Page 81 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘That’s incredible. Well done.’

‘Once you start seeing drinking for what it is, it’s easy – but you’re right – that first bit is tough.’

He changes the subject to me.

‘So what have you been up to?’

What a question; we laugh awkwardly because it’s been so long.

‘Where to start … ?’ I joke. ‘Well, other than letting my hair grow wildly long, spontaneously lobbing it off into a bob, regretting it and repeating the cycle endlessly for the rest of my days, not a lot.’

He smiles at me how he used to. ‘Are you still writing?’

Ouch. There goes my favourite question.

‘Still, you know?! That’s the sort of question a great-uncle asks at Christmas.’

‘Sorry!’ he corrects. ‘I really didn’t mean it like that.’

I pretend to be a great-uncle. ‘Do you still do gymnastics and listen to NSYNC?’

‘I still ride my bike!’ he defends.

‘That’s your hobby! Yes, Lowe, I still write.’

‘Music’s my hobby too, though.’

I didn’t want to talk about my writing with Lowe. He’s achieved – a million times over – the dream of making a hobby a job – which I know is more of my problem than his – but still, it doesn’t make it any less hard to accept that he’s reached the top of the mountain enjoying the view, whilst my career hasn’t even rolled out of bed and brushed its teeth yet. But the main reason I don’t want to talk about my work with Lowe is because of my first book of poems; that was all about him. I don’t know if he read it; I’m not sure if he even knows it exists.

‘I’ve just finished my first novel, actually.’ It sounds aloof and pretentious. To compensate, I put myself down. ‘It’s just … a bit of fun.’ CRINGE. (And perhaps there lies the answer as to why it comes across as a hobby.)

Lowe nods. He wouldn’t call his band fun.

‘That’s great. I remember your letters. They were always so, what’s the word? … Alive.’

Alive. We hold eye contact. I go back there through the portal of his eyes. Whhooossshhhh. ZAP!

‘I do other writing bits and pieces, to pay the bills.’ LIKE MY MORTGAGE. WITH MY FIANCÉ.

He nods, like bills are something he doesn’t have to understand.

I bring it back to him. ‘So what about you? Are you still making music?’ I take the piss.

‘Yeah, that does hurt actually. Sorry,’ he says, rubbing his hand over his heart. ‘We still have the studio, so I’ll be in there pretending to write music, although I’m not sure how much the world is begging for my depressing solo album to be honest. But I’m sure at some point I’ll find the misfired confidence to inflict a release of some kind upon the world.’

‘That’ll be good,’ I say. Awkward silence. Have we run out of things to say?

Our arms kiss.

Time for a round-up. ‘So, Ronke has had a baby – Shreya has settled down with four kids but we haven’t spoken in years. The Twins are in Suffolk apparently. Aoife’s got some high-flying corporate job in the City where she gets paid to eat sushi,’ I tell him. ‘We’re still close.’ He likes that, loyalty. ‘Bianca is Bianca. She’s just got a new job actually; she’s doing great.’

I think of her beaming face in the swimming pool at the KTPLT party and I’m finally able to see the funny side.

‘—and Mia – just got married actually,’ I say. ‘I caught the bouquet at the wedding.’

WHY DID I SAY THAT?

‘What does that mean? That you’ll be getting married next then?’

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