Dear Emmie Blue

by Lia Louis

  “Nope. Although you could so do with one of her hippy teas right now.”

  “Coffee,” he says. “I need a fuck-off, massive coffee. Nothing less.”

  I wondered the whole way home last night if anyone saw Eliot and me kiss. It was quick and it was dark, and when I’d pulled back from giggling in his chest like a giddy schoolgirl, all I could see was a sea of dancing bodies and chattering mouths. We didn’t dance anymore, and after we kissed, we hadn’t seen much more of each other. Amanda had taken Eliot off to see an uncle he hadn’t seen in years, and I got lumbered with a paralytic Lucille, who fell asleep on my lap, on the ballroom carpet.

  “What on earth are you doing down there?” Jean had asked, eyeing me as if I was a rough sleeper on his path.

  “Stopping her choking on her own sick. You know. The usual,” I said, and Jean had tutted and waffled, “But the carpet. Do not let her vomit on this floor. We do not want a cleaning bill.”

  I looked for Eliot for the rest of the night, but I also couldn’t bear laying eyes on him for longer than a second when I caught glimpses of him between clusters of people on the dance floor, across the room, drink in his strong hand, smiling, chatting with that lovely mouth. The one that kissed me. That kiss. That kiss. Every time I think about it, the flurry of butterflies is so strong, I feel physically sick. His warm lips, the prickle of stubble, the brush of his thumb on my cheek, the tiny, slow touch of his tongue…

  “Em?”

  “Mm?”

  “I said, what was up with Lucille?”

  I push down the handle of the French press and take a cup off the mug-tree. “Same as you,” I say distractedly. “Pissed as a fart. Bladdered.”

  He laughs croakily, still flat, stomach-down on the sofa, cheek pressed against the cushion. “She never drinks, though,” he says, voice muffled.

  “Makes sense,” I say, holding out the steaming mug to him. “Come on. Up. Drink.”

  Lucas groans and turns, pulling himself messily up on the sofa. He lifts his glasses onto his head and takes the mug. “Thanks, Em.” He sips. “Seriously,” he says, looking up at me. “What’s with you?”

  “What?” I say, and laugh too easily. The way you do when you’ve been bottling up excitement, fighting off laughter, and finally get a chance to set some free.

  Lucas’s brow furrows. “Did you get off with someone?”

  “No.”

  “Oh my God,” he says, stretching his head around. “Are they here? Tom? Tom, are you in there, buddy, come—”

  “No!” I say, and chuck a tiny scatter cushion at him. He winces as it bounces off his head. “Seriously,” he laughs. “If he’d come out of there…”

  “What?” I laugh. “What would you have done?”

  “Well, smash his face in first and foremost, obviously,” he says with a matter-of-fact smile.

  “Obviously,” I mimic, and he smiles.

  “You all outdid yourselves last night, Em. And the band.” He puts a hand on his chest. “I know you said you couldn’t take all the credit, but that was so you. The band was an Emmie Blue move.”

  “Did you like the Busted one?

  “Fucking loved it,” he says, throwing his head back.

  I smile. “I’m glad,” I say, and he looks at me.

  “Only one thing that sucked,” he says.

  “Go on.”

  “I know you don’t like it but… I dunno,” says Lucas softly, “I was sort of hoping I could get a dance out of you. It would’ve been nice.”

  Guilt trickles through my veins. I wonder, for a second, if he saw. It’s hard to look at him, but I do. “You big sap,” I say, and laugh, but Lucas doesn’t. “There’s always the wedding,” I say.

  He nods slowly, flyaway bedhead bobbing as he does. “Yeah,” he says. “There’s always the wedding.”

  * * *

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  oh my GOOD FUCKING GOD.

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  I AM DEAD.

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  He kissed you. YOU!!! KISSED BY THE GOD THAT IS THAT SEXY LIL CARPENTER WITH THE GIANT SCHLONG. (hearsay, but I believe it wholeheartedly to be true.)

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  He’s been desperate to do that Emmie. I told you. He’s probably been practicing on a potato or aubergine or whatever it is Shout magazine used to tell us to practice on to get it just right because why wouldn’t he?

