The Spark

by Holly Miller

Genres: Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

THE UNFORGETTABLE NEW NOVEL FROM THE BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE SIGHT OF YOU

"People kept telling me it was impossible that, aged eighteen, I'd found the person I wanted to spend my life with. And yet, here we were."

Childhood sweethearts Neve and Jamie are inseparable from the moment they meet. Everyone knows they'll be together forever - that is, until tragedy strikes, and Jamie is torn from Neve's life.

One street away, Ash is hit by lightning. As he recovers, family members notice a drastic change in Ash, almost as though he is a different person.

"My whole life, there's only been one other person who's looked at me like that."

Years later, chance brings Neve and Ash together- and she is struck by his familiarity. He shares so many traits with Jamie, as if their souls are entwined.

Neve must ask herself whether she can love for a second time in the face of her grief. Is she ready for what life has to offer? And can lightning really strike twice?

Praise for Holly Miller:

'Unique and breathtaking' - Jodi Picoult

'Clever, poignant and very special' - Woman & Home

'Extraordinary' - Beth O'Leary

'A heartrending, beautifully crafted emotional rollercoaster' - Mike Gayle

'A gorgeous, unusual love story' - Good Housekeeping

Release date: August 1, 2024

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 416

Sample

Chapter 10.

Now

A fortnight after our drinks at the Ribs, I meet Ash at his place for coffee on Saturday morning.

Top-floor apartment, middle four windows.

Before pressing the buzzer, I pause on the pavement, my mind electric with emotion. I picture Jamie and me coming to view this place together, if things had been different. Agreeing a price. Moving in. Might it be us living here now, in another life?

I shake it off as Ash buzzes me up. When I walk out of the lift, he’s right there waiting for me, barefoot in jeans and a dark-blue sweater. He’s got a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his face, and it looks pretty good.

As he leans forward to kiss me hello, I know from the way my stomach flexes that I’m attracted to him. I’ve been thinking about him a lot, much more than I usually would after a couple of weeks and zero official dates. But whether that’s down to how similar he is to Jamie, it’s hard to know.

Inside, Ash shows me into the main living area. The space is vast, and crisp with the lemony light of early summer. Exposed brickwork spans the room, along with runs of steel pipework, plus two enormous central steel columns. It smells ever so faintly industrial, of bricks and concrete and past lives.

I walk over to the windows, from which I can see the spot where I stood in the mist that Boxing Day with Jamie. It all looks so different today in the sunlight, beneath an unflinching blue sky.

I follow Ash around the rest of the space. It’s double-height and super airy, with heritage windows, double-stacked of course, and concrete ceiling beams. Even the floors are stunning – polished concrete in submarine grey. The lighting and electricals zone everything subtly, playing off the building’s heritage.

We return to the view. I reach out and touch one of the windows with my fingertips. The frame feels fridge-cold against my skin.

Ash is at my shoulder. ‘Incredible, aren’t they?’

‘They look original.’

He nods. ‘Just with some secondary glazing inserted behind. I grilled the agent on every last detail about the place. I’ve got . . . a bit of a window fetish, I’m afraid.’

I turn to him. ‘Sorry?’

He half smiles. ‘Figuratively speaking. Not an actual fetish.’

I laugh this off with a lightness I don’t feel. Am I being played here? Is the joke on me?

Are you doing this on purpose? And if so, how?

Because the man Ash so closely resembles – my ex-boyfriend Jamie – is dead. He was killed nearly a decade ago, aged just twenty, in a car accident less than two miles from where we lived. There was a vicious thunderstorm that night, and even now, I feel snakes in my stomach every time it rains.

And now – unbelievably – here is someone who is, in every conceivable way, the man Jamie was destined to become.

I turn back to the room. The space is undeniably stunning, but it is virtually devoid of any personal touches, save for a single framed picture on the far wall, above the sofa.

And it’s a painting I’d recognise anywhere. One I’ve pored over and admired for more hours than I care to remember.

I go over to it. Take a breath.

Nighthawks. Edward Hopper.

‘Coffee?’ Ash asks, as I’m staring at the painting and trying to right my breathing.

