This is a Love Story

by Thompson, Jessica

  I imagined the kids. The taunting. The swearing. The laughter. I had seen it on TV before, in violent films.

  ‘Go away, will you, Sienna? I don’t want you around me right now,’ he finished, staring into the distance.

  Tears filled my eyes and I felt exactly that – a silly little girl. I felt angry, too. He had no idea what I’d been through. I didn’t have a cushty home life. Far from it. ‘See you around,’ I uttered through a lump in my throat before standing up quickly and walking away, tears spilling down my cheeks.

  I was furious. Furious with Pete for talking to me like that. Furious with myself for meddling in things that were bigger than me. And furious with the bastards who’d hurt him.

  I was a young girl once. ‘Silly’ had amounted to trying to get a stranger to buy me cider from the off-licence, standing on a worm to see if it really would turn into twins, or asking Elouise to pierce my ears – not beating people up and knocking their teeth out. I wiped my tears away and tried to compose myself on the way back to the office. I was shaking.

  The air con hit me like a wall of ice as I entered reception; it tickled the back of my throat. It was just Sandra this time, sitting in a bright orange shirt, reading a copy of OK! magazine. Her pink lipstick and gold bangles reminded me of the kind of women you see in the Costa del Sol, picking away at their fruit salad in a hotel canteen, hairy-chested husbands in tow.

  ‘Hello. Where have you been, then?’ she asked, barely poking her head above her trashy mag.

  ‘Er, just at the common with Pete,’ I responded, hoping she wouldn’t ask me too many questions and looking away so she wouldn’t see my puffy face. She works in reception, of course she would ask questions. She makes it her business to know the ins and outs of everything.

  ‘Who’s Pete, love? Your new boyfriend?’ She raised an eyebrow cheekily.

  ‘No. The homeless guy.’

  All of a sudden I had her full attention. The magazine was on the desk. ‘Oh, you aren’t still hanging around with him, are you? I thought you’d be bright enough to stay away from him,’ she said, treating me to a disdainful pout that would give Dill a run for his money.

  This reaction annoyed me even more so I pushed the lift button and hoped it would hurry up. I knew if I carried on talking to her I would snap.

  ‘Sorry, Sandra, I just . . .’ I muttered evasively. She never heard the rest of the sentence because it wasn’t worth finishing. It scared me how ignorant some people were.

  I wanted to change the world. Take it all on. Make it better. Dad always says it’s my age and that after a while you give up on stuff like that and just worry about what you’re going to cook for dinner and how many teabags are left in the cupboard. But I hadn’t reached that point yet. I was going to do something good for Pete.

  The second I got back to my desk I started searching for information online. Reams and reams of data was available – reports, government guidelines, funding information, case studies, figures . . . I was just looking for one phone number, really. Someone who could help us. And I mean really help us. Not give us leaflets that all led to nowhere.

  It was then that I picked up the phone and called the biggest homelessness charity in London. ‘Hi. Yeah, sorry, my name’s Sienna. Sienna Walker. I have a friend who’s homeless and we need some help . . .’

  Eleven

  ‘Look, this doesn’t change anything, OK?’

  Nick

  I’m asking Chloe to move in. Yes. I’ve decided.

  I’m still scared about her stuff being in my house. I’m still not totally comfortable about seeing ornate bottles of lip cream or whatever it is they’re filled with all over the bathroom. But I know I really care about her, so I’ve decided to face my fear. And I’m still scared about being left again, just like Amelia left me before. It’s always been in the back of my mind, but it’s not logical, is it? You can’t tar everyone with the same brush.

  I see it a little like a bungee jump or white-water rafting. I know it will be good for me. I know it’s the best thing. So I’m going to do it.

  I’m absolutely sure I love Chloe. Well, pretty sure. I’ve said it a few times now and I haven’t felt that panic which has taken over when I’ve uttered it before and realised in retrospect it just wasn’t true. I love having her by my side all night. I love cooking together. I love seeing her beautiful silhouette in the glass of the shower door when I’m shaving. I just love the whole thing.

