Chapter 40
The next morning, I feel like I’ve woken from a fever dream. Aoife and Bianca lie head to toe, passed out on the couch, Dom and wife-to-be Soph on the floor as they missed their train back to Brighton. It’s like bloody Glastonbury in here. Then, I turn over to see Lowe, fast asleep.
All these years of searching for him in the corner of every room, in the cavity of every party, every gig, every festival, every window of every passing train, every alcove of every pub, subconsciously waiting for him to sit down next to me on every bench in every park, half an eye on every door, only to find him here, on the pull-out sofabed at 251.
He opens his eyes and says, ‘Oh, it’s you.’
I say, ‘Yeah.’
And then we both laugh. He leans up and puts his arms around me, kisses me on the lips. On my cheeks. On my eyes and face. He says, ‘Well, this is a pretty good day.’
And it’s not even begun.
After cleaning up cups and glasses from last night’s party, we open the windows and doors to let the honey sunshine pool through. It’s too nice a day to waste. I pack a bag. We bundle into his dad-car. We play the songs we love and sing out loud, summer kids on summer mornings, his hands on the wheel, his knees next to mine, tearing out of the city. The roads widen and spread, the houses more distant. Greener and greener, bluer and bluer.
We stop on the way to get petrol. I watch him from inside the car, interacting with strangers, smiling at everyone. After he pays, he cracks up as he walks back towards me, waving a toothbrush that he’s bought at the garage. He rings hotels on the way and everywhere is booked. But someone’s had a last-minute cancellation – a little house on the hill. We park and hike up a narrow mud path, through thorny brambles, over crumbly peaks and craters to get there. It’s a small wooden place, perfect, with a kitchen area, a little blue sofa, bed and TV – almost like a kid’s playhouse. The sun melts into the sea like butter in a hot pan. Far in the distance children collect crabs in buckets. A woman in a swimming costume helps her senior mother across the pebbles to reach the sea, bodies alike, holding hands. They swim out further and further until they’re dots. A soft dog that we don’t know comes to chill by our feet. We drink ice-cold beers on the front porch and stroke the dog’s head and admire the still air, the feather clouds, the way things fall into place. We talk about it all, the misfires and miscommunications, although none of that matters any more. Call it foreplay. Hearing him tell me his version of events tames the galloping horses of my heart. I’ve been living with background noise for so long I had forgotten the sound of peace.
In the darkness, off the beaten track, we scramble down the werewolf-tree hill, through bushes and bracken, our city shoes not prepared for the treacherous slopes, to a pub. Instant warmth and life, the smell of beer and roast potatoes, fresh lobster and clams. The ceiling covered in rotten copper pots and pans, compasses and pirate ship wheels, tankards and rope. We find ourselves on a worn sofa in a cramped cosy corner, where the locals don’t know or care about us or our love story. And it’s nice to introduce ourselves to the world as a couple without question. We just are. We watch a fiddle band and sip our drinks. Lowe taps along to the music, his hand on my thigh. I feel thirty-two. Any earlier would have been too soon.
Later, on the blue sofa, I say in a voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper, ‘Don’t be scared.’ And Lowe kisses me for nine hours straight. Kisses me for so long my lips flare up. We inspect and explore every freckle and print on our skin, as if there’s anything new we could possibly see. New scars, old burns and everything we’ve imagined.
We know that when we get home, there will be things to sort. Things to do and face. But there will be a day in the future, when we find calm inside that house, not quite the picture I drew when I was young but close, very close, with one of those wooden rocking horses in the garden, and he’ll play the guitar and I’ll write stories.
‘What are you writing today?’ he’ll whisper as I finish the last line, not wanting to wake the sleeping baby lying in between us, as I soar towards the ending, his cherub curls stuck to his face, chest rising and falling. He looks like us both.
I will say, ‘True love.’
I’ve always wondered how I’ll tell our little boy about us. I suppose now I can just show him this.