Page 66 of The Truth About You and Me
‘It’s through here,’ Jack says turning the doorknob and stepping inside. I recognise the warm smell from the blanket I’d had wrapped around me the night at the fountain, something comforting like vanilla and nutmeg. He flicks on the lights. The large room is almost circular, the bay window split into three tall sections, dark oak shutters drawn over them.
‘Wow. I’m guessing you have a view of the sea from here?’
He steps forwards, folding back the shutters. ‘You can see better if I?—’
He walks back to the light switch, flicking it off. Below, I can see the rooftops of the town and beyond, the lights from the harbour shimmer around the bay, a semicircle of life etched out against the night sky. The moon is hanging low, the edge of the world rolling towards us. I step closer to the glass.
‘All you can see from my window is the back of a supermarket and wheelie bins. Oh, and Harrowsby Bay’s answer to Banksy. Most mornings I have a new update on whether Dec and Carly are made for each other.’
Jack bends down to the fireplace on my right, striking a match, blowing gently at the flickering flame. A large brown leather chair sits in the left corner of the room, a reading lamp casting a soft light above it. There is a jumper hanging over the back and a cardboard box sitting in it.
Jack stands, hands in his back pockets. The fire spits, flames beginning to brighten the room. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Um, sure. Yes, please.’
‘Do you want to sit?’ He hurries across the room, picking up the box, a reel of bubble wrap sticking out of the top. ‘I’ll just—’ He opens another door, disappearing from the room, returning with empty arms. ‘Tea? Coffee? Or I’ve got some wine? Or a beer?’
‘Tea would be great, thanks.’ He nods, opens another door and disappears through, the sound of the kettle being filled punctuates the quiet. I walk over to the bookshelves lining the recessed walls either side of the fireplace, most of the spines facing the wrong way, but there are about ten facing front. If I didn’t know the reason why, I’d think the décor was kind of cool, but seeing the books that Jack loves so much with their backs turned to him, hurts.
There is a record player sitting on a low box chest, vinyl records slotted neatly into the spaces below. I look down at the turntable: Bob Dylan’sThe Times They Are a-Changin’album.
‘I love this album,’ I say as he returns, placing two mugs on the table. He joins me. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. One of my earlier foster carers used to play it on Sunday mornings. She’d let me help make French toast with ginger and marmalade. I was only with her for autumn. Then I was back in the home. She was kind to me… while I was with her.’ Above the record player are a handful of photos, all different frames. I spot a red-headed girl, a man and woman with their arms around each other, heads thrown back in laughter.
‘It must have been hard, moving from place to place?’ Jack says joining me.
‘Sometimes, but I kind of got used to it. And I got to meet interesting people, living different lives. Is this your family?’
He lifts the needle.
‘Yep.’ He smiles over his shoulder. ‘Times They Are a-Changin’’ begins.
He stands by my side as I move from frame to frame. ‘That’s Mum and Dad; this is my sister’ – he points to the redhead, glass of wine raised in a toast with a pool in the background – ‘Charlotte and that’s George.’ He nods towards a thinner blond with the same grin as Jack. He’s dressed as Einstein. Jack stands with his arms thrown around his shoulders wearing pyjamas.
‘Who are you dressed as?’
‘Arthur Dent from…’ He walks over to the books, eyes alight, fingers raised. He stops still, hand opening and closing like he’s got cramp. Sadness and regret expands in my stomach. For that tiny moment where he seems to have forgotten that he can no longer read, can no longer see the names of the books he loves so much. ‘FromHitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,’ he continues, then clears his throat.
‘These are the shiners…’ He moves the conversation forwards, glossing over the pain that has flickered across his face.
‘The shiners?’
‘My nieces… one night I was babysitting and the pair of them had heard a noise and were standing at the top of the stairs like that scene out ofThe Shining. They almost gave me a heart attack.’ He taps each one with his fingers. ‘Jaz and Greta.’
My eyes are wide as I take them all in. His relaxed frame is back as he talks about them each in turn, their likes and dislikes.
‘You have a wonderful family,’ I say.
There is a photo of all of them sitting on the kind of wrap-around porches that I’ve seen in American movies. He gestures to the sofa and sits opposite in the reading chair. I take my tea in my hand, lifting it to my mouth.
The fire spits. Bob Dylan’s harmonica plays in the background. Jack places his mug onto the table with a soft clunk. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he begins. ‘About that night… about the things you said.’
I look up at him, my throat dry, my body braced to accept his rejection.
‘I…’ He scratches beneath his eye. ‘I didn’t know how to even begin to understand. At first I thought you were scared of getting close and that you came up with a line so bizarre that I’d have no choice but to bolt.’ He scrubs the side of his jaw with his knuckles. ‘I could have handled it better.’
I shake my head, putting the cup back down. ‘I told you I can hear thoughts. I’m surprised you didn’t leg it, to be honest.’ I rummage in my satchel, pulling out the letter and placing it next to my mug. ‘This was a lovely thing to do, Jack. Nobody has ever written me a letter. Well, not one that doesn’t ask me to pay my bill already. They’re pretty rare aren’t they, these days? It was really special.’