  So if this is my final fear, it’s time for me to shuffle my toes to the edge of the diving board, look down at the glittering water and let go. Immerse myself in it well and truly, until I’ve washed away all this fear and bullshit. Everything.

  Surely it’s normal to feel a bit of trepidation about this kind of thing? Most people do, I expect. Especially when you’re inviting someone to make your house their home. Your house where you can indulge in as many guilty pleasures as you want without any prying eyes. Strange sandwich combinations, scrubbing dishes with a flannel when you run out of sponges, and stashing a toilet roll, a tin of gherkins and some extra-strong mints in your room just in case there’s some kind of national emergency and the supermarkets are full of panic-buying morons. Well, you never know . . .

  And I know, I know. I had this thing about office relationships, but it’s always gone so well, it never seemed like a good enough reason to walk away from her . . . Chloe is at my place pretty much all the time, so the only thing left to do is fill this little pocket of anxiety with a big, bold move. It really is time I grew up. I’m very aware of this.

  Plus, I think it’s a move that will push away any last tiny bit of agonising over Sienna. I can’t spend the rest of my life pining and wanting and never really doing things properly because I’m hanging on to some impossible crush. Anyway, I pretty much have it all sorted now. This will be the final part of the cure. If Chloe lives with me, I won’t be able to spend any time mooning over our photo book or hovering my finger over the number 2 button on my phone for twenty-five minutes at a time.

  But before I officially asked Chloe, I decided I should get some advice from Sienna. After all, she is my best friend.

  I asked her to meet me in Alexandra Palace, one of my favourite parks in London. From the top you can see what seems like the whole of the city sprawled out in front of you like a perfect painting. Sometimes I sit here and imagine the buildings and the hills have been sketched in thick charcoal, so you can just see the outlines and curves. I imagine what it might be like to try and recreate it as a graphic, but I feel I could never do it justice. Photographers try to capture this scene and sell it in tacky frames on street corners, but nothing beats just being here and using your eyes. This would be a great place to put my demons to bed once and for all, and I couldn’t think of anyone better to help me. My beautiful little demon.

  I made some sandwiches this morning so we could share them on the hill. The fridge was full of horrible processed ham, stale cheddar, and pickle with new forms of life setting up camp inside the jar. Hell, if it had just been me, I’d have cut the funky bits from the cheese and carried out some excavation work on the pickle, but this was for Sienna too. I was horribly aware of just how beautifully classy she was. She was too good for the vile Betty Swollocks student sandwiches of my past and, sadly, my present. I eventually chose to carve up a relatively fresh cucumber and slice up some sad-looking chicken left over from dinner. It wasn’t great.

  Still thinking about the battle I’d had cutting the loaf with a brutal hangover and a blunt knife, I gazed at Sienna splayed out messily on a vintage Danger Mouse beach towel. The sandwiches had never actually made it to the park. I felt a twinge of guilt when I remembered myself having second thoughts just before I met up with her, throwing the sandwiches into a bin near the tube station, and rushing into the nearest posh shop to buy some new ones. I hate waste, and this was very wasteful.

  Her long brown hair was shining, revealing deep red tones that only really appeared when the sun shone. A state
ment pair of oversized, trendy sunglasses were wedged awkwardly against her nose as her head pressed against the ground. I had to stop myself from gently moving her and pulling them from her face so she could just fall asleep properly, because that was what she needed, really. I found myself looking at her body, my eyes settling on her hipbones, just visible below a navy Franklin & Marshall vest top, which had slid up when she’d thrown herself to the ground.

  Now come on, Nick. Be strong. This was supposed to be the big move that would change my life; I wasn’t going to let the childish yearnings of my past get in the way of it. I could finally close the book of Sienna’s and my one-sided love story, literally and metaphorically. She wouldn’t care anyway. Plus she has Ben, and she has never seen me how I see her. If she did, I know we’d be sitting in my living room right now, holding on to each other tight while watching reruns of our favourite comedies.

