Cover

Dedication

For Cheryl.

Epigraph

But of all these friends and lovers,

There is no one compares with you.

— In My Life, John Lennon & Paul McCartney

PROLOGUE

Three months earlier

‘YES!’ I say to Jack.

Perhaps too enthusiastically.

We’re three days into our first holiday together. Beside a chaotic dual carriageway, an old lady lays out pop-up gift cards – intricately handmade and just thirty baht each – on the entrance steps to a modern shopping mall. The mall towers above us, LED-screen advertisements for international brands beckoning us to come inside. Jack and I gaze at one particular familiar logo. There we stand, stationary, as thousands move frantically around us. We’re caught in a time lapse. The hot sun scorches through hazy white clouds. I haven’t even held Jack’s hand today; I’m just too hot and bloated. My pounding head and racing heart is a constant reminder that we hit it too hard, and now our bender is laughing back at us and yelling, ‘I told you so!’

It’s safe to say that Bangkok’s intense speed has knocked us sideways.

‘Yes,’ I repeat. ‘Please.’

‘You sure?’ Jack asks. ‘I mean, we’re on the other side of the world and I don’t want you to think I’m not very cultured—’

‘I’m sure,’ I snap, before he talks us out of it.

‘Really, Chloe?’

‘YES!’

The golden arches lure us in. We order a feast. As we eat, we comment on how immaculate the restaurant is, how piping hot the fries are, how although it’s McDonald’s, it somehow just tastes better here than it does at home. Yeah, that’s how hungover we are. I finish my meal by scooping up a fallen droplet of Big Mac sauce with my finger. Jack sips the dregs of his Coke like a child, releasing a burp for his grand finale.

‘S’cuse me,’ he says.

‘We’re disgusting,’ I say.

He’s laughing at me, and I know why; my Liverpool accent has come out in full force, as it does when I’m tired – or in this case, hanging. Mocking me, he scrunches up his face, and, making his voice high-pitched, repeats the word ‘disgusting’.

It’s a terrible – inaccurate – impression. I narrow my eyes.

‘Feel better?’ he asks, in his own voice. He calls it ‘Home Counties’. I call it posh.

‘So much better.’

Last night, in between haggling at Patpong night market for fake designer boxer shorts and swerving ping-pong shows, we had done shots in bars. Back at our hotel room, Jack had raided the minibar while I ran a bubble bath. We had had sex in the bath, followed by sex on the balcony. Dressed in fluffy white robes, I had blended aquatic shades of blue onto Jack’s eyelids with my eyeshadow palette and finished them off with a flick of black eyeliner. His tremendous bushy beard had made the overall look grotesque, but to me, he was beautiful. It must have been three in the morning, yet the moon shone on, so out we had wandered again, eating pad thai from a street food vendor who also happened to serve beer. I had bought (another) small wooden frog from a young boy loitering, selling a tray of trinkets.

‘We’ve got about twenty minutes to get back to the hotel before the junk food crash hits us,’ Jack says, his infectious smile creating a deep dimple in his left cheek. ‘We need our bed.’

He leans across the table, reaches out his hand and tenderly wipes something from my chin. It might have been a dab of salt, or it could well have been a huge dollop of ketchup, but I don’t care. The simple touch of his thick skin on mine makes me fuzzy, almost giddy. There’s nothing more appealing than the thought of getting into bed with him right now, stripping off my dress – which is more of a loose cotton rag with holes cut out for my head and limbs – and pressing my body against his strong, sandy-haired chest, nuzzling into his neck.

‘Come on, hun. Let’s go,’ I say.

Back outside, I rummage in the embroidered pouch slung across my bare shoulder on a long shoelace strap. It’s from Patpong and the perfect size to carry around holiday cash and lip balm. I fish out one hundred baht, hand it to the lady selling cards, and pick out three designs. The lady throws in a fourth card and bows her head. I repeat her actions and thank her very much.

‘Chloe, over here!’ Jack calls.

A small crowd has gathered a few feet away. ‘Look at this bloke,’ he says.

Sitting inside a discarded supermarket trolley is a local man, unamused. His feet are bare, but his shirt and trousers suggest a blue uniform of some sort, perhaps for service at a hotel. Directly behind the man is a larger-than-life statue of Ronald McDonald with his giant yellow hands pressed together in the wai greeting, his red smile as bold as the food sitting heavily in my gut. The man seems to have found a perfect little spot to take a break, although he’s interrupted by a couple of passers-by who ask if they can have a selfie with him. He nods repeatedly and they all pose tight, gesturing double peace signs.

