Page 74 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘I’m just going to tell him that we’re here and see if he wants a drink?’ Aoife stops, readjusts her contact lens with an itch. ‘What’s up?’ she finally observes through her drunkenness. ‘Are you like worried that now he’s famous he’ll be a bit of a dickhead?’

‘No, I just don’t want us to look desperate.’

‘How can you be desperate with your friends? He’ll be happy to see us, you especially,’ she says, which kills me. ‘I’m sure it will mean a lot to him. There, sent.’

I watch everyone else at the festival, free from this burden, move on to the dance tents, the bar. And I wish I could go home.

Aoife’s phone rings within minutes; he must have just that second stepped off stage. She shows me the screen. She’s got his name spelt wrong in her phone: LO. I like it that he has the same number, that not everything has changed. ‘See, told you … ’ she gloats and answers, rushed and delighted, making a plan and gushing. Firing off confused directions of our whereabouts. Aoife is never like this; it’s jarring to see her starstruck.

‘Yeah, I’m with Ella,’ she says, looking at me with what can only be described as glee. I wonder if my name pierces his heart? She ends the call with a ‘see you in a min’.

‘He’s sending a GOLF BUGGY!’ Like a golf buggy is a helicopter. ‘Bet they’ve got free beers in their dressing room. Air-conditioning!’ She sniffs her armpits. ‘Deodorant, please lord.’

My whole body is in a state of threat as the crowd disperses, leaving us in a field of paper cups. The sky is pitch dark, the temperature dropped ever so slightly but not enough to warrant these shivers.

‘There it is!’ Aoife points at a white golf buggy, trucking along towards us. ‘OH MY GOD! It’s him, El – he’s driving it!’ She claps her hands together joyfully like he’s the bloody night bus.

There he is: his face, his smile, that post-adrenaline-buzz glowing about his person. I see his eyes on me and gulp. Something still stirs, shakes me up.

‘Isn’t he worried about paps and psycho fans?’ Aoife’s says as he gets closer. ‘I suppose it’s dark; people might not notice him.’ She’s just talking to herself at this point. ‘Nice of him to pick us up though, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘it is.’ Very humbling. Very fit, I suppose. Damnit.

As Lowe approaches, I involuntarily break into my happiest of faces. That’s what he does to me. And he smiles back with his happiest of faces, and I know all of his faces; that’s what I do to him.

To be funny, he speeds up, skidding the buggy when he pulls up, jumps out with the vehicle still moving like a stuntperson. He runs straight towards me and then he stops. I replay our last moment together, the frosty, clunky awkwardness but he seems to have shaken it off—

‘Ella.’

I love it when he says my name. Bypassing Aoife, he puts his arms out for a hug, making sure I want him to, which obviously I do.

He breathes me in. ‘I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve missed you so much. I can’t believe you’re here,’ he says again. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’

We’re magnets.

We jump in the buggy with Aoife doing an ecstatic wiggle dance in her seat and ride back through the festival, flying over the thousands of footsteps we’ve walked today. Lowe waves us through the backstage area with little, if any, interrogation from security with a ‘they’re with me’. People stare but he doesn’t seem to care. He knows he’s famous but he doesn’t act like it. He only cares about talking to us, making us feel special and important and wanted. Aoife links fingers with me and squeezes my hand. In the dressing room we see the rest of the band. It’s been a while. They stand to hug us; the fact we’re all away from home seems to break the ice, level us out a bit. Lowe hands out cold beers from the fridge and tells us to help ourselves to whatever we want. ‘Is this all for you?!’ Aoife says about all the snacks and alcohol, and the band laugh. We open our beers and take a seat on the couch like we’re teenagers in a fit older brother’s bedroom. Knees touching.

Aoife gets talking to the drummer and Lowe says, ‘Do you want to come outside and chat whilst I … ?’ He holds up a cigarette.

‘Sure,’ I say. What does he think about the last time we saw each other? What on earth is running through his mind? Does he remember it like I do?

There’s a dividing fence between the backstage and crowd, and I’m on the inside with him.

‘This is mad. I wasn’t expecting to see you at all.’ He holds his cigarette like a cowboy; his fingers make the OK gesture. He takes a drag, eyes on the sky like he wished on that same star I did all those years ago and it obliged, thanks.

‘You’re the one that joined the line-up!’ I say cheekily. ‘If I’d known you’d be here I wouldn’t have come!’ I joke but FACT.

‘What? Don’t say that! Why?’

‘We haven’t spoken in a while, have we?’

‘No. I’ve been shit. Sorry about that.’ He exhales smoke with the words; silver spools sail past my face. He offers me a toke. ‘Oh, you don’t smoke, do you?’

I shake my head.

‘I shouldn’t really.’ He admits, ‘My manager would kill me, but … it could be worse – I could be addicted to heroin.’ He cracks up. ‘What are you up to these days? How’s your writing going?’

‘I’m actually working on a collection of poems.’ I regret using the word ‘collection’ out loud; it’s off-putting. It makes me sound like a clothes designer who works only in the colour shell.

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