This is a Love Story (35 page)

I jumped a little and a huge lump caught in my throat. I started to sweat. His eyes were boring into mine now. I could see his rage

flickering inside like a flame. It was terrifying.

‘And yes, Sienna. I am pissed. I got the crap beaten out of me last night, so today I found as much beer as I could get my hands on

and drank the whole sodding lot, OK? Happy now?’ He spat forcefully onto the grass.

‘Well no, I’m not happy, Pete. I’m really—’

But he interrupted me again. ‘There’s nothing a silly little girl like you can do to help, so why don’t you just stop trying, yeah?’

This was all too much for me. ‘Just tell me what happened and I’ll go,’ I said, my voice trembling with fear.

‘You want to know what happened? You want to know about the real world? OK, here goes, but I hope you can handle it,

Sienna. I was sleeping under the big oak tree just over there and some kids came up to me. They were laughing at me, then one of

them kicked me in the stomach for no reason. They tried to take my backpack, but it had my picture in it, the one of Jenny, so I

pulled it away from them really hard. I didn’t realise my own strength, and one of the kids was thrown to the ground. And then I

realised they weren’t really kids, they were more like nineteen or twenty. My teeth came out in one punch. I spat them out near the

tree. All right?’ He was breathing hard now.

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 statement 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