‘Please.’

While he’s making it, I turn away from the Hopper and walk over to his bookcase. I can’t help myself. I need to check if they’re there. The shelving itself is laminate – an actual crime, in an apartment like this – but I can’t pay attention to that now. There’s only one thing I’m looking for.

The collection is sparse – probably no more than ten or fifteen books in total, which makes it easy to spot them. A Place of My Own: The Architecture of Daydreams. Analysing Architecture. Art and Illusion. All arranged together, in order of height.

‘Sorry,’ Ash says, from the kitchen area. ‘It’s not the sexiest book collection you’ll ever see.’

For so long, my only wish in the world has been to have just one more conversation with Jamie. To tell him how much I still love him. To show him everything that’s changed since I last saw him. To hold him and kiss him again, tell him I would have waited ten more lifetimes for another chance to see him smile.

The coffee’s ready. Mind spinning, I perch on a stool at the enormous hulk of a kitchen island, which is about the size of a ten-seater dining table. I can see the river from here, framed by the windows like a polyptych artwork.

Jamie would have loved this place.

‘So, what’s the verdict?’ Ash passes me a coffee in a satin-black mug.

‘He’d have loved it.’

‘Sorry?’

A kick of panic in my chest. I stare at him for a couple of moments.

Ash smiles, like he thinks there’s a joke he’s not getting. ‘Who would have loved it?’

A beat passes. ‘No-one. Sorry. Misheard you.’

He appears to shake it off, then tries again. ‘Verdict on the décor?’

My eyes alight on a copy of the River Cafe Cook Book. I blink back memories of Jamie’s copy, sauce-splattered and dog-eared, back at Edinburgh Road.

Come on, Neve. Pull yourself together.

‘Well, that depends,’ I say, sipping my coffee, which is just how I like it, strong and smooth. ‘How much are you looking to spend?’

He grimaces. ‘Not a fortune, sadly. I spent enough buying it in the first place.’

How are we ever going to afford something like that?

Mortgage ourselves up to the eyeballs and die broke and in debt, obviously.

But we’ll be happy.

Ash misinterprets my expression. ‘I inherited some money from my grandmother. Could never have afforded it otherwise. As it is, I’m mortgaged up to the eyeballs.’

I open my mouth to tell him I wasn’t making assumptions about his finances, but he’s already moved on.

‘It all depends on what you’d suggest.’

‘Well, we’re definitely not talking about spending a fortune. First, I’d say you need to energise the space with some colour.’ I get up with my coffee and cross the room towards the sofa – a blank block of charcoal grey, no cushions, no pattern. ‘But you don’t want to overcrowd it, or complicate it. You just need a few well-judged additions.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, most people would be tempted to buy everything vintage, but you need to work some modern pieces in too or it will end up looking . . . too theme-y.’

‘Theme-y. Exactly. I was worried about that.’

‘But you can nod to it. Don’t be afraid of vintage, but don’t flood the place with it either, you know? You could go for some reworked industrial pieces, which will give you enough of a modern twist.’

He is frowning, nodding. ‘Reworked pieces. Yes.’

I press my palm against a warm patch of sunlit brickwork. ‘And brick’s a gift, actually. It can carry bright colours really well, so don’t be afraid to be bold. It’s all quite monochrome in here. Plus, brass and steel always make a good textural contrast to brickwork, which you could achieve with lamps or picture frames.’ I glance at him, and he’s smiling. ‘What?’ I say, smiling uncertainly back at him.

‘No, it’s . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘I love how passionate you are. Carry on.’

‘Well, I always advise clients to experiment with texture – if you use different materials, it can help the place to feel cosy, even though it’s a big space.’ I spin round, taking in the scale of the room again. ‘So, you could use curtains in here, instead of blinds, for example. Oh, and you need a few lamps, to create a softer ambiance . . . and you could actually ask Parveen for ideas about art. She’s kind of our in-house expert.’

‘I could just buy more Hopper.’

I smile. ‘Definitely not. That much I do know. You need to mix it up.’

