This is a Love Story (13 page)

I had seen him quite a few times now. I picked my moments carefully. We had never really talked much about his life since the photo incident, just light chatter while I gave him things to eat and books to read. Funnily enough, I’d told him about Nick. I had no idea why. I hadn’t planned to. It had just come out one day, organically.

Pete rubbed his hands together, breathing into his palms. ‘Well, I just used to try and replace the pain of losing Jenny with anything I could to take the edge off . . .’ he started.

I looked at him warmly, hoping I could get him to tell me more without actually having to ask.

‘Funnily enough, it started with chocolate and stuff – you know, naughty food. When I first became homeless I did have some cash so I would spend it on as much chocolate as I could get my mitts on.’

This surprised me. I thought about the Snickers bar in my handbag and suddenly saw it in a whole new light.

‘I missed her so much, I had to fill the gap with something, Si. I used to just stuff my face in the park – bar after bar after bar until I felt so sick that it took the pain away and replaced it with another kind of hurt.’ He looked a little embarrassed.

My toes were starting to go numb from the cold, despite the thick black boots I was wearing, which were lined with sheepskin. We were deep in the middle of a British winter and this bench in the car park was an unforgiving place. I had tried to take him for a hot drink in a café, but I think he found the prospect of Starbucks, with its yummy mummies and frothy, skinny, whippaccinos, a bit too much. I could hardly blame him; even I felt massively inferior in that place.

‘But then that wasn’t really enough any more, I needed something else to numb the pain. So I started drinking . . . A lot. It was a progression from the odd bottle here and there to a constant state of inebriation.’

It struck me how articulate he was; he could express himself beautifully. I think that’s why I found him so intriguing. I noticed he needed a shave again.

‘People walking past would sometimes give me a bottle, and I scrounged enough money to buy myself alcohol but not enough to ever get myself anywhere or buy myself anything decent. So the short-term solution was to dilute my thoughts . . .’

I studied his nose; it was red and swollen from the years of abuse. I had never really noticed it before. His eyes were bloodshot, but you could tell he was still young – in his early thirties, I guessed.

‘Then bottles of cider weren’t enough any more, so I started to turn to the hard stuff. You know, vodka and that. From there came the drugs. Cocaine was too expensive, obviously, but there was a lot of weed around, pills – you name it, I took it.’ He breathed in deeply and looked at me as if I was too delicate to know what had happened next. Then he continued, ‘I just spent all my time in this crazy world, where everything was always spinning and twisting and jerking, and when it started to stand still again I knew that I was sober again and the pain would come back.’ He chuckled quietly in disbelief at the memory.

‘So basically you were self-medicating?’ I said as a squirrel came and darted around at my feet before stealing a morsel of bread and speeding off up a nearby tree.

‘Yeah, pretty much. Friday and Saturday nights were the worst. I would hang around outside bars, listening to the music, and I would just dance. People would come and dance with me; sometimes they laughed, sometimes they cried. I became a bit of an attraction for drunk people when they left bars and nightclubs.’

I imagined his slight frame jerking around in time to some distant bassline. I imagined the drunken louts pointing and laughing. I imagined the heartbroken girls taking his hand and moving with him in the darkness as tears rolled down their cheeks. I could imagine it all. He must have been like a comedy act for them. Someone to mock when showing off to their friends.

‘I must have looked like a right idiot. The things people used to say, Si . . . It hurt so much, but I just didn’t care. There’s this one song, this song Jenny and I used to love. We used to play it in the kitchen and run around like wild animals. Those were some of the happiest moments of my life.’ He smiled and the chill left my body just looking at him.

‘It was called “You Get What You Give”.’ He paused, as if the next bit was too painful. Then he started reciting the words to himself: ‘
You’ve got the music in you, don’t let go
. . .’

‘I know that song. I love it! It’s by the New Radicals, isn’t it?’ I cried, clapping my hands together with glee.

