The Spark

The Spark

Jules Wake

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Jules Wake 2020

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Jules Wake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008444341

Ebook Edition © December 2020 ISBN: 9780008444334

Version: 2020-11-06

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading…

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About the Author

Also by Jules Wake

One More Chapter...

About the Publisher

For Sarah Wright née Spark. It seems fitting that this one should be for you, with love and thanks for an enduring friendship x

Chapter One

When my phone binged at ten to twelve, five minutes before I was due to leave, I could have predicted that the text message would be from my cousin Shelley. What I couldn’t have predicted was that her absence that day would change my life.

Sorry babe, I’m not going to make it.

Why was I even surprised? Spontaneous was her middle name, which made her possibly the most unreliable creature this side of the M25 but also possibly the most fun, which, when you had a childhood like mine, was a blessing of the mightiest order.

I could have been miffed. After all, she’d insisted I come with her because we’d be the only youngsters at her parents’ annual barbecue bash. I glanced at my watch. Nope. Couldn’t do it. She might be able to let Aunty Lynn down with no qualms – she was her daughter – but I had a few more scruples. Plus, it was a glorious sunny Sunday and I had no other plans, no garden, and no food in the fridge. Aunty Lynn was a bloody fabulous cook and believed in the feeding of the five thousand, which meant there’d be enough leftovers not only to see me through the week but also to take into work, where her interesting salads, incredible pavlova and chocolate cake would all be hugely appreciated, especially by the children. Lynn was nothing if not generous – well, apart from the fact that it seemed she’d hogged all of the giving and sharing genes and left none for my mum.

Giving myself a quick once-over in the mirror, I decided that my navy shorts and pale-pink vest top, both of which had seen better days, weren’t going to offend Aunty Lynn or Uncle Richard. Where hospitality was concerned, they were of the laid-back, the more the merrier persuasion. Anything went, as long as you brought a bottle. Pulling on my tennis shoes, because I planned on having a few drinks and the short walk across town was rather pleasant, I grabbed a four-pack of Budweiser I’d bought especially for the occasion and set off.

It was the sort of sunny day that makes you think that the weather might actually last and that the rest of the summer will be like this. There were a few wispy, cotton-wool-ball puffs of white in the sky, and the sky itself was that vibrant blue that feels as if it has depth to it, and as you stare at it you can almost see that it stretches right to the edge of the universe, which I think it probably did. Or maybe it didn’t. This set me off thinking about the sky and the sun, wishing perhaps I’d paid a bit more attention in physics… No, I didn’t. I bloody hated physics at school. Was glad to give it up. But I felt good that I’d sort of been pondering important things as I’d walked along. My job had been busy over the week, demanding on an emotional level which I was always careful to pack away in a metaphorical box. It’s the sort of job that can consume you and take over your headspace, which is why pseudo-physics and the contemplation of bigger things were especially good for my mental wellbeing. It’s the sort of job which, if you let it, could really drag you under.

And all this pondering had taken me through town, along the High Street, across the park with its fenced-in playground of busy swings and slides, teeming with small people who looked like plastic Fisher Price toys in their brightly coloured clothing, and now up the slight incline of Pettyfeather Lane to my aunt and uncle’s modest-looking semi. Modest-looking as in Tardis-like because the front is deceptive: once through a narrow, dark hall, it opens out into an enormous open-plan kitchen-diner-living-area with a whole wall of bi-fold doors leading onto a spacious, perfect-for-parties patio.

The front door was ajar, which immediately made me smile. It meant everyone was in the garden and as I walked up the short drive, I could hear that happy cacophony of a party in full swing. I stepped inside, skirting round a few discarded pairs of shoes, dumped handbags and jackets in the hallway. In this small market town, a forty-minute commute from London, people were pretty trusting and my aunt and uncle’s contemporaries and neighbours, having reached suburban, reasonably well-heeled mid-life, took the local low crime-rate and all-round decency of people for granted. It was a world away from the experiences of the people I worked with but it gave me hope that there could be a better way of life for them one day.

‘Jess, Jess!’ hollered my uncle in greeting from his spot behind the breakfast bar where he was doing battle with a Prosecco bottle, carefully easing out the cork. In his excitement, he let go of the cork, which promptly shot out with the pop of a gunshot and effervescent liquid foamed out of the neck of the bottle, which he waggled in his hand. ‘Quick, lovely, grab yourself a glass. Don’t want it going to waste. This is the good stuff. At least eight quid from Tesco.’ He waved the bottle at me enthusiastically which wasn’t doing the wastage any good at all.

