Page 99 of The Key to My Heart

A rush of memories. Of all the times he was at the station, of all the times he said he was there for ‘work’, that he was working on his exhibition. For me.For me.

‘Tom, I … I don’t know what to say.’ Tears, as usual lately, already fall from my eyes and Tom steps forward, stands in front of me, so close, I can feel his warmth.

‘Say nothing,’ he whispers. ‘Just come back inside, and see them again, now you know that.’ Tom reaches into his jacket then, brings the card up between us. ‘And what’s this?’

He lifts his free hand to my face and skims away tears on my cheeks with his thumb.

‘You dropped it and left. Like a Deliveroo driver.’

I laugh – laughing and crying all at once, on a pavement in front of the man I’m falling in love with. The man who never gave up on me, not once, not even when I pushed him away. ‘It’s a card,’ I say. ‘And it was also meant to be a USB, of a song I wrote. Last week. About you.’

Tom looks stunned for a moment, then a gorgeous smile spreads across his cheeks, reaches his eyes, those lovely crinkles by them, those lovely straight teeth Lucy sold to me like a saleswoman almost a year ago in that sticky bar. ‘About me?’

‘Yes. But … I dropped it or something because I definitely had it, and I wanted you to hear it, because … I can say things better with music. But I can’t find it. And I had it. Right here.’

Tom slowly loops his arms around my waist.

‘A song. About me,’ he repeats. ‘Wow, it’s—Shit, it’s not a diss track, is it?’

I laugh, shake my head. ‘No.It’s a love song. Because … it’s you Tom. It’s totally you.’

‘Natalie—’

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ I rush out. ‘There’s no pressure at all, no expectation or anything at all. You don’t have to say anything back to me because I know I’ve been giving really mad signals, saying that I’m mossy at the bottom of the sea, and making you talk to me to fend off my friends, and plus, I know how you feel about love and … God, I even told you I don’t fancy you, over and over and—’

‘Natalie,’ Tom says, gazing into my eyes. ‘It’s you, for me, too. Of course it’s you.’

I close my eyes, tears filling them. ‘I knew it was you under the moon,’ I tell him. ‘I knew it on the steps.’

‘And I knew in the bar – after that margarita you didn’t let me pay for.’ He laughs to himself, moonlight reflecting in his eyes. ‘And I knew again and again … and again, after that.’

A cheer sounds from a nearby pub, and music kicks in.Last ChristmasbyWham!

‘And to be honest,’ Tom smiles, ‘I think pretty mucheveryoneknows it’s you. That exhibition. I might as well be on top of a building dressed like bloody Spider-Man with a banner on a bed sheet. That exhibition might as well be my declaration. To the whole bloody world.’

Tom leans then, and gently brushes hair from my face. Then he pushes his gorgeous, warm lips to mine.

I close my eyes, and right there, under that same moon, under the December sky, I feel everything, I feel life, rushing back into my veins.

And just like the night we met – three words: I choose Tom.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Eighteen Months Later

Edie knocks on the dressing-room door. She peeps her head around it. ‘How are you holding up, pal?’

‘Edie.Thank God you’re here. And put it this way,’ I say, ‘I finally understand all your mad dashes to the toilet before our gigs.’

Edie laughs and comes into the room. She smells like floral perfume and red wine, and she squeezes her arms around me. ‘Relax, Nat,’ she says. ‘It’s going to be amazing. Better than amazing.’

It’s the first night – a trial night, Devaj and I are calling it – of the first ever NMT song-writing showcase. Twenty of our students have written songs, recorded them, practised them, and tonight, they’re going to perform them. Their heartbreak and healing in notes and chords and quavers. Their family, their friends, the local papers, members of the public – their truths, for everyone to see.

‘They’re saying fifteen minutes till curtains,’ says Edie. ‘Devaj wanted me to tell you. But I wanted to say good luck, and how proud I am of you.’ Edie kisses my cheek. ‘And that if you’re ever in doubt, just thinkof 98-year-old Granny Natalie. She’s not nervous. She doesn’t care. She’ll just be sitting there with her pease pudding, really glad that you did.’

A few minutes until curtains go up, I go and find my seat. And Tom. I can’t see him, but I see his empty seat, beside mine, next to Mum and Dad, who have come prepared with what appears to be a miniature portable meze. Dad is halfway through a mini roll and Mum is trying to find the flap on a box of miniature Cornish pasties.

‘Where’s Tom?’ I ask.

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