Chapter 30
Now
I’ve been wearing the engagement ring of somebody I probably shouldn’t be marrying for twelve hours. Although there are hints of comfort and security, a tiny buzz, the overriding sensation in the pit of my gut is what the F are you doing, Ella Cole?
I’m already looking for ways to get this restraining security tag cut off me with industrial shears. But that comes with its own heaviness: guilt, betrayal for both Jackson and myself. It’s not right. But then why would I not marry him? What are we going to do, tread water forever? Why am I forgetting I can swim?
What’s wrong with me; why aren’t I buzzing? Oh, why did he have to go and do this? Things were going so well. Now this stupid opal, so pretty you can’t believe it’s natural, has gone and shoved a sword in my back, forcing me to leap off the plank into choppy waters. Girl overboard. If I end the engagement, our whole relationship will be thrown up into the air for debate. Jackson will ask me the big questions I’ve been avoiding, like: ‘What do you want from this?’ I love you but I want more space and time to work at what we have. I’m just not ready for forever. I’m not sure. Something is holding me back.
But that’s unfair. Jackson’s nearly thirty-six. He’s going to want to start a family. We have a mortgage. It’s got the word Mort in it. Mort in French means DEAD. Until death. He might end it. Say I’m wasting his time. People will ask questions. Think I’m a bitch runaway bride and I haven’t even got to the altar yet. His parents will HATE me.
I have to talk to him. He’ll know what to say. But how can I ask Jackson for advice on whether to marry him or not? I can’t imagine his advice will be impartial. I’m making tea, looking like I’m normal, my mind a helter-skelter quietly whirring at a million miles an hour, when it all changes.
‘Oh no!’
It’s the kind of oh no he makes when he’s spilt a cup of tea but I’m making the tea.
‘You OK?’ I call back.
‘Shit.’
‘What?’
He’s silent.
‘Jackson, what?’
I enter the living room.
‘True Love have split up.’
I look at him like who? But it’s to buy myself time before I have to decide how to react.
‘The band.’
He’s looking at the laptop screen, trying to read more about it. It doesn’t sink in. I reach my hand out to grab the first stick of furniture I see to steady myself. A very unreliable standing lamp.
‘True Love?’
Even saying their name feels like summoning some kind of spirit. Lowe has been fossilized for ten years in my heart and now he’s here – unearthed, dumped on my table – and needs dealing with.
‘Yeah. It says here—’ He points at the screen.
‘Well, what does it say?’
Not to make it about myself but why am I finding this out from Jackson? I mean, I didn’t expect to hear from Lowe but it feels back to front.
‘It just says they’ve split up, that … ’
‘Read it.’
‘OK, here, after fourteen years together, Indie … hate it when they write Indie … ’
‘Me too, carry on … ’
‘ … sensation True Love have decided to part ways.’
‘Oh, FUCK.’
‘Lead singer Lowe Archer says – it was a mutual decision and we still … ’
‘OK, that’s enough,’ I snap.
‘Don’t you want to hear?’ he asks, reading over the words to himself.
‘Stupid journalism; it’s not going to be the truth.’
‘So, you should give Lowe a call? Check in on him.’
‘I’m sure he has lots of people to support him. We’ve barely spoken in years.’ We have the occasional text, once a year if that. ‘I can’t just call him up out of the blue.’
‘Still, though, Ella, I’m sure it would still mean a lot to hear from you. You guys were close right?’
Jackson doesn’t know the half of it.
‘Send him a message?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Aw, I’m heartbroken,’ he mutters as he leaves the room, tutting, to go for his run. ‘They were one of the greats.’
Jackson doesn’t really even listen to True Love but I know it makes him look cool at work to say I know them. No doubt he’ll be listening to them now as he runs around the park.
I head into the kitchen. I should take out the teabags; the tea will be getting filmy stains on top. I stare at my phone. Nothing. Why am I expecting to hear from him? It’s nothing to do with me. He doesn’t have to inform me. I don’t have True Love on Google Alerts. What can I do anyway? It’s not little old Ella, dropping him off at Fame’s doorstep all those years ago and here to meet him on the other side. Helping him acclimatize into the ordinary world with the ordinary people. ‘We go to TESCO; this is where you get your BASKET; this is how you use the self-service machine; this is called a TRAIN.’
