This is a Love Story (9 page)

‘Let me see those,’ he said eventually, gently pulling my hands towards his chest. He softly turned my palms over and made a hissing sound when he saw the gentle drops of blood rising to the surface of my skin. I wasn’t looking at my bleeding hands. I was looking at him, holding my hands. It struck me for a moment that this immature man might actually be able to take control of a situation, might help me.

‘I know what to do!’ he said, reaching into the glove box for a tissue. He quietly worked away, dabbing the blood from my palms and pressing new tissue onto them to make the bleeding stop. He wrinkled his eyebrows in concentration. I felt like my heart had slowed right down. Something in the depths of my soul shifted and moved. I didn’t know if it was the aftermath of embarrassment or the eye-wateringly early hour that had left me feeling a little emotional. But with each sweep of that tissue, it felt as though he was touching my heart.

I had felt the rush from a boy before. That twinge of teenage horniness you feel when you kiss some stranger in the darkest corner of the nightclub, or the lift you get when a good-looking man buys you a drink at a bar. This was different. I felt like he was creeping into my heart and there was nothing I could do to stop him. I had only met him a few weeks ago, I thought he was childish and bruised, but still these feelings persisted.

I was trying not to let it happen, I really was. Everything about the situation was inappropriate and difficult. I worked with him. He was older than me. It was an embarrassing crush I could never really admit to. There were so many reasons, other people, that were stopping me from being with him. And why would he even give me a second glance, anyway? I suspected with a face like his that he was a ladies’ man, that he must have women scrambling around to be a part of his life. I wondered if he knew what he was doing to me. I don’t think he did.

As the plane started to lurch forward, I dug my nails into my palms and flinched when I felt the sharp pain of my cuts.

‘You OK, Si?’ asked Nick, turning his face towards mine, a lovely expression of concern dancing across his features.

‘Yeah, of course. Why – are you scared?’ I jeered, poking him in the arm to deflect attention from my own crumbling state of mind.

‘No, no, of course not! Just checking you weren’t going to freak out or anything,’ he added, with a frantic hand gesture that made an air hostess giggle as she walked past. He was so animated, his face capable of such incredible expressions. I wouldn’t even know how to find the words to describe some of them, but I knew what they meant when I saw them.

The familiar smell of foil-sealed food filled the space around us as the aircraft built up speed. My stomach jumped as it started to lift, bouncing along the runway slightly as it launched itself into the air.

Please don’t let go
, I thought to myself, making a little order to the plane as it gripped onto the sky, wondering how my home life would be affected by my absence, and how my permanent absence would be a disaster. I bit my lip hard, and flexed my fingers. My head was full of images of the pilot swigging neat whisky behind the instrument panel, and the co-pilot smoking crack. Tears were beginning to form in my eyes. For God’s sake, it wasn’t even 8 a.m. and I had nearly cried twice. I was a wreck.

‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’ Nick turned towards me, his eyes wide. He looked a little concerned and reached out an index finger to my face, swiping a single tear away with expert precision and balancing his thumb on my right cheek so he didn’t poke me in the eye. My breath caught in my throat. He looked a little surprised at what he’d done.

‘Gosh, Si, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t . . .’ he said, as my tear slid off his finger and onto his lap. ‘I think it’s the claustrophobic spaces thing. It makes me go a bit funny,’ he went on, looking down at his feet.

‘No, no, no. I’m definitely fline. I mean, fine.’ I looked at him with my fake ‘everything’s OK’ expression, my cheeks turning red again.

He glanced at me suspiciously before turning his eyes towards the window again. The plane lurched from side to side as it positioned itself in its charge for America. It swung down sharply, giving Nick and me a view of patchwork fields, so far away now they looked like my grandmother had knitted them. It was stunning.

Something in our relationship shifted during our trip to America. As soon as we touched down on the runway, work took over and Nick morphed into a different man. It was a fascinating transition to watch, but I felt like a distant party looking in from the outside. He seemed like a totally different person away from the hysteria of the office and his broken relationship, and again I was reminded how far I was from really knowing him. I felt light years away from that stolen moment we had shared – a single tear wiped from my face just a few hundred feet from the ground when I felt like we were already lost in the clouds.

