The Switch(58)

‘What were you doing in there?’ I hiss, as we step outside. It’s raining, thick sideways rain that gets under your collar right away.

Ethan swears. He hates getting his hair wet. ‘God, this place,’ he moans, looking up at the sky.

‘You know, it also rains in London.’

‘Why are you so pissed at me?’ Ethan says, walking fast to keep up with me. ‘Was it what I said about northerners? Come on, Leena, I figured Jackson was the sort of guy who could take a joke. And why do you care, anyway? You keep saying how everyone chooses his side over yours and how awful he’s made you feel about the dog …’

‘Actually, I keep saying how awful I feel about the dog. Jackson is a really good guy and he’s not held that over me at all. You were the one acting all – all obnoxious and knobby, and I’ve been trying so hard to make a good impression on these people, and …’

‘Whoa!’ Ethan tugs my arm to pull me to a stop in the bus shelter. ‘Hello? I’m obnoxious and knobby, now, am I?’

‘I meant …’

‘You’re meant to be on my side, angel, aren’t you?’ He looks hurt. ‘Why do you care so much what these people think of you?’

I sag. ‘I don’t know, really.’

What am I doing? First yelling at my mum, then at Ethan. I need to get a grip on myself.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking his hands. ‘I’ve been kind of crazy these last few days – weeks, maybe.’

Ethan sighs, then leans forward and kisses me on the nose. ‘Come on. Let’s get you home and in the bath, hey?’

*

Ethan has to head back to London pretty much as soon as we get back from the meeting, which is probably a good thing: I’m meant to be spending the day helping Jackson to decorate the Year One classroom as my penance for losing Hank. I’d hoped Ethan would muck in and help, but now I really don’t fancy partaking of another Jackson-Ethan meet-up, at least not until Ethan’s had longer to cool off and realise he needs to apologise.

Jackson’s truck pulls into the car park just as I climb out of Agatha the Ford Ka, sweating slightly after a roasting from the air con. I didn’t pack enough rough clothes, so I’m in skinny black trousers and a fleece I borrowed from Grandma, which I assume is fine for doing DIY as it already has an enormous purple paint splodge over one boob. (Interesting, as nothing in Grandma’s house is painted purple.) Jackson is wearing threadbare jeans and a flannel shirt. He gives me a quick smile as he puts down the paint tins and brushes to unlock the doors.

‘Hi. You better at the roller or the fiddly bits?’ he says.

‘Err, fiddly bits,’ I say. I was expecting a frostier greeting after this morning; I’m a little taken aback.

I follow as he hefts the paint through to the classroom. It’s strange seeing a school with no children dashing about – it makes you realise how small and flimsy everything looks, from the little plastic chairs to the brightly coloured bookshelf half full of tatty paperbacks.

‘Jackson,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry about Ethan being …’

Jackson’s setting up, steadily laying out everything he needs; his hands pause for a moment. His eyes look very blue in the late morning sunshine streaming through the classroom window, and he’s clean shaven today, the usual sandy grains of stubble gone from his jawline.

‘He was trying to be funny,’ I say. ‘He’s normally not like that.’

Jackson uses a paint-splattered screwdriver to lever up the lid of the tin.

‘I’m sorry too,’ he says. ‘I could have been a bit more, you know. Welcoming.’

I tilt my head – that’s a fair point. I relax a little, reaching for a brush. We start on the back wall, painting side by side. Jackson’s forearm is lightly dusted with pale freckles, and when he moves past me to turn on the light I can smell the outdoors on him, cool air and a hint of earthiness, like the scent of rain.

‘I never said thanks for helping out with Samantha when she was here for Easter,’ he says eventually. ‘She wouldn’t stop going on about you afterwards.’

I smile. ‘She’s such a lovely kid.’

‘She’s already getting too clever for me,’ Jackson says, pulling a face. ‘She asks more questions than my class put together. And she’s always thinking – bit like you, really.’

I pause, surprised. He glances over.

‘Not a bad thing. Just the impression I get.’

‘No, that’s fair. Except I’d call it worrying rather than thinking, most of the time, so I hope Samantha’s not like me, for her sake. My brain doesn’t know when to shut up. I bet you I can think up twenty worst-case scenarios before you could even think of one.’

‘Never been one for worst-case scenarios,’ Jackson says. He crouches to dip his roller in the tray; his wrists are flecked with paint now, new, brighter freckles. ‘When they happen, you cope. And it’s usually one you’ve not thought of that gets you, so why worry?’

God, what I would give to think like that. The sheer simplicity of it.

‘I just want to be sure I’m doing the right thing,’ I say. ‘I’m worried about – I don’t know, you know those books you read as a kid, that let you choose what happened next, and you turned to a different page depending on what you picked?’