  We lay there quietly for a while. Then Sienna propped her sunglasses on her head and opened her sea-blue eyes and raised an eyebrow quizzically at me. ‘Oh gosh, what? Are my pants showing? I’m wearing horrible pants today . . .’ she trailed off, pulling at the band of the offending undercrackers with her thumb. I hadn’t actually noticed them, but now she’d pointed them out, they did seem pretty dire.

  ‘So, I made some really posh nosh, Si,’ I announced, pulling the culinary surprises cloaked in brown paper from my bag. Sienna sat up sharply, crossing her legs and clasping her hands together in anticipation.

  I tore away at the crisp wrapping to reveal some Brie and cranberry offerings, which looked very much like they’d come from the deli counter of an overpriced organic café. I wasn’t going to get away with this, was I? I winced inside as the guilty flashback returned. Not only was I passing off carefully prepared food as my own, but my mother’s voice rang in my ears, the things she said when she used to lecture me as a child about all the starving people in the world . . . There I had been, just half an hour earlier, at the deli counter of an overpriced organic café, handing over a crisp ten-pound note. I hadn’t got too much change.

  ‘I made them,’ I said proudly, swiftly scrunching a branded serviette from the inside of the bag into unrecognisable oblivion and tossing it behind me while her head was turned. Why did I feel the need to lie to her about stuff like this? To impress her? Even after all this time? It was pathetic, really.

  ‘Wow, they look so yummy,’ Sienna replied, her eyes even brighter than usual. I think I got away with it, you know . . .

  ‘Well, I made some things last night, actually,’ she said, that stunning grin spreading across her freckled face. From a small Puma tote she whipped out a home-made banoffee pie. This was followed by a small salad full of plump-looking cherry tomatoes, which were almost panting in the 30-degree heat. Next to that was a fresh, fluffy-looking quiche nestled snugly against a blue freezer block. This was typical Sienna, kind and caring. She’d probably had to wrestle it from George that morning. That would explain the small chunk of missing pie.

  ‘Well, that looks fab, Si, thanks very much.’ She’d still managed to outshine me, even with my expensive subterfuge.

  ‘So, what brings us here?’ she asked, looking excited about whatever news I was about to impart.

  ‘Well, something huge is going to happen. But I just needed to ask you first, because I’m a bit scared, really. And you’re my best friend, Si, and I need you to tell me it’s right.’

  I realised how needy I sounded. But I really was that needy. Even choosing which pants I was going to wear was difficult without her. I asked her everything, from how much onion I should put in a curry to which shoes I should wear on a date (apparently, if you get it wrong, it can be a deal-breaker).

  ‘OK,’ she grinned, pulling a tissue from her bag and dabbing her lips. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘All right, I’m just going to come out with this,’ I warned her.

  I noticed she put her food down and shifted her arms behind her, as if to steady herself. Then she quickly put her sunglasses back on.

  ‘I’m going to ask Chloe to move in with me.’

  Slowly she stopped chewing until her face was absolutely still. She didn’t say a word.

  ‘Si?’ I asked, slightly shocked at her reaction.

  ‘Er, sorry. Sorry, Nick – I’m really tired, you know. That’s, that’s, well, it’s fantastic!’ she cried, leaping towards me and wrapping her arms around me with the delicacy and finesse of a baby tiger. She almost knocked me over.

  I felt a lump build in my throat. A hard lump right in the middle of my neck, as if I’d tried to swallow a pebble and it was stuck there, hopelessly. I just held on to her for a bit. We sat there for what seemed like forever; it didn’t feel bad, or wrong. She was so happy for me, and that was lovely.

  The silence was freaking me out a bit so I started filling the gap with comments about which removal company we would use to get her stuff over and where we could go to get cushions, because she wanted more of those, apparently.

