Chapter 36
I’ve watched the spring thaw on the windscreen of Mum’s car until it becomes a trap for golden tree pollen. The forget-me-nots and acorns. I’ve watched the same tree get dressed and strip. I’ve been back at 251 for almost eighteen months and, yes, I am the cliché of arrested development: thirty-two, single, always wearing leggings and that same Foo Fighters t-shirt, and, now that our flat has sold, ‘saving for a deposit’. My brother and sister have both moved out. Sonny’s moved in with his friends; Violet lives above her café. So it’s just me. People who don’t know my mum might list the pros of living at home – the money I must save, the washing she must do for me, the nutritious home-cooked meals I must eat. Well, as said, these people obviously don’t know my mum.
And yet, my raw newborn skin is soothed by the harsh, itchy blanket of my mother. I feel at home. It’s what we both needed: I needed to be taken care of; she needed a new project. We’ve bonded over cooking Thai curry, books we’re reading, and she’s even writing now too – yes, it’s her memoir. When I moved back home, I helped Mum and Stepdad Adam with the garden. Mum gave me a patch of my own to grow vegetables and I laughed like, yeah right. But I surprised myself and have grown beans, peas, and beetroot and knobbly cucumbers as big as my arm. Having soil behind my fingers has even stopped me biting my nails. The patch is now a great pleasure of mine. Turns out I’m way more like her than I thought.
It’s not all been easy, learning how to sleep on my own again, nobody to check if I’ve eaten (not that I forget) and I’ve been tempted to dig out that old rape alarm for the backstreets after 9 p.m. It’s mostly a lot of writing and watching TV alone on my laptop, but I no longer need to wear a gumshield at night. My aching teenage self haunted me from the corners of my bedroom until I invited her to lie in the bed with me, where I held her tight, kissed her head and lullabied her to sleep. My vegetables are growing nicely and my book, just like me, is almost ready to face the world.
I’ve done an interview about it for the newspaper (only the South London Express but still): a profile piece on returning to writing and coming of age.
‘They could have used a new photo,’ Mum says. ‘You look like a thirteen-year-old.’
I get a few messages about it. Dad, his wife. My friends. An email from my girls’ school, inviting me back to give a talk to the students. Ha! Knew you suckers would be back.
And then Lowe. STING. His last message was way over a year ago when I turned down an invite to a New Year’s Eve party. I wasn’t in the mood for parties or seeing him kiss Heather as the clock struck twelve. It’s difficult not to search for True Love updates online but I don’t. Anyway, he’s probably enjoying the stability of not touring, the peace of not being under the microscope, just living.
He says: Ella! My dad just showed me you in the paper! You’ve got a new book coming out? That will be the second book I’ve ever read! meet soon? Lowe x
It’s surreal that he’s the one reading articles about me for once.
I write back: aww say hi to your dad! Yes, come to the launch if you fancy it? But no pressure, defo up for meeting x And I send over the invitation to my book launch, thinking he’ll never come.
There’s a heatwave in London when Lowe and I meet again, on the South Bank like before. I carry a hand fan now, like one of those nans you see on postcards in Greece sitting in cobbled lanes on little straw chairs outside tavernas. I spread my legs when I sit down like them too. I’ve embraced my age and, you know, I’m looking forward to getting older. My wireless bras. My hairy legs. My high-waisted everything and flat summer shoes all-year round.
There’s an energy in the air, like carnival, like a night only just getting started. There’s no real cause for celebration. For new lovers on a first date to kiss, for drunk girls in bikinis to be grinding next to a speaker. For the busker to sing another song. For plastic cups of beer and dewy ice buckets of rosé. For kids to run in the fountains. But tomorrow doesn’t matter; that’s what this kind of weather does to humans.
I’m wearing a jade dress; it shines like mermaid skin in the sun.
As always, Lowe is magnificent. He rearranges his posture, pulls at his dark clothes, boyishly, to look smart. He’s never been good at dressing for hot weather. Hey. Hey.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asks. Just being near him is a tonic. He’s having lemonade.
‘Sounds good. Me too.’ I smile and he smiles back. ‘I’m just going to find the toilet.’
I have to wee upon arrival anywhere, ever, always.
In the toilets I am sweaty. My moustache is very much thriving, and my lipstick has made its very own puddle in the well of my upper lip. In my reflection I see a woman. Oh, shit, it’s me.
Lowe’s managed to find a table by the river and I sit opposite him, surrounded by talking people.
‘I got you this mocktail ….’ He pushes it forward nervously like he prepared it himself.
‘Oh, fancy!’ I say.
