Chapter 26
The following Saturday is tropical hot and I’m sweating at the salon. It’s like a greenhouse and we’re hot-boxed in with the power roar of hairdryers and it’s fully booked. The whole planet is on fire because of us, roaring our hairdryers and rinsing all the hot water. I’m dashing up and down, checking in clients, making coffee and taking payments. Basically running that goddam joint now. I don’t even have time to wee – forget drinking water or having lunch. And then I see it, appearing, like I have to double-take. It’s him, his name on my phone.
Lowe.
I feel equally elated and queasy. It’s been a week since that Brighton show and we’ve still not spoken.
When I finally get to my phone, his text reads: hi ella, i’m in london, are you around? be nice to see you. x
Be nice. Like fuck it will. Maybe he wants to talk? Maybe things didn’t work out with Heather? Maybe he’s changed his mind?
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.
‘I’m so happy that you’re happy,’ I say. ‘Then what will you do?’
‘I wanna look for somewhere to rent on the seafront.’
‘Oh, you’re not coming back to London?’
‘Not right now; we’ll be away on tour anyway so Brighton will just be a nice place to come back to and … ’
Don’t tell me, it’s closer to Heather, but he tails off.
‘ … I just like it there right now so that’s what I’m doing.’
He shuts down like I was about to try and change his mind.
‘Sure.’ I nod. This really is the end, isn’t it?
Why does crying always feel worse when it’s sunny?
Dream career. Girlfriend. New house on the seafront. About to perform his art around the world.
I live at my mum’s. Am single. Work part-time at a hairdressers and the only view I see is someone’s roots getting done. Plus dandruff – heaps of the stuff. But my writing – at least I’ve got that.
‘I’ll still come back to London though,’ he says.
I know this is for me. A little dangling carrot. A patronizing pat-a-cake baked just for me. He does know what he’s doing. That he’s hurting me. But if anything, this allows me to loosen my grip.
We finish the beers and get closer. Lowe lies down sideways beside me, propped up on his elbow. I let my eyes take him in for the last time as he rolls his t-shirt sleeves over his shoulder. The sun drools. The cap on his head to one side – necklace catches the light; sweat beads chase. He pulls at the grass blades and racks them up into neat rows near my leg, like one of those cognitive tests to show me the inside of his brain. I think about the pattern I would make if it was me laying them out, but I don’t want to hurt the grass. I want to tread as gently as possible and not hurt a fly. Not like Lowe, going around breaking hearts and hurting grass.
He takes out his inhaler, presses it against his mouth and chokes, spluttering out a mouthful of filters that have been rolling loosely in his pocket and got trapped in the mouthpiece.
‘What the heck?’ He spits the filter out. ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘Your face!’ Tears begin to run.
‘Could you imagine how ironic that would have been, if I’d died choking on cigarette filters that were pelleted at the back of my throat by my inhaler?’
As the sun goes down, insects muscle in to feast on everyone’s sweet blood (except mine). Lowe goes to buy another pouch of tobacco and a bottle of vodka. God, he must be about to become seriously rich. The light shifts, slanting through the trees in spaceship cone beams. The streetlamps ping on. We take turns fidgeting at the unrecognizable rip-off non-brand label, tearing it off into little rice-shaped shreds, the sky now sweet amaretto. Before we know it, we are two kids under a tent of pitch-black darkness and the open sky is ours and the moon is blushing for us. Even the ducks are quacking, JUST FUCKING KISS HER, MAN!
But we drunkenly practise our stupid handshake instead, for old times’ sake. Clap, clasp, twist, link, thumb to thumb, spiral, spud, punch, hug. Any excuse to touch.
‘I have a free house … if you want to come back?’ I ask. Because this will obviously be the final time we ever hang out ever, ever, ever again.