‘I’ve got to get a pic of this,’ Jack says. He digs into his khaki canvas man-bag, another Patpong purchase and one that he has not stopped admiring, wondering why he’s never bought anything like it before. I can already see it being slung into his wardrobe, never to be seen again; because believe me, he won’t be using that commuting on the London Underground.

Jack ushers me to get into the picture.

‘No way,’ I cower behind his broad back. ‘Leave him be.’

But raising his hands, Jack frames the picture in portrait and … snap! I glance over Jack’s shoulder and he’s nailed it. Clear, colourful and precise; not a photo bomber in sight. The man is looking directly into the lens. Ronald McDonald looms in the background, a God-like presence. Bangkok has been captured: a moment of honesty within the bizarre.

Jack shows the man, who gives a thumbs up, and then he shows it to me properly. It’s a truly great photograph.

‘That could win a prize,’ I say.

‘We should get it printed and hang it on our wall,’ Jack says.

Stopping amidst the choppy sea of fast-paced pedestrians, he’s head and shoulders above most, his thick sandy hair a foot above my recently bleached bob. He slaps his hands high onto an imaginary wall, pretending to see his photographic creation hung up there.

‘Our wall?’ I ask.

‘Let’s live together.’

In the short time I’ve known Jack, I’m used to his outspoken thoughts, his confident remarks. They’re never arrogant, yet always strong, supported by his big physique and naturally bellowing voice. He’s the big, friendly giant, and it seems like my innermost desire is coming true; he’s mine.

‘A couple of months ago we didn’t even know each other,’ I remind him, but there’s a chuckle in my voice. I’m making him aware of what others might say, rather than airing my own concerns. To be honest, I don’t have any.

‘Move in with me, Chloe.’

‘You want me to move to London?’

‘We’ll save a fortune on train fares.’

‘How romantic.’

‘And we’ll see each other seven days a week.’

‘Hmm. I might get sick of you, hun.’

‘Doubt it. I’m far too adorable.’ Oh, how true this is. ‘I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?’ Jack booms, announcing this question to the whole of Bangkok, his arms outstretched like a preacher. I take the opportunity to cuddle into him, sliding my arms around his back as he wraps me up completely. We squeeze each other tight. It’s a done deal.

Jack and I are going to move in together. This isn’t a pair of kids making an immature decision, swept up in the magic of youthful lust. We’re in our mid – well, late – thirties. We know what we want.

‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ he says, not for the first time.

‘And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael.’

We meander back to the hotel, a mellow glow encasing us. We have absolutely nothing to do today. And there’s nothing better than doing nothing with Jack.

Nothing at all.

1

I’m rinsing the shampoo out of my hair when I hear the front door slam.

‘In the shower!’ I yell, stating the obvious. Our flat is small and our shower is noisy. We don’t have a bath. I have to brush my teeth sitting on the loo to avoid feeling claustrophobic: yeah, that’s how small it is. But we have perks. Our fridge has an inbuilt ice machine and our kitchen door opens out onto the low-level shared patio, making ours the only flat in this redbrick Victorian house with direct garden access.

I don’t know where Jack’s been. He wasn’t home when I got in from school a couple of hours ago and he’d left his phone by the blue Marrakech dish where we keep our keys on the bookshelf in the hall. Wherever he’s been, I hope he’s brought me a Kinder Bueno. Or a Magnum. Perfect weather for a Magnum.

I apply conditioner and leave it to work its magic while shaving my legs and under my arms. It’s a lot of effort to look effortless when it’s hot, but needs must. The whole country is experiencing a heatwave and we’re heading out to sit in the basement of a pub in Greenwich. I can’t imagine there’ll be any air-conditioning and sweat will be dripping off the walls, so I need to wear next to nothing. We’re going to a comedy night – one of the comedians on the bill is a best mate of Jack’s. I’ve not met this mate before, but apparently he’s close to the bone: you either find him hilarious or utterly offensive.

Through the transparent shower enclosure, I see the bathroom door open just a little.

‘Where’ve you been?’ I ask, making the mistake of rubbing my eyes with shaving gel on my fingertips and squirming at the sting. ‘Jack?’

Jack doesn’t respond.

I rinse my face, turn the water off and grab a towel. The bathroom door is slightly ajar.

‘Jack?’

As I wrap the towel around myself, wet hair dripping onto my shoulders, the screech of a bar stool against the laminate floor tells me he’s in the kitchen. Maybe I should drop the towel, give him a proper welcome home surprise: do a little shimmy-shake. But I expose myself involuntarily when I scream and the towel falls to the ground.

‘Who are you?!’ I hear from the man standing before me.

I scramble to cover myself, shaking.

‘Who the hell are you?!’ I manage.

