Page 87 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

Aoife found her on LinkedIn once. She’s nothing like us. She’s a grown-up. A proper one. One of those organized women who wears suits with trainers to work and then changes into her smart clippy-cloppys when she arrives. Brings in her own salads with a separate bottle for dressing so it doesn’t go limp. It’s too easy to see her French-manicured nails wrapped around a Biro, filling in mortgage applications. Straightening out the paperwork how a newsreader does before they pretend to notice the camera. Get real – he doesn’t need a mortgage.

‘Oh, Lowe, I’m so happy for you,’ I say.

Because that’s how my parents raised me, to say kind things at times like this, to be happy for others’ happiness, even if it hurts. So I play easy-breezy, good old resilient Ella. Although this seems to sadden us both further.

It begins to feel cold and dark. Bleak.

This is no longer an indulgent fantasy but an ugly nightmare. He sticks his body close to mine; he’s trying to make it alright but that’s a fucking joke. Each step stings. Like warm hands on cold-water fish scales. I can physically feel the Christmas presents I’ve only just bought crunching in their bags, four crystal cut gin and tonic glasses I bought my mum, cracking to pieces.

We say goodbye under the dripping railway bridge.

‘We’ve got a Farewell Tour next year; you should come down to a show … I’d love for you to be there.’

‘Definitely,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

When I’m already thinking of all the ways I can be sure to absolutely miss it for the world.

‘OK … well … ’

He lingers; he doesn’t want this to be it. He knows something’s shifted. And we can’t win it back. We hug. Warm and tight. For ages. And I’m about to cry so I pull away first. His eyes are wet, but I think that’s the wind. Maybe if he was single, I’d definitely know it was time to jump ship, not to be with him but to spend time with him, freely. I’m not just going to sit there on Heather’s sofa now, am I, sobbing and eating Ben & Jerry’s? I want to cry more for working my major life decisions around him. Then I want to cry even more because I have to be brave and there’s nobody to hold my hand.

‘Merry Christmas, Ella.’

‘Merry Christmas, Lowe.’

Crushing.

I hear the awkward ‘Excuse me?’ from some guy with eyes as big as gobstoppers – I can already guess what he’s about to say: ‘But you’re not … sorry … are you Lowe Archer … from True Love?’

I take this moment to get away, waving goodbye, Lowe calling out, ‘Ella, wait?’ and I pretend to find my train home with the cracked gin and tonic glasses and dog piss-stained coat and wasted day. We forgot to even talk about my solid streak of not drinking. When I’m out of sight I go back on myself. Jackson’s at the KTPLT Christmas lunch (freelancers not invited – no surprise there) and invited me to come down for a drink after. I hadn’t planned to; I don’t want to beg it – the last KTPLT party didn’t exactly end well – but I feel the need, now more than ever, to throw myself into my life with Jackson, to be sure one final time.

Lowe texts, just simply: x

I don’t reply.

Chapter 35

They have moved on to Pub. A proper one that’s packed and noisy, decorated with red and gold tinsel. The kind of pub I would have loved to drink beer in all night long. I can barely get through the suited pint-holding penguins with my bashed bags (I’m just carrying broken glass at this point), to Jackson, at the bar.

‘Hey,’ I say. My face is stung from the outside air.

‘You made it.’ He wraps me in for a hug. I need it. He’s pissed. He smells savoury, yeasty like beer. I say hi to those I know and Jackson begins to introduce me to those I don’t, giving up halfway as he gets distracted. They’re all drunk. The whole building is drunk. I’m left out of a big drunk joke. I try and squeeze through the elbows at the bar to order a drink but don’t seem to get noticed.

Now that he’s an exec, Jackson has to talk to everyone. I watch him pull out the same old stories of his childhood from his back pocket – to make him look human, relatable, like his co-workers are being let in on a revealing side of him. Those animated hands, those excitable eyes, like when I first met him. Pats on the back keep coming – ‘well done, mate,’ they say, ‘you deserve it’ – about the success of his Christmas advert, his promotion. Drinks line up on the bar behind him, like offerings. He’s drinking like he’s good at it, which is news to me.

‘Do you do non-alcoholic beer?’ I shout to the bar staff over the room. They don’t. ‘Do you do anything non-alcoholic?’

They shout back the word, ‘Coke.’

I take my Coke and stand under the shadow of Jackson. Zahra, teeth stained with red wine, says to me, ‘You must be so happy?’ I assume she’s referring to our engagement but it’s about ‘Jackie’s’ promotion.

I reply, ‘Of course I am – he’s the best.’ He really is. ‘I’m so happy seeing him happy.’

She adds, ‘Oh, and the Christmas advert is great by the way – good job.’

Jackson says, ‘Sorry, I’d have said not to come down if I’d have known it would be so busy.’ My head cranes upwards, trying to hear what he’s saying. ‘Why don’t you go on home and I’ll see you there? I reckon it’s going to be a lot of … ’ He castanets his hand to imply networking.

‘No, I want to stay with you.’

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