Luckily, my darling rellies, unlike their daughter Shelley with her spontaneous unreliability, are totally by-the-book, stick-in-the-mud reliable (except they’re so not stick-in-the-mud personality-wise), and the flutes were exactly where they always were when they threw a party, just like the large plastic trug filled with ice and water and lager bottles, which I neatly sidestepped as I grabbed a glass and rushed to rescue Uncle Richard.

‘Well held, that girl.’ He filled my glass up. ‘How are you? Do you remember Fiona? Fiona, you’ve met Jess, my niece, right? Sorry, love, you know your cousin’s buggered off. Shame.’ He turned to Fiona who lived next door and whom I had met a gazillion times. ‘Of course, Jess is our favourite daughter. The daughter we wish we’d had instead of Shelley.’

Fiona laughed. ‘I’m not sure you’re allowed to say things like that.’

‘You don’t live with Shelley,’ said Richard darkly.

‘Hi, Uncle Rich,’ I said, giving him a quick hug, holding out my Prosecco glass so it wouldn’t spill as he gave me an effusive hug back. ‘And yeah, I should be favourite daughter. She’s bloody rubbish.’ I grinned at him as Aunty Lynn bustled up. ‘Dumping me for some bloke she met five minutes ago.’

Shelley was incapable of being without a man, whereas I was a bit – no, make that a lot pickier. It might have had something to do with my job.

‘Jess.’ My aunt gave me a big hug and then stood back with that typical, maternal cock of her head. ‘Are you eating properly? I can feel ribs.’

I laughed. ‘You said that last time I came, and that was after Christmas day when you force-fed me a ton of turkey and made me take the rest of the Christmas cake home.’

‘I probably did. You’re so lucky.’ She prodded her own contented-with-life rolls around her middle. ‘It would be lovely to get rid of these. I should join you on your parkruns.’ She pulled such a mournful face that both Fiona and I burst out laughing.

Richard put his arm around her. ‘Don’t you dare. I love you just the way you are.’

She brightened, patting his face. ‘I’ve trained you well. It’s only taken me thirty years.’ Suddenly she straightened as if remembering something. ‘Now Jess, why don’t you go outside. It’s far too nice to be inside.’

Given that the glorious weather was one of the principle reasons for coming, I did as I was told, although most people did when Aunty Lynn was around.

I spotted him the minute I stepped out onto the patio. Well, you couldn’t really miss him. He was the only other person my age. OK, and he just happened to be big, golden and … just downright gorgeous. He had one foot propped on the small wall edging the patio and he was leaning forward on his knee, lifting a beer bottle to his lips as the sun glinted off the blond hairs on his arms, which were tanned and muscled in all the right places. He had almost white-blond hair, tied back before exploding in a bundle of scruffy curls, and matching eyebrows that made him look like a Thunderbirds puppet. He wore baggy shorts which came down to his knees and were so scruffy they made mine look as though they’d been tailored by Alexander McQueen, the most hideous brown sandals (think: a pair of dead turtles) that were so middle-agedly awful that they were almost trendy, and one of those wife-beater vests in white (although, to cut him a bit of slack, it was very clean) that revealed plenty of bare golden skin (highlighted by design? I wondered) and a well-defined body (definitely highlighted by design). Oh dear, someone fancied himself.

I took first, second and third surreptitious glances – he was so not my type – but for some bizarre reason my hormones had other ideas and were jumping up and down in a state of parlous excitement that made my legs a little wobbly and my pulse take off like a bolting horse zigzagging all over a race course. There was erratic and then there were A&E-bound levels. All of which was completely ridiculous because I did not do laid-back surfie types. Seriously, he looked like he’d stepped off an exotic beach and left his bikini babe and surfboard behind. And as for those wrap-around sunglasses … did he think he was playing in a Test Match for Australia?

I think I was protesting a bit too much. I wasn’t normally this judgemental about someone I hadn’t even spoken to, and I definitely didn’t have this type of reaction just from looking at someone. I mean, I’ve had crushes on good-looking, totally unattainable, never-going-to-meet-them film stars and singers over the years, but never this instant zing of attraction for a real-life flesh-(oh yes, gorgeous flesh)-and-blood person.

With all these thoughts flashing through my brain, I think I must have been giving out flares of static electricity or something, because the blond god suddenly looked up, a bit like one of those glorious antlered stags scenting something downwind that you see on wildlife programmes on the Scottish Highlands. He looked straight at me and a fizz of excitement like an out-of-control Catherine wheel burst in my stomach, frying every last butterfly leaping about in there.

His wide mouth curved in a generous smile and he pushed up his sunglasses onto the top of his head.

‘Hi there,’ he said with friendly ease, crinkles appearing around properly deep blue eyes. Yeah, he was a regular perfect Adonis. And there was something in his eyes that said whatever I was feeling (and I told myself that it was just lust at first sight), I wasn’t on my own.

