I couldn’t help but smile up at him. ‘You really have.’
Weird. I knew so many people whose parents had split, separated, divorced, sometimes remarried – but after not actually seeing my dad for fifteen years, I had no idea what he even looked like any more. There weren’t that many people who couldn’t pick their father out of a line-up.
And now there was Patrick.
‘So, you must be really close to your mum,’ he said brightly.
Oh shit. I always hated having to do this.
‘Yeah, I was,’ I said calmly, making sure there was absolutely no change in my voice. ‘She died two years ago.’
And just as I knew it would, all the joy and warmth disappeared from the conversation.
Patrick’s face had fallen. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry –’
‘Don’t be,’ I cut in, as I had done hundreds of times before. ‘You didn’t kill her. Cancer did.’
OK, it wasn’t a great attempt at levity, but it tended to work. Now he would apologize again and splutter something awkward as hell, like, ‘That must have been really hard’ – yup – or ‘That’s crap’ – double yup – or even my personal least favourite: ‘She’s in a better place.’
Patrick reached out and took my hand before he started to walk again, pulling me with him. After a second, he said quietly, ‘Tell me about her.’
I could have melted right there on the pavement.Tell me about her?
No one ever asked me about my mum any more.
‘She …’ The smile that crept across my lips was broad. ‘She was the best. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she was irritating as hell sometimes. But she got me – both of us. She listened. Really listened, you know?’
Patrick nodded, his smile inexplicably wistful.
‘She was a terrible singer – whenever she had a shower, we’d have to put the radio on to drown her out,’ I remembered, a warmth curling in the pit of my stomach. ‘But her pasta was to die for. She made it herself, flour everywhere – Laura would follow her with a damp cloth trying desperately to keep the kitchen clean. She … she always drank too much red wine on a Friday night and promised lifelong sobriety on Saturday morning. She loved shouting at documentaries, and she had this coat …’
My voice faded away as the lump that hadn’t appeared in my throat for months suddenly made itself known.
We kept walking, one foot before the other. Somehow it was easier to just let Patrick pull me along.
Then his voice cut into the silence. ‘What was her name?’
‘Jessalyn.’ Just saying her name was painful, a slice into my gut. Two years. You think you’re over it, but you never are. ‘That’s how we got our names. Jessica and Laura-Lyn.’
‘Pretty.’
Get a hold of yourself, Jessy – he was talking about yourname,not you.
‘And you never argued?’
I chuckled as we turned a corner and the wide expanse of the Serpentine lake appeared in the distance. ‘Oh hell, we argued all the time, mostly about –’
Ross, I went to say, but hesitated.
But Patrick had noticed my pause. Of course he had. ‘About?’
My gaze flickered over to him. This wasn’t real.
Oh, my hand was in his and I liked him far too much, and if he kissed me again I wouldn’t be complaining … but hadn’t Patrick made it perfectly clear that this was all a PR thing?
Hadn’t we both made it clear nothing could happen here?
His record label loved the idea of him dating a fan, the public loved the idea that they had a chance at bagging someone as famous as Patrick, and Laura’s beloved app, which she had given her all to, got the recognition – and downloads – it deserved.
