This is a Love Story (6 page)

Before he had the chance to argue any further I plucked the picture from his fingers and stood up. A look of desperation crossed

his face, as if he were begging me not to take away the last beautiful thing he had. He looked as though he barely had the energy to

speak.

I turned and ran through the back doors and into reception. ‘Can I use the copying room, please?’ I asked Sandra hurriedly. I

didn’t want to prolong what must have been for him a period of unbearable worry. She was filing her nails and paying little attention

to anything else.

‘Yes, of course, sweetheart. Whatever,’ she responded, not even glancing in my direction and flicking the file into the air

flippantly.

I had to work fast; I had just five minutes to do something really special and if I fucked it up, I would spend the rest of my life

trying to come to terms with the guilt.

I gently placed the photograph on the scanner, ensuring there were no greasy stains on the glass. Within seconds the image was

replicated on a screen in front of me. I made it slightly larger, sharpened the colours a little and trimmed the edges. I clicked print, my

right hand shaking slightly. Yes. This was going to be fine. I would just laminate this so it wouldn’t get ruined, give it back to him

and go upstairs again. End of. Then he could have it forever.

The printer coughed into life and after I pressed a couple of buttons, it started to whirr. I didn’t know how to use it, but it couldn’t

be that difficult.

The first copy came out, her face printed on photo paper, and it looked as good as the original, if not better. I picked it up and

smiled. Cool. So far, so good.

But then another copy came out. And another. And another.

Oh God. Where was the stop button on this thing? Shit.

The copies were building up in the tray now and they were coming out faster and faster. It must have made a hundred in a matter

of sixty seconds. How had this happened? Jenny’s face was taunting me. Again and again and again.

I stood there for a few minutes as the paper kept spewing out, the sheets now slipping over the edge of the tray and sliding onto

the floor like a mini avalanche.

I was getting flustered. And when I get flustered I can’t think straight. I had been at least five minutes; I had already broken my

promise.

I looked at all the buttons on the machine, but none of them made sense. Lights were flashing, one green, one red. There was a

large pink button that looked like it might end this situation, so I pressed it but nothing happened. I leaned over the machine and my

eyes scanned frantically for a wire that might lead to a plug, but it all seemed to be built into the floor. Fuck.

More copies were pouring out now. It seemed to get even faster. Clicking and whirring . . .

Suddenly I heard the sharp banging of heels across the tiled floor and the door behind me swung open. ‘What are you doing,

Sienna?’ asked Sandra, who was now standing in the doorway looking suspicious.

I said nothing and flapped my arms a little.

‘People need to use this room! What’s going on?’ she continued, her face now sour, the make-up so thick it looked as if it might

fall in a pancake from her face and land on the floor with a wet slapping sound.

I thought I was doing a good job of hiding the papers, but the copier was still churning out endless Jennys.

‘Hold on a minute, what’s this all over the floor? You do realise you’re only allowed to make ten copies a day and if there are any

more, you need to get permission from IT? There must be hundreds here!’ She was shouting now as she kneeled down on the floor

and started trying to scoop up the sheets. Her jewellery was clattering away and her noxious perfume was making me feel sick.

‘Look, I pressed the wrong button, I don’t know how,’ I stuttered, my cheeks now crimson.

She held one of the sheets as she stood up, looking at the small image of a woman she didn’t know on the top left-hand side of the

page. ‘Who the hell is this? The company does not have the money to be funding your projects, Sienna. You do realise I’ll have to

report this? It’s my job.’

I was beginning to feel really angry now. ‘I told you already, I made a mistake. How do you stop this?’

She ushered me out of the way as the printer kept vomiting copies of Jenny and pressed a single button. One last sheet dripped

out, number 451. There was silence. She looked at me with pursed lips and a raised eyebrow. I was sure she was evil.

I opened my mouth to speak but a loud banging could now be heard from the reception doors.

