This is a Love Story (8 page)

I cleared my throat and exited stage left before I truly hung myself. How was I going to cope with this? I wondered as I ducked into my office. It was total chaos in there: pens, paper and measuring tools spread across my desk like artist vomit. I set my out-of-office. It went something like this:

What it actually should have said was this:

On the way out I walked over to Sienna’s desk. She was typing so fast I feared I might go blind just watching.

‘Sienna?’ I whispered, concerned that I might frighten her to death. She did jump a little. ‘I’m going home now, but I can come and pick you up in the morning, if you like? I’m not sure what time it’ll be, but I’m guessing it’ll be pretty early.’ I pushed a small piece of paper her way with my mobile number scrawled on it in black ink.

She looked panicked. I wasn’t surprised, considering I’d almost made myself out to be a girlfriend-murdering nutter.

‘That’s really kind – thank you, Nick. I’ll, er, have a think about it and call you. I’m really looking forward to the fair,’ she added.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dave, our camp sports writer, dancing around behind Sienna, moving his hips like an oversexed R’n’B singer and pointing at her, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Then his fringe flopped over his face. Oh God, this was embarrassing . . .

Sienna must have sensed something was going on behind her and she turned her head around. But by the time she did, Dave was sitting still with a false look of diligence on his face, probably typing the letters XyXyXy all the way across the screen. Cheeky bugger.

‘Right, OK then, see you in the morning,’ I called and turned on my heels.

When I got home I dreaded what I might find when I turned the key in the door. Maybe Amelia had created a floor mosaic out of raw meat spelling the word ‘Fuckwit’, or even worse, taken my Radiohead CD. The very worst-case scenario would be if she was still here . . .

I slowly made my way into the corridor. ‘Amelia?’ I called out, the fear obvious in my voice as it echoed down the hall. Looking down at my feet, I saw the key gleaming on the mat. Phew, I was safe.

I shuffled cautiously into the kitchen and saw a folded-up piece of paper. I began to read.

Well, you had to give it to the girl, that was truly heart-wrenching. I looked at a photo of us pinned to the fridge with a Honey Monster magnet. We looked so happy. Behind us were the rambling hills of the Lake District, and the bright sun had created a white flash in one corner of the photograph. A flaw in an otherwise perfect moment.

The true enormity of what had happened suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. My house now felt huge, even though it wasn’t that big. A two-bedroom terraced place that seemed like a sprawling mansion now I was alone.

I had put the deposit down on it with money left to me by my grandmother. Mum and Dad helped out a bit too. I was lucky to have this house at such a young age, but right now I felt so alone in it. I would probably have to get a lodger now to help with the mortgage. Great.

I had thought I was too angry about what Amelia and Toby had done to feel sadness like this. I’d been so incandescent with fury that I’d hated the thought of her; only now was I starting to feel her loss.

I suddenly remembered what this stage of a break-up felt like; it was all coming back to me now. It was like a really bad stomach bug after a dodgy takeaway. At the time you feared you might die with your head stuck down the toilet and a hole blown out of the seat of your trousers, then just a few weeks later you had completely forgotten how terrible it was. It was as if the experience had been so traumatic that your mind had dulled its memory enough for you to get all cocky again. Otherwise you would never be able to walk down a street with a curry house on it again. And that would make living in London quite difficult. With feelings, it was tricky. One minute you might be making a coffee or shopping for milk and cereal, and then bam – out of nowhere the inescapable would come and sting you. Those emotions you’d buried under a heap of male egotistical bullshit. All the crappy phrases your friends had reeled off to salve the wounds: ‘Plenty more fish in the sea, mate,’ or ‘We never really liked her anyway . . .’

But I wasn’t sure whether I missed her, or whether I was scared of my uncertain future.

The loud ticking of the kitchen clock only affirmed the fact that I was alone. I’m not a big boozer, I don’t really drink on my own, but I poured a small amount of whisky into a glass and trickled some Coke on top.

I pulled a Marlboro Light out of my jacket pocket and lit it with a match. The smoke instantly surrounded me in our small, clean kitchen, dirtying every nook and cranny with its nasty brown fingers.

I sat there for what seemed like hours, feeling the numbing effect of the alcohol settling into my legs. Taking deep drags on my cigarette I experienced the familiar buzz of nicotine and I convinced myself I deserved it. I had totally earned this moment of hideous self-indulgence, but I would definitely regret it when I woke up at 3 a.m. to get to the airport.

Nick. Twenty-seven. Single. The labels spun round and round in my head.

Nick. Twenty-seven. Single . . .

My self-pity lasted for about an hour, then I decided I had to sort myself out. All that was left of my broken relationship was this note, the photo on the fridge and the tablecloth. I calmly picked up all three and put them in the bin. The remains. That’s what I’d meant.

Suddenly my phone rang, but I didn’t recognise the number. I let it vibrate frantically before I decided it just might be important. ‘Hello?’ I answered, slightly concerned at who it might be.

‘Hey, Nick.’ I recognised that voice.

‘Oh, hello, Sienna. You OK?’ I responded, immediately sitting down, embarrassed as I looked at the display of self-loathing all around me.

‘I’m fine, thanks. Just wanted to check the details for the morning. Is it still OK for you to pick me up?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll be round at quarter to four, if that’s all right?’

‘Great . . . I was going to ask you. Could you not ring the doorbell or anything, please? If you could just give me a call, I’ll run out, yeah?’

‘Oh, sure, of course. Wouldn’t want to wake anyone up!’ I joked.

