Page 76 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Aoife, we’re going.’

She is stunned by my assertiveness. ‘But we only just got here … ’ she says, with a look like ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH? The drummer looks at me like I’m a boring mum.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Not really,’ I reply. I’ve only waited six years already.

‘Sorry … I’ll be back.’ She excuses herself and glares at me. She’s pissed off. (She won’t be back.)

‘Grab some of the beers from the fridge,’ I add.

‘Are you serious?’ she asks like I’m really taking the piss now but does as I tell her, awkwardly bending past the band to cheekily steal their alcohol with a thanks, bye. They’ve had MORE than enough support from us over the years; it’s the least they can do.

‘I was about to get with The Drummer! Have you seen biceps like that in your entire life?’ Then she sees my face. ‘Ella? Are you OK? What the fuck is going on?’

And I say, ‘I don’t even know where to start … ’ But somehow I find a way.

On the journey back home, I decide I’m going to pull all those poems I’ve been writing together. Maybe I could turn them into a pamphlet, a book of some kind. Not because I’m looking to get published, just for closure, a way of signing Lowe and me off in one place rather than him and me forever floating around my head. So I can glance over at that collection and think to myself, That was a story, once …

Chapter 30

Now

I’ve been wearing the engagement ring of somebody I probably shouldn’t be marrying for twelve hours. Although there are hints of comfort and security, a tiny buzz, the overriding sensation in the pit of my gut is what the F are you doing, Ella Cole?

I’m already looking for ways to get this restraining security tag cut off me with industrial shears. But that comes with its own heaviness: guilt, betrayal for both Jackson and myself. It’s not right. But then why would I not marry him? What are we going to do, tread water forever? Why am I forgetting I can swim?

What’s wrong with me; why aren’t I buzzing? Oh, why did he have to go and do this? Things were going so well. Now this stupid opal, so pretty you can’t believe it’s natural, has gone and shoved a sword in my back, forcing me to leap off the plank into choppy waters. Girl overboard. If I end the engagement, our whole relationship will be thrown up into the air for debate. Jackson will ask me the big questions I’ve been avoiding, like: ‘What do you want from this?’ I love you but I want more space and time to work at what we have. I’m just not ready for forever. I’m not sure. Something is holding me back.

But that’s unfair. Jackson’s nearly thirty-six. He’s going to want to start a family. We have a mortgage. It’s got the word Mort in it. Mort in French means DEAD. Until death. He might end it. Say I’m wasting his time. People will ask questions. Think I’m a bitch runaway bride and I haven’t even got to the altar yet. His parents will HATE me.

I have to talk to him. He’ll know what to say. But how can I ask Jackson for advice on whether to marry him or not? I can’t imagine his advice will be impartial. I’m making tea, looking like I’m normal, my mind a helter-skelter quietly whirring at a million miles an hour, when it all changes.

‘Oh no!’

It’s the kind of oh no he makes when he’s spilt a cup of tea but I’m making the tea.

‘You OK?’ I call back.

‘Shit.’

‘What?’

He’s silent.

‘Jackson, what?’

I enter the living room.

‘True Love have split up.’

I look at him like who? But it’s to buy myself time before I have to decide how to react.

‘The band.’

He’s looking at the laptop screen, trying to read more about it. It doesn’t sink in. I reach my hand out to grab the first stick of furniture I see to steady myself. A very unreliable standing lamp.

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