The night bus rolls us home, back to mine, and we have a headphone each. Every lyric remotely mentioning love clings to me, and, maybe it’s the alcohol, but I find myself latching on like Velcro once again, believing everything is a sign, about us, urging me to take a leap of faith and that – TING! – maybe, instead of saying goodbye, MAYBE I can finally tell him how I feel? Maybe if I wait for him it will never happen? So sick am I of being passive, my bold brain begins to chant, tellhimtellhimtellhim and the vodka spins the lights of London into hazy drunken stars, and sparks crackle and we slide into each other. How can I say goodbye to Lowe when we’re like those jelly alien toys that come in a plastic egg of slime, the ones that were meant to have babies if you pressed their backs together for long enough? When every touch with Lowe is like a vow of some kind. Different from any hand I’ve ever felt.
I have to tell him I love him. Now. It’s got to be now. Before it gets too serious with Heather and then there’s no going back. I might never have a chance like this again. Before it’s too late. I’ve got to. Be brave, Ella – you can do it.
But how the fuck do I begin a sentence like that?
And the bus goes too quick; time just disappears and I don’t want to ruin the moment or our friendship, which I feel like I’ve only just won back. I don’t want him to get off this bus. To change his mind.
Usually this walk down the South London backstreets frightens me but not now. Not when I’m with him. Not when I’m lovestruck. Walking on air. Bouncing on the trampoline of the moon.
I rush in the house first, my key jangling in the front door, vibrating with nerves about actioning my confession. Lowe hangs back to finish smoking on the doorstep. And I am manic. There have been a few renovations on the house – new heating system and a few licks of paint – but I still feel that shadow of embarrassment.
They say people only take actions from a place of love or fear. Well, right now, when it comes to Lowe, I am suffering, severely, with both. We have both drunk more of the horrible vodka by this point – truth serum – and we are doing that thing where you pretend to be drunker than you are. Like a game that if you yourself aren’t playing would definitely be annoying. It’s a balancing act; I want to let my guard down, but I don’t want let myself go completely, be head down in the toilet, crying. And yet I need to have enough alcohol in me for insurance, so I could afford to blame the alcohol if I had to, as an excuse. What did we do last night? And of course, I want to remember every single detail of whatever happens between us so I can dwell the hell out of it for the rest of my days but that’s just it – nothing ever happens, does it?
Adrenaline fights the alcohol anyway, burns like a blue flame over a damp brandy-soaked Christmas pudding. But right now, I cast a magic spell, a placebo to let us do the things we wouldn’t normally do when we are sober.
I find more vodka in the top kitchen cupboard and we fill our glasses, but I’m so giddy I’m not even sure I’m metabolizing it properly. We head up to my messy bedroom. Sit on my bed. I put on music, too giddy to worry if he’ll judge me for it, ‘Heatbeats’ by The Knife, which I’m sure will make me look pretty fucking cool actually.
‘So,’ he says, like he’s been building up to something,
‘So … ?’ I grin back.
And to my surprise, he says, ‘What’s all this about you and Ryan then?’
What? ‘Ryan? Your housemate?’ What’s that scarecrow got to do with anything? What a way to kill a mood.
‘He said something about you two … going on a date or some shit?’
‘A date? With Ryan? I said we’d have a drink.’
‘A date is what he said.’ Lowe acts like he doesn’t care, his sixteen-year-old self shrugging me off. ‘He said he asked you out and you said yeah.’
Wait, are his feelings hurt?
‘Yeah, but like not like a date! Lowe! Really?’
‘I didn’t say it!’ Lowe puts his hands up, spraying nervous laughter. He ponders. ‘He said some other stuff too … ’
‘Like what?’
Lowe is quiet for a moment, runs his finger around the glass. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Gosh, Ryan’s been busy, hasn’t he? Tell me then, what did he say?’ I hold my nerve.
Lowe watches me, not saying a word until he’s absolutely sure, trying to work me out before he lays down his cards. ‘That you two get on really well?’
I’ve never seen him so unsure of himself; he wants me to fill in gaps for something that didn’t happen.