‘Hi,’ I replied, relieved to hear that my voice hadn’t let me down.

‘Nice to see someone of my own age.’ The warmth of his smile wrapped itself around my heart. Well, if not that then something was going on. There were some very weird fluttery feelings in my chest cavity. And there was definitely a level of interest in his gaze.

‘I’ve just had an in-depth conversation about lawn maintenance with a man who probably went to school with my grandpa and before that – don’t get me wrong, she was a very nice lady, but she was asking me if I could recommend a good electrician or a builder. Random or what?’

I smiled at his slightly bewildered expression. ‘It’s probably the vest.’

‘This?’ He yanked it down, which exposed a pair of smooth, almost hairless, perfectly toned pecs and a little vee of dark-blond hair between.

I swallowed and nodded.

‘It was the only clean T-shirt I had,’ he said. ‘Everything is on the line drying … or at least I hope it is, otherwise I’ll have nothing to wear to work tomorrow. And that will not go down well.’ He flashed me a killer smile full of laughter.

‘No, I imagine not.’ I smiled back, doing my best not to think of him naked. ‘What do you do?’ I paused. ‘Oh God, did I really just say that? I think I’ve turned into my uncle and aunt.’ I nodded back through the bi-fold doors behind us towards the adults in the kitchen.

‘Their party?’

‘Yes. My cousin asked me to come as moral youthful support … except she reneged about half an hour ago.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Oh, it’s not so bad. Have you seen the food yet?’

‘Actually, it seems like a very nice party. I’m rather glad I came now.’ He gave me another smile, this one a little more considered as he took a pull on his beer. ‘My parents moved here about six months ago.’ He nodded to the end of the garden. ‘They back on to your aunt and uncle’s. I’m housesitting while my folks are away, looking after the dog, and Lynn insisted I pop in.’ He shrugged, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I was at a loose end and food was promised.’

I laughed. ‘You definitely came for the right reason. Although I have first dibs on leftovers.’

‘Did you come packing Tupperware?’ he asked.

‘No.’ I couldn’t help smiling at his humorous expression.

‘Well,’ he said with mock seriousness, ‘all bets are off then.’ He chinked my glass with his beer bottle.

‘I might have to pull the favourite-niece card.’

‘How many nieces do they have?’ His laughing frown made me smile. In fact, I don’t think I could have stopped myself smiling back at him if my life had depended on it.

‘Only me.’

‘That doesn’t count. And I think favourite neighbour probably trumps that.’

‘Favourite neighbour?’ I echoed.

‘On account of I’m quiet, good at carrying heavy things, and excellent at plant-watering when people are away.’

‘So what do you do when you’re not housesitting for your folks?’ I was guessing carpenter or gardener; he looked as if he spent a lot of time outdoors, or maybe he still lived with his parents and didn’t have a job.

‘I’m a primary school teacher. Over in Redlands.’

‘What, St Bernard’s?’ I certainly hadn’t pegged him for a primary school teacher and definitely not at one that was dedicated to special needs.

He nodded. ‘You know it?’

‘I’ve heard of it. I deal with a lot of local schools through my work. Gosh, that must be … interesting. How old are the kids you teach?’

‘Interesting is one way of putting it,’ he said, his smile broad and full of sunshine. ‘But I love it. I have a class of nine. They’re aged between nine and eleven. Key stage 2. Nearly all with some form of autism.’

‘That must be difficult. Coping with all those different needs.’

He looked at me slightly surprised. ‘Most people think it must be an easy gig.’ The light in his eyes dimmed for a second. ‘They assume kids with special needs don’t need an education. Or are too difficult to teach, so I don’t need to bother.’ There was a fierceness in his eyes, and if I hadn’t already been halfway to head-over-heels in something with him, that would have pushed me over the edge.

I beamed at him. I couldn’t help myself. And I suddenly realised that I could be completely open with him, completely honest.

‘And I bet you do bother. A lot.’

‘I do. I love working with my kids. They’re a real bunch of characters and every one of them deserves to have the best chance in life that they can get. It’s my job to make sure I give them that. Some of them are incredibly bright, super talented, but they just don’t have the mechanics to cope with life in the same way that you or I do.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘Don’t be. I’m lucky. I’m doing a job I love. So what do you do?’

I smiled broadly. ‘I bet some people feel a bit insubstantial when you ask them after telling them what you do.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m not a saint or anything. I have good days and bad. And sometimes,’ he paused with another of those charming twinkles, ‘I tell the children off.’

‘Shame on you. Those poor little angels,’ I added in a mockney accent.

‘Angels my arse, not when the little devils decide to superglue my shoes to my socks while I’m wearing them.’

