I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

Chapter 29

Aoife reads the line-up for FEVER FEST down the phone on the three-way call.

‘Weekend Plans, 200, Wet Paint, Sleepover, HERO, TriggerTrigger … ’

So long as True Love aren’t playing I really don’t care. I haven’t spoken to Lowe in almost a year. Not since their album release. Not since they’ve blown up. Not since I can’t go anywhere without them being everywhere.

But I’m still looking for an excuse to stay at home and say, ‘Not my dream line-up … ’

‘No, Ella, don’t back out. You’re doing it,’ Bianca orders.

Aoife and Bianca are both sick with wanderlust and, this time, they’re determined not to leave me behind. Aoife is willing to blow her entire student loan in one summer and Bianca’s already quit her temping job. I’m definitely still playing the little sister. Unable to step into my big boots and catch up with them, I lag behind, unable to imagine the big world they’ve seen. The changes come out in little reminders, like when they can identify street food at Camden Market. Or when they wear their matching Havaianas and I’m in my plimsolls. Or the way they salute the sun and I sit, spine like a bent coat hanger, watching TV. And, of course, the eternal reminder is Bianca’s shit tattoo, which we all know doesn’t say ‘serendipity’.

‘Is it going to be … OK?’

Obviously, I’m PETRIFIED. But Aoife and Bianca aren’t; they’re like expert travellers now, explorers of the world.

‘For God’s sake, Ella, yes,’ Bianca says.

‘Elbow, listen,’ adds Aoife. ‘You are TWENTY years old! It will be exactly like going to a festival in the UK, just better because it will be hot and everyone will be in a good mood and fit.’

‘And nothing you do out there can come back to bite you on the arse cos you can leave it behind in Spain!’ Bianca screeches.

I know they think I’m boring. As far as they’re concerned, my life has stood still. Frozen in time like forgotten fishfingers. They’ve stepped out of their comfort zones; I’m just ticking along. I still live with Mum and Stepdad Adam, arguing over who ate the last onion bagel with Sonny and Violet. Still studying very un-Creative Writing at the same university. No boyfriend. Same job. Journeying only by writing love poems about ‘love’ when all I really know about love is Lowe. My pen is my battered passport. Whereas Aoife and Bianca have all these new experiences under their belt, names and numbers in their phones, big plans. They certainly aren’t fussed by the barriers of money: ‘It always works out,’ they reassure me, ‘what more do you need? Sun, sea, music! People will always help us if we get stuck.’ That sounds like begging to me. Freeloading. What kind of hippy chat is this? ‘Besides, this is what money is for!’ Aoife says. Yeah, no shit, because I’m the only one with a job right now. They think I’m uptight. But I’ve worked so hard at the hairdressers to save up for this damn festival – long enough to see a client’s spontaneous break-up head-shave grow out into Rapunzel’s luscious locks – so seeing the money go out of my account for festival tickets and a flight feels outrageous, luxurious, unnecessary, mostly because I can’t see myself actually doing any of this. Will I really see any of this through? But even the stylists at the salon are ushering me along now. I suppose it will give me will give me some new material to talk about at the basins when I get back.

The festival website is stressing me out: half of it’s in Spanish; there are all these different campsites – some are better than others apparently; there are tips in the reviews … warnings about overpriced bus tickets and dangerous, long, off-road walks that aren’t lit, about the extreme heat, drug dealers and touts. I try not to bore Aoife and Bianca with the mundane logistical stuff that’s keeping me awake at night like how will we get from the airport to the festival? Will our phones work out there? Can we drink the tap water? And where will we sleep? We don’t have a tent!

But Bianca has it all worked out. ‘We can take my cousin’s tent! It literally flings up in seconds. It’s like a palace.’

I’m yet to meet a tent that’s a palace but we say bye and hang up.

‘Why are you so stressed?’ Violet asks, judgmental and disgusted. Just because she’s studying Food Tech now she thinks she’s the only one who has the right to be stressed. She’s been trying to make us use different coloured boards to chop vegetables and protein but we don’t pay attention.

‘Have you ever been travelling?’ I ask dramatically.

‘Travelling? Ha! For eight days?’ Violet says. ‘Please.’ And walks off scoffing.

