Page 9 of The Art of Loving You

My phone lit up. The screensaver a photo of me and Jack. In the picture our faces were pressed together, yellow and blue paint splattering our cheeks, foreheads, noses, my dark ponytail swinging into the frame from the tilt of my head. That day I had come home to find him poised in front of a canvas, his brush sweeping fluffy clouds over a tranquil sea.

‘You were supposed to start dinner?’ I had been tired. Hungry. Instead of apologising Jack turned back to his painting, adding a crab to the scene before pointing to it.

‘That’s me.’

‘A crab?’ I was puzzled.

‘Shellfish.’

I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Yep.’ I dipped my finger in the paint and smeared it over his nose. ‘You are selfish.’

He flicked paint back at me and the result was messy faces, dirty clothes, that photo and the memory of what came after we’d showered together. While we were showering together.

I was smiling to myself as I opened the text. An image of a box of Lemsip, a bottle of prosecco with the message,Wild times ahead! Home soon xxx

The word ‘home’ was more warming to me than the fire.

‘What did Jack say?’ Alice asked.

‘That he’s on his way back.’ I put my phone down. ‘How did you know it was him?’

‘Because you get that look whenever you think about him. That’s what I want. That look. A Jack.’

My stomach briefly seized with guilt that I was so happy when Alice obviously wasn’t, but that wasn’t fair. I’d kissed my frog before I found my prince.

‘You always want what I have.’

‘I do not,’ Alice retorted.

‘My Barbie doll camper van, my Girl’s World, my crimpers.’ I smiled, counting them off on my fingers.

‘It’s just that you always had cooler stuff than me. I wished I was the older sister.’

‘Babysitting, helping you with your homework, reading you a bedtime story.’ This time my tone didn’t feel quite so light. Although only three years older than Alice I’d stepped into the role of mother when our own mum was working long hours.

‘I am grateful you know. For everything.’ Alice took my hand and squeezed it.

‘I know. Sorry if I sound off. I just don’t feel great and, Alice, honestly, life hasn’t always been a bed of roses for me. I know I’m incredibly lucky to have Jack but …’

‘Owen.’

‘Owen,’ I confirmed.

I had given that boy my seventeen-year-old heart and he’d squeezed it painfully for three long, wasted years before throwing it onto the floor and stamping on it for good measure. Looking back it was unthinkable that I hadn’t known he was deliberately, consistently, lying to me about virtually everything; where he was, who he was with. How he felt about me. It left me wearing a protective cape of mistrust – don’t trust and you can’t be hurt – but Jack had gently untied the fastenings and shrugged it from my shoulders which had borne so much unhappiness.

‘It gives me hope you know,’ Alice said, ‘that after Owen you found somebody who treats you like a princess. It makes me certain that I can do the same. I don’t want somebody who never takes his socks off or leaves his toenail clippings lying around.’

‘Everybody does something that somebody else finds irritating.It’s whether you can put up with it. Whether the good outweighs the bad.’

‘Was there any good with Owen?’

I cast my mind back. My first kiss. First Valentine’s. First meal cooked for me – garlicky spaghetti. But the memories of those firsts were all replaced by the firsts I’d rather forget. First time I was cheated on. Stolen from. Dumped.

‘There must have been once but all I remember is that being lied to over and over made me feel as though I wasn’t worth being honest with.’ There’s a question on my tongue and I taste the bitterness of it. ‘Alice, who is the baby’s father?’

‘Libby. Please don’t ask me that.’

‘But you and me.’ I didn’t understand. ‘We’ve always being truthful with each other, haven’t we? Had each others backs?’

---