  An elderly couple walked past and smiled at us. Over Sienna’s shoulder I saw a helicopter circle over a tall office block; it reminded me of when I was little and had an obsession with ‘’copters’ – that’s what my father said I used to call them, anyway. And here I was, a grown man with proper adult problems, worries and responsibilities, looking at a real helicopter from my favourite patch of grass.

  It wasn’t until Sienna finally shifted and sat back down that I noticed a damp streak down her cheek. A perfect little line, as if it had been painted on with a tiny brush.

  Her shades were so dark I couldn’t see her eyes at all. She looked down at her sandwiches.

  ‘Si? Are you OK?’ I asked, realising that she must have been holding on to me for so long because she didn’t want me to see her cry.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, of course. So what are you doing for the rest of the weekend?’ she asked, suddenly finding her salad very interesting, staring intently at the lettuce leaves as though she had dropped her debit card in there.

  ‘Come on, Si,’ I said quietly, shuffling my bum towards hers and sitting by her side so our arms and legs were touching.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m going to get some more books for Dad, and then I’m going to visit an exhibition, and then . . . and then . . .’ And then she started to cry. My stomach lurched. Shit.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she yelped, between delicate little breaths. She still wouldn’t take her sunglasses off and proceeded to poke a tissue underneath the lenses in a desperate bid to soak up her feelings.

  ‘I’m just so happy for you. I’m just so thrilled you’ve finally found that girl, you know?’ She sniffed and looked at me.

  I looked at her back. ‘So you think I’m doing the right thing?’ Thank God her tears were happy ones.

  ‘Yes, you silly bastard!’ she yelled, pushing me playfully and causing me to tilt to my left and overbalance slightly.

  ‘But don’t forget about me, Sienna, please. We can still see each other loads. Chloe loves you. Nothing has to change. Do you promise that nothing will change?’ I turned to look at her now, hoping she would make that vow and then everything would be all right. I realised there was a hint of desperation in my voice. I even made a movement with my hands and face to simulate our nights with Donkey Kong and a cigar. She looked away like a hurt animal and stayed quiet.

  ‘Si, please? Nothing changes, OK, that’s the deal.’ I poked the top of her hand with my index finger. What was that all about? I might as well have started hanging on to her legs and tugging at her trousers like a kid.

  ‘Things will change, Nick. But it’s for the best,’ she said finally, after taking a deep lungful of the sweet summer air. I could almost feel her rushing away from me; I wanted to hold on to her just so she wouldn’t turn into sand and slip through my fingers.

  ‘What do you mean? No it doesn’t,’ I said, starting to feel like I was pleading with her now.

  ‘It’s not fair, Nick. It’s not fair on Chloe.
I’m not saying we can’t be great friends, but if you two are going to be really serious, that’s a different level. Do you know what I mean?’ She opened her right hand onto her knee, revealing the pale skin that hadn’t been touched by the sun.

  I knew how those hands felt. They were soft and warm, because I’d held them once when she was sad. I’d peeled them open in the car all that time ago when she’d fallen over on the concrete and wiped away the drops of blood. There was no evidence of that now. No scarring. We heal amazingly well, I thought.

  ‘No, I don’t know what you mean,’ I answered, starting to feel the lump in my throat again. Fuck off will you, stupid emotions.

  ‘Well, I know you and I are just friends, and that’s all it ever has been. But I wouldn’t like it if I lived with you. Do you understand?’

  I couldn’t believe what she was saying. The words were spilling from her mouth as easily as ‘Keep the change’ or ‘No mayo with that, thanks.’

  A football came out of nowhere and smacked me in the side of the head. My ear started to ring. I threw it back irritably, a little bit harder than I’d planned. This was a vital moment, too important to be interrupted by flying objects pelted by boisterous children with despondent parents.

  Sienna whipped her head round and watched it sail through the air before it plopped into some water, scaring the shit out of a duck in the process, which quacked in panic and flapped its wings.