Love Me (24 page)

I give him a look. ‘I've been trying that for a while too.'

‘You have?' Spanish flushes slightly pink in the cheeks, gives me a look of suspicion and gut-wrenching hope. To be understood. ‘Really?'

‘Everything's so fast and convenient and empty,' I tell him,
heart beating fast. I take a breath. I never even told Juliet. She wouldn't have been able to help shrinking it. ‘There's no sacrifice. It's hard to get a grip on anyone, really. It's hard to feel anything real.'

Spanish nods slowly, his golden eyes harbouring a deep, unknowable glow.

‘It's not that I never want love. It's the opposite really. I think I've been celibate because I want love so
much
. It wasn't really a conscious decision. I just got tired of feeling nothing. I need the kind of relationship that—'

‘Why would you want any kind of relationship?' he says, looking down at the table. The napkin is now almost as fine as grains of salt. ‘Relationships are a war that nobody ever wins. There's a Chinese proverb that says
not caring for anyone in particular is caring for all mankind in general.
Have you ever been in love before?'

I consider lying but: ‘Yeah.'

‘What did that ever do for you? It make you happy?'

I look down at my pie. Finish it. Tap my fork against the side of the bowl. ‘My aunt says,' I tell him slowly, ‘that it takes divine strength to be soft when the world is hard.'

He sweeps the pile of torn paper into his hand, making sure he gets every piece. ‘Are you finished?' he says.

For a moment I'm confused, then I nod and he calls over the waitress, asks for the bill. When I reach for my bag he says, ‘I got this.'

‘Thanks,' I say. ‘Are you gonna see me home safely?'

He stares at me and finishes his water.

‘Sure,' he says.

MY SEVENTH OR
eighth year, I had a thing about digging holes.

I would get down on my knees in our little back garden, in the watery sunshine, take my rusty spade and chip away at the surface of the world until the soil grew moist. Sending up its metallic smell of growth, earthworms and secrets.

When I'd made the hole as promisingly round as I could, I'd go back in the house, through the utility room, into the kitchen. There, my mum would be sitting at the table reading a magazine,
Cosmopolitan
or
Vogue
, drinking a glass of wine, ankles delicately crossed. She'd barely look up.

I'd go to the cupboard where all the miscellaneous kitchen bric-à-brac was, and proceed to take out the black roll of bin-liners, turning it over in my small, dirty hands, searching for a perforation.

My dad might come in then and glance suspiciously at me over the rim of his glasses. He knew about me and my tense little projects.

What's that for? You can't just waste those things, you know! They cost money!
Gently he would say this.

Nothing
, I would reply, ripping a bag carefully off the roll. I'd scurry outside where it was getting chillier by the hour, and go to work, lining my hole with the plastic bags, which I kept in place with rocks. I'd be so excited. Pushing my sleeves up every five minutes and grinning to myself.

Then I'd go back inside and my mum would be gone from the kitchen, and I would hear her voice in the hallway,
laughing conspiratorially over the phone. Perfect opportunity to fill the biggest jug I could find with water, then bring it back and forth to the garden and pour it out into my plastic-lined hole, watching the water catch the light and glisten against the glossy black bin-liners. It made me feel the way I did in church the first time I saw the stained-glass windows.

I imagined the little fish I was going to put in there and the plants I was going to plant around it and how special it would be and that gave me the strength to keep adding layers of plastic, and more rocks, getting dirt on my face, scratching my head, pushing my sleeves up and itching inside my clothes. I'd squat in the dirt and anxiously watch the levels, filling quietly with hope and nerves. Desperate to get beneath the surface of my grim little city back garden, make something beautiful out of something ordinary.

After countless trips to the sink, I would have to admit the truth to myself – one that put me in an inky-black sulk. The soil kept stealing all my water.

I was helpless against it. No matter what I did, my water drained away. Nothing worked. I would chuck my spade in the dirt and go inside, full of childish grief and sudden hunger.

Water was a slippery, beautiful, tricky thing.

