Chapter 4
I first met Jonathan on a Sunday afternoon in late autumn, five weeks ago.
Yes, I know that five weeks doesn’t sound like a long time, but Jonathan isn’t just some guy. He’s my soulmate. And I don’t mean that the way people usually say it, I mean it. I have proof. Our souls are genuinely linked.
Usually, I’d have still been sleeping. I go to bed just before dawn and, if left to my own natural circadian rhythms, I sleep until dusk.
But there are two churches near me, and maybe it’s true, maybe the church bells really do drive away demons, because even with earplugs they always wake me on Sundays just before eleven, and I can never get back to sleep.
So I was wide awake when Daphne’s text came in: At Borough Market.
Need drink and chat. Emergency. Where are you now?
I work with Daphne at Selfridges and she’s one of my three friends.
She’s mildly alcoholic, always dishing out dating advice to anyone who’ll listen, and sidelines as a part-time model and a ‘sugar baby’.
How else is she meant to get into the property market in this economy?
While nobody knows where I live—so she couldn’t just turn up on my doorstep—she’d said it was an emergency.
And I might not be perfect, but I am a good friend.
So, through blurry eyes, I replied: Bunch of Grapes on Thomas Street?
I sent her a link to the pub next door, got dressed, threw on my coat, my big sunglasses and a pair of gold birdcage earrings, which have since become my lucky earrings, then rushed out the door and up the stairs to the pub.
It was crowded, the lights all decorated with plastic autumn leaves twisted around them, and the bottles behind the bar flashed amber and blue and brown.
Daphne wasn’t there yet, so I headed straight over to the one free table in the darkest corner. I sat down, pulled out my phone so nobody would come and talk to me, then messaged with Sally while I waited. We’re members of the same . . . umm . . . online community.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Sally sent a few furious texts wishing her husband, Frank, ‘dead’ because he’d asked her in-laws over for Christmas and she was a vegetarian so why the hell should she have to cook a turkey?
Then it was my turn. I didn’t want her to feel guilty about what she’d said about Frank, so I wished my lecherous boss, Kenny, ‘dead’, then complained about the upcoming Christmas rush at Selfridges, and the fact that I couldn’t get up to order anything without losing my seat, all while I anxiously scanned the door for my friend.
Then, finally, Daphne arrived and got us drinks.
Over an acidic glass of malbec, I learnt that Daphne’s ‘emergency’ was that she was bored and thirsty and had a blister.
Soon our glasses were empty and it was my shout, so I left her there, eating crisps and frowning down at her phone screen as I headed to the bar.
I was three people from the front of the line when I heard: ‘Can I get you a drink?’
I turned to look.
Beside me stood a man in a black T-shirt with John Lennon glasses on his head. He smelt of pepperoni, the kind of deodorant that has a metallic panther on the label and A-negative blood. And all I could think as I took him in was: Ah, shit.
Men really, really like me—and it’s not just because I have golden blonde hair to my shoulders, amber eyes, skin so pale and unblemished it looks like it belongs to a statue and a face that remains eternally twenty-two.
It seems natural selection has equipped me with some sort of scent that would make it easy as all hell to feed off the guys who hit on me—if I wasn’t entirely non-violent.
I could lure them to their fate like a beautiful, poisonous flower.
But I am non-violent. Since I never date, never even hook up anymore—I can’t risk letting anyone get close in case they learn my secret—the attention is nothing more than inconvenient.
Still, I’ve had this problem for a very long time, so I have developed ways of dealing with it: don’t be rude, don’t engage, and leave as soon as possible. And . . . if that doesn’t work, talk about Jesus. Which was exactly what I planned on doing with Pepperoni Guy.
‘I’m okay, thanks,’ I replied, keeping my eyes on the bar.
‘You have a boyfriend?’ he asked.
I smiled sweetly, still not looking at him. ‘Yes.’
‘Where is he then?’
‘He’s almost here,’ I lied. Eyes forward, eyes forward.
‘Nah, you don’t, love. I can tell. I think you’re going to have a drink with me.’ Like if another man didn’t own me, I was up for grabs.
And then he did just that: he grabbed me tight around the waist, hard enough for it to hurt.
That dangerous heat—a darkness, a fury—swirled in the space beneath my ribs, and I imagined myself baring my fangs. Just to scare him off. Make him leave me alone.
Don’t, Aubrey.
I pushed it down, like I always do, and tried to pull away again. But, unlike the vampires in pop culture, I’m not particularly strong at the best of times and I’m downright weak while the sun is still high.
I looked behind me for Daphne, trying to catch her eye to silently beg for help, but she was smiling down at her phone.
And then I saw a man, a beautiful man, in a mustard jumper, coming back from the bar, and he was looking right at us.
He was tall with good shoulders and thick, dark blond hair, and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.
Two lines deepened between his eyebrows as he frowned.
I swallowed hard as his eyes moved from me to Pepperoni Guy, then to the hand grabbing my waist. The beautiful man mouthed: ‘Are you okay?’
One hundred and fifty years of hiding has taught me to never rock the boat, never cause a scene, so I nodded—I’d deal with it myself. But then Pepperoni Guy grabbed me even tighter and I squirmed instinctively. That was that. The beautiful man strode towards us.
‘Hey,’ he said gently, as his gaze held mine. ‘I was looking for you.’
It was the first time I’d ever heard his voice, but it sounded almost familiar in a way I didn’t yet understand. He had a slight Northern accent and it gave him a certain charm, like an uncut diamond.
