Page 62 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

I burst into water like Amélie does in the café scene.

Landslide.

Like somebody has reached inside my bloody chest, ripped open my ribcage like a set of jaws and yanked my bulging heart out – all the important tubes still attached – and is now crushing it, before me. Behold the butchery of me, my carcass upside down, drained and hollowed out, swinging on a hook in the foyer of a club. People push past my ghost with their tickets, to buy t-shirts, to worship my murderer.

Well, that’s taken the wind right out of my sails.

The only feeling worse than being heartbroken is having to pretend you aren’t.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I haven’t.’

‘You still up for grabbing that drink soon?’

But Ryan’s bumped into someone he knows. I hear him introduce me but I’m already walking away from his small talk that shouts so big. I feel so fucking sorry for my own self, swishing about like we’re something when this very housemate and all the others know he has a new girlfriend. I feel like a mug.

Why hasn’t Lowe told me? Why hasn’t he said? I didn’t even know he’d met anyone. And why the fuck would he do this? What in the world would let this happen? I look at Dominique, wincing and cringing, and I can tell she knows, and probably, definitely, maybe just didn’t know how to tackle this with me because I’ve never tackled Lowe with me. As I said, everyone knows everyone. What did I think? That I could just dip in and out of Brighton and London, squeeze in a holiday and assume the whole place would freeze in time until my return? Did I think things didn’t happen? That people didn’t talk. Didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Maybe this has been going on longer than I thought? Maybe I was just his little weekend girlfriend?

I tug on Dom’s sleeve to get close. ‘What’s she like?’ Because I have to know; she has to be pretty special, otherwise there is no single excuse on this whole earth’s crust why he would love somebody who isn’t me. Or maybe she made a wish on a star that actually paid attention? FUCK! I want to storm into Lowe’s dressing room and say, You’ve made a fucking fool out of me. You’ve broken my absolute heart. What the hell was all that? What are we? Who even ARE you? and then smash up the whole room.

And Dominque replies like she’d been asked the question a hundred times before, or more likely she’s rehearsed it. ‘She’s … striking.’

STRIKING.

I wish Dom was a liar.

I might as well pull the elastic of a sling shot back as far as it’ll go and launch a rock at my own face. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Heather, I think. Yeah, Heather,’ Dominique says. Heather. ‘She’s from New Zealand, studying here.’

I’ve always wanted to go to New Zealand. It seems so fresh, green spritzy and peaceful, doesn’t it? I don’t why know what tells me that this Heather is here to stay.

And I’m right.

Of course, after that bomb, I try to dance at the gig. I try to sing along and be that friend. I try to stop my eyes from peering through the bobbing heads to identify this mystery ‘striking’ girl, but the room is a blur. Someone takes a photo and I’m beaming with delight, grinning like a Cheshire cat. You’d never know; you’d never have any idea that inside my guts are decaying in fast-motion like those flowers in ET. Like the documentary we watched in primary school of the mouse decomposing sped up. That’s me: mould in my tummy, in my lungs. In my mouth and chest and throat. Mould in my eyes. Mould in my heart.

This sharp shock blading through me. I’m still so soft, I’m still that overripe peach; I cut so easily.

No, I don’t hang around after the show, even though Lowe’s calling and texting, asking where I am, where the after-party is; he’s got me a gold wrist band, WHOOP-DE-FUCKING-DOOP! Oh, thanks, how about FUCK YOU? What, so I can make you look great in front of your new A&R? I don’t think so. I keep myself to myself. No, I don’t want to meet her. I don’t want to cradle her at her first show for him. Play babysitter whilst Lowe chats to his record label all night. Buy each other rounds. Welcome her to the family. Where we’re all just fans, Heather. Hopeless fans! I am nineteen. FIVE years. Just MOVE on, girl. GET YOUR LIFE TOGETHER! Two years was too much. Three years insulting. Five years: you’re the mug. Loving him is not compulsory, Ella. It is not all you know. There are options. Other ways to be loved.

I really thought all of that was it.

What a waste of make-up.

It’s too late to take the train so I sleep at Dom’s. But I barely sleep. I lay my rag of a body down on the sofa. Dom holds me but says nothing. I’ve come to know this feeling well: of intuitive friends knowing what I can’t say out loud. I drink a mint tea. ‘With a sugar?’ Yes please. I say I have a stomach ache. But the pain is in my chest. If a doctor were to give me an X-ray they would see that my heart is broken. They would see Lowe swimming in my blood. You’ve been infected, they’d say. How long has this been going on? How long have you been living in pain? How long have you been doing this to yourself? They would diagnose me with foolishness, naivety, gullibility, desperation, lovesickness, embarrassment.

The next morning my phone is actually ringing inside my pocket as I step onto the train. It’s Lowe. I let it ring. For the first time, Lowe Archer is calling me and I ignore it. I find a seat. I look out of the window, catch my reflection; my hair is growing out of the bowl cut and into the helmet of an astronaut; the process of change, like anything, is always quite ugly but I know, just like the poisonous sky, it won’t last forever. I put my headphones in and wait. Until at last, the train pulls away.

Chapter 26

The following Saturday is tropical hot and I’m sweating at the salon. It’s like a greenhouse and we’re hot-boxed in with the power roar of hairdryers and it’s fully booked. The whole planet is on fire because of us, roaring our hairdryers and rinsing all the hot water. I’m dashing up and down, checking in clients, making coffee and taking payments. Basically running that goddam joint now. I don’t even have time to wee – forget drinking water or having lunch. And then I see it, appearing, like I have to double-take. It’s him, his name on my phone.

Lowe.

I feel equally elated and queasy. It’s been a week since that Brighton show and we’ve still not spoken.

When I finally get to my phone, his text reads: hi ella, i’m in london, are you around? be nice to see you. x

Be nice. Like fuck it will. Maybe he wants to talk? Maybe things didn’t work out with Heather? Maybe he’s changed his mind?

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