Page 93 of The Key to My Heart

‘Natalie,’ he says, standing, ‘ah, Nat, you’re here.’

‘Just promise me there’s no balls metaphors. Last time I went to a poetry slam, it was all about balls. And death.’

Joe laughs, two dimples punctuating his cheeks. ‘I promise,’ he says, ‘although I can’t really promise thesame for anyone else. Nothing’s off the table in this gaff.’ In front of me, he stands, nervously, as if he doesn’t know what to do with his arms. I step forward and put my arms around him.

‘Thank you for inviting me,’ I say, and Joe’s rigid frame softens against me. ‘Thankyoufor coming,’ he says, ‘seriously. Thank you.’

We take a seat on two plastic chairs with metal legs. Mine wobbles, uneven on the ground, the little rubber stopper on its end, missing.

‘And how are you feeling?’ I ask. ‘Nervous? Do you need me to play bodyguard? Make sure everyone keeps a healthy one-metre-personal-space distance away?’

‘Er, yes, please,’ he says, dropping his voice to a mumble. ‘To both. A man chatted to me earlieratthe urinal, then described his work as the Steven Spielberg of poetry so now I’m nervous on – every single level.’

‘Wow.’ I laugh. ‘And you’ll smash it, Joe, you know you will. And even if you choke, just pretend it’s part of the art. You know, pretend-cry for a bit. Everyone will be likeoh my god, your work is raw. People fancy troubled poets. Especially ones who cry.’

Joe laughs. ‘God, I’ve missed you, Nat. I really didn’t think you’d come …’

‘I just needed some space,’ I say. ‘But after this, you are taking me to the pub and I want you to tell me all of it. Tanner, in hospital, what bay, what bed …’

‘Of course.’

‘I probably saw you.’

‘Yeah.’Joe nods. ‘You probably did.’

‘Both of us under the same roof.’

‘Nothing but a wall between us.’ Joe smiles. ‘You … you look … so happy.’

Someone on stage speaks into the mic. He’s wearing – oh my God, he’s wearingactual antlers.Joe is right. Anythingdoesgo in this place. ‘One-two. One-two-test,’ the man says. ‘Is that – is that not too loud? It’s just – I’ll be croaking, sometimes cawing … ’

Joe and I look at each other and giggle silently.

‘Thank you. About the happy thing,’ I whisper. ‘And I’m glad you’re writing again.’

‘I am,’ he replies. ‘Who knew I just had to totally fuck up and upset my mate to unblock the creative channels?’

‘Should’ve done it sooner,’ I say.

Joe laughs, and looking at him now, compared to that sallow, scared person on the rainy concrete at the rehearsal rooms, it’s like looking at someone who’s finally let the sunshine in.

I go to the bar and buy us some drinks – me, lemonade, Joe, something a little stronger, and he nervously sips, as the first poet goes on stage.

‘So, erm, I’m moving back home,’ whispers Joe as the poet starts speaking. (It’s a poem called ‘Macaroni Cheese’ that opened with the line, ‘if cheese was the war …’)

‘Home home? Like … Dorset home?’

He nods. ‘To Dorset. With Mum and Dad for a bit. I think I need to be with them. Face it. Not avoid it. And I’m thinking – you don’t ever feel ready for thisshit, do you? So you have to – do it anyway. So, that’s what I’m doing. Plus my housemate’s getting married and it’s insufferable.’

‘That’s amazing, Joe.’

‘No, it isn’t. His fiancée was crying over canapes last night. Some issue with crab seasons and Uncle Gabe’s allergy? I wanted to throw myself off the balcony …’

‘I meant Dorset.’

‘Oh.’Joe laughs, and behind us, someone hisses ‘shhhhh.’

Joe smiles at me, bashfully, and nibbles his lip. ‘You’ll have to come and visit,’ he whispers. ‘Stay over a night or two. Hang out.’

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