last part pretty loud – you know, in case the ghost of Jack needed me to speak up a little in order to appear. If my dad saw my grandad, why can’t I see Jack? Come on. Appear. APPEAR!
The doorbell is ringing.
Did I order anything from Amazon? Did Jack?