‘I won’t ask,’ I said, giggling now. Honestly, I felt a bit drunk on this smiley warm-eyed exchange; it was going to my head. Although I didn’t feel fuzzy or out of focus. No, I felt sharper and more in tune than I’d ever felt before.

‘Well, if I could wash the shoes and socks together, it’d save a whole heap of time getting dressed in the mornings.’ We both laughed at the ridiculous image, our eyes meeting and then holding for that fraction of a second too long, but then neither of us looked away.

‘I’m Sam,’ he said, holding out a hand, still meeting my gaze, those too-blue eyes dancing with amusement and other lovely things. He was sunshine and happiness and it all seemed to be brimming out of his eyes.

‘I’m Jess. Nice to meet you, Sam.’

‘So what do you do, Jess?’

‘I work for a women’s refuge,’ I said, going on to name the nearest town just off the M1.

‘Wow,’ he echoed my earlier words, ‘that must be difficult too.’

I lifted my shoulders. ‘It has its moments. My job is to help the women – and often their children too – get back on their feet. Most of the time, they’ve fled with nothing. There’s a lot of liaising with schools, social workers, doctors, hospitals and, sometimes,’ the corners of my mouth turned down, ‘the police.’ Not many of the women I worked with ever went through with it and pressed charges; their self-esteem had been too eviscerated for that.

‘Sounds like a tough job. Makes mine look easy.’ The admiration in his eyes made me shrug.

‘Makes me appreciate how easy I’ve had it,’ I said. ‘And how lucky most people are and they don’t even realise it.’

‘That’s very true,’ he chinked his beer bottle against my glass again.

I’m not sure where the next hour went. Sam was the easiest person to talk to and we just seemed to have so much in common. We both disliked Fawlty Towers with a passion (and agreed that, horribly dated or not, comedy in the 70s must have been woeful); we both loved The Big Bang Theory; we both thought David Tennant was the best Doctor Who ever, adored Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and both believed that Imagine Dragons was simply the best band ever, although Sam insisted that Coldplay came a very close second.

Despite my stomach starting to make grumbling noises, I felt a distinct lurch of disappointment when my aunt yelled, ‘Food is served,’ through the open doorway, making me realise that there were plenty of people in the garden but I’d been so intent on Sam that I’d been unaware of anyone else around us.

‘Good. I’m starving.’ He gave me a quick once-over, his gaze running down my legs and then back up. I saw his Adam’s apple bob. ‘Are you eating?’

‘Hell, yes,’ I said. ‘Why do you think I’m here?’

‘Phew. I thought for an awful moment, with a stunning figure like that, you might be one of those lettuce sniffers.’ He winked.

With a giggle, I shook my head vehemently, although I’d taken the ‘stunning figure’ on board to pore over later. ‘Uhnuh, I love my food.’ We headed inside and fell into line together as we collected plates, napkins and cutlery.

Aunty Lynn had laid out a fine selection of salads and breads, while Uncle Richard had clearly done sterling service over hot coals as there were several plates of sausages, chicken and pepper kebabs, and home-made lamb burgers.

‘Well, you’d never guess,’ he said shooting my legs an approving look.

‘Thanks. It makes the parkrun I did yesterday worthwhile.’

‘What? Here in Tring?’

‘Yes.’

‘I did it yesterday! It’s a bugger. That hill’s a killer. I normally do one over at Rushmere Country Park in Leighton Buzzard.’

‘Is that where you live when you’re not housesitting?’

‘Yes, although I should move here really. I spend so much time this way. I play for Meadows Way Cricket Club at the weekend and spend a couple of nights a week in the nets there.’

‘Nice. Well, I think it is. I know nothing about cricket, but I’ve been to the clubhouse a few times.’ The cricket club was on the edge of town and had two big pitches bounded by high, well-trimmed hedges, between which was a large two-storey clubhouse with balconies looking out over the grounds and rather beautiful views of the nearby Chiltern hills.

‘You should come up sometime.’ He paused and looked away at the food. ‘Gosh, this looks amazing.’

We ended up sitting shoulder to shoulder on the small wall seat outside, eating in almost companionable silence. Something had slithered into that earlier easiness. I could sense it in Sam’s fierce attention to his food.

I kept my head down and carried on eating, conscious of the warmth of his leg next to mine and the movement of his forearm occasionally brushing my skin as he ate.

His fork dropped with a clatter to his plate.

‘Jess, there’s something I need to tell you.’

He lifted his head, frown lines etched into his forehead. ‘This is going to sound like a proper cliché but I really like you…’

The but might as well have been there in ten-foot-high shouty capitals.

‘Don’t worry. It was nice to meet you.’ I went to stand up but he put a hand on my arm.

‘No, I mean it. I really like you. I’d like to stay in touch but … I’ve got a girlfriend.’