This is a Love Story (18 page)

I stepped out of Elouise’s house into the crisp, cold, early hours of Saturday morning and pulled on a pair of gloves, the grey ones

with the little heart buttons my dad had ordered for my Christmas present. A fox looked at me for just a few seconds and then darted

into the undergrowth.

Nick Redland is just another guy. Nick Redland is just another guy. Nick Redland is just another guy.

This was the new mantra. I imagined writing the sentence like lines on a blackboard, icing it on a cake, even stencilling it on a

wall in a dirty London alleyway somewhere and accidentally becoming a hero of the urban art world.

I could train myself out of all this. Like a smoker, I could cut down. Like a drinker, I could kick the bottle. Like someone in love, I

could learn to redesign the route to my heart so someone else stood a chance in hell of navigating it. I could do this.

And that wasn’t the only thing, either, I thought as I pulled my jacket tightly over my body, fighting off the abrasive cold that was

biting into my skin. I was going to start eating really well. Salads for lunch, fruit juice and low-fat yoghurts. I was going to start

going to the gym. Yes, that sounded like a great idea – four times a week would be good.

I was going to start reading Dad more intelligent books rather than silly ones so we could learn at the same time too. Work – yes, I

was going to work harder. By the end of next year I was going to get a promotion. And I was going to stop biting my nails, smoking

cigars at the weekend, drinking too much alcohol, drinking too much caffeine, lying in till noon, and leaving it three months before

getting my hair cut.

I was going to start a new and better life and it might even involve regular manicures. In six months there would be a new and

improved Sienna Walker with slimmer legs, shinier, sleeker hair and a better pay packet.

Good night.

On Saturday, Dad woke me up at 1 p.m. with a chocolate croissant and a double espresso.

Bless him for thinking of me, but this was not how it was supposed to start. I was meant to wake up this morning to find a pair of

wings had sprouted from my back during my peaceful slumber. Then those wings were supposed to carry me all the way to the gym,

where I would work out solidly for two hours without creating a single drop of sweat.

Oh well. I would have this and then start again afterwards.

‘Good morning, Si,’ he said, tentatively edging round the door with the tray. This worried me a little – not only was he

narcoleptic, but his trousers were way too long for him, with great swathes of material gathering at his feet. I’d been meaning to take

them to the tailor near work for weeks now, and I quietly kicked myself for not sorting it out sooner, feeling guilty for how

preoccupied my mind had been recently. Dad and hot drinks were not an ideal mixture, as Nick had found out. Nick. Nick, who I

am no longer in love with.

‘How was last night?’ he asked, perching on the edge of the bed, his small frame swallowed up by a red lumberjack shirt. His face

looked quite fresh this morning; he looked really awake. This was good to see. He had been on some new medication lately and I

had high hopes that it might change his life. Still, there was always a new medication, some new trial, but nothing had been earth-

shattering just yet. We had a hospital appointment coming up soon.

‘It was great, thanks, Dad. We had a lovely time,’ I said between yawns, tucking my legs under my bottom and starting to

consume the banned goods. The first wave of guilt crashed over me. ‘We talked about loads of things and had wine and a really nice

dinner. It was just great,’ I repeated, a flake of pastry flying from my mouth to the floor.

My father smiled and I wondered if he ever missed his old friends. They came round every now and then, but it was pretty hard

for them to see him fall asleep every time they cracked a joke. In fact, they had been coming round less often recently. I hoped it

wasn’t a case of out of sight, out of mind.

‘So, when are you inviting Nick here again? It’s lovely when he comes for tea,’ my father asked with a real look of hope in his

eyes.

This was difficult. A little like explaining divorce to a child. ‘Well, Dad, he might not be coming round so often now,’ I started,

tearing at the pastry until some crumbs of chocolate rolled onto my legs. I picked them off delicately to ensure I didn’t end up

covered in specks of brown goo. I felt he was alert enough to be able to handle such a serious conversation.

‘Why, Sienna? You haven’t fallen out with him again, have you?’ he asked, looking panicked already. I could see the first wave

of cataplexy prod at his body. He steadied himself by leaning forward and placing his hands on the dresser. A bottle of perfume

rocked back and forth before standing still again. Maybe I was wrong about him being awake this morning . . .

‘No, no, not at all,’ I assured him hurriedly, then wondered what to say next. He had no idea how I felt about Nick.

Nick had been coming a couple of times a month to join us for dinner, which was usually followed by a long, profound

conversation about something my dad had watched on a documentary or found when scouring Google for new and mind-boggling

information. The visits were special for both me and my father, but for very different reasons. I felt that while Nick should still come

round, his visits should be a little less frequent. I really needed to start watering down my relationship with him.

‘He’s just really busy with a few things at the moment, so it might be tough to do it so often. But we will still do it, Dad, honest,’ I

tried to reassure him but he was now collapsed on my bed, head first onto the green striped duvet.

I sat up and looked at him, holding my coffee and feeling the warmth of it in my hands. It struck me suddenly and poignantly how

much I loved my father and how strange and unique our little world was. As I grew older I was learning to embrace our difference

and feel really happy with just being us. But you could never really escape how bizarre it all was. Here I was, talking to my dad who

was passed out at the foot of my bed, yet was capable of hearing and remembering every word I said.

As for my father’s reaction to my news about Nick, it was sweet but it was hard for me too. I wanted to take a step back from

Nick, and Dad had to be OK with that. I did so much for my Dad, I hoped he could help me now.

I put the baby-blue mug down on my bedside table, turned his body over so he could breathe more comfortably, and carried on

talking, patting his right hand softly all the time. I knew he would be taking it all in, despite his state of exhaustion.