Ash walks over to the pendant lampshades suspended over the table and kitchen area. They’re a strange shade of bottle green that’s far too heavy for the airy space. ‘What about these?’

‘I’d actually recommend glass.’

‘The filament-style ones? I quite like those.’

I shake my head. ‘Too much. I’ll find you some good ones.’

He tops up our coffees and we go outside onto the balcony. The punchy scent of river water is drifting up towards us, mingled with the fragrance of blossom.

‘So, where did you live before this?’ I ask.

‘Actually, for a while . . . Airbnbs. Friends’ sofas. My parents’ place, for a few months.’ He lets out a breath. ‘My girlfriend and I were sharing a place together, but . . .’

I wait for the pause to unfold.

‘I found out . . . she’d been seeing someone else.’

‘I’m sorry. How long had you been—’

‘Two years. Missed all the signs.’ He shakes his head, sips his coffee. ‘How about you? Do you . . . live with anyone?’

‘No. I’ve . . . been focusing on work recently, really. I broke up with someone last year.’ I throw him a look of solidarity. ‘He was seeing a friend of mine, I think. They’re getting married now. He rang me a couple of weeks back, to tell me.’

Ash looks appalled. ‘God. That’s brutal. At least Tabitha had the decency to slink off and never contact me again.’

‘It’s fine,’ I assure him, with a smile. ‘I don’t think by the end I was really in love with him anyway.’

And then – maybe it is something about the way Ash returns my smile, that kilowatt gaze of his, that makes my mind pivot back to Jamie. I still can’t work out why Ash resembles him so closely. Is it linked to the accident, his lightning strike? I don’t see how it can be, and I have no idea yet how the dots join up. But something about it all is nagging at me. The personality change he says he went through.

‘Can I ask you something? If you don’t mind talking about it.’

‘Sure.’

I try not to picture Jamie, his twisted body in the road, being pummelled by falling rain. ‘What . . . happened on the night of your accident?’

He sips his coffee, takes a few moments to answer. ‘I don’t have massively clear memories of it, actually. But from what I can remember, and the stuff I’ve been told, it was this insane weather, like . . . the most apocalyptic storm you’ve ever seen. And I was at a mate’s flat, and he had this little balcony, and being the idiot I was, I thought I’d go outside and—’ He breaks off, shakes his head. ‘Actually, I honestly don’t know what I was doing. Squaring up to the lightning, or something.’

Despite myself, I smile. ‘Wow. Picking a fight with a thunderstorm?’

‘Like I said. I was an idiot back then. Anyway, that was when . . . I was hit.’

‘What did it feel like?’

‘No idea, thankfully. I can’t remember.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘I was in hospital for a week.’

‘Were you injured? Physically, I mean.’

‘Some burns. And broken ribs from the CPR.’

‘CPR? You mean—’

He nods. ‘Yeah. My heart did actually stop beating. They had to bring me back.’

‘That’s crazy,’ I say quietly.

‘Yeah. I’m . . . insanely lucky.’ He lets out a breath. ‘What else? I have some scars on my chest.’

‘From the lightning?’

He nods. ‘I’m like, a much cooler Harry Potter.’

‘Is that how you introduce yourself to girls in bars?’

‘Oh, so that’s where I’ve been going wrong.’

I smile. Then I take a breath, start to probe again in a way I know I probably shouldn’t. But I feel a deep, elemental need to know. ‘And mentally . . . you said you felt different too? Like you’d had a personality change?’

‘Well, the best way to describe it is as though I’d had this bolt of clarity. Like I’d been sleepwalking up till that point. That was when I quit medicine, moved to London to train as an architect. Everyone around me thought I’d lost my mind, obviously. They all thought I had a brain injury or something.’

‘And . . . did you?’ I ask, as delicately as possible.

‘Did I what?’

‘Have a brain injury.’

He shakes his head. ‘Thankfully, no. Given that most people in my position – they wouldn’t have survived. Or they’d have had severe brain damage, or been in a coma, or had long-term neurological issues. I mean, I do get occasional nerve pain, but nothing like what I could be living with. That’s why I find the whole “lightning strike” thing a bit frustrating. The novelty factor. Because actually, it can destroy lives. Has destroyed lives.’

