Eight Perfect Hours: The hotly-anticipated love story everyone is falling for in 2021!

by Lia Louis

  ‘So your first pasty experience is an outlandish curry one.’ I laugh as Sam examines the pasty in his large hand. ‘You really are an adrenaline junkie.’

  Sam sinks his teeth into it and nods at me. ‘OK. OK, this is – good?’

  ‘You’re a fan?’

  ‘I think I’m a fan.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s a relief,’ I say. ‘I’d have had to have completely stopped seeing you if you’d have hated it.’

  ‘Nah.’ He grins. ‘You’d have orchestrated another blizzard. Stolen another keyring …’

  ‘So you do admit it then,’ I swoop in, a finger shooting up to point at him. ‘That maybe my keyring was yours, that maybe we had the same nurse––’

  ‘No. It was a joke.’

  ‘But don’t you – think it’s weird, at least,’ I say, ‘that we keep bumping into each other, that there are all these coincidences, like … you keep showing up in my life.’ Those last few words fall from my mouth and I’m grateful there’s a pasty to hide behind, although I drop a confetti-cannon’s worth of crumbs down my top as I do.

  ‘I guess,’ he says. ‘But then it’s a small world––’

  ‘Not that small,’ I jump in and Sam looks at me, says nothing. ‘My friend Charlie wonders if you went to the Green Day concert in Milton Keynes, back in 2005, the same one we went to.’

  Sam smiles, three creases in his forehead appearing, as if he’ll humour me, nothing more. ‘Um, nope, ’fraid not.’

  ‘What secondary school did you go to?’

  ‘St Agnes High School,’ chews Sam. ‘In Oregon.’ He raises a mocking eyebrow. ‘Did you go to school in Oregon too, Noelle Butterby?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Oh, just eat your pasty.’

  We sit on the balcony for a while, looking out to the blue summer sky, to the leafy horizon, Bath sitting proudly in the distance with its biscuit-coloured buildings standing high like sandcastles. And as always when Sam and I are together, we talk about everything, and nothing, and it’s there, the whole time, that churn in my stomach, the tingling skin, the heart racing just that bit too fast. But at the same time, it’s like I can say anything. No posturing, no selling myself and – God, is that what I do? Do I sell myself when I’m with Ed? And if I do, why? What am I trying to prove?

  ‘You OK?’ Sam asks.

  I nod my head as if shaking off the thoughts, and say, ‘So, guess what, Samuel Attwood?’

  He looks up from his lunch, licks his lips. ‘What?’

  ‘I have said yes to something and I am definitely panicking, as you would say. In real time. Before your eyes.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Candice at Jetson’s.’

  ‘Post-it Candice?’

  ‘Of Candice and Steve fame, yes.’ I nod. ‘She’s asked me to do the flowers at her wedding. And I’ve said yes. Shitting myself. Like – properly shitting myself. But I’m doing it.’

  Sam stares at me, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. ‘Noelle, that’s amazing.’

  ‘Well, not quite amazing yet because I might fuck it all up and I haven’t even done anything yet and I actually thought last night, I have the power to fuck their entire day up and––’

  ‘No, but you did it,’ says Sam factually. ‘You said yes. That’s – that’s brave.’

  I drop my eyes to my lap, pick away stray pasty crumbs. I can’t look at him. Sometimes, looking into Sam’s eyes makes me feel like I’m naked. Like he can see too much of me. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But I’m not sure I’d have actually said yes really. It was you, you know, talking about saying yes and panicking later and looking death in the face, and OK weddings aren’t death – although I’m sure they represent that for some people …’

  Sam chuckles, a rumble in his throat, his hand at the dark stubble of his chin.

  ‘But I just thought fuck it. I wanna do it. For me. Because sometimes it feels like I’m fading into the background or something and – nobody can see me. You know? But I thought – well, I can see me. Right? And this is what I want to do.’

  Sam hesitates, his brow crinkling beneath the dark hair he then swoops a hand through. But then he just says, ‘Yeah. Right. Definitely.’

  ‘Ed said he’s going to help me,’ I carry on. ‘It’s in Scotland so I need to sort trains and stuff, but he’s going to follow me up. Help. Stay over with me.’

  Sam straightens at that – his dark brows raise, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, stands rigid, shoulders broad. ‘That’s cool,’ he says. ‘Ed the Ped, showing up when he’s needed, that’s good.’

