Page 55 of The Key to My Heart

‘Figured you could use a drink,’ he says with a smile, ‘and pasta. Pasta’s medicinal in my experience. Comforts me better than anyone ever has. Plus, it was the only tent that wasn’t packed and I couldn’t be arsed to queue with all the cattle.’

‘Thanks. And pasta always works.’ I lift the lid. Inside is a tangle of white, creamy spaghetti … and on top, a big purple flower. ‘Hm. Do you think pasta is still comforting with wanky edible flowers on top?’

‘For God’s sake.’ Joe grimaces. ‘Who decided we’d just start eating flowers? They were probably pissing about, and then we all went along with it, and they felt they couldn’t say it was a joke. Mugs. All of us.’

I laugh. ‘Maybe we can eat around it,’ I say, and my voice croaks. I’ve cried a lot in the last twenty minutes. Something I did not expect when I copied a pretty Australian YouTuber’s eyeliner flicks this morning.

After Joe had sprinted after me, for a moment, I considered just keeping going – to forever be known as that weird girl he met at music therapy who jogged away from him sobbing when they were meant to attend a food festival. I didn’t want him seeing me cry. Mainly because we haven’t known each other all that long,and also, because I didn’t want to turn myself into a mess and have that memory of me filed away in his mind forevermore. But I’m glad I didn’t jog away from him. Joe was kind and calm. I tried to speak, I tried to pretend I was fine, that they weren’t actually tears, but allergies due to ‘er, lump weed and … exhaust fumes?’ But then Joe had said, ‘Let’s just walk, yeah?’

We’d walked silently for a while, the streets welcomingly shaded by the tall, imposing buildings of flat blocks, of a dated Thistle hotel, then Joe had talked, easily, and interestingly – he’s a good storyteller – about work, about his new manager, about his housemate who’s recently got a girlfriend who keeps standing talking to him when he’s reading at night, in the garden, and he’s wondering if wearing fake headphones might stop her. Then he’d led us to Regent’s Park, shown the tickets to a grumpy man on the gate, and the whole time, I hadn’t really said a word – just followed behind him, like a dutiful dog, trying to slow my heart, to clear my head. We’d then found a row of three deckchairs amongst the warm, sweet bustle of the festival, and Joe had told me to take a seat. ‘I’ll grab us some food and some drinks,’ he’d said, and as he disappeared off into a white, crowded marquee, I’d stared at the high, blue sky, at the rooftops in the distance, and imagined Edie, back at the rehearsal rooms – crying, probably, into a colleague’s shoulder, saying, ‘Wow, she’s so different, she’s so fucked up.’

‘Are you all right?’ asks Joe gently, beside me. He looks gorgeous today. He’s wearing a crisp white T-shirt, pressed beige chino shorts, a pair of navy-blue Converseon his feet. And I do wonder, what Past Me would think now, if she could see this, like a TV’s season preview – me, crying, a gorgeous man that isn’t Russ beside me at a food festival – somewhere we’d have definitely visited, on a whim – with a lap of pasta and too-sweet cider. ‘I mean, tell me to piss off I’m prying, but—’

‘No. You’re not prying. I mean, I did just run away from you in the street while sobbing in a bright orange summer dress, like a big tangerine.’

‘Yeah, well, we’ve all been there,’ Joe says, and, in unison, at his joke, we both smile. Two poke-marks dimple his cheeks as he does.

‘That was Edie,’ I say. ‘She was once my best friend, believe it or not.’

‘Is that the one you wrote music with?’

‘Yeah. I haven’t seen her since Russ’s funeral. And – I knew it might be painful to see her but … that was next level.’

Joe nods, calmly. A warm breeze, garlicky, smoky, swirls the deckchairs, ruffles our hair.

‘It was a disaster. Because she really wanted to talk, to catch up, to … make it right. And I realised, I’m not ready.’

‘To make up?’

‘Yeah. To make up. Move on. Let it go.’

A couple drift by us, holding hands, their knuckles holding so tightly, they’re almost white, and a man with a lanyard around his neck, carrying a huge silver keg, trots behind them. ‘Tony!’ he shouts. ‘Hey, Tony! Over here, mate.’

Joe sips his drink, slowly.

‘Edie slept with Russ,’ I say into the quiet between us. ‘Before we were together. But they didn’t tell me. And then I found out.’

‘Jeez,’ says Joe, his face screwing up, like his beer is suddenly mud. ‘Shit, I’m sorry, Natalie, that’s … that’s really awful.’

And I realise, it’s the first time I’ve said that out loud since the day I found out. At Russ’s funeral. My best friend had sex with the love of my life before I did. And I never knew.

‘Russ and I met in the final year of uni,’ I tell Joe. ‘Two of his mates were dating people in our houseshare, and that’s how we met. He was the third wheel. And it took him ages to ask me out. I didn’t think he was interested, and yet he said he could never read me, which I foundmadbecause I flirted so brazenly with him, it was embarrassing. Like I was – I dunno, a hop, skip and a jump away from spraying him like a polecat.’

Joe chuckles, and reaches a thumb to dab a bubble of beer-foam from his mouth.

‘I asked him about it, once we were together.How did you not know?And he just said he thought I was like that with everyone. Loud and jokey, you know. A bit brash. But I was hook, line and sinker, the moment I met him. I loved him instantly, if you can believe such a thing even happens in real life and not in those saccharine movies. I loved him for longer. I always used to say that to him – throw it in his face as a joke.You say you’ve loved me for ten years, but let me tell you, I lovedyou a whole three months before that.’ I smile and feel like tears might explode from me again, like a burst pipe. ‘And I mean everyone knew. Russ was all I thought about, all I talked about. Anyway. Before he finally asked me out, he and Edie, apparently – they got drunk and … I was in the house too. Asleep upstairs. Oblivious.’

Joe’s eyes narrow, his forehead creasing. ‘Shit, Natalie. I mean – What do you even do with your head when you find that out?’

I shrug. ‘And, you know, I really honestly, would’ve forgiven it, if I’d have just known. I’d have been pissed off, if she’d just told me, you know. If she said, I’ve been a stupid idiot and I’ve had sex with that guy you really like, and I regret it. That would havehurt me, of course, because she knew how much I liked him. But it’d have been the truth.’

‘Yeah. Course,’ says Joe softly.

‘And yet, I didn’t find out until he died. That’s when she decided to tell me. To … to rid herself of her bad conscience or something, I don’t know, but – that … that for me was just soul-destroying.’ I start crying again, and Joe pulls a pile of black, restaurant-branded napkins from his pocket and passes them to me. ‘Ugh. Sorry, Joe.’

‘Don’t be.’ Joe’s hand lands on mine, warm and smooth, and he wraps his fingers around my hand, tucks them under my palm. ‘You don’t have to be sorry.’

A crowd of friends – six of them – drift by us. One of them points at the starfish of free deckchairs a few paces from us. ‘Here?’ shouts another. ‘Grace, shall wesit here?’ and Joe and I watch quietly, as they arrange themselves on the deckchairs, all drinks and laughter and yelps as they underestimate the drop to the seat.

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