‘And your family and friends,’ I press. ‘You said they think you’re like a different person?’

He nods. ‘Yeah. I guess because after it happened, I seemed to have this sudden sense of . . . disconnect from them. Like the people and things I’d known my whole life felt . . . I don’t know. Alien. Like they were nothing to do with me. And my memories from before the accident became patchy. I could only seem to remember stuff when people prompted me. I had this very definite sense of . . . being dropped into a life I didn’t recognise. And that was upsetting for everyone.’

‘But for you?’

He takes a couple of moments to consider this, as though it’s the first time anyone has asked. ‘Not . . . so much. People kept telling me I’d changed, and I knew it objectively, but I couldn’t feel it, you know? And the thing is, leaving my old life behind actually felt good. Because people change all the time, right? They grow, become better versions of themselves.’

I nod. They do, but . . . ‘Didn’t you ever think it was strange, though? Didn’t you want an explanation?’

He shrugs. ‘No, because it wasn’t medical. Looking back, it was more like . . . a life stage. A wake-up call.’

‘But your family never accepted it.’

‘No. And it is hard for me to think they still pine for the loud-mouthed idiot I was back then. But it’s been nearly nine years. I guess as time moves on, I’m hoping they might forget who was I before and concentrate on who I am now.’

He tells me about his twin sister, an anaesthetist who lives in Norwich. But he says they don’t hang out much.

‘We don’t have . . . loads in common any more. She’s still a bit of a wild child, I guess you could say.’ He shakes his head. ‘I know I’m supposed to miss Gabi, and the bond we used to have, but . . . I guess I’ve just moved on.’

‘Sorry. Feel like I’m grilling you a bit.’

He smiles. ‘I do normally have to be a couple of whiskies down before I get into stuff like this, but with you . . . I guess not.’ He tips his coffee cup to me in a kind of toast as I feel his ankle find mine.

Chapter 11.

I first see Lara again on Sunday morning as I’m heading home from a spin class. She is walking towards me along London Street with a man, her hand wound into his. She’s wearing a long blue-and-white dress that billows around her ankles. Her blonde curls are cropped shorter now, and she’s thinner than she used to be. But it is her smile I recognise first. Like sunshine slicing through cloud.

We’ve not spoken since that night. For years I pictured seeing her again, coming face to face. I practised what I would say. I wondered if anger would overwhelm me, if I might reach out and slap her, or throw a drink at her, if I had one to hand.

She glances up now, sees me. Stops walking. Our eyes meet.

I watch as her boyfriend (or maybe it’s her husband) follows her gaze. As he looks at me, I know he knows. She’s told him everything.

She swallows, takes another couple of steps forward. I do the same.

I can recall very little about our conversation, the last time we spoke. Though I do remember knowing that I never wanted to see her again.

The sky today is surly and grey, the air heavy with humidity. It keeps threatening to rain, a few errant spots landing here and there. It suddenly seems fitting, somehow, as for me, rain is the weather of loss and heartbreak.

Despite everything, her face reflects none of my trepidation. Her eyes glow warm and bright. ‘Neve. Hi. How are you?’

It’s an almost unfathomable question, but Lara always did have a habit of launching into huge, unassailable topics, no matter the context. (As we were getting ready to go out: How many different kinds of love do you reckon there are? Over dinner: Do you think addiction is nature or nurture? While we were watching TV: Would you say cancer’s mostly genetic or environmental?)

It was one of the things I loved most about her. How deeply she made me think.

‘You’re back,’ is all I manage, one of the million things I could say.

‘Temporarily. Family stuff.’ She glances up at the man by her side. ‘This is Felix. Felix, meet Neve.’

He puts out his free hand and grips mine, looks me right in the eyes. His demeanour is gentle and warm, and he is very tall, just as my mother said. Six foot three at least, possibly taller. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

Is it? I think, the cordiality catching me off guard. You must know our history. And then, You’re American.

‘Felix is my—’

Don’t say husband. Please don’t say husband. I’m not sure I can face hearing about Lara getting married without me. Even though I uninvited her to my own life many years ago.