‘Because it has strawberry in it and you always used to drink strawberry Ribena.’
I’m touched he remembered. ‘It’s very pretty.’
He looks at me, my hands (for a ring?), and then looks away.
I keep it moving. ‘So you’re gonna come to the launch then?’
‘If you want me there.’
I kind of want you everywhere.
‘Course I do.’ And being the martyr I am, I say, ‘How’s things with you? The house?’
Lowe stretches back on his chair; sweat starts to form on his head. He rubs his jawbone.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you … I don’t know why I’m even … ’ He admits, ‘I’ve been living at my dad’s for the past year.’
WHAT?
‘On Orchard Road?’ I whip out my nan fan and start whisking myself crazily but it’s not doing anything. If anything it’s pure cardio.
He nods.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, sorry, that wasn’t me being presumptuous,’ he says. ‘I just thought you … OK, sorry, do you remember Heather?’
How could I forget? Does that make it harder to digest or not? That they were together for more than a decade? It’s a really long time. I feel sad for Heather too now. I nod.
‘She had all these problems with the house, then she started talking about moving home to New Zealand.’
HUH?
‘So she went there to look at houses and I guess I just freaked out? And’ – he looks at me like I’d judge him for the next bit – ‘and, yeah, hid at my dad’s.’ Squints his eye from the sun and my opinion.
I like it that he has obviously has money to rent anywhere he’d like but chooses to live with his dad.
I sink my mocktail, hard and fast, even though it’s basically just juice.
He watches me with curiosity and says, ‘Can we walk?’
We walk along the river and it’s like the skies of our fate want us to keep moving in a certain direction, breadcrumbing a clue to a secret destination. We get caught up in a colourful balloon parade, where people squeeze us so tight we’re forced to lock fingers so we don’t lose each other in the crowd. Cornered into the machine brown of the Tate, we stumble upon a guy singing an unknown song that is probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Lowe and I take a step away from each other because it feels too well-timed to be true. We turn back the way we came, not wanting to get too far from the station so we can go our separate ways after; we just want a pint, that’s all. We end up cutting through by Gabriel’s Wharf where we pass a carpenter who handmakes beautifully rough and natural children’s wooden rocking see-saws in the shapes of ducks and horses.
‘I used to come here as a kid,’ I say.
‘No way,’ says Lowe. ‘So did I.’
I can’t help but think about all the times our paths could have crossed.
‘My mum and dad would drink in the pub there and we’d play on these. Really sweet of the carpenter to let us.’
‘They’re probably even better once they’ve been played with, helps wear the wood down.’ Lowe rocks one with his hands, as if testing it out. ‘If I had kids, I would buy them these for the garden.’
I wonder if he’s thinking about his mum.
‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘Me too.’
‘Imagine how many times we probably crossed paths when we were little … ’ he says. ‘It’s almost like we were meant to meet.’
‘I was LITERALLY just thinking that!’ I HAVE to STOP saying LITERALLY!
The path widens and we head back onto the river where it’s slightly quieter. Primary-colour bunting hangs like fruit from the trees overhead. The smell of popcorn. A child catches droplets of trickling ice cream from its cone like a tap.
We find a quiet bar, upcycled from a converted airstream, lightbulbs like tomatoes on a vine, two young bar staff chilling on their phones.
‘Beer?’ I ask.
‘Why not?’ He seems to listen out for the something elseness that’s hovering around us.
We play sword fight with our cards. ‘MY round!’ I say, pinning his card to the bar.
We sit opposite each other, sipping our beers, smiling our faces off. And here it comes … I have such a strong urge to ask him.
Go on, Ella.
Ella! Stop! You’ve been there, done that and bought every damn season at the whole damn shop for an embarrassingly long time now. Let it go.
I try to ignore it as the question circles around my head once again. Pecking at the squashy bits of my brain. Ask him. Now is your chance. I sip my beer to stop the words that are filling my mouth, rising up, pressing the back of my teeth: ask him. But first, ‘What’s going on with you and Heather now then?’
He sighs deeply and scratches the back of his neck. ‘She’s living in New Zealand.’ He puts his hands out like what more can I say? When there’s obviously a lot more to say.
I can’t even look him in the eyes right now; it’s too intense. My heart is howling.
‘Deep down I knew it wasn’t right for a while but I was away on tour so much – life moved so fast; it’s either all a blur or you slip into habits. I know it might sound strange to someone who doesn’t live like that but you don’t get the chance to address the problems and ignoring them just makes them bigger and bigger until they implode.’
I don’t speak so he continues.