He took hundreds of photographs, then tucked himself away in remote corners to upload them to the work server back home. He was a true professional. Passionate and confident. He wasn’t just the office prankster he made himself out to be. I had been worried that he would throw me in a dumpster or something, or that one of his jokes gone wrong would land us both behind bars. But he was far from being that boy here. He was a man. And seeing this side of him made him even more attractive.

The gaming convention was everything I’d hoped it would be and more. I threw myself into interviewing and met everyone from the archetypal geek to the closet gamer. Businessmen with wives, busy schedules and incredibly fast thumbs from secret console sessions in the twilight hours, mingled with out-and-out joystick freaks. America was as brash, outrageous and eccentric as I’d always imagined it would be. And I saw enough nutcases in fancy dress to last me a lifetime. I grew particularly fond of a young man called Buck, whose job it was to wander around dressed as Sonic the Hedgehog, giving out Twinkies to passers-by. He asked for my number. I asked to see his face. He refused. I found this odd, so I avoided him after that.

On our first night I made a couple of calls home, checking everything was OK, then Nick and I had dinner at an uptown sushi bar.

‘Can I ask you something? And if it’s none of my business then just tell me to sod off, but is there something going on back home? You seem troubled,’ he said out of the blue, massacring a sushi roll with his chopsticks. ‘I get the impression there’s some kind of problem – or is your dad just overprotective?’ he went on, giving up and stabbing the fish roll through the middle before sending it to the depths of his stomach.

I had a split second to respond to this question and I did a very bad thing. I lied. I was worried he would be freaked out. It was better not to tell him.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just got a couple of things on my mind at home.’ My blood ran cold as I realised I had been dishonest. Something in his eyes told me he didn’t believe a word. But something stopped me telling the truth.

‘So, anyway, tell me about your family . . .’ I threw in a quick subject change, taking a gentle swig of my vodka and lemonade.

He was wearing a crisp white shirt with thin red stripes, matched with a pair of dark jeans and a brown belt. He looked so good it hurt.

‘Well . . . Where do I start? I have two parents who are, remarkably, still together, despite what seems like a loud and theatrical bust-up every day for the past twenty years. I have a sister who mocks everything about my existence, and a dog called Mildred who just sits and looks at me adoringly. I’m closest to the dog by far – she makes the most sense. How about you?’

I love dogs. I love that he loves dogs. Maybe one day we can have a house in the country full of dogs. Oh dear, it had swung round to me again. Shit.

‘Er, well. I’m an only child. I was always envious of people with brothers and sisters but I guessed I missed out on the rivalry and arguments, which is no bad thing,’ I finished, smoothing my French Connection skirt down with my hands. I still felt like a scumbag for lying.

‘Sounds interesting,’ he said, gesturing to the waiter for two more drinks. Unfortunately the gesture was a little too energetic and mainly involved his right hand, which was clutching a pair of chopsticks and half a California roll. Said roll became separated from the sticks and flew through the air and into a woman’s handbag in the process. We watched with our mouths open as it sailed across the way and dropped into the silky lining of what looked like a brand-new Mulberry bag.

He looked at me. I looked at him. We decided not to tell her. He was shockingly clumsy, and it was great entertainment.

The rest of the night was a happy blur. I hadn’t laughed like that in a long time, and it seemed possible he hadn’t either. My face hurt. I felt free for the first time in ages, like anything was possible.

We spent the evening charging round a strip of bars, throwing back brightly coloured shots and slamming them back down onto marble surfaces. It was a blur of bright lights, giggling and the scent of his aftershave, which made me hungry for him.

He was silly. Funny. Hilarious, in fact. It all got more amusing the more we drank. I dared him to eat the large slice of lemon bobbing in his drink. He did it, in one, including the peel. He dared me to wear his shoes to the toilet and keep a straight face. I did.