‘Oi. Oi! Give my photo back!’ came an angry shout. We both looked through the doorway nervously. It was Pete. We couldn’t

see him, but I knew.

‘What the hell is going on?’ she asked, flinching as the banging got louder.

‘Oh God. I’m so sorry. Just give me a second, will you?’ I turned to open the lid of the scanner so I could get the photo out, but

before I had the chance, Dave, our sports writer, appeared as if from nowhere.

‘Guys, there’s something crazy going on!’ he said excitedly, a great chunk of his boy-bandesque fringe falling over his face. He

swiped it away.

My stomach flipped.

‘That homeless guy is going mental out there, throwing beer cans. Fucking cans of beer he’s lobbing, at the windows upstairs!

One of the windows to Ant’s office has cracked – he’s livid, man! They’re going to call security!’ he shouted with glee, as if this

was the most exciting thing ever to happen in the office. Ever.

‘Everyone is upstairs watching! They might even have to call the police,’ he continued, slapping his hands together.

I looked down at my watch, still not taking responsibility for this shocking turn of events. It was 12.40.

‘Oi! I want my fucking photo!’ Pete’s voice came again from outside reception, even louder this time. Then another sharp bang,

and you could hear the glass outside rattling. This time it sounded like he was throwing beer cans at the reception windows.

Sandra looked down at the photo on the sheet she was holding and glared at me.

‘Have you stolen this photo from Dancing Pete, Sienna?’ Her eyes narrowed.

Dancing Pete, what a fucking ridiculous name. I started to shake. ‘God no, of course not. I was trying to do something to help

him!’ I protested. But even I knew this sounded pretty weak.

Only I could fix this mess, so I ran out of the room and into the main reception lobby, my heels tapping against the concrete floor.

The photo remained wedged in the scanner.

There he was, pressed against the glass, almost foaming at the mouth. I was terrified. I pressed the release button and he lunged

towards me as the glass doors opened.

‘You bitch. Give me my photo,’ he yelled, pointing a shaking hand at me.

I ushered him outside and around the corner, away from the crowd of people who were probably looking out of the office

window from our floor.

‘Calm down, Pete,’ I whispered, trying to diffuse his fury. His lips were twitching and his eyes were watering. A small line of

drool was shining on his chin from where he had been shouting. ‘Look, it’s OK. Something went wrong with the printer. I was

trying to do something for you, with your photo . . . Just stay calm, all right? I’m going to get it for you now. Just go and sit on the

bench and take a few deep breaths, please.’ I was shaking like a leaf now.

His eyes narrowed as they bore into mine and for a few seconds we stood face to face in silence. ‘The printer? What are you

doing with it? Go on, go and get it. But if you don’t come back I swear to God I will smash my way in,’ he threatened, flinging his

arm, already loaded with one more can of beer, to his side.

I dashed back into the copying room and asked Sandra and Dave to give me some space. ‘Sandra, cancel security please, it’s OK.

I’ve sorted it out.’

She tutted and walked away. Dave dashed back into the lift, a look of pleasure on his face.

I took a deep breath to calm myself, picked up a pair of scissors and cut around the photo carefully. Then I laminated it, trimmed

the edges and looked down at the new version. It had been worth it. She was gorgeous, and she was forever now. The plastic was

extra tough and sealed securely on all sides. This meant that her memory would not be washed away by the rain, cracked by the frost

or faded by the sun.

The joy of this achievement was greatly overshadowed by the fact that I would probably get into a lot of trouble for this.

I stepped over the piles of copies lying all over the floor, ran back outside and put the old photo in his hands. He looked confused.

‘Look, Pete, I have to go back inside now, but this is for you, OK? Please don’t hate me. I was just trying to help.’

I placed the toughened plastic between his fingers but he still looked really angry as he pulled it towards his face and stared at it,

nostrils flaring. He didn’t speak, so I gently put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed, suddenly aware of how bony he was. ‘See

you soon,’ I whispered quietly before turning around to walk away. A squirrel was standing in my path.