I change up my money. Write down some key phrases. It’s hard to pack summer clothes that are suitable for boiling weather and also demonstrate my sense of fashion. Sun cream, insect repellent. Sunglasses. Two days before we fly, I remind Bianca to borrow the tent from her cousins; we need to air it out before we go. ‘Will do,’ she says before asking her dad to pass her the remote. She’s not listening. I text again to remind her, not wanting to sound anxious, but I definitely am.

The day before we fly, Bianca organizes another three-way call.

‘So … about the tent.’

‘What?’

‘It’s currently in the New Forest,’ Bianca says, without apologizing. Typical.

‘What? So where are we gonna sleep?’

‘Under the stars! It’s just a tent. Loosen up.’

‘Errr no,’ Aoife snaps.

‘You’ve got to be joking, Bianca; we’ll get bitten to death. Or RAPED.’

‘Ella’s right. I fucking hate rapists. Why can’t men just leave us alone? Let us sleep, man.’

I don’t really understand how the added millimetre shield made of polyester, nylon and a zip is going to act as a rape preventative, but I’ve got enough to worry about already before catastrophizing. Why didn’t she sort the tent before now?

‘Well, I know we don’t have one,’ I say. One of the only things my parents do still have in common is that they both hate camping.

‘Ugh, I think we have one,’ Aoife offers. ‘But it’s a hundred years old and weighs a ton; it really is a last resort.’

Bianca calls us back. ‘Rob’s got one.’

Rob is Bianca’s toxic stoner ‘friend’ who is eight years older and the type of person our parents don’t like us using the internet because of. He scares the living day lights out of us because, well, let’s face it, he’s an actual man man.

Aoife hesitates.

‘What? You don’t want to sleep in Rob’s tent?’

‘It’s not that but … ’ Aoife tries but I take over.

‘I really don’t want to sleep in Rob’s tent; it will feel like sleeping in Rob’s bed. With his armpit hair, coffee breath and adult pubes.’

‘Look, we haven’t got a better option – I wanna get some weed to bring with us so I have to see him anyway.’

‘Bianca, you can’t bring weed to Spain!’ Aoife shouts.

‘You lemon, course you can! It’s Spain, it’s like going to … I dunno … Eastbourne. Chill. As. Fuck. Trust me.’

‘Get the tent but please don’t bring the weed and don’t forget to set your alarm – we’ve got our flight in the morning,’ I tell her.

‘Good idea … ’ Bianca says. ‘How do you set an alarm on your phone? Rob will show me. I’ll bring my passport to Rob’s in case I end up sleeping over – I can just leave from his in the morning.’

‘PLEASE DON’T DO THAT!’ I bark.

‘Are you sure you should sleep over? What about all your stuff? Is that a good idea?’ Aoife blurts.

‘Yes, don’t be ridiculous; it’ll be FINE.’

And lo and behold, at 4 a.m. my phone goes off. It’s Bianca.

What now?

She’s crying. ‘I had my passport on my chest when I was sleeping so I didn’t forget it – and … ’

‘OK, and?’

‘It rolled off and … ’ She starts really crying. ‘It fell into a pint of orange squash.’

‘Shit, is it salvageable?’

‘It’s been in there all night – it’s soaking.’ She sobs.

I can tell she’s still drunk or stoned or both. I’m not interested in making her feel any worse.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she cries.

Her dad was meant to be collecting us from the bloody airport on the way home. Bet he would have taken us to the Burger King Drive-Thru too. Livid.

‘Dad’s found a tent!’ Aoife says down the phone. ‘But it’s a bit crusty … ’

‘We’ll buy a new tent,’ I tell Aoife.

‘With what money? I’m spending my money on beer not tents! And the shops are all out – it’s festival season. We’re out of options.’

Mum reluctantly drives me to Aoife’s house where her dad has dug the oldest, ugliest bright-orange tent from the Seventies out of the shed where it nearly sliced off our toes like a guillotine. It’s as heavy as a desk. It has bazillions of chunky metal poles and thick ropes and massive wooden pegs – and no instructions. It’s like something from the original Girl Guides’ handbook or Clipart.

‘OK, let’s buy a tent when we get there? This thing will weigh a ton on the flight.’

‘And risk not having a tent at all?’

‘But, Ella, how am I going to bring a guy back to that?’ Aoife whispers to me. And I don’t have the answer to that question.

