Page 59 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Well, about that … ’ He folds his arms and leans in close. ‘Zahra’s promoting me to MD. I get a bonus and it means I’ll be an exec. So … ’

‘Aww, Jackson!’ I wrap my arms around him. ‘This is amazing! I’m so proud of you – you deserve it.’ I hold the side of his face with my palms, in case he didn’t hear me enough. ‘I am so proud of you.’ Which I am; he works harder than anybody I know, practically living at the office, on his phone.

‘So, let’s do it, Ella Wade!’ he says, knighting me with his surname; I feel the need to dry-heave at this. ‘Let’s get married!’

‘But let’s not rush either,’ I say and add, ‘I want to enjoy this bit.’ By enjoy, do I mean hatch an escape plan?

I cheers his glass with mine.

‘Yeah, you’re right. We’ve got all the time in the world.’

Me and Jackson together forever?

I don’t want him to feel uneasy so I say, ‘I’ll have to talk to everyone like this now.’ I accentuate all the actions with my hands unnecessarily. ‘Oh hey there, hi.’

He laughs. ‘Are you going to tell your mum, then? Violet? Aoife?’

‘Oh!’ I say, like thanks for reminding me. ‘I will, but later. Right now, can it just be us?’

After a couple more drinks, I’ve relaxed. We stumble home tipsily, in no real rush, taking our time; it’s not too cold. We get piping hot sandwiches from the Italian bar that come in their foiled packets, fat, salty and perfect. Rickshaws whizz past, tangled in fairy lights, booming out ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’. Buses breeze by.

Back to South London. Where the roads become clearer, the people fall away, the streets are darker, quieter. We pop into the corner shop and get a bottle of red wine to keep the celebration going. I take my time to choose the right bottle – I haven’t chosen a bottle of wine in a while now – making sure it doesn’t have a screw top, making sure it says the right description words – smooth, full bodied, deep, rich in flavour … drinkable? Who buys a drink that isn’t drinkable?

At home I find two tumblers, rifle through the cabinets for a corkscrew and head into the living room where Jackson is putting on music. I already know which song he’s going to choose. It’s that kind of predictability of a long-term relationship. Even when the other one tries their hardest to be their least predictable, you are aware they are doing just that, so in a way the guess is even easier. Don’t tell me – Nick Drake’s ‘Saturday Sun’. He takes his coat off and throws it on the armchair. He reaches his hand out to me and pulls me in, to sway in the living room. We kiss. It’s nice, like in a watching The Office for the fourteenth time kind of way. I’m waiting for him to grab me, to squeeze me, to lift my dress up over my thighs or start unplugging my bra at the back with one hand. But it doesn’t happen. Not even on a night like this, and before we know it, he’s asking me if I want tea.

We sit together on the sofa, sipping our tea, the cork still in the neck of the bottle. Not able to even face resetting the Stay Sober app, I just delete it instead.

Chapter 25

Then

And finally.

At last.

We’re both single.

Almost every weekend he waits for me at Brighton station. He’s always early. Leaning in the same spot smoking a rollie. The way he jumps to attention at the influx of passengers boarding off the train tells me I’m an awaited gift. We completely clash: him in washed out, faded rinsed denim and wholesale sports socks, and me, a clown in sunshine yellow and bright red squeaky shoes that honk at every step like I’m tromping along to the circus, my heart a rubber duck. He’s unwashed and greasy and yet so clean at the same time; his teeth shine, his eyes sparkle, his cheeks glow. And I’m here. One time, I have to get my photos taken to renew my passport for a family holiday and he waits outside as the booth flashes silver. I sit on the stool behind the little curtain, wondering what he’s thinking. We wait for them together, and I pray I look decent.

‘Can I have one?’ he asks.

Really? ‘Yeah, course’ – ACT COOL – ‘I only need two.’

And he carefully folds and rips off the bottom left quarter from the window of me. He puts it in his wallet, in the clear bit where grown-ups put the photos of their kids.

WHAT. IS. THIS?

He always keeps the entire weekend clear for me; I never feel compromised or a burden. He says we can do whatever we want – play the arcades, rummage the second-hand shops, go to the pier. Time glimmers here; it’s perfect – a holiday away from home. We eat chips on the beach, buy matching tin turquoise thumb rings from a street market (like wedding rings?! NO! Ella!). We try on clothes, returning from the changing room curtain to parade. Some of the outfits make us crack up with laughter, but seeing him try on a simple jacket can bring me to my knees.

Lowe’s housemates continue to be stumped by our innocent laughter filling the dusty corners of the living room, warming up the kitchen with our conversation as we make toast. They look at me with hungover, hungry, Lost-Boy-red eyes, like I’m Wendy here to darn their socks and fix their lives. We leave to wind the lanes, stopping on every corner for him to say hi to somebody, or take more photos with a stranger, and he always introduces me as his best friend.

‘This is Ella,’ he says proudly. Even though the fans definitely don’t care to meet me.

And I love being with him and the torch I have for him is a phoenix rising, burning and ready to blow. The volume of my life is louder, my surroundings brighter and brighter – shooting day for a postcard bright. I feel I have enough heat in my heart that I could evaporate the sea to sand. We hardly go back to his little brown room, just stay out all day, charging our phones in coffee shops or under pub tables, or just allowing the battery to completely drain and die and we’re off-grid, invisible and free, together. Letting the day do what it wants with us. At night, we go dancing, to clubs and venues, where one time I regrettably sing Linkin Park at indie-karaoke with possibly too much zest. All the while, many many, so many girls try and hug him, kiss him, tell him that they love him.

Lowe is a heartthrob; girls fall at his feet, but he always makes me feel like the only girl in the room.

I stand behind the decks as he DJs an after-party. He’s put a pair of headphones around my neck to make me look legit but I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing. I watch girls with love-heart-shaped eyes trying to hypnotize him with their drunken glares. I feel the need to shake them and say, He’s just a guy, get on with your life, wake up! Forgetting I’ve been in a Lowe-Love-coma for years. None of these girls love you like I do. Not one. He plays my favourite songs.

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