Page 78 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

Big kiss. No, little kiss. No, big kiss. Little is good. x

And away it goes.

I sling my phone across the bed. Immediately I hate the thing. The power it has and the trouble it causes. But one second later I’m reaching for it again so I can insecurely add: it’s Ella by the way.

I immediately regret sending it. I stuff my phone under my pillow. I feel bad. Like I’ve cheated. And then embarrassed. I get an adrenaline rash. It comes up now, here, alone in the darkness, fierce and in flames, angrily rumbling up my neck and face, wrapping around my throat like a boa constrictor, like I’ve been held captive in an Iron Maiden and somebody has rescued me just in time before the spikes drive through my skin.

I should never have messaged.

He won’t reply.

Why did I text?

And now there’s no going back …

Chapter 31

He hasn’t replied.

It’s 8.52 a.m. on a weekend. Ella, calm THE HELL down. I stress-eat granola straight from the box. Maybe it’s my phone; maybe it’s broken? I switch it off and on. Flick airplane mode on just in case. Nope. OK. He’s blanked me. Wow. Whatever. I don’t care anyway. I throw my phone down again like an old banana skin, and within seconds I’m drawn back, rereading my stupid message.

Hi Lowe, just seen the announcement, I really hope you’re OK. You should be so proud of yourself! x

What did I mean he should be so proud of himself? He doesn’t need my permission to be proud. I don’t even know the guy any more. He could still be with whatsherface? (Heather) and her big curly hair and ideal curves. He could be in bloody New Zealand with her now. I bet she never got jealous, bet she only felt flattered. I can just see her glancing at my name popping up on his phone.

Poor Ella, she fancied you so much, didn’t she? Bless her.

Or does he keep me a secret? Bottle me up like I do with him?

Could be the time difference, or just all the differences.

I’ve probably, obviously, pissed him off. Why did I do this to myself?

I need fresh air. Jackson’s back from his run and offers to come but I say I need to call my sister (as IF! Vi would rip me to shreds over these dilemmas!).

‘All OK?’ Jackson checks.

‘Yes! Just a lot to talk about!’

And he relaxes, as though Violet and I are going to be hunched over Pinterest getting bridesmaid ideas. Outside, I hover around like a hologram being pathetic. Glitching. I. CAN. NOT. STOP. CHECKING. MY PHONE. I’m checking my phone so much that I worry I might break it. That the robots – you know the ones that report to the algorithm department to only ever offer me adverts for memory foam mattresses – might be panicking, thinking my phone has been robbed? I’m out of control. Why did I listen to Jackson? He has no context! I wish I could throw my phone into the River Thames but what if Lowe calls and my phone’s slinking to the bottom of the riverbed with the bent beer cans and murder weapons, crying out his name?

I should do something nice like go squish Ronke’s baby daughter, Avanna, but I don’t want to infect her with my rampant anxiety.

I return to the flat. The granny fireplace chuckles at me. The old boiler cackles, you fool, you never should have texted.

By now a few friends have reached out about the split. Some writer friends send me links to more news sites; some of the stylists from the hairdressers share gossip about ‘the real reason’ True Love broke up. Annoying. Mia texts me the news like I haven’t already heard and even The Twins come out of the woodwork: Bianca gave us your number – hope that’s OK. Just heard about Lowe’s band made us think of you. We’re in Suffolk now but when next in London we should defo meet. Be good to see you X

Dom calls to chat about it. She’s in shock. Why now, she asks, when they were at the top of their game? Have you spoken to him at all?

Their whole USP was the fact that as a band they were all friends, that they promoted friendship, a brotherhood that ignored competition and bravado, that they truly loved each other. And here are horrible articles stirring the pot. That must be so hard. Growing up publicly, the whole world looking on. I hate to think of him in the eyeball of a media cyclone.

My phone—

Ella! so good to hear from you, how are you? fancy meeting up for a coffee soon? Lowe x

Shit. Ella. He wants to meet. I write back instinctively: hey, I’d love that, I work from home so when is good for you? x

Chapter 32

---