Page 61 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

His silhouette, like a protective guardian, hangs over me. I catch sight of his skin, his ribs, his freckles, his soft belly and his arms. His armpit hair. Oh God. And he politely waits outside whilst I change into my silly actual matching teal pyjamas. I never attempt to look hot. ‘I’m gonna melt your heart,’ I joke as I reveal my scrubby twinset. He slams his hand over his heart. ‘Oh, I’m melting!’ and he watches me crawl towards him in his little lived-in brown bed that to me is like a four-poster super king with Egyptian cotton 800-thread-count sheets at the poshest hotel in the world, and my room service is strong tea in some mug that doubles up as an ashtray. He keeps a photo of his mum taped to his side of the bed, by his pillow, her face watching him whilst he sleeps. He looks so much like her. Beautiful.

Nothing happens, not once. We just hold each other the whole night. His tender arms – smooth, naturally sculpted, just right, how a human’s arm should be, rather than pumped from weight-lifting – wrap around my gigantic bursting heart.

Once, when we’re waiting to fall asleep, I ask, ‘Have you ever fallen over on stage?’

‘Of course, loads. I fell over on tour; I had a pint in my hand and tripped on the top step. I was covered in beer; I had to just get on with it.’

We both giggle in the darkness.

‘Did people see?’

‘Everyone saw, Ella. I, like, properly dropped on my hands and knees! Like a … cow position.’

We belly laugh; tears spring out of our eyes.

‘Did you laugh?’

‘Yeah, how could you not? It was so funny … ’

‘What did you do?’

‘I was just like oh. And had to carry on.’

‘Aahahaha! Sorry,’ I cry. ‘It’s just the image of you, thinking you’re so cool and then down you go … ’

‘Down I went.’

Our stomachs ache. We manage to collect ourselves for a moment of peace. And then one of us splutters into laughter, and we’re off again.

Another time he says, ‘I like your eyes.’

And I say, ‘I like yours.’

And that’s it. Then we roll over. We sleep the night, soundly, back-to-back, spine to spine, like the Kappa logo.

He says, ‘These are the favourite nights of my life. When you’re here. I’m at my happiest when I’m with you.’

He says, ‘Goodnight, Ella Cole.’

I worry that in the morning light he’ll be regretful, itching to get on with his day without me, like he can’t wait to pack me back on the train to London with a takeaway cup of black coffee and sober frostiness, fumbling the ice-cold kiss of fresh mint toothpaste and reset: ‘See Ya.’

But no: it’s the opposite. I will never forget his face in the mornings, seeing me there on his pillow; he seems to hold me even tighter. Are we friends? Or something more? I don’t know. But I do know how comfortable I am in his sheets, in my skin, in the bungalow of him.

This goes on for a few weekends in a row. Constant consistency, speaking in shorthand, day after day, late nights, proper fry-up breakfasts, tea in bed, me reading books and him listening to music on his headphones. We share cups, socks, jumpers, money, food, ideas. I know what he likes. White chocolate. Cheeseburgers. Satsumas that he splits with me. We are bound. Waiting. For Lowe to get his shit together, to muster the courage to switch us into a new gear. For what we’ll become.

Stepdad Adam takes us on a family holiday. An all-inclusive, three-star hotel in Egypt with seven curly waterslides and watered-down Coke on tap. Every evening, after a day of falling in and out of sleep and reading and writing poems by the pool, I come back to my room and sit, whilst Violet and Sonny watch stupid comedies and eat almond Magnums. Hair dripping, on the edge of my bed, I speak to Lowe when I can from the hotel room phone (I get badly in trouble with my mum and Stepdad Adam about the bill). I’ve never been so far from him. I have perspective; I feel like I’m recharging somehow. Preparing to return, glowing, and for everything to fall into place.

On my return, True Love have a big gig happening. Their biggest yet. The major record label that has been chasing them for months and has offered a deal is coming down. So of course, I’m going to Brighton to watch them play. I’m staying with Dom and Ruby because Lowe’s been in rehearsals. I’ve not seen him for almost a month.

I wear cut-off red tights, a blue denim mini skirt. A second-hand shirt speckled in bunches of purple grapes. I spend a good twenty minutes doing the buttons up and down, not sure if I should show a glimpse of my pink bra or not, but then decide against it.

I meet Dominique and Ruby, Lowe’s housemates – yes, Scarecrow Ryan – and the rest of the new Brighton lot at the pub beforehand. We bump into loads of people we know. Friends, super-fans, groupies. Everybody is saying how well I look after my holiday and I know it isn’t the holiday at all that’s fired up this glow. It’s Lowe, the effect he has on me. We drink pints and feel the electricity that comes before a gig, especially their gigs, like a birthday party. We sing along to every word. Especially in front of record labels – then we really exaggerate our singing. We have a role to play tonight and we are ready.

Ryan swings open the heavy door to the venue, his palm pressed over my head, making an arm-arch for me to walk under. Our wrists stamped, out tickets torn, he says, ‘Have you met Lowe’s new girlfriend yet?’

And it just hits me.

Like that.

---