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Back Love, Almost Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. EPILOGUE
  48. Acknowledgements
  49. Keep Reading …
  50. About the Author
  51. By the same author:
  52. About the Publisher

I dig my hands into my coat pockets and head to the station. I’ve already bought a ticket online for the comedy. It’s date night, and it’s all I’ve got left to stay close to Jack.

37

The gig is at a comedy club near Shoreditch High Street. Steadying myself on the banister, I walk down the narrow staircase into the bar. Guffawing laughter growls from groups huddled together holding pints carelessly, booze spilling with every jerk. There’s a lot of talking. Words, words, words, fast-spoken, eager to be heard, nobody listening, everybody talking. More guffaws. It’s like the late, late Edinburgh Fringe crowd are all in one London basement, all desperate to invent the most controversial line. And this is just the audience.

The bar is lit with blue fairy lights. The wallpaper has been stripped and I’m unsure if that’s because the place is about to be refurbished or whether that’s the style they’re going for.

I go for a double JD and Coke. Not my usual, but one of Jack’s favourites, and I want to raise a glass. We’re here. We finally made it to the show.

Inside the venue, I take my suede coat off and fold it over my arm. My beret stays firm on my head. My ticket is for the standing area, which isn’t all standing. There are stools, high tables and a ledge to lean on. It overlooks a seating area which is basically tables closer to the stage for double the price. Why would anybody pay to get picked on?

I lean and people-watch.

A long table dominates the centre of the seating area; it’s a large party. Everybody knows each other well: the chatter is animated and intimate, personal space not a problem; touching, hugging, shoulder-to-shoulder, head-to-head. And … no. It can’t be. It’s Florrie.

I blink and lean in closer. Without that victory roll in her hair, I could be mistaken. No, it is. It’s her. And I recognise a few other faces from Jack’s funeral. The skinny-fat fella with – yep – there’s his enormous teeth. And the girl with the baby, without the baby.

No wonder they’re here. They’re supporting their friend.

I should be their friend, too.

We’d all be well acquainted by now. Perhaps we’d have been to a barbecue or summer festival together. The girl with the baby looks cool; my kinda person. I imagine we’d have intense heart-to-hearts over too much wine—

The lights go down and a trumpet blasts. The show has started.