  ‘Yeah. Really good.’

  ‘Yeah. Totally.’

  Silence follows, thick and loaded, like static. Sam kicks the bottom of the balcony with the top of his trainer, and I fiddle with the paper bakery bag in my hand. I pretend to see something in the distance, but it’s pointless, because Sam hasn’t looked at me once.

  ‘I sort of want to take the sleeper train there,’ I say, words breaking the silence. ‘It was something I always wanted to do. When I was a kid.’

  ‘Then you should do it,’ says Sam, looking up at me. ‘When is it? The wedding.’

  ‘September twenty-eighth.’

  ‘Ah. Same as that charity event I talked about – the charity climbing thing?’

  ‘And you seem riveted by that,’ I joke and he laughs.

  ‘Yeah, it’s – not my thing. It’s all suits and dancing and …’ He shudders, makes a face at me then smiles, teeth grazing his lip. ‘But there’ll be booze. And food, and there’s a charity auction where they sell us off as guides or whatever. Last year it was at a ballroom in Manchester. Me. A guy who likes hanging off rocks in his spare time, in a ballroom.’

  I giggle, but think to myself that he’d look perfect in a ballroom, in a suit, in anything. ‘And where is it this year? Oh – shit. You said Scotland! Didn’t you? When you mentioned it before? At the launderette?’ My heart starts to whoosh loudly in my ears.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s in …’

  ‘Edinburgh,’ we say together. Sam’s eyes widen and his hand drifts slowly to his chin, at the same time I spew out, ‘Oh my fucking God. Where?’ My voice is so high pitched, I’m giving myself tinnitus.

  ‘Uh. Some huge famous night club, according to Clay, my buddy – what?’

  ‘The wedding. Candice and Steve’s. It’s at a hotel. In Edinburgh. Oh my God.’

  Sam laughs, but it’s a nervous, strained laugh, and he looks at his feet. ‘Weird,’ he says.

  ‘Just weird? We’re both going to be in Edinburgh, Sam. We are both going to be in Edinburgh at the same time, on the same weekend––’

  ‘It’s a big place,’ says Sam, and I stare at him. ‘And a small world. What?’ he laughs.

  I shake my head, curls bouncing around my shoulders. ‘Nothing,’ I say, when really, all I want to do is squeal, spill it all out on the phone to Charlie and Theo, or sit, like I’m in some sort of crime drama, and try to work out why this keeps happening – spread it all out, all the evidence, across the floor. If we hadn’t had this conversation, we might’ve just been wandering around Edinburgh and yet again, bumped into each other. It is weird. It’s weird and wonderful and it’s bubbling away, the wonder of it, under my skin, as if it’s going to burst through the surface.

  ‘Maybe I’ll bump into you,’ is all I say, and he says, ‘If I manage to escape the hours of speeches,’ and a part of me wants to grab him by his collars, ask him what he thinks it means. Because he always seems so annoyingly relaxed – almost dismissive of it. As if I believe in fairy tales or something, and he’s far too old for such shit.

  ‘Speeches,’ I say instead. ‘Sounds a bit like a wedding.’

  Sam nods. ‘Probably why I’ve never had one.’

  ‘You mean, why you never got married?’

  Sam nods. ‘Jenna always wanted to.’

  ‘And why didn’t you?’

  He shrugs and looks down at the floor, kicks the balcony gently again, the way pe
ople might gently and pointlessly kick a tyre. ‘I guess I’ve always just associated marriage with, you know, settled life, pets and kids and two vacations a year and white picket fences …’ He smiles over at me. ‘I dunno, that’s never been me. And it wasn’t Jenna either, for a while but …’

  ‘It is now?’

  Sam nods.

  ‘Do you think you ever will?’

  Sam looks down at his coffee, then looks at me with a slight smile. ‘Cars are for confessionals, Gallagher,’ he says. ‘Balconies are for pasties.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The new autumn sun is shining extra brightly today, through the misty train window, as if it knows – today is like no other for me. Today is a special day – the start of something. Today is the day that I am going to Edinburgh. Away from home. And not only that, but when I get to the other end I’ll be working as a wedding florist. Yep. Me. Noelle Butterby, florist for events and weddings. And Ed – he’ll be joining me later, helping me, staying over with me, and in a five-star hotel no less. He just needs to finish his shift at the hospital. Life. I feel like I am living life, in this moment, with everyone else.