I shouldn’t really – it’s like picking at a massive dangerous scab – but I start scrolling. This is bad for me. I can only flick radio stations for so long. Talk really loudly when friends have True Love’s music on at parties, pretend to be OK when my drink tastes extra bitter. Or when they play True Love’s song for the ‘cool down’ of an exercise class and suddenly he’s soundtracking the stretch of my tight glutes. Why do I care that a video of them has gone viral? That their fourth album is number one in the charts. NUMBER ONE IN THE CHARTS? HOW? That the billboard near my house replaced a BOND movie poster with their new album artwork. That Lowe is a name so rare it sometimes doesn’t even need a surname in the press. Meanwhile the sound of a BMX tyre on the pavement still tiptoes along the tightrope of my spine. It probably would have been easier for me to just fold in and become a fan. The more I scroll, the guiltier I feel; he’s meant to be my friend. It feels like exploitation. Like stalking. Finding invented answers to questions I could just pick up the phone and ask myself.
The news is trending, photo after photo. I’m winded, sick. LOWE. LOWE. LOWE. My thumb blasts over articles and their horrible puns: TRUE LOVE NEVER DID RUN SMOOTH. Or not all love lasts. Photographs of heart-broken fans … photographs of the band over the years, of Lowe when he was younger. How I remember him – his hair, his hoodie, that face. I’m terrified to see a photo of him with a girl. There are some rumours – one an actress from a TV series, but it turns out she just did a sex scene to one of his songs and afterwards said how much she loved his band. He’s a private person. The more I burrow, the harder it is to turn back. I’ve not allowed myself to do it for so long but DAMN he looks so FIT now. He’s grown out his hair, he’s … I need to do something cleansing … like … eat plain yoghurt.
There are tributes from bands we love. If little Lowe that wanted to be in a band could read them he’d die. Articles mention new songs and latest records, all of them unrecognizable to me, words that go over my head, that I’ve blocked out, albums that whenever people ask if I’ve heard I just ignore or avoid. Track titles that, honestly, I wouldn’t get right in a pub quiz if I was about to win ￡500. I hide away, to keep myself safe. I wonder if Lowe ever sees girls who look like me in the supermarket? On a dancefloor? Serving him coffee? Sitting next to him in the cinema? Taking his blood pressure? Selling him a t-shirt?
I go to find his name in my contacts, a couple of numbers saved for him, unlike me, same-number-Ella. My thumb hovers over the one I’m sure is the most recent. I could … Jackson told me to. It would be a short exchange if anything, if he even replies.
The last message exchange is just a long ladder of ‘happy birthdays’. Once each every year; we take turns in this drawn-out heart-crumpling dance.
No. I can’t do it. Everyone will be calling him right now saying the exact same thing. Or wanting to hear the gossip about the break-up. I want to make sure he’s OK but I don’t want to be another sock lost in the wash of Lowe, but then why am I here trying to get my wording right a million times? It’s weirder to say nothing. Cold, even. I write: Hi Lowe, just seen the announcement, I really hope you’re OK. You should be so proud of yourself! xDon’t force him to reply; that way you won’t take it personally if he doesn’t respond.
Big kiss. No, little kiss. No, big kiss. Little is good. x
And away it goes.
I sling my phone across the bed. Immediately I hate the thing. The power it has and the trouble it causes. But one second later I’m reaching for it again so I can insecurely add: it’s Ella by the way.
I immediately regret sending it. I stuff my phone under my pillow. I feel bad. Like I’ve cheated. And then embarrassed. I get an adrenaline rash. It comes up now, here, alone in the darkness, fierce and in flames, angrily rumbling up my neck and face, wrapping around my throat like a boa constrictor, like I’ve been held captive in an Iron Maiden and somebody has rescued me just in time before the spikes drive through my skin.
I should never have messaged.
He won’t reply.
Why did I text?
And now there’s no going back …