There was a strange pause on the other end of the line.

‘Can you text me your address? I don’t have a pen handy,’ I added, trying to break the strange quiet that had overshadowed our conversation, while simultaneously scanning the room for one of the hundreds of brightly coloured pens that seemed to be everywhere when I didn’t need one.

‘Sure,’ she replied.

‘What happened earlier, by the way, Sienna? You know, that crazy man outside the office?’ I realised I hadn’t asked before, and I really wanted to know.

‘Er, nothing, don’t worry. I’ll explain later. So, what are you up to?’ she asked, swiftly changing the subject.

Oh God, cold sweat. Cold sweat. ‘Just reading a book in French about the Revolution, actually,’ I responded quietly. I cringed at my lie, but I had to. The reality of me drinking spirits and smoking myself to death over my ex-girlfriend was pathetic. Still, I could have chosen something slightly cooler than the scenario my brain had just selected at random – like coming back from boxing training or something.

‘Oh, wow. That sounds fascinating,’ she said. I could hear her smile.

‘What about you?’

‘Just packing,’ came her reply, neat and tidy.

Damn. Why didn’t I just say that? Now she was going to ask me questions about the French Revolution on the plane that I might not be able to answer.

‘Well, I’ll see you in the morning then, Si. Not long now!’

‘No, not long at all. See you later.’

The line went dead.

All of a sudden I was filled with hope again, so I dashed upstairs to pack. My packing plan was a little more elaborate than the one I’d adopted for Ibiza. Fewer shorts, sun cream and novelty hats; more suits, gadgets and hair gel.

I loved events like this. I had never covered the gaming fair in America before, but I had done lots of similar trips and it meant spending a few hours taking pictures, then enjoying slap-up meals and nights out on the company credit card.

Sienna

The sun was rising slowly over the city of London and Nick and I were watching it through a tiny window to my left. Rich whirls of colour were bathing the fields around the runway in a warm glow. My thoughts were a mix of overwhelming excitement and serious worry. I hoped things at home would be OK.

When I took the job I knew I might have to go away for work every now and then, so Elouise kindly agreed to pop round and keep an eye on things when I did. This was really short notice, though. I definitely owed her a few babysitting sessions, even if I had a habit of teaching Luke naughty words by accident.

Last summer I was looking after him and we were playing in the garden. I managed to tread on a wasp, which stung me between my toes, forcing me to utter a tirade of words that turned the air blue. He stood and looked at me with his feet pointing inwards and a look of fear clouding his big green eyes. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that Elouise mentioned he was saying the words ‘holy’ and ‘shit’ in close succession at church playgroup and couldn’t work out where he had picked them up from. I went red.

As the aircraft moved around the runway before zooming into the sky, we both sat quietly, waiting for take-off.

I was becoming quite scared, if I was being honest. Air travel was something I had never really got my head around. Obviously there were scientific reasons why this stupidly heavy lump of metal bashed together by human beings could stay in the sky. Bashed together by human beings. Thousands of feet in the air, suspended above vast expanses of deep murky water and sharp-edged mountain ranges. People. Mortals, capable of making mistakes. People always make mistakes. Day in, day out. We are experts in the art of the accident.

My stomach flipped as I heard the engines whirr loudly beneath us. Sections of the wings started to move, ready for the flight and our ascent into the unknown. Fear spread all over my body, washing down my legs like alcohol. I kept swallowing hard, again and again.

We’d had such an early start that neither of us had really woken up. A dozy breakfast and a couple of overpriced coffees in the departure lounge had done little to bring us into a state of consciousness. But this was working a treat.

Like a meerkat tanked up on Red Bull, I was well and truly alert now. I was still blushing at the thought of my display of clumsiness earlier that morning.

Nick had swung into the driveway of our block of flats and called my phone just as he’d promised. I’d tried to be calm and cool but managed to trip over my luggage in my near comatose state of sleepiness, falling to the hard, wet ground in front of him.

I used to take ballet classes. I used to be graceful. This morning I resembled a giraffe with its legs tied together as my foot got caught in the handle of my bag, sending me soaring into the air. My heart jumped in my chest and the force of my humiliation hit me before I hit the concrete. I’m not sure which was more painful. Why did this have to happen now? Why?

These had not been a good few days for me, what with the Pete incident, which I had just about squirmed my way out of. Ten pounds. That was my punishment for the copying incident. They said it reflected the cost of the ink and paper. The window was covered by insurance. I think I got off pretty lightly.

Anthony is an angry man and an unreasonable one at times, but he seemed to understand that it was a genuine accident and not much more was said after that. I was still embarrassed, though, and my fall didn’t help. I felt like a first-class idiot.

Nick instantly jumped out of the car, reached down and picked me up as his headlights momentarily put my shame on a stage. His strength was no surprise with his build. He picked me up with ease, as though I was a rag doll. I was really humiliated and I felt angry with myself for a few moments, before I realised I was taking myself too seriously.

We sat in his car quietly for a minute. Nick was the first to crack. I was unsure about whether I should laugh or bawl my eyes out, so I did neither and sat in silence, looking down at my bleeding palms. This would not help my mission to impress him. I looked and felt like an eight-year-old.

Then he started to laugh, and I’m so glad he did. It started off as a quiet snigger, which burst from between his lips, sudden and sharp. He was trying so hard to hold it in but it eventually developed into a full-on belly chuckle. He turned towards me, wiping his eyes with one hand, an apologetic smile on his face. Then I went, and we were both laughing so much we couldn’t speak.