  A woman scoots onto the train, pushing down the handle of a little ruby-red suitcase at her side and placing it onto the luggage platform. She finds her seat in front of me and plugs in her earphones, sips from a coffee, the steam wisping from the little spout, leaving behind a lingering gust of sweet, orchidy perfume. I walk past these trains most days, hear them tear by in the distance as I wash up, or take out the rubbish in our tiny little cul-de-sac. And now here I am on one, and it’s taking me miles away from my little safe world and into – well, the big wide world. A life that I want. A life I always hoped I could have one day.

  The train driver speaks, muffled and deep, through the tinny speaker. He talks about the route, about the refreshments carriage and about the weather, and houses speed by in a watercolour blur, and I really feel like I’m being carried away. Everything in this moment, is perfect.

  At half past ten, I listen to a podcast and break open the ham sandwiches I made last night as Mum shouted things she wanted to be sure I’d packed from the other room – ‘Deodorant? Paracetamol? Oh, and how many pairs of knickers have you packed? I don’t think four is enough, Noelle. Think about what Dilly says. Always account for two accidents. An extra pair for a bug, and a pair for a hangover.’ And at quarter past eleven, three hours into the journey, a phone call cuts through my music, smack bang in the middle of listing down everything I need to do when I get to Edinburgh in my notebook with one of twelve spare pens I panic-packed.

  ‘Noelle, it’s me,’ Dilly’s voice speaks through the phone when I answer. ‘I’m having a fucking ’mare.’

  My heart stops. ‘What? What’s happened?’

  ‘Van’s conked out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Conked out on the motorway. We’re waiting for the AA. We didn’t have any breakdown cover so we had to call them and sign up first – and then they said––’

  ‘Dilly, I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Well, I’m on the hard shoulder!’ he shouts.

  ‘But – but when do you think you’ll be able to get home?’

  Dilly sighs noisily, as a lorry swoops past him, its horn blaring. ‘I’m sorry, Elle, but we’re still in Newcastle.’

  At that, I stand up, as if to attention. A woman feeding a baby on the seat opposite, looks up at me, her baby nothing but two tiny little kicking legs beneath a white cloth. I sit back down.

  ‘W-What time did you set off?’ I take a deep breath, but my heart is beating like it’s running a mini marathon, like it’s going to attempt it from here, if you don’t mind, to sprint to Scotland on its own. ‘How can you still be in Newcastle?’

  ‘Set off about half an hour ago, I reckon. Maybe forty minutes?’

  ‘Dilly, it’s gone eleven.’ I’m hysterical. And I know this because I sound hysterical.

  I can’t believe this. I cannot believe he would leave it this late. Mum’s on her own and she isn’t expecting to be on her own for long. Something bubbles up inside me, like hot, acidic waves. Anger. Sadness. Panic. This is what I mean. This is what I mean when I say that I feel like people don’t see me.

  ‘Dilly, you are supposed to be with Mum––’

  ‘I know, I know, but what can I do, Elle? I’m not the driver, it isn’t my van – Elle? Elle, are you there?’

  I hang up, stare down at my phone, as if for an answer to this total mess. Instead, I call Ian. It goes straight to voicemail. I stare down at the screen as a ‘sorry’ comes through at the top of my screen, from Dilly – a pathetic little window that is absolutely no help or consolation. A fart in a hurricane, as they say, a drop in the ocean.

  Mum is alone. Dilly is stuck. And I can’t do anything about it because I’m on a fast train to fucking Edinburgh. In Scotland. Hundreds and hundreds of miles away.

  Ed.

  Ed finishes soon.

  I quickly type out a text for him to call me as soon as possible, then another to Ian, and another text to Dilly to tell him to call Mum and tell her not to worry, because Noelle’ll sort it. She always sorts it. And I’m ashamed when ten minutes later, Mum rings and she rings again and I watch the call taper off because I know she’ll be worried – and I don’t yet have the solution, like I always do. I stand, pace the carriage as it rockets through the countryside. I want to get off. I want to stop the train and turn back. I feel sick. I feel sick. Like I might actually need those extra sodding standby knickers.