‘I don’t think living away from home, her family being on the other side of the world, helped. It was isolating for her and a lot of pressure for me. I guess I felt like I had to make it perfect for her all the time to make up for them not being around. And well … New Zealand’s far.’ He sips his beer. ‘But selling a house in different time zones is NOT easy.’
‘I’m really sorry, Lowe. You guys were together a long time.’
I put my hand out across the table to comfort him how a friend might.
He takes my hand, nicely, not cornily, and with a cheeky flirt, says, ‘So where’s your ring then?’
I nearly spit out my drink.
‘Oh, that old thing,’ I wheeze; he’s caught me off-guard but there’s nowhere to hide now. ‘It didn’t work out.’
‘That’s good,’ he lets slip. His eyes widen. ‘No, not like that, like good you’re OK about it. I mean, are you OK about it?’
‘Jackson was a really lovely person; we took good care of each other but it wasn’t right.’ He nods at this. ‘Maybe you need your twenties to find out what is?’ I fan myself. ‘So, you’re not the only one living back at home like you’re fourteen again!’
We laugh. Hold. On. Does this mean we’re both single at the same time? As adults? There really isn’t anything stopping us now. The prospect makes my belly do science – fizzing and foaming and frothing like Mentos in Coke. The sun slinks into the river.
Lowe plays with his bottle, tapping mine. ‘Do you want another one?’
‘Do you?’ I ask cheekily, taking the hint.
‘I’ll have another one,’ he says. ‘I can drink these like I’m getting drunk!’
‘Well, let me get these.’
One of the bartenders is sitting up with their bare feet out, eating crisps and playing a game on their phone.
‘Two more?’
‘Yes, please.’
The other whispers, ‘So how’s it going?’ Like it’s a first date. I look up, startled.
‘We’re not … on a date or anything … ’
‘Oh my bad. I could feel that first date vibe between you guys.’
‘No, no … ’ I laugh it off. ‘We kind of always have that.’
I look back to make sure Lowe hasn’t heard, but he’s just vaping and looking out to the river. The bartender winks.
I inhale, deeply, I’m nervous as I walk back, hoping that the spell is still alive since my departure. I’m going to ask him. I have to. I am sober. Clear-headed, full of clarity; natural confidence, healthy nerves and some wisdom of adulthood. There’s joy too – an abundance of pure joy running through my system. I know what I’m doing. I’m free and able to make choices.
‘I’m just going to ask you’ – I clear my throat, not quite as cool as I’d hoped – ‘did you ever feel anything for me back then?’
Lowe’s smile is completely wiped from his face. He sits up, seriously, like he’s been waiting for this question his whole life. I hadn’t expected this reaction from him. He goes to speak but then he can’t. ‘I … errr … ’ His teeth flash, nervously, and then he leans back in his chair. Trying to settle himself, his response, he straightens out again.
‘Yes, of course I did.’ He shakes his head, in disbelief. ‘Of course I did, Ella.’
‘You did?’
I am surprised – just like that – how simply he said it. All that build-up, volcanic intensity only to come down to simple words.
‘I think that’s my fault,’ he carries on. ‘I really kind of messed that up.’
He can see me beginning to get emotional but he doesn’t say anything; he wants to put a hand out but he doesn’t know if he should touch me or not.
‘That night, at yours, after the shower thing, I was trying to show you that I felt the same, that I loved you back … and then I felt you thought I’d overstepped the mark.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I was just … so badly embarrassed. And ashamed. Like I’d let you down, or like you thought I was … trying to hurt you … ? Or that you were drunk and didn’t mean what you’d said or that I’d wrecked our friendship … I just … really messed that up.’
I’m crying now.
‘This isn’t because I’m sad,’ I defend when it’s definitely because I’m sad. ‘These are tears of relief actually … because I thought I made it all up in my head.’
‘No, no, you didn’t, Ella. I hate that,’ he says with such sincerity. ‘You didn’t make it up. Any of it. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you did. It was all my fault. I’m the one who lost out.’
‘Why didn’t you … do anything – why didn’t you try to get to me?’
‘You were wearing a ring! I thought you were getting married!’
‘Before that?’
‘I gave it all to the band; my head was all over the place, I was a mess – not dealing with losing my mum, self-medicating – my confidence was so bad – I dunno, I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t. You’ve always seemed to really like yourself, Ella. I felt I didn’t deserve you.’ His voice cracks. ‘Then I met Heather and she seemed so together. I knew that – with you – it would be forever and that would be a problem because I wasn’t in that headspace.’ Forever. ‘I wasn’t ready for forever.’
What about now?