‘Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? Well, this one night I was outside the bar on the corner there, and it came on and I was so gone I thought she was with me. I danced and danced, it felt like it went on forever. I was even holding her close to me.’ His eyes started to well up and he positioned his arms as though he were holding a girl. His girl.

His pain was so close to the surface, it was as if a tiny pinprick would see it all gush out like water from inside a balloon. ‘What happened next?’ I asked, finding myself so wrapped up in our conversation it was as if nothing else existed. The deadlines, the office, Dad, Nick – it was all just so far away now.

‘The song ended and I realised it wasn’t real. Suddenly, the song that had just given me so much joy brought out this agony inside, so deep even my drunkenness couldn’t take the edge off. So I just kept on dancing, to an empty silence. Like a nutter. Trying to hold onto that feeling, you know?’

There was a moment of quiet. I suddenly thought about the songs Dan used to write for me. Songs he would play me on his guitar, record in his room, and then send to me in the post on a range of multicoloured discs. He only lived a few minutes away, but there was something romantic about the post – well, that was what he used to say. I knew how it felt when one of those songs came on through my earphones on the train. I knew the aching in the pit of my stomach. How I could almost smell him and feel him.

And Dan really was a bit of an idiot. He was never my husband, or the father of my child, or even someone I’d lived with and lost. I didn’t even love him. I was testing the water. He was just this silly boy who made me cry a lot. A silly boy who lied, and filled the gaps with ‘I love you’ when he didn’t know what else to say.

I’d got so sick and tired of his shitty mood swings, the amount of time he spent in the bathroom, and his lies, that I chucked him. It felt great. Getting so close to Nick had made Dan seem like a Nissan Micra parked next to a Lamborghini. It became a farce. I couldn’t continue with it, and although I didn’t stand a chance with Nick, I hoped that maybe I could find a man just like him. If there
was
anyone in the world like Nick . . .

On the plus side, Dan did write good music . . . although Nick strongly disagreed with me on this. I started to think about Dan again, his crazy hair and outlandish dress sense. I cringed a little inside.

I looked at my watch. Time was running out, as it always did when I wanted to talk to Pete.

‘So, anyway. How’s Nick?’ he asked, breaking our reflective silence with something comparatively trivial.

‘Great, thanks. We had a falling-out a while ago, and it was hard for a bit. I don’t think either of us knew how to act around each other at first, but it was OK in the end. He’s fine now,’ I said, looking down at my tights and pulling off a bobble.

‘Have you told him yet? You know, how you feel?’

‘No, no, no, of course not. I’m trying really hard to put it to one side, you know. I just feel like too much is at stake.’

Pete looked frustrated. ‘I don’t want to pry, Sienna, but I think I understand your feelings for Nick. It’s love, and it’s the kind of love I had with Jenny. I find it hard that neither of you will open your mouths to admit it. I’m sorry, that’s just the way I feel.’ He looked a bit guilty and a bit angry too. It was a strange combination to witness.

‘I think too much has happened. He seems to be dating girls all over the place,’ I responded. I knew, but hadn’t quite admitted to myself, that all these dates, all these women who had come in and out of his life, had made him seem even more out of reach. Even more intimidating than he had been before. He hadn’t told me much about them, but I knew the vague details behind each name. Marie, a doctor from Finsbury Park; Lisa, a graphic designer from Surrey Quays; and of course Kate, a tortured artist from Soho.

‘Look, I have to get back to the office now,’ I said, pulling a warm pasty out of my bag. ‘Here, this is for you.’

Pete smiled and took the package, tearing it open in front of me and taking deep, satisfied bites out of the flaky pastry. It was the least I could do. He brushed his oily fingers down his trousers, leaving streaks of fat down the denim like tyre marks. The tissue remained untouched on his left knee. Oh well . . .

I felt constantly guilty for not taking him under my wing. I regularly thought about taking him home and giving him somewhere to rest his head, but with Dad, and the size of our flat, it was a strain the pair of us wouldn’t be able to take. I was doing what I could, though – finding him hostels to stay at, bringing him clothes, books, bits of food, and what I hoped would be a small ray of light at the end of the tunnel.