Because I was tired after a long day, he gave me a piggyback down a long, straight avenue lined with expensive-looking planters brimming with luscious flowers. Neither of us knew what the time was. It didn’t matter. It felt like the moon was looking down on us and smiling.

I tried to return the favour but he was heavier than I expected and my legs buckled under his weight and my laughter. After thirty seconds and a metre of staggering, the two of us landed on the pavement in a heap of hysteria and scraped knees. One of his legs was caught in a planter. I couldn’t breathe as I lay on the cool stone, giggling loudly.

It dawned on me that a real friendship was developing. I had never had such a connection with a man before. Whilst I was deeply attracted to him, this was something altogether different, a one-off. I was sure he didn’t feel the same. It dawned on me, even at this early stage, that I might be capable of loving him. Falling hard, and instead of laughing, crying. It scared me. I had never felt this before and it filled me with a terror of the same magnitude as my joy. I had never been ‘in love’ before. I didn’t know how it felt to be loved like that. Love scared me. Closeness scared me. This scared me.

I made a decision during our trip to America; I realised this was a matter of the heart that I should keep close to my chest. For my own protection. This connection had the potential to be too special to ruin it with the hurt of misfired romantic intentions. Plus we worked together. It would be messy. And while half of me wanted to tear off his shirt with my teeth, I also wanted him to be in my life for the duration. I didn’t want him to be the one I avoided because he’d hurt me. If I was just his friend, then I would still be blessed. If that meant swallowing my pride and being his shoulder when he got hurt, or being the one he ranted at when he was angry, I was prepared to do it and to do it with dignity.

Surely the physical attraction would melt away in time? Women would come and go, but real friends wouldn’t. I had only just realised how incredibly lucky I was to have even met him, and the smartest thing I could do was to gather myself together and recognise that.

I made a decision. I had to put a lid on my feelings and I had to do it now. Yeah, right.

Three

‘I love your daughter. Terribly.’

Nick

It has been over a year since Sienna came into my world and turned it upside down. I adore her more every time I see her. I still haven’t told her this, though, and I’ve left it too bloody late now. So many times the words got caught in my throat and never made their way out and now we’re in that horrible place. The friend zone. The arm’s-length, hugging, air-kissing, hair-ruffling friend zone.

She dates totally unsuitable men – cowards who can’t handle her, guys who lie, blokes who give her the runaround. But because she tries to see the good in people, she ends up involved with men who will never change and ends up feeling disappointed every time. Sienna doesn’t have a clue just how gorgeous she is, either – which is probably a good thing because if she did, she wouldn’t be the girl I have grown so fond of. That’s what I like about her. The fact that she doesn’t know.

One bad thing is that she listens to terrible music, like The Kooks and the Pussycat Dolls. I think I even found some Backstreet Boys on her iPod once . . . This music thing, this
affliction
, was my mission for today. I bought a CD that reminds me of her every time I listen to it, and I think she needs to hear it. Obviously I won’t tell her that those lyrics and gentle guitar melodies make me feel the way she does when she’s by my side. But I just hope she feels that warmth every time she plays it. I hope it makes her happy.

She hasn’t been her usual chirpy self just lately. She looks a bit tired and worn down and this worries me. I think it’s to do with the chump she’s seeing at the moment. He is, to put it frankly, a moron. I have to act all pally with him when we go to the same parties and stuff, when actually I want to jab him in the eye with a cocktail stick. He has this horrible self-appreciating air about him and he doesn’t treat her right.

His name is Daniel House and he’s a primary school teacher cum rock band twat. I hate him. He’s twenty-five, has crazy dark hair which he waxes at silly angles, and wears pretentious vintage T-shirts with slogans on that he doesn’t even understand.

Daniel House is another reason why I just know that Sienna would never feel for me what I feel for her. We couldn’t be more different. His jeans are so skinny I’m convinced he must have blood-flow problems, and his pants hang out the back. I want to give him such a big wedgie that his boxers rip in the middle and come right up over his head. His friends call him Housey, for Christ’s sake . . . Any man who is regularly addressed by his surname is definitely either from public school or an idiot – or more likely, both.