Page 118 of The Art of Loving You

‘I don’t want you to go.’ I am properly crying now, not caring if anyone sees me.

‘Do you remember when I asked you to move in with me?’ Jack asks gently.

I do. It is as clear in my mind as it was that day. I had been bushed. The hours spent running between my flat, Jack’s flat on the other side of town and trying to build up the business with Greta had taken its toll.

Early on a Saturday morning Jack had woken me. ‘Let’s go out and get some fresh air.’

‘I really don’t want to.’ I pulled the pillow over my head. ‘I want to sleep.’

Jack whipped the pillow away. I groaned.

‘You can sleep on the way.’

‘On the way where? I can’t go far, Jack. I need to go home, do my laundry, put my rubbish out. I’ve been here for days. My bin must stink.’

‘Who said romance is dead?’ Jack had tugged the covers. ‘Your stinky bin will have to wait. Get up and wear something warm. The forecast isn’t great today.’

‘All my warm stuff is at my flat. We’ll have to stop off on the way.’

‘No. If we do you’ll find a million things to do. You can wear one of my jumpers and I’ll dig out a spare coat.’

I had pulled on my jeans, splattered with a red stain where I’d spilled pasta sauce down them the day before, a spare pair of knickers I now carried in my handbag since I’d been caught out before.

‘I look a state,’ I had said.

‘You look beautiful, Elizabeth Emerson.’

‘I’ll have to go home later, I’ve no clean underwear left.’

‘Me neither. But you can make the same pair last for days. Inside out, back to front …’

‘Jack! You donotdo that. And how would I wear a thong backwards?’

‘It would look better. You should definitely try it.’

‘You first.’

‘It would take more than a strip of silk to contain—’

‘Enough!’ I laughed.

Cocooned in the warmth of the car, The Eagles taking it easy from the stereo, I had drifted off.

Sometime later, I realised we had stopped moving, the engine was quiet. I stretched, yawned as I blinked the sleep from my eyes and took in our surroundings.

‘Norfolk!’

Jack grinned. We’d stepped out of the car, sea air zinging into my mouth. Hair whipping around my face. Already I was refreshed. Jack hoisted a large rucksack onto his back and then offered me his hand. I slipped mine inside his. We headed over the sand dunes until we were there.

The bunker.

Jack unzipped his rucksack, and took out a crowbar.

‘What are you doing?’

‘It’s the key to the bunker,’ he said as he levered off the manhole cover. It wasn’t as easy as he had perhaps thought. His arm pumped up and down, sweat forming on his brow, until at last there was a give. He toppled backwards.

‘Idiot.’ I’d peered into the blackness. As kids, Alice and I had thought nothing of jumping into the unknown, not fazed by the dark. Now, I shivered.

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