He’s about twice my age, edging on seventy, but in good shape and a little taller than me. Smart, silver-haired with an impressive hairline, cleanly shaven and wearing a light blue shirt with tailored shorts, he’s pale, but doesn’t look ill. His mouth is hanging open so wide that I can see his gold and silver fillings. I’ve seen his photo – it’s on the fridge, beside where he’s standing now, held up with a magnet of the Leaning Tower of Pisa – except he’s decades older in real life. The shape of his green eyes behind his spectacles is eerily familiar. I know exactly who this man is. He’s Jack’s dad.

Gripping the towel around me with a tight fist, I wipe my free hand dry and offer it. ‘I’m Chloe.’

John seems reluctant to accept at first, and we exchange the flimsiest of handshakes as he looks around the flat at anything other than my almost naked body. His focus falls upon last night’s dirty dishes. Jack made bolognese. I’d made a lame attempt to start washing up, filling the saucepan with soapy water and letting it soak: remnants of minced beef and chopped onions float around like dead fish.

‘Sorry, the place is usually a bit cleaner than this,’ I say.

‘It’s not a problem,’ he mumbles, a soft northern lilt in his voice, although I know he’s lived the majority of his life down south. He removes his specs, rubbing his eyes with just his thumb and index finger. ‘Uh – who did you say you were again?’

‘Chloe …’

‘Ah, yes. Chloe.’

‘It’s nice to finally meet you; although I wish I was more suitably dress—’

‘Wait. I – I can’t recall knowing about a – erm – Chloe.’

‘Jack never mentioned me?’

‘He … He – erm – never …’

‘Are you okay? Mr Carmichael?’

‘It’s John. Call me John, please.’

I go to the sink, turn on the tap and fill a glass that’s been draining on the side. ‘Drink this,’ I say.

He thanks me with a nod and drinks fast, dribbling onto his shirt. I pretend not to notice and turn around to look at the photo on the fridge: Jack on his dad’s shoulders on a beach in Majorca.

‘It’s such a coincidence,’ I say. ‘I went to the same resort with me mum and dad when I was little, so I recognised that beach straight away. Jack said you stayed in a villa, but we were on a package holiday. Imagine if we were there at the same time, though. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? It was 1989, I think. Can you remember when this was taken? Jack’s rubbish with dates, isn’t he?’

‘Chloe,’ John says, solemnly. ‘Jack’s dead.’

‘Y’what?’

I’m still looking at the photo. An uncontrollable rush of giggles empties from within me. I don’t know how to stop them spilling out of my mouth. Did he just say that Jack was dead? Dead? How is that even possible when his bolognese leftovers are still stuck to the plate by the sink?

‘I’m sorry to break the news,’ John says. ‘I presume you were his – erm – girlfriend?’

‘I am,’ I catch my breath. ‘I am his girlfriend. What’s going on? And why don’t you know who I am? Is this some sort of prank?’

‘It’d be a pretty cruel prank, my dear.’

I must turn around. I must stop looking at this fucking photograph.

But when I do, I don’t like what I see in John’s face. It’s broken. And this is nothing to do with age. Tears are streaming from beneath his specs, rolling down his cheeks. He dabs them with a white cotton handkerchief. I love how men from that generation always have a handkerchief.

‘Jack’s dead?’ I ask.

John nods.

‘I promise I didn’t mean to laugh just then.’

John nods again. He knows.

A breeze floats in through the open window above the sink. On a day as hot as today, it should be embraced, but I begin to shiver. John steps forward – perhaps to try and comfort me, or maybe he’s decided to close the window – but his foot knocks one of the two bar stools. A stack of textbooks lying haphazardly on the seat falls to the ground between us, loose papers fluttering down in slow motion like white birds. I go to pick them up, but hesitate to ensure my dignity is intact. John gets to the books first. He lays them on the breakfast bar, one by one, reading the titles quietly aloud.

‘Macbeth, Blood Brothers, An Inspector Calls …’

‘They’re mine,’ I tell him. ‘For work.’

‘You’re an actress?’

‘No, a teacher.’

‘Ah, English literature?’

‘Drama,’ I say, apologetically. I don’t know why. ‘I’m covering someone on mat leave.’

John puts the books into a neat pile and hands them over to me, but I don’t accept them, keeping my hands tight onto my towel. He returns them to the stool. Every second that passes feels like an hour, a year.

‘So, how did …’ I attempt, but I can’t find the words to continue.

‘An accident. Hit by a van.’

‘Oh!’ I laugh again.

‘It happened on this road, just a few yards from here.’

‘But, how? I mean, Jack’s unmissable. He’s a massive, hairy bear.’