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  You’re a queen. Seriously, I mean that Em. You stood under those disco lights and you did it. You danced. DANCED and kissed and let it all go.

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  The world is your lobster now.

  WhatsApp from Fox Barclay:

  Oyster.

  WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:

  Knew that’d get the fucker’s attention.

  Emmie: Hi Marv, it’s been months since we last spoke. If you don’t want to be in my life, then I think it’s only kind you let me know. This waiting is unfair on me. I have waited long enough. If I don’t hear from you, I hope you understand that I will remove your number and we can go our separate ways. Be well. Emmie.

  * * *

  Even when Eliot reads Louise the sad stories—the heartbreaking love stories in which some poor bastard always ends up dead—I hear laughter float from her bedroom, and tonight is no exception. It’s just after nine, and I’ve not long finished washing up after dinner. Eliot cooked tonight, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him since our kiss at the STEN party two weeks ago. I could hardly look at him when he first arrived armed with two Sainsbury’s bags and a bunch of flowers for Louise. The butterflies in my stomach at the sight of him blindsided me.

  “What’s new, Emmie?” He smiled, coming into the kitchen. “All good?”

  “Yeah. Great. Perfect.” I’d pretended—and probably badly—to be struggling with the seal on a bottle of Louise’s vitamins as he unpacked the shopping. “Good good,” he said, and touched my waist as he passed. A brush of fingers against my skin.

  “I thought I’d do some creamy, cheesy, bad-for-us bacon-y pasta thing with tagliatelle,” said Eliot, tossing an onion in the air and moving to stand beside me at the counter. “Sound good?”

  I nodded, glanced up at him. “So… a carbonara.”

  Eliot narrowed his eyes. “Um, I don’t like to pigeonhole my cookery, thanks very much, Emmie Blue.” Then he’d ducked his head and smiled at me, and whispered as if revealing a secret, tapping the side of my nose, “I totally just did pretend to invent carbonara. Keep it between us, yeah?”

  Louise wasn’t feeling well enough to come downstairs for dinner this evening, so Eliot took it up to her, and after going back up to collect her dinner plate, sat instead, as he has done a lot over the last couple of months, to read her a chapter of her book. It’s amazing to me that this time last year, it was unusual for me to find Louise in bed for longer than six hours at a time, always rising before the sun came up. Now it’s unusual to find her anywhere else.

  I traipse up the stairs to ask if Louise wants a hot drink before bed, and can’t help but smile at the sound of their low, chattering voices. It’s become homely, climbing the stairs to the orangey lamplight spilling from Louise’s bedroom. And tonight, with the additions of the lingering smell of someone else’s recipes, the sound of Eliot’s deep voice, his teasing tone, and Louise’s raspy laughter, makes it feel even more cozy, and safer, than it usually feels. Because Fishers Way feels like home now. Something I never expected to happen, and something I’d hardly noticed happening at all. But it’s home. I think I have finally found it.

  I push open the door. Louise stuffs something in the beige tote bag she keeps all her belongings in—medication, essential oil, tissues, that sort of thing—and holds it on her lap, on top of the duvet, in a scrunched ball. Eliot is leaning forward in the low wicker chair, his strong forearms resting on his legs, and hands together between his knees. He looks up a
t me and smiles, eyes glinting in the lamplight.

  “What are you two up to, eh?” I ask, smiling.

  Eliot raises his shoulders. “Nothing. Just, uh, boring Louise about moons and meteors.”

  “Boring me? Enlightening me, I think you’ll find,” Louise says, smiling gently. “He’s smart, this man.”

  “At least someone is interested.”

  “I am interested,” I say to Eliot, “but I will be more interested when I actually see a shooting star that isn’t an airplane.”

  Eliot shakes his head, gives me a wry smile. “You’ll see tonight.”

  “Believe it when I see it,” I say. “First though, who wants tea?”

  Louise shakes her head immediately, her eyes dull and tired. “No thanks, Emmie, I’m exhausted,” she says. “I’m going to turn in, I think.” Then she laughs weakly and says, “Well, I’m already in, aren’t I?”

  Eliot stands, brushing his hands down his jeans, straightening his T-shirt. “You get some sleep, renegade,” he says, and he leans to put his hand on hers. His strong and large, on her skinny, pale fingers. “And less shit said about my carbonara next time, okay? Go easy on me.”

