Page 41 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

Both Lowe and I are moving schools for Sixth Form and on a night call our nerves are clearly showing.

I ask, ‘Do you reckon everybody at college will have, like … you know?’

‘ … What?’ We’ve never spoken about sex before. But it’s ten o’clock on a Friday night and I’m a sixteen-year-old with everything to lose.

‘You know … ’

I laugh and he laughs and I laugh and oh we’re so funny. ‘Lost their virginity?’ I whisper into the phone so my stupid family don’t hear.

‘Doubt it!’ Lowe says reassuringly.

There is an awkward beat. My heart, pounding. I’m listening so hard I hear sparks of magic.

He asks, ‘ … Why, have … you … ?’

‘Why? Have you?’ I tell myself he hasn’t.

‘I asked first,’ he says.

‘OK, let’s both say after the count of three … ’

‘Haha, OK … ’ He laughs; I consider lying.

‘Three, two, one … ’

‘No!’

We both cackle with laughter. I laugh because I’m relieved. That it isn’t just me, yes, but also that he still is, so much so that I say with way too much gusto, ‘LOL! We should make an agreement that if we haven’t lost our virginities to anyone by the time we’re eighteen, we should lose it to each other.’ But I make sure I laugh loads so it means it could be a joke. ‘AHAHAHA!’

‘Ummm … OK.’ Lowe breathes deeply into the mouthpiece. He isn’t laughing.

Something stirs. And I wanted to reach my eighteenth birthday totally preserved, having not a finger on me. A handful of fresh snow.

We hold the line. Why wait?

I get hot and bothered and do a stress yawn. ‘Aw, K, well, I should probably be getting to bed … ’ even though I’m absolutely wired; my blood is on cocaine after that steamy exchange. We say goodnight and hang up.

When I turn around, Violet’s Furby is staring at me with those awful crazy eyes Furbies have and Yes I Will Be Telling My Master All About Your Disgusting Conversation. I do the right thing and take out its batteries.

On the limbs of a bright shining silver star, I make a wish. I ask the star to please let Lowe love me back. Please let him feel the same way about me. Please don’t put me through all of this for no reason. I stare into the star so hard I don’t blink once; my eyes water. A tear streaks down my face – oh, this is dramatic as fuck, perfect. Then, because I’ve seen the film The Craft once, I utter, light as a feather, stiff as a board, and it feels right at this point to burn something to make it ceremoniously witchy. To close the spell. So I write Lowe’s name on the back of a Domino’s Pizza flyer using one of those tiny blue Argos pens and set it alight using the little box of matches I’m allowed for my incense. It burns up into a hypnotic technicolour flame, shit, shit, shit, it contorts, until I have to stomp it out. It crumbles into ash, and I have to kick and blow the grey shreds towards the fireplace. I’m not sure the star is going to even receive let alone accept that wish.

I dream of us living in the map house I drew, doing normal life stuff – making toast, lifting our feet so the other can hoover, reaching my hand out of the window, picking fresh fruit from the trees.

Chapter 18

Now

Aoife and I are on the way to a KTPLT party – one of the few times Jackson has said it’s OK for us to come, a chance for me to network and meet commissioners who might need a writer. Jackson suggested inviting Aoife to keep me company in case the networking doesn’t happen. He knows how uncomfortable it makes me but he has to mingle and doesn’t want me to stand around on my own. There’s no way I could invite Aoife without inviting Bianca too. I’d invite Ronke too if she wasn’t getting ready to push a baby out. Jackson says, ‘So long as Bianca behaves herself.’ I mean, I can’t make promises but I do know that Aoife and Bianca are both people you can trust to leave in a room with anyone and they will make friends. Plus, these parties can sometimes be quite fun. Canapes and fancy cocktails.

I’m meant to not be drinking. I’ve done eighteen days. My longest stretch as an adult. But now I’m worried about telling Aoife and Bianca. I don’t want to dampen the night. I want them to drink freely, have a good time and enjoy the free drinks without worrying that I’m judging them – as if I would – or ask me why I’m not drinking. Maybe I can sip tonic water and pretend it’s got gin in it?

I’m overthinking it. They’re my friends – I’ll just see how the night goes; if I fancy one, I’ll drink, intuitively. I’ve proven to myself that I’m not reliant on alcohol and that I can quit anytime I want. It’s about cutting down, not cutting out completely.

‘When did East London get so desirable?’ I ask. It’s been a good while since I’ve ventured out of South London to go out out and to be honest, well, I’m shocked.

‘Remember how nobody wanted to come to ours in Brixton because it was so apparently dodgy? And now those same people are buying there,’ Aoife replies.

‘I wouldn’t even be able to afford a studio on Palace Road these days.’

---