‘—boyfriend.’

I nod, then can’t come up with anything else to say. Even though there is so much. Too much.

‘You know what,’ Felix says. His voice is very soothing, a deep river of charm. ‘I have some things I need to catch up on, so why don’t you go ahead and grab a coffee? I can see you back at the house.’

What house? I think, wildly, and then, Who are you to suggest we go for coffee?

Lara looks at me. ‘Do you have some time?’

Even just a couple of weeks ago, I’m sure I would have shaken my head and walked away. But everything has changed since then. I have met Ash, who reminds me so much of Jamie, I’ve been pulled unexpectedly back into my life of nearly a decade ago, of which Lara was a huge, unalterable part.

‘Okay,’ I say.

Felix puts an arm around Lara’s shoulders and squeezes her, then pecks her tenderly on the head. ‘You going to be okay?’

She nods meekly, and straight away I marvel at how much she has changed, that when I last knew her, she would have baulked at such over-protectiveness. She might even have shoved an elbow into his ribs.

But she doesn’t do that. And I don’t even comment with my eyes, as I would have done once, because it is no longer my place to.

 

Lara suggests a cafe we both used to love, and though it feels all wrong to go there – to time-travel back to the days when she was my closest friend – I agree.

Back then, I wouldn’t have known how to survive nine days without her, let alone nine years. But after the accident, my anger became like a creature living inside me. Over the years that followed, I missed her so badly the pain of it felt physical sometimes. But I simply couldn’t picture her face without picturing what she’d done too.

She tried hard to make contact at first, sending postcards and letters and emails, leaving messages. She even dropped in on my mum a couple of times. But I never responded. A few years passed, then she sent me an email from a work account, a couple of WhatsApps. But I deleted them unread. It made me angry, the idea of her thinking the years would have smoothed away the sharpness of what had happened.

She stopped trying after that.

‘You look great, Neve,’ she says now, as we regard each other across the table.

She looks mostly the same as she did back then. Her teeth are a little straighter and whiter, maybe. Her skin carries a few new creases. Her face has lost its adolescent plumpness, which makes her blue eyes seem even more striking, somehow. Freckles pepper her cheeks and nose. She always got them in summer, would try to cover them with concealer, until I persuaded her not to.

My heart is a starfish in my chest. My oldest friend is right in front of me. Right here.

Our server comes to take our order. Lara asks for black decaf. I go for espresso, maybe to indicate I don’t plan on staying long.

‘Neve. There are some things I need to say to you.’

I shake my head. ‘Not now. I can’t do that . . . now.’

Her expression recalibrates slightly. Perhaps she had a speech prepared. Maybe, like me, she’s stood in front of myriad mirrors over the years, mouthing the words she imagines it will make her feel better to say.

‘Tell me about Felix,’ I say instead. Because, despite everything, I know I’m happy for her. I guess some instincts you can’t overturn.

She smiles, and it glitters. Love has blazed its trail across her face. ‘He’s from California. Well, he was born in Chicago, but he moved to Santa Cruz a few years ago.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘I beat him at pool, at a house party in St John’s Wood. He used to be a professional tennis player, so he was used to winning everything. Anyway, he found me later and challenged me to a rematch, obviously, but I was enjoying this amazing view out on the balcony, overlooking the cricket ground. The sun was coming up, so we just stayed out there talking. And he ended up trying to explain cricket to me, which was hilarious, because it was obvious he didn’t have a clue, so I just waited for him to finish like I didn’t either, then I told him he’d got practically all of it wrong. And when I started explaining what actually happens when one side declares, I don’t think his ego could quite handle it, so to shut me up he kissed me, and . . . Well. Here we are.’

I smile, because I can just imagine her calculating exactly the right moment at which to take him down. ‘Whose place was it?’ I ask, wondering exactly how much a balcony flat overlooking Lord’s sets a person back these days.

‘The director of a film I was working on. I’m . . . a production designer now.’

