Page 43 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

I know I’m at risk of getting in trouble with Jackson but Bianca’s got good news.

‘Don’t look so anxious, Ella – KTPLT wouldn’t have a party with free cocktails if they didn’t want people to drink and have a nice time, would they?’

But why do we always have to take it too far?

The next thing we know, Bianca’s requesting Black Eyed Peas’ ‘Pump It’ from the irritated DJ who has told her 900 times that they don’t take requests. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ I say with Jackson glaring over at me. ‘Sorry!’

Bianca’s sliding into people, boffing and barging, treading on toes, lighting up a cigarette indoors because she thought she saw someone else smoking (it was an E-cigarette). OH GOD, Bianca’s spilling red wine, ordering shoestring fries that are actually tempura courgette – ‘what are these?’ – she sniffs, throwing the greasy strings across the room and wearing the metal basket they came in like a beret.

‘Bianca, NO!’

People are staring, pointing, laughing, not impressed. Jackson is looking at me like what is going on?, and I mouth, ‘Sorry,’ and demonstrate that I’ll try and keep her under control, sobering myself very quickly. Next, she gatecrashes a very serious-looking conversation and I have to steal her back like a teenage tearaway, arms looped in her elbows like that game where you pretend to be someone’s real hands. ‘No need to call security; we’ll sober her up.’ I apologize to staff. To everyone.

We drag open the sliding doors to get fresh air and feed Bianca lemonade through a straw. People are definitely watching. Oh God. The swimming pool, ring-fenced off, glimmers. Bianca smacks her lips at the water how a warthog might a muddy puddle on a hot day. Kicking her boots off, she jumps up onto a sun lounger and performs East 17’s ‘Stay Another Day’ – the lyrics all wrong. Shhhhh! Bianca! Through the window I see Jackson, locked in conversation with the important-looking woman; what’s taking him so long? He’s using his hands to gesture, doubled over, holding his belly like he does when he finds a joke really funny. Like he used to with me. Pretending not to know us. He’s not even said hi properly. He reaches for a cocktail from a tray. The same drink she’s got. He wants to fit in, to impress her, to go with the flow, to make out he’s FUN.

He sips the drink and then he twiddles his ear.

Fiddling with his lobe like he does when he’s flirting.

‘Who’s that?’ Aoife asks, coming up for air from babysitting Bianca, hands on hips. But now Bianca’s unattended so of course she takes a running leap – has the nerve to pinch her nose – and, knees in arms, bombs right in the pool. And Bianca is not a small person. The splashback is a tidal wave, splattering the glass window of the party.

‘Bianca!’ I cry. Oh no, this is bad. I put my hands over my mouth, frozen, and gasp.

Oh GOD, getoutgetoutgetout, quick … BI-YANKA! I growl, hoping that will make a difference but it doesn’t. Bianca’s silly face pops up from the water, lapping over the edge into the grates, so proud of herself, make-up trickling down her face.

‘WOOHOO!’ She fist pumps the air. The delusion. A few strangers applaud her. ‘Why THANK YOU!’ she says with glee, not getting the sarcasm.

‘BIANCA!’ Aoife and I try to discipline her but she won’t be told. ‘Get out!’

‘NO! YOU GET IN! It’s so warm!’ She does a defiant breaststroke.

People from the party are looking now. Pointing. Security are on their way, no doubt.

Jackson pounds outside in his fresh overpriced trainers. He doesn’t want to admit he knows us but he knows not doing anything isn’t a great look either.

‘Ella, this isn’t cool; this is my work.’ He talks to me firmly, angrily, with his hand in a chopping action, like he’s teaching me to chop an imaginary cucumber.

‘I know, I’m sorry; she just jumped right in!’

‘Get her out, Ella!’

‘LOOK!’ shouts Bianca. ‘I’m a synchronized swimmer!’ Dips down, feet up, back up for air. ‘Do I look good?’

‘I’ll get her out!’ I pad towards the pool. This is so bad I can’t even look back at Jackson’s fuming face.

‘Please,’ Jackson orders. ‘I’ll try and find a towel.’

I remind myself of a desperate dog owner, pleading with their disobedient spaniel to PLEASE get out of the pond! But she’s enjoying winding me up with a ‘you can’t catch me!’ Meaning I have to kick my shoes off to chase her round the perimeter of the pool in my frigging silk ‘emotional’ pyjamas, shaking a fist like the wait ’til I get my hands on you mother of a misbehaving toddler. People are just laughing at me. We’re clowns, that’s why. I’m pretty sure even security are laughing. The cool people – like Pixie Cut – aren’t laughing though. The cool people are like ew.

‘OK, I’ll get out,’ Bianca says, surrendering, paddling to the edge where she puts her hands out for me to help her. THANK GOD. I can already see her dress has sucked itself to her body; she’s a goddess dripping from a fantasy lake, nipples pinging out like pegs to hang jackets. I don’t want to embarrass Bianca or make her feel bad; she’s celebrating. We hold hands and heave.

‘Can’t you use the ladder?’ I ask.

Aoife grabs her other hand to help; we both anchor ourselves. ‘Are you making yourself as heavy as possible, B?’

One, two, three, she’s dragged us both in. FUCK!

We plunge under. A tornado of bubbles. Underneath I see Aoife’s feet pedalling for dear life and I dread whatever will be waiting for me at the surface. All I know is it’s very, very bad. I want to never come up for air again – can’t I just live here? Underwater now, forever?

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