Page 18 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Well. OK,’ I say. ‘Thanks?’

Bianca is at the window now, pointing at us, hurrying me along, ushering me to slip her name into the conversation. She doesn’t care how indiscreet it is, so long as the job’s done. I need to be a good friend to Bianca and make a speedy U-Turn, reverse my feelings by focusing on all the things I don’t like about Lowe, of which there are none. He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and I catch his arms and wrists, which are strong, square and elegant. Veins bulge, his beauty drip-fed. He’s looking into my face again. My eyes sparkle on demand – bitches, betraying me like this; my eyelashes bat, flap up and down like Betty Boop and I just say, ‘So, you know my friend, Bianca? She really likes you.’

‘Who?’ Lowe says, surprised like why would you say that?

I feel ashamed. He probably thinks I don’t like him back given that he’s just called me pretty and cute and in return I’ve told him that one of my friends likes him.

‘Who’s Bianca?’

He really didn’t know who she was, did he?

‘The tall one standing there, smoking, with the red hair and big boobs.’ Just like all the other times I’ve had to point her out to boys.

Bianca waves on cue to us, like the window is a TV screen and she’s a singer on the Eurovision Song Contest trying to encourage us to vote for her by telephone.

He nods. Waits for me to change my mind, or take it back. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say more, looks puzzled and just says, ‘Cool.’ Nodding. Brows furrowed. Confused. Hurt, even? He lifts himself coolly off the counter and loses himself in the faces of the party.

And that, right there, will be the worst decision I make for a really long time.

Chapter 8

It doesn’t take long for Bianca to pull Lowe.

Well, for Bianca to instruct Lowe that this is what is happening.

And it doesn’t last long because Bianca throws up in a frilly silk pillowcase and gets put to sleep in Dean’s mum and dad’s bed.

Under a shrimp sky, a breeze sends crisp leaves crowding under Dean’s family barbecue. The temperature dips with the sun, naturally forcing Lowe to sit up next to me close on the wall outside. We pretend like nothing has happened, like he hasn’t just kissed one of my best mates. It’s actually a good thing, I tell myself. It means we can begin again, start over, as friends. It means I can talk to him without it being anything more than a friendship. To be Lowe’s friend means to be close to him, as close as I can possibly get without ever having to be rejected or forgotten or looked past. Being his friend means that we can have something different, something far more special. Something that never has to end.

‘So, like’ – we have to say like as much as we take oxygen – ‘what are you into?’

‘Music,’ he says. ‘I dunno … riding my bike?’

Fit— STOP IT, ELLA! He’s obviously betrothed to Bianca now, off limits, out of bounds.

‘Do you have a bike?’ he asks me.

‘What, like’ – see, told you – ‘a bicycle?’

‘A bicycle, haha, yeah, do you have a bicycle?’

‘I have a Legoland driving licence? But the older I’m getting, the more the novelty of even an impressive accolade such as that is wearing off.’ We laugh. ‘No, I haven’t been on a bike in years … ’

‘Well, I’m very sorry to hear that,’ he says with a smile, meaning to be funny, but with a hint of that’s a real shame and the real reason why we won’t ever be getting married. ‘Why not?

‘Ummm, because they’re … dangerous.’

‘How is it dangerous? Riding a bike is like … a car but better. It’s like … I dunno … having wings.’

Cheesy. But no, he means it. I see his feathered wings. And then I think of Bianca and that sloppy toffee gunk she basted all over her lips before she kissed him. I look down.

‘It’s true,’ he says. ‘Everyone needs a bike.’ I can see he’s conflicted; he’s shy but he wants to talk more. He’s pushing himself. ‘We have this boy who lives near us who didn’t have a bike and wanted to ride, so me and my friends – we made him one.’

‘You made him a bike?’

‘ … Yeah.’ He bites his lip.

I have to lean in close to hear him.

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