The Art of Letting Go (The Uni Files) (36 page)

Three minutes later, he is in front of me.

“It is not what you think,” he says again, while taking a cigarette from my packet.

“I don’t think anything. It's okay.”

It kind of is. I know that when he is gone it will not be my business to be bothered by Jacuzzis or skinny blondes.

“Why are you upset then?”

I stare at him for the longest moment before deciding to go with honesty. “Because I have realised just how hard it is going to be.”

“How hard will what be?”

“Letting you go,” I whisper.

He reaches his hands for me and fits them around my waist, planting his lips against my forehead.

“I know,” he whispers back, before stepping me backwards into a shop doorway and making use of the cover of darkness only the way that Ben Chambers can.

14th April

We have just over two months left. Last night when we got home after the gig we had another conversation without words, different from before. This time I think we were trying to memorise each other, so we were imprinted on one another's soul. I laid there with my eyes closed, using my fingers to feel his face, like a blind woman reading her favourite book, the feel of the skin around his eyes, the crinkly bit, the slope of his nose, the outline of his lips.

He is my favourite book. Captain Wentworth has been demoted.

15th April

My list of most hated people is as follows:

Mihraandah. Impressive. She made it to the top spot the first time I met her.

Liam. He doesn't like me and I am only too happy to return the favour.

My dad. Our relationship has improved, but it's not fixed.

Mr. Sleaze from Arseholes R’Us. I am still having nightmares about those dirty boxers.

Barbie. Well, at least she’s down to fifth place.

Tracy, shit solicitor. I want my new keys.

Primary Head teacher. She will never be forgiven for making me read in assembly when I told her I needed to go to the toilet.

Brian Johnson. When I was thirteen, he told everyone that I kiss like a frog.

Sparrow Chick. She never came back and talked to Beth. What a bitch.

Me. I am a completely spineless dick.

16th April

Taylor is singing, "Mine."

I thought she had gone away but apparently not.

“What are you humming?” Ben calls from his side of the study desk.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not.”

“Is it Taylor?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

Ben giggles and ducks his head down from between our study desks. His foot taps mine in time with my tuneless humming. We are supposed to be studying but I am not really. I am staring at the books I have opened and doodling. Lots and lots of triangles.

I can’t concentrate on anything. I just keep counting . . . How many days until he leaves? I have to count them every day and every time I do, a knot of anxiety grows in the pit of my stomach.

Meredith and the girls want to go out tonight but I have said no. I don’t want to be away from him for even a second. Every second I have is just too precious to lose.

19th April

My jog around the park today was sweatier than I am used to and I have realised with surprise that spring is here. It has probably been here for a while, I have just not noticed. Summer is snapping at its heels, eager to have its full month of glory.

I found the most amazing place in the centre of the park that I am going to take Ben on Sunday. Let’s call it the Lilah McCannon date. It’s about time I organised one.

20th April

8.30 a.m.

“Keep tomorrow free! I am taking you on a date,” I say to Ben.

“What?
You
are taking me on a date?”

“I sure am.”

“Well, that is a first. All you do normally is have sex with me.”

Smart arse.

3.23 p.m.

Work sucks.

Ben hasn’t come. He’s gone to meet Dave, and he didn’t tell me why. So, no guitar playing, no crowds, and not that many sales. Baz and I have been staring at the counter and randomly eating and drinking all day to chase away the boredom.

Breakfast was bacon and egg sandwiches from the café, not a patch on Ben’s.

Elevenses was a cream donut and a cup of tea.

Lunch, well, lunch, I do not really want to admit to, but let’s just say it came from a place whose branding takes the form of a golden arch and it was an extra-large. That’s all I’m going to say.

I wonder if Ben will be home when I get back. I’m a bit concerned as to what I might have for dinner.

6.45 p.m.

He’s back.

9.30 p.m.

Steak and chips.

I officially can’t breathe. Well, I could but then I would be sick and I don’t want to see
any
of that again.

21st April

How perfect my life would be if this were my forever after.

It would be perfect. If every day were like today, then I would never ever wish for anything else. I think I managed to prove to Ben that I am not just a sex-crazed fiend and I sometimes can actually be a little romantic.

The Date

I popped back to the flat in Putney, which is now largely packed up into boxes, apart from the few bits that Tristan still uses. After destroying a few carefully packed crates, I find what I need: a wine cooler, picnic blanket, and a picnic hamper. I then got very, very lucky and found two bottles of Veuve Clicquot under Tristan’s bed.

Ha, sucker! You did not hide those well enough!

I then went to Waitrose and picked up lots of romantic food including a baguette, brie, strawberries, and chocolate. Yes, I know I should have gone to Asda but it does not have quite the same ring to it.

I was back from my hunter-gatherer exercise before Ben was even awake.

Excellent, what a great way to start the day, the Ben and Lilah wake up.

“Where have you been?” he asks. “You're cold.”

“Getting stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Surprise.”

“For our date?”

“Better believe it, Mister.”

“Can't wait. Is there a strict time schedule?”

“Nope.”

“Excellent,” he says as he pulls me closer.

Two hours later we are in Deathtrap Cooper and heading for the park.

“Oh God, Lilah, you are not going to make me watch you jog are you?”

“Do I look like I am going to jog?”

His appraises my denim skirt and knee-high boots.

“No, not at all.”

“Stop moaning then.”

After the car is parked, I take him down one of the central paths, the one I found on Friday, which leads to the most beautiful place that exists in South London. We enter the wrought-iron gates.

“Shit! This is amazing,” he announces, giving my hand a squeeze. The blues flash as they take in the view around us.

“I know, and it gets even better.” I can barely contain my excitement.

