Page 123 of The Art of Loving You

‘Not yet, I hope.’ I smile. ‘I’ve got a lot of living to do first. So have you.’

‘Yeah.’ He sniffs, stands. ‘I’ve gotta go. I’m meeting me mates.’

‘Don’t vandalise anything.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Or punch anyone,’ I call after him.

He raises his hand in a wave, and then he’s gone.

I want to help Liam. I want that so much but …

A red admiral butterfly hovers over Jack’s gravestone, fluttering its delicate wings and I recall watching a similar butterfly in Norfolk on the day Jack asked me to move in with him. How Jack used the tiny creature to brush away my doubts.

‘He has a heart-achingly short lifespan but he doesn’t live his life in fear, worrying about the what-ifs and the buts. Instead he sees a landscape brimming with possibilities as he flies across the limitless sky. Don’t live in fear, Libby, it’s only a half life.’

Jack had a heart-achingly short lifespan but his life was full to the brim with plans for the future.

The butterfly spins corkscrew spirals before he heads off to his next adventure.

It is time for me to go.

The instant I step inside the hallway I smell it.

Jack’s aftershave.

I freeze. Not sure what to do.

Think.

Say.

Panic builds. Is my tumour back? Am I going crazy?

‘Jack?’ I tentatively call, desperately hoping he answers me, desperately hoping he doesn’t.

Silence.

Closing the door, I try to calm myself, pressing my hand against my scar. The surgery was a success but what if the mass is coming back? My heart is pounding as I step into the snug, breathe in deeply. I can’t smell anything here. Back in the hallway it’s still there, the smell of him. I try the dining room, remembering when we danced. Our cheeks pressed together, The Beatles spinning on the record player.

In here the scent is of lavender polish; Mum is always whizzing round with a duster.

At the bottom of the stairs the aftershave is stronger. I follow it, feet creaking on the steps. Scared of what I’ll find. Scared of what I won’t.

The smell leads me to the room on the second floor where I’d stacked Jack’s art supplies. He’s not here. Of course he wouldn’t be. Tears prick at my eyes. What was I expecting, that he’d be waiting to welcome me with that huge grin of his and his comforting arms, and what if he had been? It would have meant I am sick again.

The painting of Norfolk is still covered. The one Faith had brought round telling me it was to be his proposal. The ‘Please will you …’ never finished, his question left unasked. I remove the sheet.

Gasp.

It’s finished.

My knees buckle.

It’s finished.

I screw my eyes up tight; I’m seeing things again. But when I open them I know that I am not.

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