Page 95 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

And that makes him retreat. He stands there, for I don’t know how long; I don’t care to look back and see. Just bolt up and off the main road, down some side street where the houses are in perfect rows, promising lovely freshly squeezed orange juice lives. Lowe is ringing my phone. I screen the calls.

I ring Aoife instead. ‘Whaaaat?’ She’s half asleep; I’m crying. She clears her throat. ‘What’s the matter?’

I say, ‘I’m a dick. I’ve done it again.’

She just says, ‘Oh gawd.’ Like she knows exactly what I’m talking about. ‘Come now.’

We hang up and I try and get my shit together to make my way over to hers, walking in a direction, I’m just not sure which one. Lowe is calling and texting: please answer, I’m sorry, tell me where to come and I’ll be there.

Later, I will learn that Lowe drove his dad-car round the streets for hours to find me, his head hanging out the window. He drove to 251 Palace Road and back again – where every person looks just like me but nobody is.

At Aoife’s I say big and bold things like how I’ve got to pull my shit together. I’ve got a book to release. I’m sorry, this guy is not GATECRASHING the next decade of my life! And Aoife feeds me toast and tea, and says things like, ‘Absolutely!’ and ‘Totally’ and ‘A hundred per cent’ and ‘You’re right.’ I feel insecure and self-conscious. I want to live a quiet and simple life, to shut myself inside, to not get out there and live. I announce that ‘I have doubts about my book; nobody needs a pointless, stupid shit book like this!’

Aoife says, ‘Fuck off! I do! I love pointless, stupid shit. It’s the best. That’d be like saying nobody needed Bridesmaids!’ She holds my hand. ‘We need that shit.’

Later, Ronke comes over with Avanna, who plays hide-and-seek with Aoife’s bra that’s hanging off the clothes horse before spreading a bowl of pasta everywhere and being put to sleep in Aoife’s bed. Ronks shows us photos of her incredible new house. We’re so happy for her; she works so hard. Then Bianca arrives and I decide it’s finally time to exorcise this unceasing love story for Bianca and Ronks, whilst Aoife – who has heard it many times now – orders takeaway.

‘We always always knew you loved him,’ they say, ‘but we always knew he loved you too.’

Chapter 39

I always pictured the launch of my first novel in one of those quaint little bookshops in Portobello, next to the bricked houses the same colour as the Love Heart sweets, an upgrade from the pub function room where we had the launch for my poetry book. One with a ladder on a runner and brown paper bags and an old cat sleeping by the window. Proper champagne, red wine, pistachio macarons and a hunk of cheese, which everyone nibbles at.

But, of course, it’s my book launch, so I have to beg Colin and Tamika at the local bookshop up the road to let me read out loud in a corner in front of my publishers and friends, have a few margherita pizzas and bottles of room-temperature cheap white wine in plastic cups. I’m being harsh. It’s actually very beautiful. And I hate the sound of stinky shared cheese anyway.

I’m wearing a down-to-the-floor green dress covered in golden embroideries of the sun, moon and stars. It has big billowy shoulders and tight crimped sleeves. I look like Princess Fiona from Shrek when she’s an ogre – the exact look I was going for. And the best bit about it? The dress belonged to my mum when she was younger (hence why it’s so long).

My whole family is here. Violet’s made a chocolate cake, decorated with the cover of my book – not quite big enough to spell out the entire title but I appreciate the gesture. Mum and Adam are here, Sonny and his new girlfriend, Dad and Lovely Naomi. Aoife, Bianca, Mia. There’s Ronks and gorgeous Avanna. Shreya – who I haven’t seen in years – who I never expected to say yes but has the night off from the kids so she’s up for a party. Dom and her new fiancée, Soph, The Twins. Even Nile, who has his own theatre in Devon now. He followed me on Instagram and I extended the invitation, never thinking he’d show up but here he is, standing at the back with his girlfriend, looking proud. ‘I’ve always loved your weird work,’ he says. ‘Write a play for us one day? But not Bad Wolf.’ There are stylists from the hairdressers, my one friend from uni, from college and some writer friends. The room is full of my loved ones, sharing seats and stools, sitting on the counter, leaning on the walls, more full than I could have ever imagined.

