This is a Love Story (50 page)

the type – the ones who steal your heart and leave you floundering helplessly without it for half a decade, shoving other things into

the gap where it used to be, but finding that they don’t bloody fit.

A book is probably the best option because everything else reminds me of her. TV shows. Music. Films. Radio. Even cereal

boxes (she cut a couple of holes in one a few months ago, put it on her head and crept up on me while I was washing up. I actually

screamed). So as raindrops hurled themselves against my window, I climbed into bed and started to read. Chapter one. Here goes.

But my thoughts were intruding. Maybe I should call Sienna . . . You know, just check that she’s OK. No. Give the girl some

space, for fuck’s sake. Now let’s try again.

Chapter one . . .

But she might be upset, she might need me. Come on now. Concentrate. Chapter one . . .

I could take her some of those little lemon cakes she likes so much. I wouldn’t even have to see her. I could just leave them on the

doorstep, ring the bell and run away. Oh yeah, now that wouldn’t be in the least bit creepy, would it, Nick? You freak. Chapter one .

. .

No. This just wasn’t working. I hadn’t got past the title. I sat bolt upright in bed, pushing the book face down into the covers in

sheer frustration. A few of the pages crinkled in the middle. What was I going to do to distract myself? Maybe I could make a model

castle entirely out of matchsticks? Find a new formula for banana muffin mix? Or I could rewind all my old VHS tapes and put them

in title order, just in case there’s some kind of sonic boom which renders modern-day equipment useless and the ancient video player

is the only surviving technology. People might have to queue outside my door because I’d be the only house on the street that could

show films . . .

Oh God, I think I’m losing my mind. Is there a place you can go for this kind of shit? You know, a little white room with a chair

that’s really hard to get out of and an endless supply of tissues and pizza. ‘Er, excuse me, I’ve loved this girl for five years and every

time I try to tell her I screw everything up and it’s driving me nuts.’

Maybe I could tell her tonight. It’s been a while now, I thought. Obviously, when George died so suddenly like that, thoughts of

telling Sienna how I felt were completely wiped from my mind. It had been a terrible shock and it was certainly no time to start

declaring your love like a hapless, bungling fool. It would have been about as well received as a fart in a two-man zorb. But now,

maybe? Possibly?

I peeled myself out of bed and opened the window slightly. A warm breeze tickled my nose and droplets of rain lashed against my

face. It was lovely, despite the fact that a ferocious storm was kicking in. I looked into the distance; there were lots of lights

everywhere. The glow from lamps in cosy windows, twinkling headlights. A glittering city lit up in brilliant white as bolts of

lightning slashed through the sky. I looked over in the vague direction of Sienna’s flat and wondered what she was doing. Was she

frightened? Hurting? Could she feel my love from all the way over here? I concentrated on my feelings for her and let them run riot,

but it seemed like my heart was going to burst into flames.

I closed the window and pulled a packet of cigarettes from my drawer. Smoking in my bedroom, now this was new . . . Sitting on

the edge of my bed I lit one, smoke drifting into intricate curls all around me. I looked at my reflection in the large mirror stuck to the

wardrobe doors. Silly me, smoking a cigarette in my boxer shorts. Tufts of hair here, there and everywhere. Hairy, knobbly knees.

God I’m ugly, I thought. I kept taking deep drags and blowing the smoke out into my bedroom.

This was disgusting. I needed a woman to come and save me before I started living off pork pies and Lucozade. As soon as I

started spending the afternoons in betting shops I’d know I was screwed, but we hadn’t reached that point yet.

The rain was getting harder now. I wanted to be outside immersing myself in it, cooling myself down, washing away all my

insecurities. I have two options, I thought, as I bent down and flicked the ash into an empty mug on the floor.

1) I could sit here like the vile creature I am, smoking cigarettes and wondering where I left my boyish good looks.

2) I could go to Sienna’s house, right now, and tell her I love her.

Option one was easier. It involved less humiliation. Option two would change my life forever. But was it the right time?

