Chapter 37
It feels wrong being out late with Lowe, like we’re lost in another country. Like someone might tell on us. Moments like this make me all the more grateful for my sobriety. I know tomorrow I will just feel tired – not shit.
He says, ‘Do you want to come and see the studio?’
We stroll, arm in arm, past the booming nightclubs of Vauxhall roundabout, past the speeding cars and traffic lights. There are loads of people on the streets, drinking and chatting in clusters. I love watching people gather outside pubs on warm nights. He asks me about my new book. It’s been over ten years since I last published anything.
‘And where do you want to be in the next ten years?’ he asks.
‘Awright job interview!’ We laugh. ‘To be happy? To be a good mum?’
‘I think you’d make an amazing mum.’ He squeezes my hand. Stitch by stitch I feel myself undo.
His studio is beside a derelict car park, cornered off by a barrier. There’s only one car in there: a banged-up silver dad-car.
‘That’s my car. Don’t laugh.’
I like that’s it’s not showy-off or flashy.
Shrubs of grass, crates and flattened boxes, graffitied walls and overflowing bins. There is a church next door, signs that GOD WANTS TO TALK. Pyramids of broken mirror. The studio door is protected by a silver metal cage with a chunky padlock; bit by bit the door becomes looser and looser.
The lights aren’t working down here so he switches on his phone torch. I see cold white cement walls, the grey shiny slap of marked lino. We begin climbing stairs. It’s cold, but the air is so warm outside still, it’s OK, like entering a damp cave in a hot climate. There are no windows in the stairwell. I feel myself bumping into boxes, passing a bike. He holds my hand firmly as we go up. ‘OK, here we are.’ I have to step over a ledge. ‘Just one sec,’ he says. ‘I have to turn on the power.’
And it’s like being inside a spaceship. The whole room sparks into power. The studio is open, all on one floor but split into sections divided by plants, sofas and artwork creating little pockets: vocal booths, pianos, writing areas – guitars – everywhere. An old-school carpet overlapped with patterned rugs. It’s natural and worn and lived in but clean. Full of makeshift improvised seating areas made from old cinema chairs and upturned boxes. Handmade unpainted shelves filled with instruments. I recognize the old doll’s house from Lowe’s childhood home. I don’t want to touch anything in case my fingerprints remain eternal, in case I break anything, in case I have to protect myself by pretending I was never here, in case we don’t see each other for another ten years, and that makes me want to touch it all in case I never get the chance to come back. I’m not gonna lie – it would make the most impressive apartment. The windows are HUGE. Spread out and up high, on a slant, with a view of London. To me, this is a holy place. A wonder of the world.
‘Wow.’
We play music. Nostalgic music we used to listen to before it all got serious. We sing as loud as we want, knowing every word and equally resenting and praising our brains for remembering it all. Lowe scrunches up his face and sings along with the same dedication he’d sing any of his own songs. We crack up at how much effort he puts in.
‘D’you want a cup of tea?’
We sit on an old trunk, leg to leg, sipping our teas from chipped True Love mugs. How I would have waited ten more years to feel this feeling. Of me and him. All grown up. Together in this special room.
Sitting, I’m able to see the stacked boxes.
‘Just some stuff I’m storing from the house.’
The reality that there are still ties to another life – thin ties but ties all the same. There’s no real reason why we can’t roll around on the floor but it doesn’t feel right. Not tonight. I finish my tea and stand to leave.
‘This was really nice,’ I say. ‘It was really nice to see you.’
‘Yeah. It really was.’