‘Who’s this?’ Jonathan asked, looking straight at Pepperoni Guy, who let go of me immediately—oh sorry, your property, my bad—and wandered away.
I looked up at Jonathan and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
He gave me a small, mischievous smile, and then whispered back, ‘My pleasure, that was fun. I felt like a right hero.’
He started to laugh and I laughed too because he was right, it was just like how Edward had saved Bella from that oncoming car in Twilight, or how Sookie had saved Bill from the addicts in True Blood—but I didn’t say that. I wasn’t sure he’d appreciate the references.
‘Are you here with anyone?’ he asked.
I nodded back at Daphne who was now watching from our table and gave us a little wave. ‘Just my friend.’
‘Well, do you both want to come and have a drink with me and my friend, Baxter?’ he asked. His face changed suddenly, like he’d just realised maybe I’d think he was as bad as Pepperoni Guy. ‘No pressure though, only if you’d like to,’ he added.
I could have so easily turned him down. While I considered myself a ‘theoretical’ romantic (I believed in true love and soulmates for humans and fully endorsed it), I was also a realist: I knew that wasn’t an option for me.
Because love—real love—is when someone sees your darkness and loves you anyway.
Despite it. Because of it. Whatever. And my darkness, has always been just a little too .
. . much. The only place someone like me finds a love like that, is between the pages of novels or on TV.
But as I looked into his eyes something tugged in my chest and told me he was different. It felt like there was an invisible cord that had always been linking us, rib to rib, but now that he was close, I could feel it tugging harder. Needing me to follow, logic be damned.
I’d never experienced anything like it, and it was impossible to turn away from. So, when I opened my mouth to reply, I said: ‘Sure.’ As I followed him over to his table and Daphne quickly joined us, I thought, It’s just a drink, no big deal, one little drink.
* * *
One little drink turned into a mind-blowing afternoon.
Three days later, after following each other on Instagram and sending a few flirty texts, I sat across from Jonathan in a little Italian place in Shoreditch for our second date, listening to his heart beat—a melody I would soon come to recognise anywhere.
Jonathan wore a jumper the exact same shade as his eyes, and I was wearing a thin white lace top that Daphne had helped me pick out.
When we were halfway through our meal, the waiter reached for the breadbasket and knocked my glass of wine, spilling it all over the table and splashing up onto my torso.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the waiter said, his face going puce.
‘It’s okay, don’t worry about it,’ I replied in the most soothing voice I could, moving aside and helping him mop up the mess with some napkins.
When the waiter left, I looked back over at Jonathan, who was watching me with a soft expression in his eyes. ‘You’re really kind, you know,’ he said.
I smiled—it was nice to have a compliment that wasn’t about my body or my face.
He really looked at me then, thoughts moving behind his eyes, thoughts I wanted to know.
‘What?’ I asked.
Then he narrowed his eyes a little. ‘Aubrey, what do you want from this?’ he asked gently, his voice a little shaky. ‘I mean, you’re so young,’ he said, never guessing the age difference was not quite as he thought. ‘Are you looking for fun or . . .’
‘I . . .’ I didn’t know what to say. Because I knew the answer, I knew it. I’d known it since the first afternoon we’d met. But dare I say it? Wasn’t it insane?
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is. I’m a big boy.’ His eyes searched mine, and it felt as though they were staring straight into the centre of my soul. I could tell from the timbre of his voice that he was asking a question he wanted an honest answer to.
So, I did the bravest thing I’d ever done. I looked him square in the eye and said, ‘I’m looking for . . . well . . . true fucking love, of course.’
I held my breath and watched for his reaction. That moment between saying it and him replying seemed to stretch a decade.
I was just about to laugh it off and say I was joking, but then his cheeks flushed, and he smiled and reached for my hand.
Our eyes met. I could hear his heart beating a little faster.
And then, in a slightly husky voice, he said, ‘It’s so refreshing to have someone just tell the truth.
’ He paused for a moment. ‘Me too, for the record—not that I’d ever usually admit it.
God, it really feels like I’ve known you a lot longer than I have. ’
As he said it, the wariness that had been tightly coiled inside me for as long as I could remember, began to unwind.
Then we changed the subject. But something had shifted between us in that moment. Something that never shifted back. I knew it at the time, but even I could never have predicted how close we’d get, or how quickly.
I went home with him that night and we made love for the first time, his hands on my hips as I moved on top of him. His eyes on mine.
Afterwards, as I lay in his arms, wearing his The Doors T-shirt—I would come to claim it as my own every time I slept over—and pretending to sleep while his breath grew heavy behind me, it felt as though the entire universe was expanding.
Everything I’d come to believe impossible for me—true love, soulmates, all of it—was within reach.
Turns out, there was nothing ‘theoretical’ about my romanticism in the end, I’d just been too scared to hope.
For the first time ever, I didn’t want to die at all. I felt safe. Because if anyone could tether me to my humanity, save me from the darkness inside me, it would be Jonathan.
And now he’s gone.
While I’m here in my flat, just me and Cat and my mug of blood.
And there on the coffee table is the unfinished blanket I’d just started knitting when I first met him.
Big wooden knitting needles. Mauve wool.
The most recent in a long line of hobbies I’ve taken up to distract me from my existential angst. Knowing that’s what I’m going back to, that I found my soulmate and lost my soulmate and now it’s back to knitting . . .
It makes me want to die even more than before we met. Like, double as much.