‘So, the dinner the other night? The new aftershave.’
‘It wasn’t new.’
‘Thealmostnew aftershave… If things are purely platonic, why did you act like you were about to pick her up for prom?’
‘I didn’t ever pick her up for prom. I picked you up.’
‘I know, but I bet you didn’t bother with all that faffing about when it was just us.’
He shifts off the bed, eyes searching the room.
‘I need a drink of something that’s not shimmering or red. Tea?’
I nod, watching as he moves across the room, hands fumbling over the kettle, the cups.
‘What happened, Spence? The night of the not-so-new aftershave? You looked like you’d won the lottery.’ He looks at me over his shoulder as he makes the drinks. ‘I didn’t. I was just… relieved.’ He focuses back on the task at hand then passes me a cup. He sits on the edge of the bed, focusing on the surface of his drink. ‘Nothing happened, but… I think that maybe itcould.’ He glances quickly at me. I have no idea what my face is doing right now, and I try my best not to grab him by the shoulders and scream at him.
‘But that all depends. On Georgia.’
I clutch the tea in my hands and shuffle up the bed. ‘When did you tell her?’
He taps the edges of his cup with his thumb. ‘Last week.’
‘And?’
‘I told her everything. That I’d been meeting with her mum, that she’s changed, wants to see her.’
The word ‘mum’ feels like it’s echoing around my head. ‘I’m guessing finding out that you’ve been seeing her, Heather, in secret didn’t go down too well?’
‘Understatement.’
‘You have to know why though, right? You kept it hidden from her.’
He nods. ‘I know. But I needed to be sure. Needed to know that I wasn’t going to bring her back into our lives only for her to leave again.’
Knight Riderhas started playing on the TV – a very young David Hasselhoff driving along a highway. I reach for the controller, turning it off.
‘So, what next?’
‘She’s coming round. Next week. To meet Georgia.’
I let out a long plume of air.
‘Big day.’
‘Big day.’
He takes a beat, glances at me then reaches for the laptop. ‘So, how far have you got? Any luck finding him?’ He closes the conversation about Heather, and I don’t know if I’m relieved or something else.
‘Not yet. I can’t find any record of him being an artist.’
‘Maybe he gave it up later, but still got into St Martins…’ He runs his finger over the mousepad. ‘There must be some record of him from back then. An exhibition, maybe?’
He leans closer to the screen then cracks his knuckles.
I laugh. But part of me wants to slow down the search.
Because deep down, in a place I don’t want to acknowledge, part of me is scared that if I find him, if he stops becoming a ghost, I’ll be left with the real world.