OUR CONVERSATION HAS
dried right down to the crust. We stand in the basement, in the dim lamplight, electrified by a fear that seems bigger than the moment. A man and a woman together on the cusp of something . . . somewhere. It happens all the time, right? It's so common that there are six billion people on the planet, almost all of us made the same way.

I sweep all the assorted debris from the little sofa so he can sit; notepads, magazines, CDs, a bra, a pencil and a novel. Then he perches on it like he's at the edge of a high diving board, looking down into the blue, calculating the odds of him not making it to the water alive. I offer him some to drink. He takes the glass and turns it around and around between his fingers.

‘I've never had a girl,' Spanish says eventually, ‘track me down and beat up some chick to get to me before.'

‘Yeah, well, that's just how we do it in the LDN, rock star.'

‘The what?'

‘London town. Centre of the universe.'

‘I see.'

He beats a rhythm out on the glass, all the music in his head emerging in spurts as a random humming. And then silence. I could cry, looking at the little baby curls at his hairline, the self-protective set of his narrow shoulders, the pale skin on his arms etched with dark tattoos. All it's going to take is for one of us to say something – make one move

– and the space between us will catch alight and burn to ash.

‘Seriously though, that Ivy – or whatever her name was

– she was just annoying, that's all. I hate to disappoint you.'

‘You did track me down, though. I was shocked to see you.'

‘Just shocked?'

‘Happy,' he says slowly. ‘I was happy too, I guess. And a little worried. Why did you come tonight?'

I see right through to the core of him, sitting here. All the tics, the eccentricities, all the moods of him are a clear map I could read blindfolded.

I don't know if I'm going to be able to help myself.

‘Why were you worried?'

‘Why did you come?'

‘I told you that already,' I say, breathless, feeling spun about. ‘You didn't call me and I thought you were mad or something. I thought we were gonna be friends.'

‘But why did it matter so much?'

‘I . . .'

‘You know, the first time I met you and we were introduced, I felt something click into place when I heard your name. Eden.'

‘Why?'

‘The garden . . .' He gives a tense shrug. ‘The snake. It doesn't take a genius, right? I knew someone like you would come along.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Come here,' he says.

I stare at him. The lamp throws his features into chiaroscuro and the room behind him is completely black. I'm simultaneously magnetised and repulsed.

‘Come on. This is gonna happen, right?' he says.

And when he says that, it's like when they switch all the
lights on at the end of a house party and you're scared to look up 'cause you were dancing nasty with someone in the dark but now you're scared to see their face for real in case they're ugly. Or really, really beautiful.

‘Come on,' he says again, the command now a request. Fear steals into his face. Mine too, probably.

‘I thought you didn't do this.'

‘Eden,' he says helplessly.

I go to him because he looks set adrift. I want to re-anchor him, if only for the moment.

He avoids my hug and we kiss clumsily, all tongue and teeth, as if he's never done it before, and he tries to get my clothes off before there's any harmony. We don't both fit comfortably on the tiny sofa, so I lead him to my low, dishevelled bed.

I'm undone by the sensation of his sharp little bones under my fingers. His awkwardness, his quick, jerky release. His forehead shining with sweat.

His eyes are closed, face in my neck. His hair is moist. I'm completely awake, completely myself throughout, though not unmoved.

Afterwards, he lies on his back and closes his eyes, face at war. He pulls me to his chest. He's been waiting for someone like me like some people wait to be diagnosed with cancer.

PICK UP, PICK
up, pick up.

‘Hello?'

‘Hey!'

‘Who's this?'

‘Juliet,' I say, relieved just to hear the accent. Feels like I've never been so far away. ‘It's me, you doughnut.'

‘Oh my God! Eden! Mate!' I can hear traffic and loud squeaky brakes in the background. She must be on the bus. ‘So good to hear you!'

‘What's up?'

‘Wow . . .! Not much going on, bella. You're not missing anything. September's got an identity crisis and thinks it's February. But cool apart from that. Just getting on with it, really. Chasin' boys and bakin' dough. Got your groove back yet?'

‘Kind of . . .'