When we get to the festival, we follow an ant-trail of very cool people, heaving our bags to the tropical campsite, the best on the map. We track through the dust to find the perfect spot, overhearing some know-it-all saying, ‘Close to the bathrooms but not too close, sun spots but mostly shade, good ground … ’ Aoife takes the piss, stomping her Havaianas on the floor like she knows what she’s doing, when in reality we’re copying their every move. That is until their tents pop up and they run off to the bar. Meanwhile we have to resurrect the skeleton of what may as well be a diplodocus. This can’t be real. We’re sweating; every pole is like lifting a log and it doesn’t even have a zip, but—

‘Oh, hell no, not toggles.’

Toggles aren’t going to stop us getting attacked – oh no actually they might. We start laughing crazily; people stop and stare at us and that makes us laugh more.

Done and dusted – no literally, it is like we’ve deliberately rolled in dust, and we’re so sweaty everything seems to stick to us – we take a cool shower in the communal block and then, finally, arm in arm, we plod down the dry crumbling brown sugar dirt hill to buy a pack of cold beers and a massive bag of delicious holiday crisps.

With the festival not beginning until tomorrow, we want to save our energy. We lie on the ground, outside our tent, close to the stars. I feel like I’m in that book Where The Wild Things Are, and feel a sense of bravery and pride. But also, the distance gives me a chance to reflect. For a year, since Lowe, I’ve been motoring along, trusting that my brain is processing the heartbreak, the rejection; I hoped it was filing the thoughts and taking care of itself without me actively caring for it. But maybe the wave is hitting me now?

‘You OK, Elbs?’ Aoife asks.

‘Yeah, why?’

‘Quiet, that’s all.’

So much happened when Aoife was away. Only now am I made aware of how much my friends don’t know; could not sharing such a big part of my life with them be holding our friendship back? Could it be costing us our bond? We’ve been friends our whole lives. What a relief it would be to get it off my chest. To tell Aoife everything about Lowe and me from the start. My heart clutches but even in the night air the prick of shame engulfs me and I’m unable.

‘Sorry, yeah, I’m fine.’

The new morning at the campsite reveals new horrors; there’s an ambulance treating kids with sunstroke or who’ve been found fitting in the showers. Hydrating with cheap spirit. Eating too many pills and not enough food. The sun’s damage rips skin red raw, peels boobs, blisters noses and makes nostrils bleed. Aoife and I whack on as much sun cream as we can find and wander down to the local village where we sit at a paper-cloth table with toothpicks and grains of rice in the salt pot and order bread and tuna salad, which we drown in oil, vinegar and dusty grey pepper. The Diet Cokes here taste sensational – ice cold with lemon in slim cylinder glasses. We float the little shops, admire the ornaments and wave to the locals who are utterly perplexed as to why all these parentless kids are trudging round their hometown like they own it. The festival starts at night when the air cools, when the floor isn’t melted lava and the pebbles aren’t hot coals, when the molten sun slips away behind the hills and leaves a tang over the landscape. Soon the music will come to life.

When we get to the site there is such a buzz. We can all feel it. It’s so incredible to be at a festival without anoraks and wellie boots. Here we come with nothing but beer money crunched up in our pockets and bras. We stand by the ginormous blue fans that spritz a mist of water and cold air at the same time and we all spread out like starfishes and coo like babies. The bar’s already packed with beautiful people: braids, flowers, ribbons, feathers, glitter, face paint, open shirts and bikini tops. I hardly know where to look. I fancy everyone except for the fucked-up kids with the rolling back eyes heaped in corners, who have peaked too soon. Here, next to the warm rub of bare flesh and cups of beer, I feel excited; all those times I’d hunted for boys as a teenager and asked myself where the hell they were hiding – well, turns out they were here, at this festival.

We all gather to hear the opening act, the kick-drum, the feedback scoring a line through the sky, and thousands of hands rattle, stirring a tidal wave as the lead singer says coyly, ‘Hello’ and the song opens up. We howl like animals. Strangers share cigarettes and beer. My heart skips a beat. Friends jump on shoulders, bare thighs around necks, a sea of hands, surfing into nowhere, and we all scream as paper cups are thrown and plastic bottles land on our bare feet; the hands and elbows of others are comforting and close. When we sing, it’s like a whale song, a frequency. We move like a swarm of bees, in ripples. I feel beautiful and happy and young and carefree.

Until a rumour starts that the headline act, Weekend Plans, have pulled out. Gutted. We’re having such a nice time it shouldn’t be a big deal but of course it is.

‘I’m demanding a refund,’ Aoife states. She loves Weekend Plans.

