Page 3 of The Art of Loving You

‘Jack?’ I raised my camera.

He turned to look at me over his shoulder. His unruly dark hair flopping slightly over his left eye, the grey of his irises darkening to slate the way they did when he was joyful. His mouth stretched into a smile displaying his white teeth, the front ones slightly crooked. It was the picture-perfect moment I would pore over again and again in the following months, my fingertips lightly brushing the glossy photo paper, almost feeling everything we had felt that day.

Now …

My feet left the ground as he scooped me into his arms.

‘What are you doing?’ I laughed.

‘Shouldn’t I carry you over the threshold?’ He grinned down at me.

‘We’re already inside, idiot. Besides, we’re not married.’

Our eyes locked, an unspokenyethung in the air trailing anticipation down my spine.

‘Remember the first time I took you to bed?’ he murmured.

‘Always.’ He had carried me effortlessly into his bedroom but then he had worked out at the gym regularly.

There was a spark in his eyes as he asked, ‘Are you up to christening the place?’

‘Are you?’ We both peered doubtfully at the staircase. He stepped onto the bottom step and a cloud of dust rose. I dissolved into a coughing fit.

He set me down.

‘Sorry.’ I pulled a tissue out of my pocket to wipe my streaming eyes before shrugging off my jacket and slinging it over the bannisters. As I headed towards the kitchen, my eyes lingered on the dark rectangular marks on the faded burgundy walls where family photos once hung. One day we would display our own pictures, adding to the already rich history of this house. How sad would we feel if we had to pack up our belongings and leave? I couldn’t imagine.

Jack wrapped his arms around my waist. I leaned back against him. I knew he was thinking about the same thing I was.

Sid.

‘We’ll fill the house with new memories,’ Jack whispered, kissing my neck.

The mood broke as another sneeze drove me into the kitchen. It was unkempt – cobwebs stretching across the dark wooden beams that striped the ceiling – but not unloved. This had been a happy home. A place filled with laughter. I promised that it would be again, not knowing I was making a promise that would be impossible to keep. I had a strange sense of déjà vu as I looked around. A sense I had lived here before almost, it felt so meant to be.

There was a black range cooker which I had no idea how to use,and country pine cupboards; cabinet doors hanging skewwhiff and shelves coated with grime, stacked with mismatched plates and bowls. I was exploring every nook and cranny, running my finger across the tiles where faded images of ducks and chickens marched across the cracks. Before I could open the pantry door, Jack brought in a box from the car.

‘If my amazing organisational skills are right, there should be a kettle in here.’

‘Thank goodness. Couldn’t have you going for more than an hour without a cup of tea.’ Jack was obsessed with the stuff, strong and sweet.

‘I’ll make you a Lemsip.’

‘I don’t know where I put them but I’ve got some paracetamol in my bag.’ I popped two out of their foil cocoon.

The water from the tap gurgled and spluttered as Jack filled two mugs, handing one to me, raising his.

‘To Sid.’

‘I think it’s bad luck to toast with water.’ I wasn’t superstitious but I didn’t want to tempt fate either.

‘Rubbish.’ He clinked his mug against mine. ‘We haveallthe luck today.’

Now, I can’t help wondering how things might be different if we hadn’t toasted. Would life be better? Easier? Smoother?

Different.

‘I’m going to fetch another load and then we can unpack a few bits.’

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