Page 8 of The Art of Loving You

‘Of course. I’ll light the fire in the snug before I go. Keep yourself warm, Libs. See you soon.’ He kissed me goodbye and then he was gone and instantly I was looking forward to his return. I was looking forward to everything the future had to offer.

Then.

The butterfly effect. The delicate flutter of wings. The tiniest change leading to chaos, catastrophe, an ordered life falling apart.

If Alice hadn’t called, Jack wouldn’t have gone out for prosecco.

If. If. If.

Chapter Three

In the snug, the fire crackled. Jack had stripped off the dust sheets that had draped the sofas and although they weren’t to my taste – a mustard-colour velour – the cushions moulded to my body as I sank down onto them. The fabric smelled faintly of smoke and I imagined Sid sitting here, cigarette in his hand, ashtray on the side table.

The care home Sid had moved to had given him nicotine patches and the last time we’d visited he’d sat in their garden, patch on arm, smoking.

‘You’re not supposed to do both, Sid,’ Jack had said.

‘Roll-ups.’ Sid tapped his tobacco tin with his arthritic finger. ‘They don’t really count. Anyway, you’re not supposed to do anything any more according to the news.’ He flicked his ash onto the grass. ‘Don’t drink alcohol, don’t smoke, don’t eat fat. Sounds bloody miserable if you ask me. Want to know the secret of a long and happy life?’

Jack and I had exchanged a smile. ‘Do tell.’

‘Doing whatever brings you pleasure. For me that’s ten fags a day, a bottle of beer before bed and a pork pie on a Saturday.’

Alice now found evidence of his love of pie as she brushed the arm of the chair. It’s covered in crumbs.’

‘It’s probably pastry.’

Craving a sugar fix, I reached for the packet of Jammie Dodgers that Jack had left on the table, hoping the strawberry zing would perk me up. It wasn’t only the lingering effects of flu leaching my energy but the thought of everything we had do.

‘So.’ I tossed the pack to Alice and waited while she pulled out a biscuit.

‘So.’ She met my gaze, knowing what I was thinking. ‘Is it terrible if the baby doesn’t have a dad? We didn’t.’

‘Yeah and look how screwed up we are.’

‘It wasn’t the perfect childhood but it was better than having two parents fighting all the time.’

‘Maybe.’ But it still stung that our dad had left and hadn’t kept in touch. ‘Have you told him? The father?’ I asked.

‘No. He’s … he’s in a relationship. I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Is it Kris?’ I couldn’t help pushing.

‘No, thank God. Do you know he never once took his socks off during sex?’

‘Alice!’

‘Well he didn’t. Hardly husband material is he?’

‘Bare feet in bed isn’t a requisite to getting married.’

‘Well it should be. Still he wasn’t as bad as Leyton. I remember bleaching his filthy bathroom and finding a pile of toenail clippings behind the loo.’

‘Gross.’

‘We can’t all find the perfect boyfriend straight off,’ she said.

‘I didn’t.’ It was convenient for Alice to rewrite history sometimes. To forget that before Jack there had been Owen. My first … not love although it felt like it at the time.

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