This is a Love Story (26 page)

The initial step was to go to the bathroom. My joints weren’t creaking; all movement was as fluid as it always had been. I stepped cautiously towards the mirror and looked at my reflection. Phew. I hadn’t morphed into my father, wonderful as he is. I only had the same four grey hairs I’d had yesterday, and no extra lines round my eyes.

This was going well.

My phone rang so I dashed back into my room to answer it, stubbing my toe on a box full of books. Unfortunately I was still clumsy. My eyes started to water.

‘Happy birthday, handsome,’ came the purr of Chloe’s voice. My mind was instantly filled with images of her in lingerie. That was nice. I instantly regretted sending her home last night. I could be having the first sex of my proper adult life. Maybe I would actually be good at it now . . .

‘Morning, Chlo. How are you today, beautiful?’ I said, as I sank down onto my bed and climbed back under the covers.

I had booked the day off work. I wouldn’t normally bother but I’d genuinely been quite scared that I might have a mini breakdown, and I didn’t want to do that on the third floor of an office in Balham. It’s pretty high up. I thought I’d come to terms with it all – you know, the whole enjoying the journey thing. But I’d spent my last week as a twenty-nine-year-old in a state of acute anxiety. Had I been wild enough? Had I been too wild? Should I have done any of it differently? Had I been a bit of a selfish bastard?

‘Yeah, I’m great, thanks, Nick.’ Chloe’s voice broke my train of thought. ‘I’m coming to see you tonight to give you your birthday surprise – is that OK?’ She lowered her tone; it sounded like my surprise was either ominous or sexy. I hoped it was the latter.

I really didn’t want a fuss. I just wanted to get the day over with and then start worrying about hitting forty. It would be a concentrated ten-year task and I needed all the nervous energy I could muster.

‘OK, that sounds great. I can’t wait to see you,’ I responded before hanging up the phone and pulling the soft covers underneath my nose. They smelled of her. Delicious.

Now, what was I going to do with myself? I would really like to see Sienna. In fact, I was quite nervous about this. Even though I wanted my thirtieth birthday to sink into the record books as one of the most unnoticed and uneventful days in history, I would be quite hurt if Sienna wasn’t a part of it. This distance was all well and good, but I really did need her today. She hadn’t made any plans with me. Nothing. We hadn’t spent time together properly for weeks.

There was a hard knock at the door. Wondering who on earth it could be, I sprang out of bed, wrapped myself in a thick, blue dressing gown and tiptoed down the stairs. In the glass I could see the blurry outline of a postal worker. It was the bright red jacket and strip of reflective yellow that gave it away.

Oh dear. Perhaps my mother had sent me one of her homemade cakes again, which often arrived bashed and broken with some awful picture printed on the top of me as a toothless kid in a baggy nappy.

I opened the door and peered through the gap.

‘All right, mate,’ came a pleasant male voice.

‘Hi there,’ I answered, a certain level of dread in my tone.

‘Right then, this is for you. Can you just sign here?’ He handed me one of those screens with the skinny pen, which makes you sign your name like you’ve just been given anaesthetic.

He handed me a heavy box, wrapped in traditional brown paper. Yes, it was definitely the cake. Bless her. I wondered which horrific photo she’d found this time. They seemed to get worse each year; maybe she’d gone the whole hog and selected the one of me holding a freshly picked bogey up to the camera. Sigh . . .

I carried the box into the living room and made a cup of tea. I wasn’t in a huge hurry to open it. I started thinking about Sienna again. I just wanted to be with her, really. She’d been at the receiving end of all my pre-thirty angst; she’d laughed at me when appropriate and hugged me when it had all got a bit too much. She was wonderful – but where the hell was she now?

I carried the mug back into the living room and started opening the modest pile of cards that had dropped through the letterbox over the past few weeks. There was one from my great-aunt Polly, addressed to ‘My dear nephew Daniel on his thirty-second birthday’. Well, at least she’d remembered the date. I made a note to go and visit her soon. It was probably partly my fault that she thought my name was Daniel; I’d been a little preoccupied lately. Still, thirty-two . . .