‘Oi!' she shouts. ‘Call your dad, please! I have to say that before I forget, 'cause he's going mad! Keeps asking me to act as some kind of go-between to bring you two back together. I know he's your dad, but pretty soon I'm gonna have to tell 'im to pee off!'

‘I will, I will . . .'

‘So are you and Zed swapping liquids yet? I still can't believe you both wound up in the same house by accident.'

‘I'm not sure it
was
an accident, knowing my Aunt K. As far as liquid swapping goes, Juliet, you know it ain't basic like that.'

‘Nothing basic about liquid exchange. It's how both of us got here and it's pretty bloody magnificent actually. And if you ain't swapping no liquids it's all just a brain strain anyway!'

‘I've met someone else.'

It's only when I say it out loud that I realise it's something I've never said before.

‘You,' she says, ‘Eden Maria Jean-Baptiste, have
met
someone?'

‘Stop milking it! But . . . yeah.'

‘Migosh! That's immense! Don't waste any time do ya, you MINX!' She laughs and squeals in delight. I imagine the looks she must be getting from other travellers on the bus. ‘What's he like?'

‘He's . . . well, he's beautiful, Juliet. And strange. He plays lead in a band and he's really smart and profound and we understand each other.'

She sighs. ‘I'm so happy to hear that, love. So happy.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Well, to go from the sublime to the ridiculous, your friend Dwayne poked me online a couple of days ago. He's trying to take me out. I pretty much think he's trying it with everyone at the moment, but it's cool.'

‘Ugh! You're not gonna go, are you?'

‘Why not? It's a free night out. Plus, me and you are different, you know,' she says. ‘Very different. You're always looking for a bloody romantic hero, all windswept and troubled. The less accessible the better. I like 'em quiet, serviceable, and preferably a bit slow.' She raises her voice. ‘Driver! Can't you see I rang the bell? Stop!'

‘God, I really miss you, Juliet!' I laugh. ‘And kebabs.'

‘I've got to get off the bus with my bags, so gotta run. Go back to your Heathcliff. Make sure you call me soon though . . .'

‘Juliet!'

‘Yep?'

‘I'm just wondering if . . . I mean. Do you think it's a problem that he's a friend of Zed's?'

Pause. ‘Nope. Do for self, bella. That's the first rule.'

‘HEY BRANDY!' I
catch her coming out of her room and she's once again cinched, painted and fragrant. ‘The lady is back, huh?'

‘Indeed,' she says. ‘How you doing?'

‘I'm good.'

‘Evidently,' she laughs. ‘That guy Spanish called for you a couple of times, by the way. What did you do to that boy?'

I shrug, embarrassed, smiling. I've hardly ever been in any kind of relationship long enough for it to go public. I'm not sure what face to wear. He's
mine
now?

‘Don't be coy with me, sweetheart!' says Brandy. ‘It doesn't suit you!'

‘I don't know,' I say, answering truthfully. ‘What time did he ring?'

‘About an hour ago.'

‘Cool, thanks. So where are you off to looking so pretty?'

‘Violet fried some chicken for dinner so . . .' she smoothes her hair. ‘I'm gonna go help her out with it, seeing as Eko only has five teeth.'

We laugh, standing in the hall. And I can smell it, the scent of fried chicken wafting down the stairs. And a cake, I think. My stomach roars audibly.

‘That girl is a kitchen wizard,' I say, with a sheepish laugh. ‘It's ridiculous.'

‘Why don't you come? She's always cooking too much food anyway.'

Spanish can't hook up tonight, so I'm all alone. The invitation is too good to miss. ‘She won't mind, will she?'

‘No . . .' says Brandy with a soft smile. ‘Of course not.'

‘Well, you ain't gotta ask me twice. Lead the way, señorita.'

Upstairs, soul music is playing in the living room. TV on mute. ‘Brandy!' says Violet, padding barefoot out of the kitchen. She's bright and fresh in a red tracksuit, her hair covered by the habitual baseball cap. ‘And Eden! I guess everybody's in the mood for chicken. Zed's up here too.'