‘I don’t know whether to run away or run inside.’ Jack turned to me. ‘Are we—’
‘We are.’ We’d had endless conversations. A volley of reasons why we shouldn’t do this, taking it in turns to be the one with doubts and fears that the other would bat away with logic and reassurance. ‘Let’s get a selfie. I want to capture every second of today.’
I raised my phone, rather than the camera looped around my neck.
Our heads touched, goofy smiles on both of our faces, paint-plastered beanie on Jack’s head. He dangled the key at the lens, the sun glinting off the metal. Behind us a single bird glided through the sky.
‘Perfect.’ I stuffed my phone back into my pocket.
Jack offered me the key. I shook my head. ‘This is your moment, Jack. Your dream.’
A cloud of uncertainty passed across his face.
‘Our dream,’ I corrected and that was partly true. A long and happy life with Jack was my dream, and the rest… I was happy to support Jack in his new venture the way he always supported me in mine.
‘Always the photographer,’ he grinned. ‘Never off duty.’
‘Always the artist.’ I reached up to wipe a smudge of paint from his cheek. He’d been to his studio on the way to collect the van.
‘This is it!’ He slipped the key into the lock. His joy was palpable. For a second I forgot my raging temperature, the ache in my bones, how badly this spring bout of flu had hit me, instead feeling nothing but an immense pride for this man who was going to make a difference to so many lives in the way that he had to mine.
‘Jack?’
He turned to look at me over his shoulder. My finger squeezed the shutter button. The click reassured me that my Canon had captured the image. I didn’t need to examine the screen to know it was the perfect shot. Jack’s unruly dark hair flopping slightly over his left eye. The grey of his irises that had darkened to slate the way they did when he was properly joyful. His mouth stretched into a smile displaying his white teeth, one of the front ones slightly crooked. It was the picture-perfect moment I would pour over again and again in the following months, my fingertips lightly brushing the glossy photo paper, almost feeling everything we had felt that day.
Now…
‘Wait,’ I called, wanting to document everything, squeezing past him into the hallway and crouching on one knee. The first shot was of his battered old-school Vans trainers stepping onto the dull and dusty floorboards; for the second I raised my lens to his face. That beautiful face more familiar to me than my own.
‘Enough.’ Laughing, he pulled me to my feet before pressing his lips hard against mine. I dissolved into a coughing fit. ‘Very romantic.’
‘Sorry.’ I pulled a tissue out of my pocket to wipe my streaming eyes. ‘I think I’m due for another dose of something.’
I shrugged off my jacket and slung it over the banister before heading towards the kitchen, my eyes lingering on the dark rectangle spaces on the faded burgundy walls where family photos might once have hung. I couldn’t resist raising my camera and taking a snap of the space where one day we would display our own pictures, adding to the already-rich history of this house. How sad would we feel if we had to pack up our belongings and leave? I couldn’t imagine.
Jack wrapped his arms around my waist. I leaned back against him. I knew he was thinking about the same thing I was.
Sid.
Another sneeze drove me into the kitchen. It was unkept – cobwebs stretching across the dark wooden beams that striped the ceiling – but not unloved. You could gauge that once this had been a happy home. A place filled with laughter. I promised that it would be again, not knowing I was making a promise that would be impossible to keep. I had a strange sense of déjà vu as I looked around. Almost a sense I had lived here before, it felt so meant to be.
There was a cream range cooker that I had no idea how to use. Country pine cupboards, cabinet doors hanging skew-whiff, empty shelves coated with dust. I was exploring every nook and cranny, running my finger across the tiles where faded images of ducks and chickens marched across the cracks, when Jack brought in a box from the car.
‘If my amazing organizational skills are right, there should be a kettle in here. I’ll make you a Lemsip.’
‘I don’t know where I put them but I’ve got some paracetamol in my bag.’ I found them and popped two out of their foil cocoon.
Jack ran the tap; the water gurgled and spluttered. He sloshed some into two mugs and handed one to me.
‘To Sid,’ he raised his mug.
‘I think it’s bad luck to toast with water.’ I wasn’t superstitious but I didn’t want to tempt fate either.
‘Rubbish.’ He clinked his mug against mine. ‘We have all the luck today.’
Now I can’t help wondering if things might be different if we hadn’t toasted. Would life be better? Easier? Smoother?
Different.
But then I’d conceded Jack was right – that the old wives’ tale was rubbish – because my mobile beeped an email alert from Greta, my partner in the photography business we ran.
I could feel the smile spread over my face as I read the email once, twice, three times, but still I couldn’t quite absorb it. ‘I’ve got it! Jack, I’ve got it!’ My eyes flickered across the email again to make sure.
Jack picked me up and swung me around. I felt dizzy with it all: the house, him, the goods news I’d just received. The news I didn’t have to explain because we were so tuned in to each other. Or so I thought.
Then.
‘So next year…’ He planted a kiss on my lips.
‘Next year.’ We high-fived before he drew me in for another hug. Today was the day our stars had aligned. Everything was falling into place. The Hawley Foundation Prize was a huge deal for photographers. It wasn’t only the large cash sum if you won but the exposure. It lent a sense of credibility to the winner. Photography was such an overcrowded market. It was difficult to make a mark. You had to be selected to enter and I’d pitched unsuccessfully for a place for the past four years. Each competition is themed, and this year it was ‘ageing’. I’d desperately wanted to be chosen. I had wanted to feature Sid, but once more, I had received a ‘thanks for your application but regretfully…’ response.
But now… a yes!
I scanned my screen again, hardly daring to believe it was true.
‘Next year’s theme is hope.’ My face was aching from grinning. Possibilities were already whirring around my head. I could feature this house. Jack’s project. What could be more hopeful than our future plans? It felt so apt.
But then came the first phone call.
The first star shifting out of alignment. My universe already spinning off its perfect path.
But I didn’t know it then.