The next one was from work. Everyone had signed it, even Dill. I was touched. I put it pride of place on the mantlepiece. Then there was one from Ross and the gang – they’d stuck a picture of our group on holiday in Ibiza two and a half years ago. We looked pink from all the sunshine and beer. It made me smile. Inside were lots of silly, mildly insulting messages and a promise of a free night out for me. This really wasn’t so bad after all . . .

I recognised the handwriting on the next one, but I wasn’t totally sure who it could be. I tore at the envelope frantically and found the name Amelia signed at the bottom in black fountain pen. Oh dear. Now this was a blast from the past. I suddenly remembered that morning when she’d been slumped on my doorstep crying, and I wondered if she’d found happiness now. I hoped she had. Really I did, because I had found mine.

The final card was from my mum, dad, sister and the dog. It was long and quite soppy and it made a lump appear in my throat, which I swiftly coughed away. It even said they were proud of me. Me. Why? I couldn’t help but notice the sentence at the bottom, which read: ‘P.S. You have to come over this weekend to get your cake. I couldn’t bear the thought of my baking efforts arriving in smithereens this time.’

How odd. I looked over at the brown box on my living-room table with a new level of suspicion. Now I thought about it, it was quite big. And heavy. Too big for the cake. I was starting to worry now. It could be from anyone. It could be a parcel of anthrax from someone I had inadvertently infuriated while going about my day-to-day life.

I pulled it onto my lap and started to tear away the wrapping, uncovering a large shoebox underneath. I took another sip of my tea and pulled the lid off the container. This revealed yet another box covered in newspaper, this time a Topshop delivery box. I pulled it apart. Below that layer was some pink wrapping paper and another smaller casing. I could see what was going on here. Pass the parcel wasn’t going to get the better of me at this age . . .

I continued to rip through a plethora of layers until I uncovered a heavy, hardback book. A black book. This was making me a little bit nervous. I carefully turned the front cover to reveal a faded newspaper clipping. I peered closer and made out a photo of a squirrel on waterskis. Beneath it were the handwritten words ‘It all started on a train . . .’

Holy shit. It was from Sienna. A lovely, warm feeling washed over me and I remembered the first time I’d ever looked into her eyes. I started to tremble a little as I turned to the next page.

It soon dawned on me that she had created a book. A whole book, just for me.
The Story of Sienna and Nick
, it was called. It was the most touching, thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for me. The lump returned to my throat and it was as if time stood still. I could no longer hear the noise of the street outside, it was as if the world was on mute. Sienna’s gesture had hit me hard, then seemed to grip me in a firm embrace.

The book contained everything: cinema tickets, plane boarding passes, every photograph we’d taken, mini posters for our favourite films. It contained song lyrics, jokes, anecdotes . . . Each joyous memory we’d had the good fortune to experience in our short relationship was in there, spread all over the pages, laid out beautifully with love and care.

I noticed the hairs on my arms were raised. I felt that familiar sensation creep back over me and I started from page one all over again.

I put my feet on the coffee table and went on a journey, remembering everything that had happened since I’d met her. I ran my index finger over her face in one of the photos we’d taken in a picture booth in Florida. She was sitting on my lap and laughing. God, she was stunning.

When I first met her she was a baby, really, but so much more ready for the world than I was – or ever would be, I expect.

I could smell it. I could taste it. I could feel the warmth of her right next to me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but a huge tear fell from my right eye and rolled down my cheek. A happy tear. For the first time in my life, another person, Sienna Walker, had taken one of the scariest days of my existence and made it one of the happiest, and she wasn’t even here . . .

I picked up my phone with a trembling hand and held down the 2 button, my heart thumping.

‘Hello, Nick.’ It sounded like she had a huge smile on her face.

‘Sienna, fuck. Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea . . . how much . . . just how much . . . Ughh . . .’ I couldn’t even get the words out but I hoped she understood. I realised that my head was in my hands right down towards my lap, the phone tucked between my right ear and shoulder.

‘Happy birthday, sweetheart,’ she replied, that customary warmth in her voice resonating through the tinny line.

‘You didn’t have to do this. It must have taken you ages. It’s, well, it’s incredible, Si,’ I said, feeling nervous all of a sudden. Intimidated by the grandeur of her. There was a short pause while I listened to her move into what I assumed were the ladies’ toilets.