‘Hold on, let’s see who the replacement is first?’ I ask. I’m actually enjoying myself now.

We think about asking someone but we don’t want to look anxious or annoying or desperate. Like we care. And we’re not about to go and ask the INFORMATION desk like losers.

‘I’ll get my brother to look online.’ Aoife texts her brother, Sean. That text will cost about a fiver to send.

We share a bag of sugary churros in the shade and wait for Aoife’s brother to reply. We watch a really horrible electronic band on a small stage, a boy on pills dancing to a song no one else can hear.

Eventually Sean texts back.

‘SHUT UP!’ Aoife screams and reads the message out:

Forums are guessing true love?

Stop.

‘SICK! How great is that?’

True Love? Impossible. No way. What does that mean? That Lowe is coming here? As in TODAY? As in he could be here now? Well, that’s my holiday over then. Buh-bye. That’s my free spirit chained.

‘You’re right!’ I change my tune. ‘Who organized this shitshow of a festival? We should demand a refund and go home.’

‘Ahaha!’ Aoife thinks I’m joking, head still down in her phone. ‘Has Lowe said anything to you about it, Elbie?’

Once upon a time, I’d be the point of contact.

Instead, I’m over here, privately bleeding, his name a dagger in my chest. A dagger that turns when our names are said in the same breath like wedding vows. God, Aoife really has no idea, does she? Is this what it’s like having an affair, hiding a whole other side of your life?

‘Why would he say anything to me?’ I add, scratching the question off me uncomfortably, ‘I haven’t spoken to him for ages.’ I thought he might ask me to come to a show at some point but he never did. Then again, I never messaged him about his album release. I acted like it didn’t exist even when the posters were everywhere. Those milestones just seemed to come and go.

‘Shall we just text him?’ Aoife asks, openly searching for his name in her phone, like it’s as easy as that, even though I’m sure she must sense I’m acting weird. ‘I’ve not seen him in so long; has he still got the same number?’ She asks so casually, like we’re asking about Shreya or The Twins. Wait, does she think we just TEXT each other still? Does she really think we’re normal?

I try to deter her. ‘We don’t know if he’s playing for sure though, do we?’

‘Ella! It’s worth a try! He might be able to get us backstage!’ Her eyes bulge. ‘We might be able to sleep in their air-conditioned hotel and have a buffet breakfast with posh ham? We can get out of the shithole campsite! We’re in Spain at the same time; what are the chances? He’s still our friend; we should let him know we’re here! Be fun!’

‘OK’ – she’s not going to give up – ‘but let’s do it after the show; we don’t want to put him off.’ I manage to delay her.

‘Cool,’ she says. ‘Do you reckon he’s a trillionaire by now?’

I don’t give a fuck. All I’m thinking is about all the ways I could get out of tonight? I could say I have stomach cramps, food poisoning, water poisoning, period pains, my drink’s been spiked? But the idea of being alone in the dark campsite whilst everyone is screaming along to Lowe’s band makes me quite sad. I’ll say I have bad news … I need to fly back to South London. Immediately. Or at the festival I’ll just get conveniently lost, go have a Nutella crepe and find a nice radio stage where undiscovered alternative acts play, instead? How cultural.

But, of course, we’re heading for the main stage like everyone else, in a daisy-chain of wrist-banded hands we’ve only just met. ‘We should just plant ourselves here!’ some girl shouts over the music. ‘We’ve got such a good spot and we don’t want to lose it.’ Everyone else agrees, everyone except me but I say nothing, just sweat it out like translucent onions in a pan.

‘NO WAY!’ Aoife yells. ‘Is that Mia?’

‘Mia Bennett? Where?’ I look through the crowd ahead to see the most free, luminescent girl with white-bleached hair, wearing cut-off shorts and a crochet bikini top on someone’s shoulders. It IS her!

‘MIA!’ we scream. ‘MIA!’

And she turns, face full of glitter, so happy to see us. ‘ELLA! AOIFE! OH MY GOD!’ Blowing us huge kisses with both hands, she appears so cool and breezy; her energy is quite amazing. ‘YOU ON FACEBOOK?’ she bellows, balancing her paper cup on her stomach and the head of the shoulders she’s sitting on.

‘I AM!’ Aoife cries. ‘ELBOW’S TOO COOL FOR FACEBOOK!’

‘I am not.’ I dig her in the ribs.

