Page 40 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Cool,’ he replies.

‘So … ’ I begin. ‘Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances – I mean you’ve probably heard; I’m sure the rumours are already spreading, given we were couple of the year – but Christopher and I have sadly decided to call it a day and go our separate ways. We really gave it everything we could but ultimately … we decided we’re better off as friends.’

‘ … ’

‘Hello? Are you there?’

‘Yeah, Chris said,’ Lowe replies.

‘What did he say?’ Did he mention that you and I are obviously in love, Lowe? That we’d make such a cute couple? Did he? And are you going to do something about that or no?

‘That you’re just going to be friends.’

‘Oh.’

‘I mean, you guys were never really going out in the first place were you, so … ’

‘He bought me a marker pen.’

Stone. Cold. Silence.

That night I’m crying like I’ve broken up – not with Christopher at all – but with Lowe. I find myself beating my wardrobe up with a coat hanger so I’m clearly a girl on the brink. Violet walks in like … O … K.

‘I know, I know I’m mad,’ I howl. ‘But I can’t help it; this is what love does to you!’ I push my finger at my temple like they do on TV and twist it like a screwdriver.

But there’s only so much sliding down a wall into a crying heap to Britney’s ‘I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman’ one can do. I’ve had enough of feeling so helpless.

I dig out the application form and apply for a place at the performing arts school, stapling some of my writing to the entry form just like Mum did. One of my poems is about an old couple in love and their letters have been found by their great-grandchildren. For authenticity, I’ve scrunched up the paper, stained it with teabags and burnt the sides with a lighter so it looks like it’s from the olden days. Then, using one of the stamps I had saved for a letter to Lowe, I post it. Deciding I’ll only tell Mum if I get an interview so she can’t say no.

Once home, I say to myself, you know what will really help ease my chaotic mind? Redesigning my bedroom! New Bedroom means New Me. I put on Incubus and use my rage and sadness to shove the bed with my whole body weight. CLANG. I drag the furniture. BASH. The tips of my fingers white, red face melting in crying grunts until everything has been reconfigured. It looks utterly sick. Not that functional given that the bed is in the centre of the room and I can’t quite open the door, but still, sick.

‘MUUUUMMMM! COME LOOK AT MY NEW ROOM!’

I mean this is all far more healthy than chopping myself an anxious fringe.

And then it twigs. Wait, what’s all this crying about?

So long as Saskia from art class is kept at bay, Lowe and I are single at the same time.

Beautiful, endless, rolling fields, open arms and flowing water, time stops and it’s all ours …

Chapter 17

And it is all ours.

Lowe and I spend the summer back to back, side by side, sun on our skin, grazing away hours, sharing headphones and chatting shit. I’m certain I’ve failed my exams because I didn’t know a single answer to any question. My only knowledge is pointless facts about Lowe Archer – unsurprisingly really, given that I’ve dedicated the past two years of my life to studying him, like a rare species I’ve discovered. But it’s OK, because I smashed the interview at the Performing Arts School by talking ‘passionately’ about song lyrics being poetry, the beauty of radio, the wonder of everyday storytelling, conversation, making up plays with your siblings. How everything begins with a story …

Anyway, Mum’s not mad. Mum’s cool. Because Mum’s met someone.

Mum towers over Ears, Nose and Throat doctor Adam, who wears fish-finger beige V-neck jumpers and has 14,000 degrees in every form of science you can imagine. He’s the sort of person who does online IQ tests for LOLs. He can’t get enough of the falling apart house and the wild garden. He doesn’t have kids himself so his head is pretty much wrinkleless.

Once, when turning down a second bottle of beer, just in case, I hear him joke, ‘No need for drugs and booze in this house! Every moment is a trip.’

I see my family as Adam probably does: psychedelic Austin Powers’ extras, dancing in orange platforms, combusting into sunflowers. He watches on, gripped to the couch, tripping, in his mustard corduroy.

‘Ha,’ I reply. And we all know what ‘Ha’ means. It means no offence but please stop talking.

Adam takes Mum to lovely restaurants and wine bars. It’s weird seeing Mum in a dress. They go to Paris for the weekend. When he buys me an iPod and the house a solar panel espresso machine and two Weimaraners, I realize neither he nor these great big hounds are going anywhere any time soon. I want to challenge Mum on this shift, given that it contradicts all of her morals but I instead use her good mood to my advantage and am allowed to attend the Performing Arts College – ‘so long as it’s free’ warns Mum, which it is.

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