Page 63 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

Or wait … maybe he means with Heather?

Oh hell.

We’ve all tried stalking her on Facebook and MySpace, but nothing comes up, which makes her even more annoying. How dare she be so private and mature? I throw my phone into my open bag.

I fold warm towels. I brush the cakey mouldy damp off the walls. I drag clags of hair like rat tails from the drain. I use my mum’s technique of cleaning mirrors with vinegar and balls of newspaper and it works a dream. I wipe down fashion magazines and National Geographic. I light a scented candle. I get told off for not scooping leftover colour into the bin before the sink. It’s bad for the environment; do you want fish to eat bleach? No, of course I don’t want fish to eat bleach. I wash hair, LOADS of hair, with rosemary and peppermint, chamomile and orange, eucalyptus and patchouli, and with it the humdrum of the day comes off – the Tube, the rain, the cereal bars. And it swirls down the sink in bubbles.

It’s astonishing how vulnerable the baptism of hair washing can make a person; their brain in your hands, their eyes in yours. It’s intimate: you listen; you wash it all away. I shampoo a woman’s hair and she starts to cry; her tears roll into the sink.

‘Are you OK?’

‘My husband of forty years has been diagnosed with dementia.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Life’s too short,’ she tells me. ‘You’re young; make it count.’

And I want to give her the best hair wash of her life. Respectful, thorough, treating her head as if it’s a delicate crown of gold leaves. She closes her eyes, trusting me, snatching a minute of peace.

I text Lowe back.

I tell him I’m at work. And he – please not with her – can meet me when I finish at six. He might have an explanation? If not, it’ll be closure, our final goodbye.

It’s BOILING hot outside but, with no space in the beer garden, Lowe is sitting in the shady pub with a beer. I guess his tail is too in-between his legs for him to have the courage to change our meeting spot and begin calling the shots. When he sees me, his face sunshines like it always does and it’s hard not to smile back even though I’m aching like a freshly yanked tooth. He buys me a pint and we down them fast, agreeing it’s too nice to be inside. Just before we head out, in the hope of leaving this conversation behind here forever, I say, trying to not sound too heartbroken but also refusing to avoid, ‘I didn’t know you’d met someone … ’

Lowe looks down at his empty glass. ‘It’s only been a couple of weeks but yeah … ’

Down. I. Come.

‘Heather … I want you to meet her.’

Well, I used to want to run away with you somewhere far away like … I dunno … Jersey and live forever and have your baby, but it wasn’t going to happen, was it?

Does he think I’ll be there next week welcoming his new girlfriend into my mum’s house and asking if she takes sugar in her tea? Hellllll, no! I get it now. It’s clear. I can see it for what it is and this empowers me to sit comfortable in my new stance.

‘We’re really different’ he reassures me. ‘Like she knows no music or anything – she’s not really into what we like or … she doesn’t drink … she’s studying, so … she’s quite hardworking.’

Oh, great, she’s all the things I’m not. How I wish I was a child again and couldn’t acknowledge and recognize this horrible heat, these tight muscles, this strained migrained twinge in my forehead, this bubbly unpleasant feeling as jealousy. How I wish I could just behave like a child, unfiltered, hurt that it’s not gone my way and could indulge in a straight-up tantrum, kicking a wall. But I have to hold it inside. And it eats me like worms in my core, acid in my organs.

Wishing it would turn my way is like wishing the weather to change on a holiday, praying the dark clouds will lift, that the sun will break through and we can run to the beach and be happy. Or wishing that the end of a book could be different and they all live happily ever after.

‘I’m just gonna see how it goes,’ he adds.

‘Cool.’ I nod. No, not cool, not cool at all.

‘It’s good for me to have someone to make me feel anchored.’

I was the greatest anchor you’ve ever seen.

Outside I am grateful for the oxygen and everybody looks like Greek gods, splayed out, half naked, seduced – eating and drinking. We buy more beers from the newsagents. I feel like the people sitting around with their bottles of cider recognize him; somewhere a prosecco cork pops. The smoke of outdoor barbecues billows roasting meat and cobs of corn. The music from outdoor sound systems bumps, the vibration pulsing through the grass. The shouts from the basketball players and skateboarders with their tops off and their sun-kissed shoulder blades. The weather is on my side and love is still young.

Immediately, we forget about Heather or whatever her name is (it’s definitely Heather). Anyyyywayyyy, we’re too long in the tooth to let the thoughts of her distract us. We kick our shoes off because we want to feel the cold soil under our feet. Lowe smokes rollie after rollie and I’m hypnotized by the ritual – the way he licks his thumb and cocoons the paper, crumbles the tobacco shreds in his fingers, the way he wipes his hand on his jeans and then – the lick – steady and quick. And I come to love that tobacco smell so bad; it’s like a rush. And I’m glad because after everything, Lowe is still Lowe. It’s so hard not to pay him a compliment, but I don’t.

‘So … we signed our record deal.’

‘Oh, my word, wow, that’s fantastic! Congratulations!’

We chink our beers and hug.

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