As I reached the doorway, I turned around before going inside. The outline of his back was shaking a little; his head was in his

hands. I stood, looking at him for a few moments, when unexpectedly he turned and smiled, tears running down his face. Happy

tears.

I swiped my entry card to get back into reception and walked past Sandra, ignoring her as she shouted at me. I stepped straight

into the lift, which was conveniently wide open.

I stood there for a few seconds, my heart racing, before pressing the button for the third floor.

As soon as the doors opened, Lydia was there waiting for me. ‘What the hell have you done?’ she asked with a half smile, both

hands pressed against her lips as if in prayer.

‘Nothing, all right, just leave it,’ I said, tears stinging my eyes.

Nick

Amelia came round this morning, a crying, sobbing wreck on my doorstep. At first I thought there was an abandoned kitten in

my porch, or a dog with a broken tail.

‘What do you want?’ I said, the door open only a crack and the chain still attached as I stood in my boxer shorts. I have always

worked by the rule that if a stranger attacked me, I would not want to be just in my pants.

Amelia was a stranger, really. She looked different. Oh yes, that was it – I didn’t love her any more.

People do look different when you fall out of love with them. But then again, I wasn’t sure if it had ever been love I’d felt for her,

or for anyone in fact. Since meeting Sienna, I’d wondered if all my previous relationships had just been a farce. I had never had that

stomach-tingling feeling with anyone before I met Sienna. I had only picked up snippets of what love might be like from Amelia’s

pastel-coloured novels piled up by the toilet, mass-produced pop songs on the radio and shitty romantic comedies, and consequently

brought the symptoms upon myself like a phantom pregnancy.

‘Please leave,’ I said frankly and calmly. I had known she would be back here one day, but I’d never expected to feel so cool

about the whole thing.

‘But Nick, please, I can explain. I made a terrible mistake and I love you . . .’ She trailed off, putting one of her soft yet bony

hands in the door frame in an attempt to reach my chest.

I did adore those hands. I used to hold the left one up to my face when we watched TV and just feel it against my skin, tracing her

nails over my lips. Now I wanted them as far away from me as possible.

She was poison in disguise. A Barbie stuffed full of explosives. ‘I think you need to leave,’ I repeated, stepping backwards so her

hand fell away from me.

She started to crumple, tears falling like snowflakes from her brown eyes as she dropped to her knees in front of me. Waves of

auburn hair fell over her face as she thudded to the ground.

I felt pretty sorry for her. I scanned the street scene behind her small, shaking frame. This was rather embarrassing, really. God

knows what the neighbours would make of it. What must they think I’ve done to her?

A milkman walked past and glared at me. Mind your own business, calcium kid.

Quietly and calmly I shut the door on her and walked back down the hall. I needed to leave for work within the hour, by which

time she had better be gone.

I made tea to the soundtrack of helpless sobs outside my window, so I turned up the radio. Chris Moyles was not my favourite

human being on the planet, but right now his inane ramblings beat the sound of my ex-girlfriend crying herself into a frenzy in the

street.

The shower failed to wash Amelia away. This was becoming painful and despite how bitterly furious I was with her, I felt like a

right bastard. I dressed, went back downstairs and let her in.

‘Oh, thank you, Nick. Please, just hear me out,’ she sighed as she stumbled through the hallway like a drunk.

We sat at the kitchen table, and she traced her fingers over the tablecloth she had chosen all those months ago at Portobello

Market. Her nose was pink and swollen; her eyes were bloodshot. She had spoiled it. She had ruined everything.

‘Look, I don’t want you to tell me why, or how, or when – or certainly not where—’ I started, but was quickly interrupted.

‘It was at his place. I would never have done that in our home, Nick,’ she blurted out quickly, as if that made it all OK. It didn’t,

and I didn’t believe her for a second anyway.

Hunched over, she leaned towards me desperately, her shoulders pulled down under the weight of her shame. And how heavy