‘MESSAGE ME! LET’S MEET UP!’ Mia signs off with a thumbs up, turning her back on us and spreading her arms out to the stage.

We pass water bottles filled with alcohol down the line, filling our cups, just spirits so we don’t keep having to use the toilets. The crowd around us shoulder to shoulder, in gridlock. The rumours have clearly gone round, everybody is shouting, ‘WE WANT TRUE LOVE!!’ and I want to crouch down into a ball with my hands over my ears. It is killing me to know that Lowe’s quiet little nobody band is now famous enough to pacify all of these paying people! That it’s got this big. I was so in denial. I’m so insignificant. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I’m not even a second thought. The crowd starts singing their songs and I pretend I’m loving it because Aoife (and everyone that Aoife has told) keeps looking at me like I must be SO proud that all these thousands of people are singing our friend’s song. They must think I’m absolutely loving it when really I’m drowning – drowning in the song of him. Death by his music. How did he smoke me out? How did he find me here? It’s like he KNOWS. You win, Lowe. You win. I surrender.

‘WE WANT TRUE LOVE!’

As the silver floodlights smack on, the audience unleash a Hitchcock scream, and I need a sachet of Dioralyte. The empty stage is a gift. SURPRISE! Everyone’s eyes lift as the artwork appears on the backdrop, a giant bleeding heart, oh God, it’s them and the crowd go absolutely NUTS. I look down at my sandals and see my stumpy little emerald painted toes and give them a wriggle just to check I’m still alive. I try to escape but I’m locked in. Breathe in, breathe out … You can do this, Ella – you’ve done it before.

Aoife grips my hand and looks at me wide-eyed. ‘Here we go!’ Like we’re about to sky-dive together. I wish I could be her right now, just able to enjoy the show. I wish I was skydiving. That would be easier; I’m not in love with the sky.

True Love explodes. My friend is a star.

I don’t know these songs. I have gone out of my way to not know these songs. I look for the supportive eyes of Mia but she’s disappeared. Lowe gives the crowd want they want: everything. Why is he acting like he doesn’t have asthma? I feel the need to waggle my finger in his face like a teacher: Fame, money and success don’t stop you from having asthma now do they? You’re not too cool for health you know! He’s a frontman, a showman, and it’s his job to perform. The old recognizable real parts of him are background noise, fading fainter and fainter until they are completely covered over, trampled on with this cartoon celebrity alter-ego. Fucking actor.

There are these tiny moments though, in the cracks of quietness, where I see him, humbled, having fun. Or a bit scared. It must be quite scary, all these dehydrated drunk people roaring at you. Loving you. Wanting you. All that pressure. These are the times I remember him, in his little downstairs bedroom in Brighton, watching me crawl towards him in my matching pyjamas. I’m gonna melt your heart.

Torture.

The show finishes and somehow I’ve survived. I’m still standing.

‘Wasn’t that INCREDIBLE?’ Aoife squeals, her skin steaming,

‘It really was,’ I reply, which is true, in the out-of-body experience bits, where I was able to dissociate and forget I know him.

‘Do you want to call him?’ Aoife nudges.

I appreciate her handing that role over to me but I can’t. ‘Phone’s out of battery.’ I tut. ‘Soz.’ But there’s a massive charging station right next to us.

‘Don’t worry,’ Aoife says. ‘I’ll text him now.’

PANIC. ‘What are you saying?’ I ask. ‘Don’t beg it.’

‘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.

‘That’s great.’

‘Working at the hairdressers mostly.’

‘You’re still there? You cutting hair now?’ He sounds genuinely interested.

It actually takes years to train to be a stylist; it’s not that simple but anyway. ‘No, the desk, that’s where I’m working on the collection of poems,’ I joke. But again, true.

‘Hahaha, nice.’ He sucks on the cigarette. ‘It’s so cool you’re here.’ He looks at me then down at his busted trainers which you’d think by now he’d have sorted. He lets a thought drift over him. He rests his head on the fence. ‘I miss being around you, Ella – I really do. Can we meet up properly in London?’

My mind immediately springs to: In what way? A date?

‘Yeah, that would be nice.’

‘This whole thing’s been so … emotional.’ And then he says, so loosely like he doesn’t mean to say it, ‘I don’t think I can do it without you.’

‘What? Life?’ I joke, hoping that’s, in fact, precisely what he meant.

‘No, this whole band/fame thing.’