‘I know this might sound cheesy,’ she started, taking a deep breath, ‘but I adore you, Nick Redland. You’ve got me through everything. I would be lost without you. So really, it’s the least I could do. Thank you for being around.’ She sounded nervous.

Her words hit me hard. ‘I need to see you, Sienna.’ It just came out of my mouth. It was involuntary. The sentence just spilled out because it was the most natural thing in the world.

‘We’ll see each other soon, I promise. Look, I have to go. Have yourself a wonderful thirtieth birthday, Nick, and be proud of everything that you are.’

And that was it. The line went dead. I looked at the photos of Sienna and me in a supermarket photo booth, and for the first time in a long time, I
was
proud of who I am.

Sienna

It’s been 882 days since I first met Nick Redland. That’s around two years and five months of happiness, and I’m documenting these moments in a big black book.

‘Glue, please, Sienna,’ came a polite request from my father, who was holding a cinema ticket in his hands. A blue sequin was stuck to his chin.

‘Here you go, Pops,’ I replied, passing him a tray of special art glue that doesn’t make things go crinkly when it dries.

‘This is such a good idea,’ he beamed, slicking the viscous liquid neatly over the back of the paper and pushing it down on the puckered white card. ‘He’s going to love it,’ he added, even more excited than me.

I was so glad he was helping. It was something really nice we could do together. And doing stuff together was quite hard nowadays, since he couldn’t leave the house for any period of time without falling over and knocking himself out.

Our favourite movie,
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
, was playing on the widescreen TV in the background. The sound was low so you could barely make out the clipped accent of Hepburn’s character, but you could see her gorgeous little face slicked with rain as she ran through the streets in search of Cat. This was the best bit. Holly Golightly would find herself in a passionate tryst with the man she loved and her ginger pet under sheets of engineered rain. Ah . . . My gaze turned to the window. It was raining here too, but it looked a lot less romantic.

‘What gave you this idea, then?’ my dad questioned me, rolling the sleeves of his baggy blue jumper above his elbows. I had created him a cushion haven on the sofa, and he was sitting so he would fall onto a soft surface when he passed out. Not if, but when. This was tiring stuff for him.

‘Well, I was really stuck about what to give him for his birthday – it’s a big one, obviously. Silly gifts and gimmicks weren’t really going to do the trick.’ I reached over to the pile of mementoes and picked up a strip of photos taken in a booth in Florida. I was sitting on Nick’s lap and he had just poked me in the ribs, causing me to cackle loudly as the flashbulbs went. God, I loved him. ‘So I was lying in bed one night and I was thinking about all the fun times we’ve had, and it dawned on me that my room was full of bits of paper, photos, tickets and stuff like that from our various adventures. I got up and gathered them all together and that was when the idea hit me.’

‘It’s perfect. He’s going to love it,’ Dad said again. ‘You two are quite something, aren’t you?’ he muttered, holding a photo and peering more closely at it.

‘What’s that?’ I asked. He turned the image round. It was Halloween two years ago; we dressed up as Batman and Robin.

‘There is one thing that concerns me a little,’ he began, taking a huge gulp from his mug of tea.

Here we go . . .

‘He has a girlfriend, right?’

‘Yes. Chloe.’ Luckily I was over my hideous jealousy by now, otherwise I would have launched myself off a cliff on a motorised scooter. She seemed really nice, actually – not that I knew her that well. She seemed to keep a safe distance from me; the most we talked was when she handed me a mug on her tea round.

‘How do you think she’ll feel about all this? Hmm?’ he probed. He had that look on his face that he always has when I’m doing something a little bit naughty. You know, something you can get away with, but it’s still a bit dodgy. Like keeping a tenner you find poking out of a cash machine, bunking the train fare or failing to tip in a really good restaurant.

‘You are, after all, quite deeply in love with Nick,’ said Dad.

‘
Was
in love,’ I abruptly corrected him, pressing a theatre ticket onto the page in frustration.

‘OK,
was
, sorry. I suppose it was a long time ago you told me all that,’ he conceded, sorting through a pile of tickets and receipts.