‘To be truthful, Dad, there’s something I need to talk to you about,’ I continued, pulling my legs up to my chin.

Obviously there was no reaction from my father, so I carried on with my story.

‘You know when you met Mum, you said that you fell in love with her straight away?’ I asked, realising that under the

circumstances any questions were pointless. ‘Well, basically, I’m going to be brave and just tell you that I fell in love with Nick the

moment I saw him. And, well, I don’t think he feels the same.’ My disclosure was making me feel a bit sick. It was nerve-wracking,

pouring my heart out to him like this, even if he was otherwise engaged.

I looked down at him; his mouth was hanging open now. You could just about make out the outline of his eyes, hovering under

his closed lids. What was I doing telling my dad about this? I wondered, pausing for a few seconds before starting to tell some more

of my story. I guessed this was what mums were for, really, but mine wasn’t around so I had to make do with a father in a coma.

‘And it isn’t his fault, Dad, of course, so don’t get angry. Because he’ll always be my friend, and he has always wanted the very

best for me . . .’ I looked up at the window. It was starting to rain. A lump built up in my throat. I suddenly felt very alone and this

confession was making me more emotional than I’d expected.

‘Basically, while he’ll always be a friend to me, I need to get my head around the fact that he’ll never be anything more. So I think

a bit of distance is necessary. I hope you understand.’

The silence now seemed deafening.

‘And he really does like you, Dad. He’ll be back. He told me that he wanted to talk to you about crop circles next because he

found some old photos from a farm in Minnesota or something.’

Dad continued to lie on his back, probably screaming out some advice or words of comfort in his head, but it was no good. He

wasn’t able to vocalise them.

I tilted my head and looked at him. This might be a long sleep, I considered, aware that he would usually have come round by

now if it was a quick one. His hair was really starting to thin, and I felt a flash of fear about how quickly my life had gone so far and

all the things I wanted to see, do and achieve in the rest of it.

The rain started to chuck down so hard I could hear it on the windowpane. A big fat tear rolled from my right eye and ran over

my lip but I felt numb. I licked it away with my tongue, tasting its familiar saltiness. What a mess. What a terrible mess. I started to

think of my mother, and what she might say about all this if she was around. But I couldn’t even imagine. I had no idea who she was

now, or how she might react to things like this.

My mother, Kim, a legal secretary, had shocked the whole family by leaving Dad when he was diagnosed with narcolepsy, and I

was left wondering, at a young age, how she had managed to abandon us like that. I have only realised fairly recently that I’ve

developed not only a burning resentment about this, but also a complex about whether or not I was just difficult to love. Now I’m

older, I see babies turn into little girls, and then into young teenagers, through neighbours and children of older friends, and wonder

how on earth she managed to walk away when she knew me for the time she did. Was I a difficult kid? Was I selfish? It can’t just

have been Dad’s illness – other families get through stuff like that. By default, I assumed it must be something to do with me . . .

I suppose I could hardly blame her for being deeply frustrated by Dad’s illness. I know I have been at times . . . An admission that

always plagues me with guilt.

See, he wasn’t like this when they met. He was a tall, slim man with a head of dark brown hair, sparkling blue eyes and a warm

smile. I’ve seen photos of how he used to look; he had this cheeky vibe about him. You can barely see the resemblance now, apart

from that smile. But then it all got a bit weird: Dad falling asleep on shopping centre floors, dozing in supermarket toilets and

generally feeling too tired to do anything at all. It was a world away from the vibrant young man Kim had met at a music festival,

rocking an angled straw hat and a pair of green wellies.

Everyone put it down to laziness at first. Even when I was just five years old I started to notice it. All the other dads were active

and ambitious, while mine was sinking into a hole. In the early stages of his illness we were all in denial, aware of the fact he was

losing his grip, but putting it down to a phase of simple tiredness that wasn’t going away. But if you looked back carefully, there had

been plenty of warning signs. He told me that he once passed out on the floor playing kiss chase at school when he was seven, he

regularly fell asleep during university lectures, and had a habit of sleeping through his alarm time and time again.

Still, everyone treated it as a quirk: young men often struggled to peel themselves out of bed in the mornings and the passing out

could have been a host of things. Maybe he needed a holiday, we often thought. Was it a change of diet he needed, or even a new

bed? Even depression was explored as a possibility. You hear about people staying in bed for days sometimes, hoping to wake up

and find that the black dog that was sitting in the corner of the room has left.

But after countless visits to nutritionists, herbalists and even spiritualists, everyone was stumped. All apart from my mother, who

thought he was making excuses to dodge the responsibilities of life. An illness that makes you sleep for no apparent reason? Surely

not.

The consumption of hundreds of different vitamins and supplements was not working, and within just four years he was no longer

able to function in the modern world. It was a quick downward spiral and I grew up with it. My first proper memories of my father

were overshadowed by his unexplained illness.

The rows were tremendous. I used to tremble in my bed listening to the smashing of plates and sobs as Mum told Dad he was the

‘laziest, most miserable creature she’d ever had the misfortune to know’. I will never forget those words. I was only nine, but I knew

it was serious.

I remembered my mother’s blotchy eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses as she drove me to school, a red, shiny nose

poking out from the layers of chestnut hair. Her shoulders were always tense and hunched in front of the wheel. That’s the clearest

memory I have of her in terms of looks. It’s not a happy one. Most of my memories before that are a bit of a blur, as if I got so angry

at her I wiped a lot of them away. She also had a habit of biting her bottom lip with furious worry until it bled. ‘It’s just a cold sore,

darling,’ she would say – another lie to gloss over the truth.

By the time I was ten, Dad couldn’t laugh or cry without collapsing onto the floor, sofa or pavement in a deep sleep. It finally