Time. It’s a funny thing, that. I’ve known her for five years and every time I’ve tried to tell her how I feel I’ve been interrupted by

a variety of different things. Paramedics, boyfriends, excruciating insecurity. You name it. And now, while she recovers from the

greatest tragedy she’s ever experienced, I feel a little selfish throwing this at her. OK, fair enough, according to Pete she does feel the

same, but it doesn’t seem right. And as more weeks pass since Pete and I had ‘the chat’, the whole idea seems more and more

surreal. Like I might have imagined it or something.

No, I thought, pushing the cigarette butt into the bottom of the mug. I’m going to get back into bed and try my best to sleep myself

out of this funny mood I’m in. This terribly strange mood of mine.

Sienna

‘I love Sienna’. I read the line again and again before putting the book down on my lap, my mouth hanging open. But that was

about four years ago, I thought. Why didn’t he say anything? Why did he go out with other girls? Why didn’t he cuddle me back

that night in bed? Questions were racing through my mind like a train. Had he not been able to tell that I’d fallen madly in love with

him the moment I met him?

Something started to creep into my tummy. Happiness, I think it was – real joy that made me want to dance around the flat. He

loved me all those years ago. Maybe, if I’m really lucky, he just might love me now . . . You know, in that kind of way. A way that

involves being nothing like his sister or any other female relative. I know he loves me as a friend, but maybe, just maybe, it could be

more than that. Just like I always dreamed it would be.

My brain scanned through a host of memories as if I was flicking through a picture book. I was searching for clues. The things

he’d done and said. Maybe I could call him. No. No. There’s no way I can call him. What the hell would I say? ‘Oh hi, Nick, just

found out that you might have quite fancied me four years ago. How’s that going, by the way?’ Ridiculous.

And bless my father. I understood his reasoning. But why, oh why didn’t he just tell me? Then I suddenly remembered the times

he’d obviously got so close to uttering those words, the odd things he’d started to say that had confused the hell out of me, but I’d

just shrugged them off. It was all coming back to me now, huge flashbacks which took over my brain. The TV in the background

was white noise, the images blurred into one. I was like a woman possessed. I picked up my phone again, holding it in my palm and

looking at the numbers. Yes. I should just call him. Come on, it’s Nick. I can tell him anything. Can’t I?

Maybe I could tell him that I love him more than anything in the whole world and that if he would just give me the chance, I could

love him better than anyone. All those crazy girls he’s dated with their weird mood swings and cheating ways. I know I would give

him the love he deserves. Without question. I would make him toast in the morning, do a Christmas stocking every year, and look

after him if he was ill. Loving him would be my life.

I started to scroll through my contacts, my thumb hovering over the call button when I found his name. No. I can’t, I thought,

cancelling it suddenly and throwing my phone onto the chair opposite. It was a really long time ago. Things might have changed.

I forced myself to watch the film, turning the sound up a bit more to drown out the rain lashing the windows all around me. My

favourite bit was starting, where Holly Golightly is running around the streets of New York in the rain . . .

Funny, that, I thought, looking out of the window again.

Nick

Right. This is bloody ridiculous. I’m going. Now.

I shoved a pair of jeans over my legs and grabbed a T-shirt from my wardrobe. I pulled it down so fast and hard that my head got

stuck in one of the armholes and I was temporarily blinded by the black fabric. I thrashed my limbs around in frustration before

working out where the head hole was. One more big tug and I could see again.

Shit, I really should have a shower, I thought, angling my nose down to my armpit. No. There’s no bloody time for showers. I’ve

been showering and pissing about for five years and it’s got me nowhere. I’m going to get my girl. My heart started to pump in my

chest, hard.

I rushed down the stairs and stomped into the kitchen, picking up my car keys. No, actually, sod the car. Knowing my luck it

would probably break down, or I’d hit roadworks in the half-mile between her house and mine. In fact, I could almost guarantee that

if I got into that car I would probably find a herd of obstinate cattle in the middle of the road. Totally unwilling to move. In the city.