Oh.I feel my face snarl in a disgust. What does he mean by that? Why does it feel so gross when he uses the word ‘fame’ about himself?

‘You wanted it,’ I clip. All I wanted was you.

‘I thought I did but turns out fame is more like … a mental illness.’ He laughs.

‘In what way?’

‘I dunno … ’ His voice goes quiet. ‘I get paranoid … You think everybody just wants to be your friend because of who you are, the band. You find it hard to trust anyone. There’s pressure. Anxiety. Expectation. To be good. To be fun. You don’t sleep and you eat shit cos you’re always on the road in different time zones. I get homesick.’

He looks at me like I have the power somehow. He clicks his tongue like he’s thinking. ‘I really want to be friends again.’

Oh, no, no, no, here we go.

I want to say, How the fuck could we ever be friends again? It would never be the same. How could we ever be equal when you have fans, Lowe? People that think you’re God’s Gift. How long will it be until you start believing that what they think of you is true? And how, in all that mania, will you ever find me or my miniature day interesting? Your feet don’t even touch the ground. You’re a famous rock star. I’m a friggin’ receptionist wannabe writer at a hairdressers. Your record went to number one in the charts; meanwhile I’m excited because my boss has just cut me my very own key to lock up the salon with.

But I say, ‘Yeah me too.’ Knowing deep down that we won’t be meeting up when we get back because I can’t do it again.

Especially not when I see a striking girl with dark curly hair, heading towards us, Lowe looks down at his feet (annoyed? Embarrassed?), stubs out his cigarette. ‘I can’t remember if you ever met Heather?’

Heather looks me up and down like she’s heard all about me.

‘I’ve heard so much about you.’ She proves my point. Whathave you heard? Sticking her hand out towards me like an accommodating kind vet.

Lowe clears his throat. ‘Heather, this is Ella, my best friend.’

Bullets to the head.

You know when you smile so hard it’s an act of violence?

‘So hot, isn’t it?’ she says.

‘So hot, yeah.’ Try sleeping in a tent with toggles on a mountain. Bet you’re both in a five star in Barcelona.

‘Well, I better find Aoife,’ I say. Hold it together, Ella, even though the scar tissue isn’t healed and you’re a sack of feelings ready to split and bleed everywhere. Lowe tries to talk but I’m walking away already. Luckily it’s dark so nobody can see my sad face. Luckily it’s dark so I have my shadow as a friend.

I wonder if I owe myself an apology? For being so hard and harsh on myself? For all those years of grinding myself down and self-deprecation. Self-care isn’t a new pair of shoes; it’s finding the compassion to say sorry to yourself: I was a bitch to you back then and I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that; you’re a bloody lovely person. You did nothing wrong except love. There have been times in our story where I actually thought I wasn’t good enough for him. The self-sabotage brings me to tears. It’s time I put some scaffolding around myself. Time to shed a skin. And this time, it’s not because I’m hoping to whittle down the wood to reveal a perfect – smaller – statuette hidden inside. This time I’m polishing down something that is already there, so I can shine. Thank you so much Lowe, thank you for waking me the fuck up. Now I can go into my twenties, the rest of my life, choosing to put myself first.

I stick my head around the dressing room door where Aoife is deliberately letting her bra strap hang down and flirting with the drummer.

‘Aoife, we’re going.’

She is stunned by my assertiveness. ‘But we only just got here … ’ she says, with a look like ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH? The drummer looks at me like I’m a boring mum.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Not really,’ I reply. I’ve only waited six years already.

‘Sorry … I’ll be back.’ She excuses herself and glares at me. She’s pissed off. (She won’t be back.)

‘Grab some of the beers from the fridge,’ I add.

‘Are you serious?’ she asks like I’m really taking the piss now but does as I tell her, awkwardly bending past the band to cheekily steal their alcohol with a thanks, bye. They’ve had MORE than enough support from us over the years; it’s the least they can do.

‘I was about to get with The Drummer! Have you seen biceps like that in your entire life?’ Then she sees my face. ‘Ella? Are you OK? What the fuck is going on?’

And I say, ‘I don’t even know where to start … ’ But somehow I find a way.

On the journey back home, I decide I’m going to pull all those poems I’ve been writing together. Maybe I could turn them into a pamphlet, a book of some kind. Not because I’m looking to get published, just for closure, a way of signing Lowe and me off in one place rather than him and me forever floating around my head. So I can glance over at that collection and think to myself, That was a story, once …