  “I stand by it,” says Louise. “More pepper next time.”

  Eliot touches two fingers to his forehead in a lazy salute. As he passes me in the doorway, he stops and touches my arm. “I’ll see you outside,” he says, and I tell him I won’t be long. “I’ll make the tea.” He smiles.

  I help Louise get comfortable in bed, adjusting her heavy feather pillows, and take away the throw at the bottom, which makes her legs too hot in the middle of the night.

  “Your dessert was very nice.”

  I look over at Louise, folding the throw in four at the bottom of her bed. “It was, actually, wasn’t it?”

  “You sound surprised.” Louise groans as she leans to pull the duvet to her neck. “You need to believe in yourself a bit more.”

  “I’ll try.” I cross the bedroom floor to the curtains and pull them closed, shutting out the pearly light of the moon. Full tonight, and glaring. And as large and as visible as it’ll be all year apparently, according to Eliot. We used to look at the stars when we were kids, Lucas, Eliot, and I, and Eliot knew everything there was to know about meteor showers and planets and the position of the moon. I listened. Watched, hopefully, the black sky above, hanging on his every word. Never ever saw a shooting star, though.

  “Would you leave them?” Louise asks.

  “You want me to leave the curtains open?”

  “Yes,” says Louise. “I’d like to see the moon tonight, if I can. If it’s going to be at its best, so Eliot says.”

  I nod. “Of course. He said it’s a clear night, so you’ll have a good view.” I open the curtains wide and turn back to her. “There we are. Is that okay?”

  She nods, but her eyes don’t leave mine. I wait, thinking she’s going to ask me to get her something before bed. “You should let him in,” she says softly.

  I pause. “Sorry?”

  “Eliot,” she says, and I feel my heart thump like a drum. “You asked me once if I was ever in love. Do you remember?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “And I lied.” Louise’s hand grips the top of the duvet, knobbles where the knuckles should be. “The woman in the pictures downstairs you asked me about. The one with the shiny hair.” Louise smiles to herself. “Martha.”

  I pause. “Yes?”

  She says nothing.

  “You were in love?” I ask. “You and Martha?”

  Louise’s eyelids close momentarily, and she nods once.

  “Yes,” she says. “And she was wonderful, Emmie. And I loved her the way that it sickens you.” Louise smiles a watery smile. “I still remember the butterflies, the way my insides would feel as though they were turning over when she’d look at me. There is nothing like it. It’s all-consuming, isn’t it?”

  I am frozen, feet on Louise’s thin, seventies carpet. “What happened to her?”

  Louise swallows then. “We… lost her young. She was thirty-seven.”

  My stomach aches as she speaks those words, and looking at Louise in this bed—frail, shrinking, her skin papery and lined—I can hardly believe she was once young, and in love. Young and grieving.

  “I’m so sorry. That’s so awful, Louise.”

  “Yes,” she says, her voice quivering. “And my life was never the same after that. I was never the same. I shut myself off; never let anyone in after Martha, didn’t want to depend on another soul because the pain of losing her was so great…” She stops, her shaky hand coming up to her mouth. I rush across the room then, sit on the side of her bed, beside her, close to her. “And it was a mistake, Emmie. Because I have spent my life alone. And I miss it. I miss being loved. Being held.”

  A lump sits in my throat. I want to say something, but I don’t know what, so instead I lean forward and softly, lovingly, put my arms around her. I feel the boniness of her against me, the warmth. It’s strange, but I love Louise’s smell. Patchouli, always, and that purple fabric softener she insists on using above all others. I always wanted a grandmother, years of wisdom behind her eyes, gentle hugs, the magic of real stories that took place when I didn’t exist. And I feel like this is as close as I will ever get to one. And my heart fills with gratitude that I have met her.

  I draw back, and she smiles at me, tears in her eyes, the moonlight lighting her old, beautiful face.

  “Eliot is here, isn’t he, Emmie?” she says, holding my hand. “He’s always here. That can’t be said about the other one. Let it be. Let him love you.”

  My throat feels as though it is stuffed with cotton wool. I nod. It’s all I can do because the words are trapped.