Miles away from any fields.

Now where was my sodding jacket? I wondered as I rifled through a pile of clothes on the kitchen chair. I gave up on that and

peeped through the patio windows, wincing at the rain. Fuck it. I didn’t care. Office furniture could fall out of the sky. Volcanic ash.

Ten-ton weights. Hundreds of tiny ball bearings. Whatever. I would take on the lot. I was going to get there, whatever happened.

The blood was pulsing through my veins. Nothing would stop me now. I was going to stop being a pussycat and I was going to

tell her.

‘Sienna Walker, I love you. OK?’ I said to myself under my breath, realising that it sounded like more of a threat than the

cripplingly romantic declaration of a 21st-century Romeo.

I reached into the cupboard under the stairs and finally found my waterproof jacket, which wasn’t all that waterproof. I’d

discovered this on a recent lunch-break outing, which had left me shopping for a pair of emergency underpants and trousers, I had

got that wet. No one wants a damp bum at work. No one.

I slipped my phone into my trouser pocket, turned out the lights and opened the door. Great droplets of rain hit my face and hair

straight away. Lightning was flashing in the sky. I slammed the door behind me hard as I marched out into the summer night,

wondering what the odds were of me being struck by a bolt of lightning. I’d be very angry if that happened.

It was the kind of rain that was so strong it made you feel as if you could drown just walking in it. It battered against my face as if

I was on the deck of a ship in the middle of a catastrophic storm. It trickled from my hair and down the back of my neck. Within just

a minute or two it had soaked into all of my clothes. I tore off my jacket and stuffed it into a nearby bin. It was completely pointless

and it was warm anyway. I walked purposefully along the glistening pavements, the water rushing down gutters and flowing out of

drains. The trees swayed frantically, branches creaking and leaves tumbling to the ground. An orchestra was playing dramatic music

in my mind, violins and cellos creating the kind of sounds that send shivers of electricity down your spine. Love coursed through my

veins. I was so close, and yet so far.

Sienna

Pacing. Backwards and forwards. Up and down. Side to side. Like a desperate little molecule. The possibilities had taken hold of

me and I didn’t know what on earth to do with myself.

Call him, Sienna. Just pick up the phone, for God’s sake. I know, I’ll ring El. She always knows what to do. I held my phone up

to my ear, my hand shaking. I was so full of emotion I wondered how I would get the words out.

She answered instantly. ‘Oh God, Sienna, what’s happened? Right, that’s it. I’m coming over, now,’ she declared, with what

sounded like indelible determination in her voice.

‘No, no. I’m OK. It’s not that,’ I said in a wobbly voice. I ran one hand through my hair, hoping I could calm myself down

somehow.

‘I’m leaving now. Damn, where are my keys? I can bring Luke in the car, he’s sleeping anyway.’

‘No. No, El, please listen to me.’

There was a brief pause where all that could be heard was my heavy breathing.

‘What? What is it?’ she shrieked, clearly frantic with worry now.

‘I’ve just found something in my dad’s diary, El. It’s about Nick, and how he told my dad he loved me, years ago. He loved me,

El. What do I do?’

There was a pause while El obviously considered how to word what she said next. ‘Loves you. Not loved you.’ I could hear a

smile in her tone.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve seen the way he’s been with you over the past few weeks. He adores you. Love isn’t even the word . . .’ she trailed off.

‘You think?’ I asked, more excitement bubbling inside me. Tears of happiness filled my eyes as I forced myself to sit down. I

couldn’t believe my eyes or ears any more. I needed her to give me the green light.

‘Yes! For God’s sake, Sienna. He’s completely taken you under his wing for the past two weeks, had you stay at his house every

night, and that look he gives you, that look . . .’ She was whispering now.

‘I’m going to tell him I love him, El. Tonight.’

‘Please do. Please just tell him, before I do,’ she pleaded with me. ‘Oh, and good luck,’ she added, giggling a little now.