My phone pings; it’s Jackson: Smash it. Proud of you, Ella x

I will cherish that.

And I write back: thank you proud of you too x

After my editor says a few words, I climb up onto a wonky wooden stool to read. I open up my book, feeling the weight of it in my hands and my mouth is so dry, but I take a breath and say:

‘Maybe you’ve never been in love with someone who you’re sure is the one for you? So sure that birdsong sounds like their name in the street. Like déjà vu. Like recognizing a face from the past. The way you know your parent is your parent. The way you know you’re about to be ill. Or that milk is off. It’s that voice that says you can rest, that says you’re here, I’ve got you. It’s in that rising tide of happiness that happens for no reason when you’re listening to a song that you can’t put into words but up go the hairs on your arms.

‘That person is hidden in those spaces, between being awake and dreaming. They’re there. Always. And time can stretch on for miles, years, without contact – life drifts on, does its thing and you’re almost able to forget that you love that person and the fact that they belong by your side because you’re doing OK without them. You’re doing quite well actually.’

The room laughs at this. I feel able to look up and take a breath. I see my family shedding tears, my friends filming on their phones – CRINGE. I compose myself and try some more:

‘And then something happens. And you’re sprung back to it all, like an elastic band that tricked you into thinking you had already broken from its grasp ages ago but no, you’ve snapped right back to where you started, to that very moment and all the beautiful, terrible, wonderful, terrifying feelings that come with loving somebody, with being in love with them still, and wondering if they ever loved you back. This book is for everyone who’s ever felt like that.’

The room applauds, probably happy that they can go back to drinking and chatting now the formal bit is over but still I’m rushing from the fear, surprise and overwhelm, relief. I sign books (only by the very last do I feel like I’ve mastered any sort of professional autograph) and take photos with my friends. I look around the room, thinking that of course Lowe will push through the door and appear any moment, that of course he wouldn’t miss my book launch – it’s my fucking book launch! I’m eyeing the twee bell above the door, waiting for it to tinkle open with his arrival but it doesn’t. It’s just Bookshop-owner-Colin taking out the clanging recycling bins, full of empty wine bottles. I hear him mutter, ‘They’re worse than a hen party, this lot!’ Dropping major hints for us to leave. Bookshop-owner-Tamika’s complaining that someone’s spilt red wine on the carpet and it won’t clean itself. The carpet is red; it’s very hard to see where the stain is. Aoife lays down kitchen roll. That’ll do it.

When we’ve successfully sold out of books and my party have drunk our booze supply dry and overstayed our welcome, Mum shouts, ‘Everybody back at ours for the afters!’ Sonny and Violet groan weakly at Mum’s attempt to be cool. Bianca pulls the one copy of my first poetry book from the shelf and – away from the owners’ stare – slides it in the window display. I wink at her like, thanks mate, appreciate it.

We link arms, out into the warm evening. We bundle drunkenly onto the bus. Even Dad and Naomi and my publishers come, folding into taxis, any way to get back home to Mum’s. This is where the celebrating will really happen, in a house I’m no longer embarrassed of.

We’re loud, singing and talking over each other. Drinking and dancing. Until the music is snuffed and Mum chinks a glass with a fork, like she’s about to go and give a speech. Oh, she’s about to go and give a speech.

‘Oh no, please,’ says Sonny,

‘Does she have to?’ Vi mutters, covering her face with her hands.

‘YES ANTONIA!’ Ronke screams (Avanna been collected by her dad so now Ronks is ON it!). Stepdad Adam looks at Mum in awe like that’s my girl. Dad excuses himself to ‘find more beer’.

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