  “Thank you, Louise,” I say softly, clearing my throat. “D-Do you need anything else?”

  She shakes her head. “I have all I need here.” Then she looks through the window at the moon, and instead of heading straight out the bedroom door, I lean in and kiss her warm, pale cheek.

  “And you’re not alone,” I tell her. “And you are loved. You have me. You have us.”

  Louise looks at me, her eyes wet. “And I am very glad,” she whispers.

  “And of course,” I add, “you have under-seasoned carbonara.”

  Louise laughs, reaches a hand behind my neck and puts her cold lips to my forehead. “Thank you,” she whispers. “And remind me in the morning. I have something to give you that I think you need.”

  I leave, closing the door, leaving her to watch the moon and the stars dance in the sky.

  * * *

  I find Eliot in Louise’s overgrown back garden, black jacket on but open, and beside him, two steaming cups of tea. When he sees me, he holds out a mug and smiles.

  I take it, sitting beside him. “Thanks.” I smile.

  “Louise okay?”

  I nod, lump still sitting in my throat. “Fine,” I say. “She wanted to see the moon. Asked for her curtains to be left open.”

  Eliot smiles gently, his face lit just enough by the moon to see those crinkles at the side of his eyes as he smiles, and I feel it. That turning over in my stomach that Louise spoke about.

  “So,” he says, leaning back on the bench, long legs stretched out in front of him. “Here’s to Emmie Blue seeing her first shooting star.”

  “Such confidence,” I say. “And remember, I want proof it isn’t a Boeing 747.”

  We’re squashed together on this bench, arms, legs pressed together, and so close, I can smell the aftershave on his skin, the fresh smell of his clean clothes. Twice I thought he was going to kiss me this evening. Once when I stood beside him as he cooked, and a second time as I handed him the tray to take up to Louise. But it’s me holding back, I know it is. Standing forever behind a barrier I can shrink back behind if I need to.

  “Seduce him,” Rosie had sung this morning. “Seriously, he is smoking hot, I don’t even know how you’ll even manage to refrain from taking him right there, in t
hat musky ol’ conservatory.”

  “Rosie, I don’t even know if it’s even—”

  “Oh my God, the truck,” she said, as if a lightbulb had pinged on above her head. “Fuck in the truck. Him in nothing but his little carpentry belt of tools.”

  “Dangerous,” Fox had muttered. “All those sharp implements.”

  “And them arms.” She had grinned at me. “I’ve seen them. Chuck you all over the place, they would. Get to it. Climb him like a fucking lamppost.”

  I’d burst out laughing at that, and Fox had smirked at her. “That how it’s done, is it, Rosie?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know, Fox?” she said.

  And Fox’s cheeks had pinkened, but not looking away, he’d said quietly, “Perhaps.”

  Eliot stretches an arm behind me, across the back of the bench, his hand resting on my shoulder. The air is sharp with February chill, the steam from our teas dancing and wisping wildly from our laps. “You won’t need proof,” he says. “Shooting stars are different. You’ll know when you see it. It’s like this… spark. This small but powerful little spark. Unmistakable.”

  “Fine,” I say, looking up at the sky. “Eyes are officially peeled.”

  “And I promise,” he says, “if worse comes to worst, Emmie Blue, and we don’t see one this time, we will on the night of the Eta Aquariids.”

  I pause. “In English, please?”

  He laughs. “A meteor shower. In May. You’ve got to stay up to an ungodly hour, but it’s worth it. Trust me.”

  “I see.” I nod. “Well, it’s a date.”

  Eliot smiles. “It definitely is.”

  We drink our tea, talking in the low voices we’d use when we were kids and Jean and Amanda were asleep, our eyes fixed on the skies above, both of us silent for moments after Eliot points out certain stars or constellations. We did this all the time in Le Touquet. I must have been seventeen. Lucas, Eliot, and me, in Jean and Amanda’s garden, on blankets on the neat lawn, me in the middle of them both. I can see it now, so vividly. Lucas was yawning, saying to Eliot, “Is the aim to fall asleep? Because I am almost there,” and Eliot laughing and saying, “No, you dick. The aim is to not focus on anything. Just look at the sky as a big picture. And you’ll catch one.”