Page 77 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘True Love?’

Even saying their name feels like summoning some kind of spirit. Lowe has been fossilized for ten years in my heart and now he’s here – unearthed, dumped on my table – and needs dealing with.

‘Yeah. It says here—’ He points at the screen.

‘Well, what does it say?’

Not to make it about myself but why am I finding this out from Jackson? I mean, I didn’t expect to hear from Lowe but it feels back to front.

‘It just says they’ve split up, that … ’

‘Read it.’

‘OK, here, after fourteen years together, Indie … hate it when they write Indie … ’

‘Me too, carry on … ’

‘ … sensation True Love have decided to part ways.’

‘Oh, FUCK.’

‘Lead singer Lowe Archer says – it was a mutual decision and we still … ’

‘OK, that’s enough,’ I snap.

‘Don’t you want to hear?’ he asks, reading over the words to himself.

‘Stupid journalism; it’s not going to be the truth.’

‘So, you should give Lowe a call? Check in on him.’

‘I’m sure he has lots of people to support him. We’ve barely spoken in years.’ We have the occasional text, once a year if that. ‘I can’t just call him up out of the blue.’

‘Still, though, Ella, I’m sure it would still mean a lot to hear from you. You guys were close right?’

Jackson doesn’t know the half of it.

‘Send him a message?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Aw, I’m heartbroken,’ he mutters as he leaves the room, tutting, to go for his run. ‘They were one of the greats.’

Jackson doesn’t really even listen to True Love but I know it makes him look cool at work to say I know them. No doubt he’ll be listening to them now as he runs around the park.

I head into the kitchen. I should take out the teabags; the tea will be getting filmy stains on top. I stare at my phone. Nothing. Why am I expecting to hear from him? It’s nothing to do with me. He doesn’t have to inform me. I don’t have True Love on Google Alerts. What can I do anyway? It’s not little old Ella, dropping him off at Fame’s doorstep all those years ago and here to meet him on the other side. Helping him acclimatize into the ordinary world with the ordinary people. ‘We go to TESCO; this is where you get your BASKET; this is how you use the self-service machine; this is called a TRAIN.’

I shouldn’t really – it’s like picking at a massive dangerous scab – but I start scrolling. This is bad for me. I can only flick radio stations for so long. Talk really loudly when friends have True Love’s music on at parties, pretend to be OK when my drink tastes extra bitter. Or when they play True Love’s song for the ‘cool down’ of an exercise class and suddenly he’s soundtracking the stretch of my tight glutes. Why do I care that a video of them has gone viral? That their fourth album is number one in the charts. NUMBER ONE IN THE CHARTS? HOW? That the billboard near my house replaced a BOND movie poster with their new album artwork. That Lowe is a name so rare it sometimes doesn’t even need a surname in the press. Meanwhile the sound of a BMX tyre on the pavement still tiptoes along the tightrope of my spine. It probably would have been easier for me to just fold in and become a fan. The more I scroll, the guiltier I feel; he’s meant to be my friend. It feels like exploitation. Like stalking. Finding invented answers to questions I could just pick up the phone and ask myself.

The news is trending, photo after photo. I’m winded, sick. LOWE. LOWE. LOWE. My thumb blasts over articles and their horrible puns: TRUE LOVE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. Or not all love lasts. Photographs of heart-broken fans … photographs of the band over the years, of Lowe when he was younger. How I remember him – his hair, his hoodie, that face. I’m terrified to see a photo of him with a girl. There are some rumours – one an actress from a TV series, but it turns out she just did a sex scene to one of his songs and afterwards said how much she loved his band. He’s a private person. The more I burrow, the harder it is to turn back. I’ve not allowed myself to do it for so long but DAMN he looks so FIT now. He’s grown out his hair, he’s … I need to do something cleansing … like … eat plain yoghurt.

There are tributes from bands we love. If little Lowe that wanted to be in a band could read them he’d die. Articles mention new songs and latest records, all of them unrecognizable to me, words that go over my head, that I’ve blocked out, albums that whenever people ask if I’ve heard I just ignore or avoid. Track titles that, honestly, I wouldn’t get right in a pub quiz if I was about to win £500. I hide away, to keep myself safe. I wonder if Lowe ever sees girls who look like me in the supermarket? On a dancefloor? Serving him coffee? Sitting next to him in the cinema? Taking his blood pressure? Selling him a t-shirt?

I go to find his name in my contacts, a couple of numbers saved for him, unlike me, same-number-Ella. My thumb hovers over the one I’m sure is the most recent. I could … Jackson told me to. It would be a short exchange if anything, if he even replies.

The last message exchange is just a long ladder of ‘happy birthdays’. Once each every year; we take turns in this drawn-out heart-crumpling dance.

No. I can’t do it. Everyone will be calling him right now saying the exact same thing. Or wanting to hear the gossip about the break-up. I want to make sure he’s OK but I don’t want to be another sock lost in the wash of Lowe, but then why am I here trying to get my wording right a million times? It’s weirder to say nothing. Cold, even. I write: Hi Lowe, just seen the announcement, I really hope you’re OK. You should be so proud of yourself! x Don’t force him to reply; that way you won’t take it personally if he doesn’t respond.

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