  I go into the train bathroom, yanking open the door and slamming it. I pull down the window and suck in gusts of cool, clean air. It’ll work out. Something will work out. It always does. I look out to the passing greenery, the mossy blur of bushes, the endless blue skies. I think of Sam. I always think of Sam, lately, when I don’t know what to do. When I do know what to do. All the time really. He’s always there in my head. And like the universe takes pity on me, it throws me a bone. My phone vibrates.

  ‘Ed.’

  ‘Hey, Nell,’ says Ed breezily, ‘I’m just heading to the station now. Showered at work. Got off a bit earlier––’

  ‘Dilly’s broken down.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dilly. Did you get my text? He’s in Newcastle still. Stuck on the hard shoulder.’

  ‘But – he said he’d be with your mum at midday––’

  ‘I know, but his van, with his bandmates – it’s broken down.’

  ‘Ah, shit,’ he exhales noisily. ‘Bummer. Look, do you need me to pick up anything?’

  ‘No. No, actually, I was thinking maybe you could …’ I swallow. Why does this feel so hard? Why am I nervous? It’s Ed. The love of my life apparently. Why does it feel like this, when all I’m doing is asking him for help? ‘Would you go and sit with Mum?’

  Ed pauses, a painful, loaded silence. ‘What?’ I can picture his face. Stone. A face that says ‘I see not a single ounce of logic.’

  ‘I know, Ed, I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you head there right now then she’s got someone there from twelve, and then I can try and get hold of Ian or perhaps even Gary at number twenty-one just to––’

  ‘Nell, no,’ says Ed. ‘No, I’m not doing that. I’m getting on a train and I’m coming to Edinburgh with you––’

  ‘But I can’t keep going to Edinburgh when––’

  ‘—this can’t go on––’

  ‘But right now I need to sort something and I can’t stop this fucking train, Ed …’

  I’m shouting now, and I know people must be able to hear me from the other side of the door. This mad woman who had it all together, mere minutes ago, losing it slowly in a clinical train toilet that smells like pine and cheap body spray.

  ‘Nell, this is a massive opportunity for you,’ says Ed, ‘you are not turning back and letting it be ruined.’

  ‘Please go back. Just go and sit with her.’ I’m crying now, my words shaking and pathetic.

&n
bsp; ‘No, Nell. I’m sorry. I don’t agree. And if I go, nothing ever changes, and I’ll miss my train.’

  I close my eyes, lean my head against the wall behind me. A tear falls down my cheek. A montage of memories like this, echo through my mind. Ed irritated, Ed despairing of my ridiculous life. Mum and everything she did for me, when I lost my way. Her gentle hands, sponging my back in the bath, trays and trays of food brought lovingly to my bedside. She put me back together. And where was Ed? Ed was at uni, ticking his stupid, empty, bloody McDonnell boxes.

  ‘Noelle, I care about being there for you. This is long overdue, this is––’

  My phone bleeps in my ear. Ian is calling. ‘I’ll call you back.’

  I hang up before Ed can say anything else. Within five minutes, Ian is getting into his car and heading for Mum. Dropping everything, just for her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Steve, this is the genius I was telling you about. Meet Noelle Butterby. You know Noelle, don’t you? From work? Come on, you must recognise her now.’

  Big Steve in Sales bear-hugs me and pulls back, looking down at me with a wide, beardy, bristly smile. ‘Yes!’ he bellows. ‘Of course, I do. Ah, thank God for you, Noelle, that’s all I can say. You’ve saved our bacon here.’

  ‘Oh, well, it’s a pleasure. I’m honestly super excited.’ And it’s the truth. I really am. I’d cried a bit on the train here, after Ian had shot round to Mum’s. Ed had called a few times and I watched the calls ring through as the countryside blurred past my window. Confusion twisted in my gut, and I was teetering on the edge – I almost tipped over into it, into worry, into all-consuming despair of ‘I can’t do this. Look. This is proof that I can’t do this, that I can’t actually have this, I’m not allowed this.’ But then I got a text from Candice, and a ‘You’ve got this Gallagher’ text from Sam which warmed me through, like sunlight, and I felt like I could. I washed my face, ordered too much from the refreshment carriage and answered a call from Ed (who explained calmly, black-and-whitely, why he said what he did, and we agreed to forget it, not let it ruin the weekend). By the time the train got in, I was fizzing with excitement again.