He’d told me he’d managed to cut out the drugs now, although I never really knew for sure. The drinking was down too, apparently. Well, at least that was what he told me. There were certainly no cans of beer collecting around his feet nowadays, and he was looking better, if that was possible in his situation. I really felt hope for him.

Raindrops started to fall from the sky. The stormy atmosphere was giving me a headache

‘Thanks so much, Sienna,’ he responded between giant mouthfuls of pasty. ‘Oh God, it’s starting to rain. It’s going to be a really cold one tonight,’ he added, shuddering at the thought of it and looking towards the moody sky. ‘I wish I had somewhere to go . . .’ he tailed off, chewing even faster as the rain started to fall heavily.

I wished I could have him to stay with us, but
it just wasn’t possible
. And although I could talk to Pete very easily, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about my father. He had too much to deal with as it was; telling him about someone else’s problems just didn’t seem right. But at the same time, this meant I couldn’t give him a good reason why I wasn’t offering him a roof over his head. I worried he might think I was selfish, or that I didn’t care.

‘Sorry, love,’ he said then. ‘I shouldn’t moan, should I? Nothing you can do.’

‘I wish there was, Pete . . . I’ll see you soon.’ I started to walk away, thinking of how different our lives were. Yet somehow we met in the middle and found common ground. Even if it was a bench.

The heat blasted through the door on my way in, making my contact lenses grip to my eyeballs like shards of glass.

‘Sienna, darling, what were you doing out there with that man in the cold?’ came the high-pitched inquisition from Sandra. The phones were ringing frantically but she ignored them.

I hate the way she calls me pet names: ‘darling’, ‘love’, ‘sweet pea’ – you know the kind of thing. It gives the impression that she’s a nice, caring person, yet when I got into trouble she expressed no desire to help me. In fact, she reported me. I didn’t trust her, but I had to keep the peace, so I gritted my teeth and made the necessary small talk.

‘You’re going to make yourself poorly if you carry on like that,’ she said, finishing her sentence with a pearlescent pink pout in my direction. God, she was annoying.

‘It’s OK. I have lots of layers on.’ I smiled unconvincingly, pulling at my Topshop jumper, which was quite frankly a useless barrier against the cold. It was one of those skinny-knit numbers, the arms a pattern of arty holes. Like most of my clothes, I had fallen deeply in love with it on a Saturday shopping trip with no real thought for its practical merits. A little like my taste in men.

‘All right, love, I’ll take your word for it.’ She smiled back, falsely. ‘Nick left this for you, by the way . . .’ She pushed a small piece of paper across the glass desk with a naughty look on her face.

I swiped the note from her fingers and made my way up the stairs, opening it quickly in the quiet of the corridor. The paper had been secured with a little scrap of tape to keep his words away from prying eyes. It stopped me in my tracks and I felt a dancing in my heart. I love his writing.

I didn’t have any other Nicks in my life, but even if I’d had a hundred, he and I both knew he would be the best.

‘Penguin’ was a new one, though . . .

This would probably mean hours of hysterical laughter; I knew what he was like, he made me laugh all the time. But this was a first. This note seemed so full on, it was different . . . I suddenly felt really excited. A wide smile crept over my face. I’d hit the jackpot – I knew what this meant. I’d never been to his before and this note sounded so personal. Maybe finally something might happen . . .

What the hell was I going to wear? Had I shaved my legs? Did I even have time to shave my legs? Shit. Shit. Shit. I whipped out my phone and told him I would see him at eight.

Nick

I had been awaiting the arrival of this parcel like it contained a vital organ. This was so exciting. The Sega Mega Drive: the curse of my university years. I would spend night after night on it, off my tits while deadlines passed me by. And what a great time it had been.

Somehow I still came out of university without repetitive strain injury in my thumbs, a first in classics and the ability to eat for a week on a fiver. Luckily I overcame my obsession before I trained as a graphic artist for my postgrad.