The Funny Thing About Love

33. Nell

33

NELL

‘Will!’

The sight of my little brother walking down the platform towards me fills me with a burst of pure, unbridled joy.

He’s dragging a wheelie suitcase in one hand, and his skateboard is clamped in the other. God, I’ve missed him.

I start waving like an embarrassing mum, but he doesn’t see me. As usual, his eyes are fixed firmly on the ground as he walks. His face is hidden beneath his mop of mousy brown hair. Only when he’s practically in front of me does he look up.

‘Hey, Nell.’

‘Mate!’ I yank him towards me and throw my arms around him. ‘I’m so happy to see you!’

‘Happy to see you too,’ he mumbles into my shoulder.

At fifteen, Will’s taller than me these days – in fact, he has been for a couple of years now. But I still feel protective of him. As I squeeze him tightly while the rest of the passengers brush past us, I wonder if I always will.

He pulls away and I look at him properly. He has dark circles under his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept for weeks. It makes me flinch, but I resolve not to let it show in my face. This weekend is about fun and taking Will’s mind off things.

He gives me a crumpled half-smile. ‘Has Mum put you up to this then?’

‘Up to what?’

‘This whole be-super-positive-and-pretend-like-everything’s-fine act?’

I thump his shoulder, mildly shocked at his apparent ability to read my mind. ‘It’s not an act, William! I am a super-positive person! And I am genuinely so happy to see you.’

He rolls his eyes as if he doesn’t quite believe this. ‘Do you want me to carry your bag?’ I ask. ‘Or your board?’

That gets another ghost of a smile out of him, and my heart swells at the sight of it. ‘I would actually quite like to see you carry my board,’ he mumbles.

‘Give it here then.’ I tuck it under my arm and we start walking towards the station exit. ‘I’ll even try to ride it if you like. Embarrass myself in front of the whole of King’s Cross. That is how much I love you.’

‘You’re all right, cheers,’ he murmurs. Ever since he was ten years old, he’s never gone anywhere without his skateboard. It’s like another limb. Unfortunately, most of the kids his age in our village are into football rather than skateboarding. Which is why Will tends to spend so much time on his own.

I feel another thump of anger at the thought of him being bullied again. I glance at him and say, ‘So, how is everything then? Do you want to talk about . . . stuff?’

He mumbles something that sounds like ‘Not really’. And before I can try again, he adds, ‘How’s it going with you? Me and Mum watched Punching Up on Thursday.’ He shifts his suitcase to the other hand. ‘That Jed Greening seems like a bit of a dick.’

I laugh. ‘I actually met him and can confirm that, yes, he is a total dick. Although he was quite funny in some of the sketches.’

‘Are you having fun then?’ Will asks.

‘Er . . . yeah. I guess so.’ I didn’t even go into the office yesterday. I got a text from Bishi first thing saying there was no point coming in. Since the writers pulled an all-nighter on Tuesday, and then worked themselves nearly to death on Wednesday to get the sketches up to Jed’s impossibly high standards, they were being given the day off. So Bishi said Charlie and I could stay home too.

I was glad – partly because those negronis had left me with a stinking hangover. But mainly because it meant I wouldn’t have to speak to Charlie Fucking Francombe.

Seeing him dancing with Daphne was . . . weird. Once I walked away from them at the bar, I made an effort to try to ‘mingle’, but my heart wasn’t really in it. One random guy came over and started talking to me about his production internship on some news programme. I was so grateful to have someone to speak to that I just let him ramble on even though I could barely hear him over the music. I’m pretty sure he was trying to hit on me, actually, but he was that pissed it was difficult to tell. And the whole time, over his shoulder, I could see Daphne grinding all over Charlie on the dance floor. The idiot just stood there gawping at her like he couldn’t believe his luck. Which he probably couldn’t.

It annoyed me. And I was annoyed at myself for being annoyed. Which made me more annoyed. So I just left.

I spent most of yesterday in bed. Chloe and Mica were both out at work, so I whiled away the morning watching It’s Always Sunny bloopers on YouTube and stewing on why the Charlie thing has got to me so much. I just couldn’t stop thinking about what might have happened if we’d gone outside a minute earlier. If Daphne hadn’t shown up.

By lunchtime I’d thought about it so much that I was even boring myself. So I got out of bed and did what I always do when my anxiety starts whirring and I need to distract myself: I wrote.

And wrote. And wrote.

By the time Mica got home, I’d written three whole new sketches. It’s wild – even though I wasn’t credited for it, it’s as if seeing my scooter sketch being performed by actual actors on an actual stage has flipped a switch inside me. I want more.

Keep throwing stuff into the pot, Nate had said. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.

Will and I step out of the station into the balmy morning air. The sky is cloudless and clear blue – a beautiful day for some sightseeing. ‘So, what do you want to do then?’ I ask my brother. ‘I have compiled a lengthy potential itinerary for this trip: Big Ben, Madame Tussauds, the London Eye, Carnaby Street, this cafe in Soho that Mica told me about that does ice cream in the shape of spaghetti . . .’ I squeeze his arm. ‘London is our oyster – whatever you want to do, we’re doing it.’

Will shuffles on the spot and scratches his neck. ‘Well . . . there is somewhere in London I’ve always wanted to go.’

‘Name it.’

‘Peckham Rye skatepark.’

An hour later, after nipping back to the flat to dump Will’s suitcase, we are en route to Peckham on the Overground.

This weekend is supposed to be all about making my little brother happy, and if my little brother wants to trek halfway across London to some random square of lumpy concrete, then that’s fine by me.

The whole train ride over, I do my best to cheer him up. I tell him about getting locked in the props cupboard after knocking down those boxes. I tell him about the team unwittingly recording themselves slagging off Jed Greening, and then me saving the day. He nods and laughs, but I never feel I’m properly getting through to him. There’s this disconnect between us. He’s so much quieter than normal.

Occasionally, I try to gently nudge the conversation towards what’s happening at school, but he deflects it every time. My pocket is constantly buzzing with messages from Mum – she’s been texting non-stop since he arrived to ask how he is, or if he’s told me anything. I get the sense that she’s been constantly digging at home – trying to make him talk about it. I don’t want him to feel that same pressure with me. I just want him to enjoy himself. To forget all about it. So after a while I stop nudging.

We step out at Peckham Rye station and as soon as Will sees the skatepark, he visibly brightens. It’s like a weight has been lifted. And that’s enough. I resolve to spend the next few hours sat on a concrete wall in deepest South London, watching my brother forget about whatever it is that is causing those dark circles under his eyes.

And for a while that’s exactly what I do. Until Charlie Francombe appears and flips the whole day on its head.