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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

‘Pay the gas bill,’ Jack said, his voice dry, lazy, already half asleep. ‘And then, fuck all.’

But he didn’t pay it. I know this because the gas bill wouldn’t still be on the fridge. It would be ripped up and in the recycling; done and dusted. Jack was a total geek about things like that. He’d get angry if he found an out-of-date Sainsbury’s Nectar coupon in his wallet.

I flatten the bill against the wall, iron out the creases with my fist, tickle the bold letters spelling ‘Jack Carmichael’. This banal, boring piece of paper no longer belongs to the world I exist in. It’s history. Yesterday morning, it had colour: it was presumed continuous. But today …

Today!

I have to phone the school. Tell them I won’t be in. I’m sick. Very sick. Vomiting, diarrhoea; it’s come on quickly. I’m sorry. I almost sob. I gather myself. Once again, I’m sorry. I know I’m new to the school. This isn’t normal. It’s odd. Very odd. They understand. I’ll be in on Monday. I promise. I’m sure it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing. It can’t be permanent.

It can’t be.

I pay the gas bill online. Then I slip back onto the sofa, my gaze fixed on a crack in the paintwork on the ceiling. Here I remain, all day.

6

I spend the weekend pretty low key, in my comfies. I listen to Jack’s latest playlist on Spotify – some Beach Boys, Bowie, a lot of Creedence Clearwater Revival – his iPad is still connected to the speaker on the breakfast bar. Breakfast is skipped. Lunch is whatever I can find: toast; crisps; a tin of spaghetti hoops, cold. I order takeaway for my dinner, lots of it; a habit we’d gotten into. I don’t eat a single bite. I just stare at the boxes. It’s incomprehensible that I’ll never do this with Jack again, ever.

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.