Page 13 of The Art of Loving You

‘He’s dead,’ Jack said dully. ‘He ran out of the alley by the side of the chemist, straight into the road. A car … A car …’

‘Oh my God.’ It was all too horrific for words.

‘He was known to us. He had a record as long as your arm,’ PC Nowak said and then his face softened. ‘Victim support will be in touch the next few days. We retrieved Jack’s things, they’re on the cabinet over there. I’ll be off now.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, but I wasn’t watching him leave, instead staring with revulsion at Jack’s phone and wallet. The mugger’s hand had touched them, his fingers now cold and stiff.

Dead.

I’m dying hereI had texted Jack, trying to hurry him home, when unbeknown to me he was fighting for his life.

Somebodyhaddied today, it could easily have been Jack.

I leaned into him, burying my face in the hollow between his shoulder and his neck and inhaled, but instead of his usual comforting Jack smell my nostrils were filled with disinfectant, a washing powder I didn’t recognise.

Hospitals.

I raised my head, meeting his gaze, but it was the eyes of a stranger staring back at me.

He was in shock, that was all. A man had died in front of him. Once he was home and showered and felt safe again he’d get back to normal.We’dget back to normal, wouldn’t we?

We’d fall back into the life we had so meticulously planned and have many happy years together.

Wouldn’t we?

For a long, long moment we didn’t speak. Our fingers remained linked together, tight, but not as inextricable as I’d once thought.

As though on some level I knew what was to come.

Chapter Five

Jack was dozing, the tea I’d bought him from the vending machine growing cold and unappealing.

‘A decent cuppa makes everything better,’ he was fond of saying, but it would take more than tea to fix this.

To fix him.

The medication and the shock had collaborated to whisk him somewhere else entirely.

Frequently I reached out to touch his shoulder, reassuring myself that he was here, safe, but my hand was shaking and my mind screamed the what-ifs.

Alice had gone to grab a sandwich.

‘Sorry, morning sickness seems to last all day,’ she had said. ‘Food is the only thing that keeps the nausea at bay.’

I didn’t mind her nipping off. The canteen was right over the other side of the hospital and I relished the time alone to gather my galloping thoughts.

My mobile beeped – a text from Greta.Has the news sunk in yet?!!For a few moments I couldn’t process what she meant, how she knew. But then I remembered she’d emailed me earlier to let me know about The Hawley Foundation Prize. How was it possible that we had been so happy a few hours ago,that this was even the same day?

I texted her back,Jack’s had an accident. He’s in hospital, but he’ll be fine.

He’ll be fine.

There was something reassuring about typing those words, seeing them in black solid letters, a declaration, a promise.

I wrote them again, this time to Jack’s assistant and our friend, Faith, but then after I had sent it I was overcome with guilt that I’d told friends before family and so I dropped my phone back into my bag. Once I didn’t have anything else to occupy me the sick dread built again in my stomach.

I placed my hand lightly on Jack’s chest feeling the reassuring rise and fall of his ribcage.

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