Page 31 of The Art of Loving You

Jack.

I wrenched open the car door and half fell from the car before finding my footing and pelting across the car park.The screech of brakes, the blast of a horn didn’t slow me. I ran around the car that had almost hit me and barged past a couple holding hands, separating them.

‘Jack!’ I called loudly, my hand reaching to touch the man in front of me, his dark hair curling around his collar. He turned round and my disappointment was crushing. He was a she and not only the wrong gender but the wrong age, race.

‘Sorry … I …’ I turned and ran away from her, hurtling into a man pushing a long row of trolleys, backing away, hitting something hard, the A-board I’d knocked over clattering. I was a frantic pinball, ricocheting, lost, directionless.

‘Libby?’ A man’s voice, a warm hand on my arm.

‘Jack!’ I turned but it was Michael, Faith next to him, a worried expression on her face.

‘I thought I saw …’ I shook my head, trying to dislodge my confusion.

‘It’s okay,’ Faith soothed me. ‘When I lost my dad I was convinced I was seeing him everywhere. Are you on your own?’

‘Mum’s inside,’ I muttered, my eyes searching, not for my mother, but for the impossible.

‘Do you want me to go and find her?’ Michael asked.

‘No. I’ll go and wait in the car.’

Faith and Michael walked either side of me as we made our slow way across the car park. I sat in the passenger seat while Faith slid into the driver’s side.

‘Libby …’ She lightly touched my arm. ‘If you ever want to talk, I’m here for you. I know it’s difficult. You might feel awkward …’

Awkward.

With a jolt I remembered her text to Jack from that day.

Have you spoken to Libby yet? It’s so awkward when I see her.

The words formed in my mouth to ask her what she meant but I was aware of Michael sitting in the back seat, scrolling through his phone. It wasn’t the right time.

Instead of speaking I stared into my lap, picking at a stray piece of cotton hanging from the hem of my top, casting my mind back to the last time I’d seen Faith before she had come to the hospital. It was Valentine’s night. She’d turned up as we were getting ready to go out. After hearing the doorbell, I’d wandered into the lounge, fastening a silver chain around my neck to find her and Jack deep in conversation. They broke apart the moment they noticed me.

‘You look lovely, Libby,’ she’d said. ‘Sorry for turning up unannounced. I was passing and I needed to tell Jack something. I’ll leave you to enjoy your Valentine’s.’

‘Don’t worry. Glass of wine before you go?’

Jack had uncorked a Sauvignon. One glass led to two and after she’d received a text from Michael saying he was working late, we’d ended up cancelling our table and ordering in, the three of us sharing crispy chilli beef and egg fried rice. Dipping battered chicken balls into sweet and sour sauce.

It’s so awkward when I see her.

But we’d had a nice night and later she’d shrugged on her coat and, after hugging and kissing us both, she had stepped out into the freezing night. In bed Jack had given me my gifts, a pair of panda slippers that were far from sexy and some chocolate body paint, that was. I hadn’t given her a second thought.

Have you spoken to Libby yet?

Is it connected to why she came around that night?

The car door opened, bringing me back to now. Faith stood outside with Mum muttering things I could not hear.

I turned away from her whispered words.

WhathadI been thinking?

Stupid-stupid-stupid.

Over and over I berated myself that for one single, joy-soaring moment I had believed that I had seen Jack. Had believed his death had all been nothing but a mistake.

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