‘Right?’
‘He’s just obsessed with you basically.’ He lies down on my bed, hides his face under his cap.
I’m confused. Is he now trying to bundle me off with his mate?
‘And … ’ he begins, his voice muffled under the cap.
‘And?’ I ask.
‘… He said what great friends we are.’ Lowe peeps his head out from under the cap to look at me. He rolls his lips together like he’s stopping words from falling out.
‘Well … ’ I say proudly, ‘we are great friends … aren’t we?’
‘Yeah, course.’ He looks at me, properly; he seems disappointed somewhat. ‘Best friends,’ he adds but like he’s being sarcastic.
‘Wait, Lowe … ’ Was Ryan asking me how I felt about Lowe … for Lowe? Did Lowe ask Ryan to ask me how I felt about him to see if I felt the same? And I confirmed we were just friends and then Ryan asked me out. And then Lowe went and got a girlfriend? But obviously I say none of that.
‘Like I said’ – Lowe rubs his face; he, like me, is tired of our complicated situation and game-playing – ‘what does it matter now?’ He drains his drink, coughing at the strength of it.
But it really does matter.
Why the fuck didn’t he just ask me himself?
I’m stunned. I just sit there, like, what now?
And then I think, if there’s any chance for something to happen, it’s now.
It’s time.
Be cool, be cool, be cool.
But my word, is it hard to act cool when you’re fizzing?
I find myself saying, ‘Hey … erm … so … we’ve … my mum … we’ve got this new steam room fitted; it’s kind of weird.’
‘Weird’ is safe. A neutral word to use when you don’t want to say if something is good or bad. It invites an opinion without giving anything away; it means I’m interested, I’m curious but also allows wiggle room if the other person gets freaked out. It would definitely not be unusual to describe somebody you extremely fancy as ‘extremely weird’.
I add, ‘Do you wanna try it?’ Wanna? Jesus Christ, calm down, girl.
‘K. Definitely … ’ he says.
Well, then, don’t give him a reason not to, Ella; get going, love.
The steam function takes a while to heat up. So, I get it on immediately. I prop up a bottle of Herbal Essence; it’s empty but it’s for display purposes only. I hope Lowe will know the brand for girls on TV with their bouncy floral hair. These little signposts are important. I flush my brother’s straw-coloured wee he left in the toilet, remove any traces of coiled pubes and hide my stepdad’s psoriasis shampoo. Nothing that would put Lowe off.
He heads outside for another cigarette and now I have about three minutes to transform. I run to my room. Oh FUCK! I haven’t planned this. I didn’t even know I’d be seeing him today! I was gearing up to say goodbye, not strip down to a bikini and confess my undying love! I bought the bikini especially for Egypt – and thanks to Egypt’s climate, I am the shade of an all-butter croissant – but I can’t find it now. I’m hurling my clothes around; I can’t think straight. I find the top part of my bikini, but not the bottoms – oh FUCK it. I am just going to wear my underwear – that’ll have to do, and then just as I’m about to give up, I see my bikini bottoms, hanging out of my still unpacked suitcase. There is a God. And she is a woman.
I look at myself in the mirror. The bikini is orange and dotty and I got it in a size bigger so it didn’t dig into my curves, didn’t press in around the fanny area to make a chubby fanny pouch – which I practise accepting and celebrating daily – didn’t spread and stretch my fanny hairs taut or bulge the fillets of back fat so they suddenly go from a bit of harmless cute chub to something you’d happily pick up in a supermarket and fry up with butter and garlic to feed a family of four. ‘You are BEAUTIFUL,’ I say, trying so hard to mean it. I’m not there yet but I’m hoping that one day I will be. I’m a late bloomer. I’m only just getting the hang of this ‘love yourself’ stuff, you see. They don’t teach it at school.
But better late than never.
This is my first bikini. He is my first love.
Here goes nothing …