Page 90 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

I have to wee upon arrival anywhere, ever, always.

In the toilets I am sweaty. My moustache is very much thriving, and my lipstick has made its very own puddle in the well of my upper lip. In my reflection I see a woman. Oh, shit, it’s me.

Lowe’s managed to find a table by the river and I sit opposite him, surrounded by talking people.

‘I got you this mocktail ….’ He pushes it forward nervously like he prepared it himself.

‘Oh, fancy!’ I say.

‘Because it has strawberry in it and you always used to drink strawberry Ribena.’

I’m touched he remembered. ‘It’s very pretty.’

He looks at me, my hands (for a ring?), and then looks away.

I keep it moving. ‘So you’re gonna come to the launch then?’

‘If you want me there.’

I kind of want you everywhere.

‘Course I do.’ And being the martyr I am, I say, ‘How’s things with you? The house?’

Lowe stretches back on his chair; sweat starts to form on his head. He rubs his jawbone.

‘I wasn’t going to tell you … I don’t know why I’m even … ’ He admits, ‘I’ve been living at my dad’s for the past year.’

WHAT?

‘On Orchard Road?’ I whip out my nan fan and start whisking myself crazily but it’s not doing anything. If anything it’s pure cardio.

He nods.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask. ‘Why?’

‘Oh, sorry, that wasn’t me being presumptuous,’ he says. ‘I just thought you … OK, sorry, do you remember Heather?’

How could I forget? Does that make it harder to digest or not? That they were together for more than a decade? It’s a really long time. I feel sad for Heather too now. I nod.

‘She had all these problems with the house, then she started talking about moving home to New Zealand.’

HUH?

‘So she went there to look at houses and I guess I just freaked out? And’ – he looks at me like I’d judge him for the next bit – ‘and, yeah, hid at my dad’s.’ Squints his eye from the sun and my opinion.

I like it that he has obviously has money to rent anywhere he’d like but chooses to live with his dad.

I sink my mocktail, hard and fast, even though it’s basically just juice.

He watches me with curiosity and says, ‘Can we walk?’

We walk along the river and it’s like the skies of our fate want us to keep moving in a certain direction, breadcrumbing a clue to a secret destination. We get caught up in a colourful balloon parade, where people squeeze us so tight we’re forced to lock fingers so we don’t lose each other in the crowd. Cornered into the machine brown of the Tate, we stumble upon a guy singing an unknown song that is probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Lowe and I take a step away from each other because it feels too well-timed to be true. We turn back the way we came, not wanting to get too far from the station so we can go our separate ways after; we just want a pint, that’s all. We end up cutting through by Gabriel’s Wharf where we pass a carpenter who handmakes beautifully rough and natural children’s wooden rocking see-saws in the shapes of ducks and horses.

‘I used to come here as a kid,’ I say.

‘No way,’ says Lowe. ‘So did I.’

I can’t help but think about all the times our paths could have crossed.

---