An almighty din startles me and I gasp, my heart now plunged into the pit of my stomach. My phone is ringing. It’s on the breakfast bar, dancing to the vibration. John and I both stare at the device like an alien has invaded, the single word ‘Mum’ lighting up the screen. It rings and rings and rings, and then it stops. I release a sigh, as does John, who looks as if he’s about to say something. Then a message alert interrupts him.

‘Sorry, John,’ I say, snatching my phone.

The message contains a photo of a wicker laundry basket lined with beige gingham cotton.

Isn’t this lovely? Shall I get it for your new flat? Mum x

My flat isn’t new. My mum hasn’t been to visit yet because she lives in Liverpool and I only recently moved in. My suitcases aren’t even fully unpacked yet: the Ikea drawers we purchased last weekend are still flat-packed. Jack, however, has been living here for three years. He has the laundry sorted. Had the laundry sorted. Fucking hell, must I resort to past tense already? Over a wicker basket?

I type back.

Thanks Mum but we’ve got one. Xx

She replies straight away.

It’s only 8.99 you know.

Caught in a freakish crossover of past and present, I ignore my mum’s persistence and notice that another message looms for me, unread, received at 11.33 this morning. It’s from Jack.

Pizza at Dough-Re-Mi before the comedy? X

Yes, I want to reply. Yeah, definitely. But Jack’s phone is on the bookshelf in the hall and he has no way of coming home to get it because he’s been—

‘Hit by a van?’ I ask John. ‘Seriously?’

‘Shortly after lunchtime.’

‘Why has nobody told me until now?’ Why does my voice sound so normal?

‘We didn’t know about you.’

And yet I know about John. About how he grew up on a farm in Lancashire and moved to London when he was twenty-two. He married his wife, Trish, and they settled in Berkshire, had three sons, Jack in the middle. I know that he’s retired now, but he used to own a company that made stationery. He sold it for a good amount, but not as good as he’d hoped for. I know that he supports Manchester United, although, unlike Jack, he’s never been to a game, and that he’s a huge Barry Manilow fan – like, borderline obsessed.

But John – he didn’t know about me. Seems Trish didn’t – well, doesn’t – either.

‘Jack’s driving licence still has our house as his permanent address,’ John tells me. ‘I was home today when the police came to inform us. He was killed on the scene.’

This can’t be true. We’re going to a comedy night.

‘I’m here to find Jack’s phone,’ John continues. ‘His work, his friends need to – erm – know.’

‘I was hoping for a Kinder Bueno,’ I think, perhaps aloud.

‘Sorry?’

‘Or a Magnum. Perfect weather for a Magnum.’

I stare at my phone, at the last communication I’ll ever receive from Jack; except it’s interrupted with another message from my mum, followed by another photo.

Chloe look! Cushion covers to match the wicker basket. Aren’t they lovely?

My phone slips out of my hand and crashes to the floor. John’s arms envelop my bare shoulders and I freeze, allowing this stranger’s embrace to hold me together so I don’t crack. I’m completely naked beneath this towel and I can hear Jack’s king-size laugh bouncing off these basement walls at the sight of his dad and his girlfriend being pelted head-first into a top-notch awkward moment.

Except I can’t hear Jack’s laugh, can I?

2

I arrive at Beth’s in a taxi.

It would’ve been much quicker to get to Islington on the Overground from Brockley, but that’s far too much normality to follow the news I’ve been hit with. John has stayed behind in the flat, waiting for Trish. They want to spend the night there together, because apparently Trish doesn’t like the idea of Jack’s flat being left abandoned. I did remind John that I would be there – you know, because I live there – to which he said, ‘Ah, that’s right’. By the time I’d replaced the towel around my body with actual clothes, he told me that Trish was arriving in about twenty minutes. If that wasn’t a cue to leave – well.

‘Oh, go fuck yourself!’ I overhear Beth scream.

I’m on the front step of her mid-terrace house, thirty quid down thanks to the rush hour surge, my finger hovering over the doorbell. We’ve known each other since high school and despite her living in London for the past decade, Beth hasn’t lost a smidgeon of her Liverpool twang. A door inside slams and the front door swings open.

‘Chloe?! Didn’t know you were coming.’

Beth’s husband Fergus is holding a large bin bag, bulging to match his muscles. Last month, when we went out for Beth’s birthday, Jack described Fergus to me as Garfield on steroids. He had a point.

‘Chloe?’ Fergus asks again. ‘You okay?’

I look to his grumpy face as he waits impatiently to lob the rubbish into the plastic bin beside me. I manage some sort of polite closed-mouth smile, confusing him further, and he sidles past to complete his chore.

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