Page 73 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Why would he say anything to me?’ I add, scratching the question off me uncomfortably, ‘I haven’t spoken to him for ages.’ I thought he might ask me to come to a show at some point but he never did. Then again, I never messaged him about his album release. I acted like it didn’t exist even when the posters were everywhere. Those milestones just seemed to come and go.

‘Shall we just text him?’ Aoife asks, openly searching for his name in her phone, like it’s as easy as that, even though I’m sure she must sense I’m acting weird. ‘I’ve not seen him in so long; has he still got the same number?’ She asks so casually, like we’re asking about Shreya or The Twins. Wait, does she think we just TEXT each other still? Does she really think we’re normal?

I try to deter her. ‘We don’t know if he’s playing for sure though, do we?’

‘Ella! It’s worth a try! He might be able to get us backstage!’ Her eyes bulge. ‘We might be able to sleep in their air-conditioned hotel and have a buffet breakfast with posh ham? We can get out of the shithole campsite! We’re in Spain at the same time; what are the chances? He’s still our friend; we should let him know we’re here! Be fun!’

‘OK’ – she’s not going to give up – ‘but let’s do it after the show; we don’t want to put him off.’ I manage to delay her.

‘Cool,’ she says. ‘Do you reckon he’s a trillionaire by now?’

I don’t give a fuck. All I’m thinking is about all the ways I could get out of tonight? I could say I have stomach cramps, food poisoning, water poisoning, period pains, my drink’s been spiked? But the idea of being alone in the dark campsite whilst everyone is screaming along to Lowe’s band makes me quite sad. I’ll say I have bad news … I need to fly back to South London. Immediately. Or at the festival I’ll just get conveniently lost, go have a Nutella crepe and find a nice radio stage where undiscovered alternative acts play, instead? How cultural.

But, of course, we’re heading for the main stage like everyone else, in a daisy-chain of wrist-banded hands we’ve only just met. ‘We should just plant ourselves here!’ some girl shouts over the music. ‘We’ve got such a good spot and we don’t want to lose it.’ Everyone else agrees, everyone except me but I say nothing, just sweat it out like translucent onions in a pan.

‘NO WAY!’ Aoife yells. ‘Is that Mia?’

‘Mia Bennett? Where?’ I look through the crowd ahead to see the most free, luminescent girl with white-bleached hair, wearing cut-off shorts and a crochet bikini top on someone’s shoulders. It IS her!

‘MIA!’ we scream. ‘MIA!’

And she turns, face full of glitter, so happy to see us. ‘ELLA! AOIFE! OH MY GOD!’ Blowing us huge kisses with both hands, she appears so cool and breezy; her energy is quite amazing. ‘YOU ON FACEBOOK?’ she bellows, balancing her paper cup on her stomach and the head of the shoulders she’s sitting on.

‘I AM!’ Aoife cries. ‘ELBOW’S TOO COOL FOR FACEBOOK!’

‘I am not.’ I dig her in the ribs.

‘MESSAGE ME! LET’S MEET UP!’ Mia signs off with a thumbs up, turning her back on us and spreading her arms out to the stage.

We pass water bottles filled with alcohol down the line, filling our cups, just spirits so we don’t keep having to use the toilets. The crowd around us shoulder to shoulder, in gridlock. The rumours have clearly gone round, everybody is shouting, ‘WE WANT TRUE LOVE!!’ and I want to crouch down into a ball with my hands over my ears. It is killing me to know that Lowe’s quiet little nobody band is now famous enough to pacify all of these paying people! That it’s got this big. I was so in denial. I’m so insignificant. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I’m not even a second thought. The crowd starts singing their songs and I pretend I’m loving it because Aoife (and everyone that Aoife has told) keeps looking at me like I must be SO proud that all these thousands of people are singing our friend’s song. They must think I’m absolutely loving it when really I’m drowning – drowning in the song of him. Death by his music. How did he smoke me out? How did he find me here? It’s like he KNOWS. You win, Lowe. You win. I surrender.

‘WE WANT TRUE LOVE!’

As the silver floodlights smack on, the audience unleash a Hitchcock scream, and I need a sachet of Dioralyte. The empty stage is a gift. SURPRISE! Everyone’s eyes lift as the artwork appears on the backdrop, a giant bleeding heart, oh God, it’s them and the crowd go absolutely NUTS. I look down at my sandals and see my stumpy little emerald painted toes and give them a wriggle just to check I’m still alive. I try to escape but I’m locked in. Breathe in, breathe out … You can do this, Ella – you’ve done it before.

Aoife grips my hand and looks at me wide-eyed. ‘Here we go!’ Like we’re about to sky-dive together. I wish I could be her right now, just able to enjoy the show. I wish I was skydiving. That would be easier; I’m not in love with the sky.

True Love explodes. My friend is a star.

I don’t know these songs. I have gone out of my way to not know these songs. I look for the supportive eyes of Mia but she’s disappeared. Lowe gives the crowd want they want: everything. Why is he acting like he doesn’t have asthma? I feel the need to waggle my finger in his face like a teacher: Fame, money and success don’t stop you from having asthma now do they? You’re not too cool for health you know! He’s a frontman, a showman, and it’s his job to perform. The old recognizable real parts of him are background noise, fading fainter and fainter until they are completely covered over, trampled on with this cartoon celebrity alter-ego. Fucking actor.

There are these tiny moments though, in the cracks of quietness, where I see him, humbled, having fun. Or a bit scared. It must be quite scary, all these dehydrated drunk people roaring at you. Loving you. Wanting you. All that pressure. These are the times I remember him, in his little downstairs bedroom in Brighton, watching me crawl towards him in my matching pyjamas. I’m gonna melt your heart.

Torture.

The show finishes and somehow I’ve survived. I’m still standing.

‘Wasn’t that INCREDIBLE?’ Aoife squeals, her skin steaming,

‘It really was,’ I reply, which is true, in the out-of-body experience bits, where I was able to dissociate and forget I know him.

‘Do you want to call him?’ Aoife nudges.

I appreciate her handing that role over to me but I can’t. ‘Phone’s out of battery.’ I tut. ‘Soz.’ But there’s a massive charging station right next to us.

‘Don’t worry,’ Aoife says. ‘I’ll text him now.’

PANIC. ‘What are you saying?’ I ask. ‘Don’t beg it.’

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