they moved out and he moved in. We did. Suddenly I was living with him, which was a whole different kettle of pretty fish, for us and for his family. They scared me stupid, even before I did the stupid thing and had to run away. Jacey was worth it, though; and his house, his home was another kind of compensation. It’s hard to feel scared even when you know you should be, where at the same time you feel safe and warm and protected.
I’d been living in one room in a house-share, working in a florist’s to boost my student loan. Now I had more space than I could ever fill, even with the ground floor converted into a garage for Jacey’s poor-little-rich-kid cliché collection of petrolhead cars and bikes. Our bedroom was the size of a swimming-pool; hell, our bed was the size of a swimming-pool. Made to measure, built to fit. The kitchen was a travesty: professional stainless steel and cool black granite, when my culinary expertise barely reached beyond the can-opener and the microwave, and Jacey simply always ordered in, those few nights that he was in at all.
The wetroom was a joy and a revelation; the living-room was big enough to need a map; and the loading-door had disappeared altogether, replaced by floor-to-ceiling sliding glass with a cantilevered balcony beyond.
It was our home, and slowly I learned to live in it. Loving it took no effort, needed no lessons; I never did learn to take it for granted. No wonder I’d picked my own house as I did, a little cottage not so very far away, with its own balcony and the same river though it was younger there, not so big, not so busy. That hadn’t been deliberate, maybe – for sure it hadn’t been a conscious decision, why don’t I get a place that will always remind me of Jacey? – but it wasn’t a coincidence either. You can hide but you can’t really run, you really can’t. Whatever you’ve lost or left behind, you always take it with you when you go.
Downstairs had always smelled like tea to me, despite the new floor and all the renovations, despite the Ferrari and the Mini, the jeep, the array of bikes. I thought two hundred years and more had soaked into the brickwork. Sometimes at night I thought a hidden panel would swing aside and light spill out to show a silhouette, Fu Manchu returned at last, a Limehouse King Arthur only not so well-intentioned, the once and future yellow peril...
Tybalt nudged my leg. I stopped daydreaming, stopped wallowing in nostalgia at least for long enough to bend down and scoop him up. He was almost the only thing that Jacey ever let me pay for, and I only managed that by fait accompli, sneaking out while he slept and coming home with a kitten. My contribution to the household; every home should have a cat.
This particular cat was a heavy double-armful now, a fully mature Maine Coon, the weight of a well-grown toddler. I said “Oof!” at him, and asked how much he’d been eating. He settled two enormous paws on my shoulder, licked my ear thoughtfully and purred at me like a chainsaw digging into a telegraph pole.
Only one of us was sincere, and that only if you can trust a cat. Me, I was lying with every bone in my dissembling body. Looking oh-so-relaxed, girl cuddling cat and watching scenery, waiting for boy to manifest. In honesty I was wound up so tight inside – watching the scenery, waiting for the boy – that I could feel my Aspect actually trying to muscle in on me, as if it had a mind and a purpose of its own, as if it sensed my distress and wanted to protect me.
It’s really not like that, and I told it so. Gave it a good talking-to, internally: reminded it that it was just a function on a hair-trigger that my subconscious was snatching at, and really not an independent lifeform, so would it please stop nudging me, thanks very much? I was in no danger here, not from Jay and not from –
A CROW CAME flapping into view, to make an ungainly landing on the black tarred arm of the jib.
M Y A
I’d been living in one room in a house-share, working in a florist’s to boost my student loan. Now I had more space than I could ever fill, even with the ground floor converted into a garage for Jacey’s poor-little-rich-kid cliché collection of petrolhead cars and bikes. Our bedroom was the size of a swimming-pool; hell, our bed was the size of a swimming-pool. Made to measure, built to fit. The kitchen was a travesty: professional stainless steel and cool black granite, when my culinary expertise barely reached beyond the can-opener and the microwave, and Jacey simply always ordered in, those few nights that he was in at all.
The wetroom was a joy and a revelation; the living-room was big enough to need a map; and the loading-door had disappeared altogether, replaced by floor-to-ceiling sliding glass with a cantilevered balcony beyond.
It was our home, and slowly I learned to live in it. Loving it took no effort, needed no lessons; I never did learn to take it for granted. No wonder I’d picked my own house as I did, a little cottage not so very far away, with its own balcony and the same river though it was younger there, not so big, not so busy. That hadn’t been deliberate, maybe – for sure it hadn’t been a conscious decision, why don’t I get a place that will always remind me of Jacey? – but it wasn’t a coincidence either. You can hide but you can’t really run, you really can’t. Whatever you’ve lost or left behind, you always take it with you when you go.
Downstairs had always smelled like tea to me, despite the new floor and all the renovations, despite the Ferrari and the Mini, the jeep, the array of bikes. I thought two hundred years and more had soaked into the brickwork. Sometimes at night I thought a hidden panel would swing aside and light spill out to show a silhouette, Fu Manchu returned at last, a Limehouse King Arthur only not so well-intentioned, the once and future yellow peril...
Tybalt nudged my leg. I stopped daydreaming, stopped wallowing in nostalgia at least for long enough to bend down and scoop him up. He was almost the only thing that Jacey ever let me pay for, and I only managed that by fait accompli, sneaking out while he slept and coming home with a kitten. My contribution to the household; every home should have a cat.
This particular cat was a heavy double-armful now, a fully mature Maine Coon, the weight of a well-grown toddler. I said “Oof!” at him, and asked how much he’d been eating. He settled two enormous paws on my shoulder, licked my ear thoughtfully and purred at me like a chainsaw digging into a telegraph pole.
Only one of us was sincere, and that only if you can trust a cat. Me, I was lying with every bone in my dissembling body. Looking oh-so-relaxed, girl cuddling cat and watching scenery, waiting for boy to manifest. In honesty I was wound up so tight inside – watching the scenery, waiting for the boy – that I could feel my Aspect actually trying to muscle in on me, as if it had a mind and a purpose of its own, as if it sensed my distress and wanted to protect me.
It’s really not like that, and I told it so. Gave it a good talking-to, internally: reminded it that it was just a function on a hair-trigger that my subconscious was snatching at, and really not an independent lifeform, so would it please stop nudging me, thanks very much? I was in no danger here, not from Jay and not from –
A CROW CAME flapping into view, to make an ungainly landing on the black tarred arm of the jib.
M Y A
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