Around us, the Queen Elizabeth Plantation is showing off its springtime bloom, with rhododendrons and azaleas vying with each other to display the most extraordinary colour. The whole place is awash with bright pink, red, and purple. It is astounding. I lead him by the hand and take him to the best bit: the woodland spring with its earthy scent and bubbling water.

He looks at me for the longest time as we stand there. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now I hope you’re hungry.”

“Always,” he says, but the look in his eyes makes me think he is not hungry for bread and cheese followed by strawberries.

We rest on the picnic blanket and pick at our food, drinking Tristan’s champagne, clinking our glasses, and shoving strawberries into our mouths so they explode with the bubbles. This creates lots of giggling and dribbling strawberry juice down our chins as we attempt the perfect mouthful. Once the food is finished, we turn on our backs and watch the blue sky overhead. A sky the blue of cornflowers and Ben’s eyes.

“Where do you get your blue eyes from?” I ask.

“I am a genetic throwback.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone else in my family has brown eyes. I am the only one with blue. No one knows exactly where the blue comes from but it has something to do with my Gran.”

“Really? How do you mean?”

“It is a long story I am going tell you one day.”

“Tell me now! I am in the mood for a story!”

He rolls onto his side and pulls me towards him.

“I am saving it for a special occasion,” he murmurs and then proceeds to push the thought from my mind with his lips.

We stay like this, kissing, touching, and drinking champagne until the shadows are creeping in, bringing the evening chill along with them. We are awoken from our afternoon of paradise by scaring the life out of an old woman with a Scottie dog who did not expect to find two people making out underneath a bush. Giggling like teenagers, we pack up our stuff and run back to the car.

What a perfect day. When we get home we just go straight back into bed, strangely tired, even though we had done nothing the whole day.

“Thank you for my date,” he whispers to me in the darkness.

“A pleasure, my love.”

“I think I owe you one more,” he says with lips smiling against my throat.

I am trying not to think that if he does not hurry up there will not be much more time for dates available to us.

22nd April

I’m sure there is something I am supposed to be doing. I know I am supposed to be studying, which I’m not. I know I’m supposed to be helping Tristan look for the perfect furniture for our Victorian conversion, which I’m not.

But there’s something else niggling around the back of my mind, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Not that I am trying too hard, I am too busy living my little idyllic fantasy which I know is going to end in eight short weeks.

Eight weeks. Sixty-three days, sixty-three very short days.

I manage to drag myself away and have some girl time after class. The four of us meander around campus aimlessly for a while. I think Jayne was trying to play her little game of ‘hunt the football player’ but did not want us to know. We start in the library, but Beth has to duck under a desk as Eva walks past. This gives Meredith the giggles, which results in her snorting very loudly. This, in turn, makes the rest of us start to laugh, not particularly quietly. We are positioned by the journals on the lower floor and as a result receive glares from the entire bank of library staff, so we leave rather hastily.

We then decide to try and have a drink at one of the other campus bar’s and head over to Southlands and attempt a drink in there. Meredith loves it and moans at us the whole time we were are there that it was only our first visit.

In my opinion it is seriously lacking in sticky floors and grumpy bartenders.

The whole time we are out together I try very hard to join in and at least appear normal but I know I am failing. Well a sure sign of my failure is Meredith turning to me and saying, “Lilah, just go home you bloody bore.”

I did not bother to argue I just grab my stuff and leg it out of there as quickly as I can to the sound of booing from my friends.

Sod them all. I run back to the dorm and to Ben who is sitting on ‘our’ bed with his study books spread about him. The books do not stand a chance as I launch myself at him and crush them with my arse as I land on the bed next to him, the only place I want to be.

27th April

Today I did something that I am sure is frowned upon in many circles, but I really wanted to, so I said ‘sod it’ to convention.

Ben wanted to come with me, wherever I was going. I just told him that he should take some time to practice his guitar before he has another row with his band mates for getting really shitty at playing. Like that could ever happen. But it was the only excuse I could think of.

After work, I drive the five minutes around the corner from Putney to Barnes and our new perfect little house that sits there. Where I then help Mrs. Morgan pack. I find out that she is by herself and I can only imagine the way she feels packing up her home after sixty-six years of living there.

“Would you like a cup of tea, dear?” she asks, bringing a tray through to the lounge from the kitchen.

Her hands shake with age and it makes my eyes prick with tears. I am not good with age. It is the one thing I am scared of, the one thing I am not able to hide from. Well, that and Ben leaving—both are inevitable.

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” I say with a smile, hoping that I do not look like I am trying too hard.

“Where is your young man today? We could do with some strong arms,” she asks with a chuckle.

“Oh, Ben is busy practising his music. He is going away soon to make a record, so he needs to put some effort in.”

Why is it when you speak to old people you adapt the way you speak? Record? When did someone last say that in reference to an album? 1992?

“He looks like an artistic type.” She sighs into her teacup.

Good grief, is this eighty-odd-year-old woman lusting after my boyfriend?

“Yeah, he is,” I agree.

And he so is, with his dishevelled style, tall, slim build, and long fingers. That boy was built to stand behind a microphone and play guitar. I make a mental note to ask him what he wanted to be when he was young before he first played the guitar.

“I bet he is good at sex,” she says completely straight faced.

I spurt my mouthful of tea all over the place.

“Oh God!” I cry leaping up to grab a cloth to wipe up with. I know I am bright bloody red and not because of the tea fountain.

She just giggles like a teenager. “He is, isn’t he?” she asks with a wink of her rheumy eyes.

“Yes, he really is,” I admit. “Come on, Mrs. Morgan. What do you want me to help you with?”

I spend the next two hours helping her pack most of her possessions. It’s a heart-warming experience, and I try really hard to do a good job, even though packing is not my forte. When we are nearly done she turns to me. I am standing in the lounge sliding my hand over the worn desk with its green leather top.