I know this, of course, because I stalk her online from time to time, checking her IMDb and Wikipedia like she’s an ex I can’t get over. She started out in the theatre before moving into TV and film, recently working on a BAFTA-winning series set in the 1800s and even an Oscar-nominated film, a science-fiction love story.

Before I can stop it, I feel second-hand pride bloom in my belly.

‘So are you . . . Will you move to America? To be with Felix? Is it better for work out there?’

She hesitates. ‘I think . . . I’ll probably move in with him at some point, yeah.’

The server returns and sets down our drinks.

‘Is he retired?’

Lara laughs. ‘Ha. No. He’s in tech. He co-founded a robotics company.’

‘Tennis to robotics? That’s . . .’

‘I know. He’s one of those infuriating people with the Midas touch. And he’s insanely intelligent. Honestly, Neve, sometimes he starts talking and I just have to stop him and say, I literally have no idea what you’re on about.’ She laughs. ‘And we go to these dinner parties, and . . . they’re on another level, some of the people he hangs out with. Seriously. So clever. All these investors and tech people and serial entrepreneurs.’

I think about how protective Felix seemed just now. I picture him lecturing her about cricket or robotics or the Nasdaq, and I wonder if it’s possible Lara can have become a completely different person in the years since I last saw her. ‘You’re intelligent,’ I remind her, in case she’s somehow forgotten how she barely needed to study for those A-stars in her exams.

She meets my eye and smiles. ‘Bad choice of word. I guess I meant we’re from very different worlds. But I love him to bits, Neve. From that first night, I was just . . . blindsided by him. Like, I knew he was my person, you know? I’d never felt that way about anyone before.’

I think of Jamie, and swallow.

‘And actually, I have you to thank.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah. Remember that night you came to get me? After—’

‘Yes,’ I say, because I’ll never forget that night. How it sat in my stomach for weeks afterwards, the way close calls usually do.

‘Well, you told me that night that I deserved better, that I deserved someone who knew my worth, and . . . I never forgot it, Neve. I thought about it for years afterwards, and . . . Felix was the first guy I met who truly fitted that description. So.’ She holds my gaze for a couple of moments, and I am taken right back to that horrible night, the way she cried and doubted herself, and the fury that flared inside me on her behalf.

‘And you?’ she says. ‘Are you seeing anyone? What about work? I want to know everything.’

I tell her about my job, that I’m hoping to be promoted, that I’m probably borderline workaholic but wouldn’t have it any other way. I describe my house, all the work I’ve put into renovating it over the years.

‘Oh,’ she says, her eyes lighting up. ‘You’d love Felix’s place. It’s a designer’s dream, honestly. It overlooks Monterey Bay. It’s completely insane.’

She gets out her phone to show me, and as I look through images of the panoramic views and pool, of the walk-in wardrobes and floating staircases, of the wine cellar and movie room – the calibre of interiors, frankly, I could only dream of having the budget to execute – I realise this man is rich. Like, off-the-charts wealthy.

‘Lara,’ I say, looking at her.

She makes a face. ‘I know. Sorry. I’m honestly not trying to brag. I had no idea when I met him.’ She puts her phone away. ‘Anyway. You never answered my question.’

‘What question?’ I say, though of course I know.

‘Are you seeing anyone?’ She speaks tactfully, like an addiction counsellor trying to discern whether or not I’ve fallen off the wagon.

I swallow. ‘There’s someone . . . I like. Through work. But it’s not . . . turned into anything yet.’ I don’t mention, of course, how much this person resembles Jamie. That there are so many similarities between them, it’s starting to feel weird.

She smiles, says something about a boy from school I don’t quite catch because I keep getting distracted by the fact that we’re sitting in this cafe, chatting as if we’re spin class buddies, as if we have no history, as if we don’t know the meaning of tragedy. Fear keeps rising inside me in waves: did I make a mistake by cutting her out of my life? Was I too stubborn, too unreasonable? But then I remind myself of what happened that night, and the queasiness of doubt subsides.

If I’d known talking to Lara would feel this physical, I’d have forgone the espresso.

‘So tell me about this guy,’ she says, but suddenly it’s too much, this muddle in my head of Ash and Jamie and now Lara b. . .