Page 37 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

Oh, I’ll show you ecstasy alright, my friend.

‘My God, he’s so hot in real life,’ Bianca gasps. ‘He looks like Will Smith.’

Aoife sighs adoringly. ‘Fressssshhhhhh Prinnncccee …’

He’s wearing an oversized green sweater with the garden centre’s logo, baggy jeans, quite cool trainers and a beanie hat. FUCK he’s looking right at us. QUICK!

Shit. Shit. Shit. We all duck down behind some potted wheaty shrubs. Another guy, a little older but also FIT as HELL who looks ish-like Johnny Depp in the pony-tail days, in the same green top as Christopher but the polo shirt version, throws us a look and we hid – badly – again. They confer and then walk towards us.

‘Hey.’ Christopher smiles in that way you know means someone knows who you are, without saying it, like he was expecting this visit.

Shrey steps forward, does the small talk. ‘This is Ella,’ she says, shoving me forward, towards a cherry blossom and a stack of paving slabs.

‘I’m Christopher … ’ He sticks his hand out. Formal.

‘She knows exactly who you areeeee! Don’t you, Ella?’

Fuck off, Bianca.

‘Err … how’s your day?’ I say, not knowing what else to really ask.

‘Working?’ he offers. Lifting all that soil. Pricing up them pots. Scattering … woodchips? … How fit.

‘Awesome,’ I say like a doughnut.

‘Do you wrap up Christmas trees in those nets?’ Bianca asks drunkenly, even though she’s not drunk, like it’s an innuendo, but she’s not smart enough to think of one. This reminds me of the time she once tried to tell us that the plastic casing around a Peperami was a used condom.

‘Errr … sometimes,’ Christopher says suspiciously. ‘In the month of December?’

‘Maybe Christmas will come early this year?’ she giggles. OK, that was better.

‘OK.’ Christopher shrugs.

Bianca backs into a display of giant cacti, and Christopher warns, ‘Be careful, those are spiky.’

‘Would you like to get spiked Ella?’ Bianca blurts and then laughs in our faces in that annoying way she does, nudging me with ZERO subtlety.

And Christopher gives it away, makes it very clear he knows I’ve had my eye on him, that the little birdies have been talking. The others go off to distract the manager, ‘buying’ packets of seeds. And within minutes Christopher and I are behind a shed, next to the Bleeding Hearts, kissing. He could have picked a nicer spot – the rose garden or those lemon trees but I appreciate him not taking me inside the shed where I might feel intimidated. His hands on my hips. His kiss attentive. The sound of a water feature bubbling behind us. The occasional waft of fresh manure.

And I think about Lowe. I imagine him – held hostage – Megan straddling him confidently, gyrating aggressively, with a mortar and pestle grind and I wish I could get her horrible fanny juice essence out of my mind. Even though I know he’s probably loving it. Gag.

‘So … ’ Christopher says. ‘Do you want to like … see how this goes?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That would be cool.’

Cool.

K. Cool.

So it might not be Lowe but finally, it’s happened to me: I have a boyfriend. And he isn’t a weirdo. Or a pervert. Or a horse. Or imaginary. Or thirty-five.

And I wish I could just run away right then and tell everyone, but I have to hold it down because the girls are being ushered to the till-point by the manager, wheelbarrows loaded with hundreds of pounds worth of soil, plants and tools. When they see me – trusting the kiss has taken place – they say to the cashier, ‘actually we’re OK.’ Dumping the barrows and running out.

Christopher waves. His friend, hands in pockets, gazes at us in that stoner way.

‘Can’t believe his friend didn’t try it with me!’ shouts Bianca fuming, and shouts, ‘THANKS FOR NOTHING!’

EVERYONE is very happy and proud of me. It’s like I’ve won some kind of trophy. Getting a boyfriend (pending) is like a thing for us all! It’s like scoring a goal for your football team! Why everybody isn’t throwing me up on their shoulders or giving me the birthday bumps, I don’t know. I feel very grown-up, like I should be able to touch-type, ride the Underground, have an electric toothbrush. Oh, you know what adult life is like? Bills, bills, bills.

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