Page 34 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

Please let me take care of you. I would do such a good job.

Today, he doesn’t even bother trying to hide the cigarette smell like he usually does in front of his dad. He doesn’t stop to buy gum at the shops.

Back at his manicured, restrained, all-clean house I see a printed-out photograph stuck on the wall of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. His mum. He wants to head straight up to his room, not even stopping to say hello or kick off his shoes. I follow his lead, away from the flowers in the kitchen; adults talking; plates of food, wine and coffee. There are some cards for Lowe by his bedroom door, offerings, which he collects – neutrally – like post. We make our way inside.

Lowe and I sit in his bedroom in the quiet. There is nothing like being in the bedroom of someone you’re in love with. Like the rest of the house, it’s painted white and practical: shelves and drawers with books and games. Some I recognise from our own shelves at home; I live for these crossovers in our upbringing. One of those metal grip strengthening gadgets boys seem to love. Just right. We say nothing. Lowe gently plays his guitar. He’s got so good. I’m transfixed by his hands. And how I wish I was the body of that instrument, being held so close to him.

I watch him play, until it gets dark, when the two cats come purring in through the gap in the door – classy intelligent cats with healthy fluffy bushy tails and leathered polished paws and shining understanding eyes, a mother and a son. A mother and a son. Cats that pad around with such sympathetic wisdom like they know everything. Even the son cat who Lowe tells me is usually playful and boisterous is totally placid and submissive. They lie either side of Lowe’s lap, letting him know that they are here and that they love him. I’ve never seen animals be so intuitive in real life – like Beatrix Potter animals. It moves me to tears.

Lowe places his guitar down and buries his face into their fur. And I kneel down next to him in the quiet. We both lie into the cat’s bellies, like they’re pillows. We stare into each other’s eyes for what seems like forever. And we say nothing. Just look. Our faces are so close; if we were ever going to kiss, this would be the moment – this would be when the shooting star would explode over his rooftop and rain down magic over us … but it isn’t right. Not tonight, here in the darkness, as deep and as bittersweet as liquorice.

I lie on the little sofa opposite, in the dress I wore to the funeral. Lowe on his bed. Our hearts are tin cans, a string between us, like old-fashioned walkie-talkies. We speak, but we don’t say a word.

When I get home I find Mum in the living room with the TV on low. She never watches TV. She’s just sitting there, like she’s been waiting for me to come home. I’ve never been so happy to see her.

‘How was it?’ she asks.

‘Sad,’ is all I can think of.

‘Poor baby – he’s too young to lose his mama.’

‘I know.’ I kick the borrowed shoes off and hug my knees.

‘Nice of you to go. Make sure you look out for him.’

I make Mum a cup of tea and place it on the floor by the foot of the sofa.

‘Thank you, Elliebellie. I love you.’

‘I love you too, Mum.’

I sit down beside her; both of us cross our legs, hold our mugs with our left hand, smile at the same bits. I am so lucky to have parents I love and to be loved.

Then Mum says, ‘Can’t imagine if I died.’

‘God, make it about yourself then, jeez.’

Chapter 16

The funeral changes me. I will take it with me for life. I’ve never felt death so nearby. I’ve never trodden so close to the edge of my own mortality either, not even that time those girls called me an emo (I’m a GRUNGER – big difference) and tried to mug me and all they found on my person was an opened unused Super Plus tampon covered in leaky pen ink and crisp crumbs. Or even when I went to that blackhole waterslide in the depths of Penge that urban legends said they put blades inside to slash our arms.

And it changes things for Lowe and me too – and, I’m worried, not in a good way.

He’s gone back to being quiet. He hardly calls; he only texts back if I text him more than once and he’s never first to message. I’m not expecting anything but it’s strange. I replay the funeral in my mind, afterwards at his house. I’m left insecure about it. Was I too much? Was I not enough?

‘What are you doing at the weekend?’ I ask him at the end of an awkward call.

‘Think we’re going riding.’

‘Cool.’

Sometimes Lowe and these other rider boys he hangs out with go on day-trips to foresty places out of London with trails and pump tracks where they can ride their bikes and forget. These places to me seem as distant and fantastical as Narnia. We hover on the common, killing time until they return, like fisherman’s wives. They always come back eventually. Muddy, cold, wet into our arms.

But this time, they don’t.

‘Call them again!’ Bianca orders, but none of us have any phone credit or coins for the phone box. We go to The Twins’ house, set up base camp and ping off their mobiles from there. No answer. We eventually wave the white flag and squeeze into The Twins’ tiny baby-girl pyjamas, raid the snack cupboard and watch Cribs. We learn that they’ve been hanging out with a new gang – another boy and these two girls and they do drugs, which I’d never done and don’t want to either. Apparently, one of the girls has a giant house with a pool, an only child raised by her au pair – typical. Oh, so that’s where they’ve been; the plot thickens.

The BMX boys invite the new gang to the common one afternoon and we all look the two girls up and down, unable to see what they see. Looking for every micro detail, evidence of why they are clearly, obviously the devil, split in half and shoved into pedal pushers. For starters, why do they hang around in this little threesome with this stoned guy? Is he their pimp? It’s odd but – drugs?

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