This is a Love Story (8 page)

added quietly, obviously trying not to be rude to me as I was clearly the party with the least information.

Ant nodded understandingly. He knew something I didn’t, and I wanted in. Why would she need to check that she could go?

Please don’t tell me she lives with overbearing parents who won’t let her come out and play . . .

If she has to check with her parents that she can go on a work trip, then they must be a nightmare. Does she still live at home?

She’s twenty. I started imagining the poor sod who comes back to her place after a night out and then has to endure an awkward

breakfast with a pair of overprotective, prudish accountants or something . . . God.

But really I had no idea what she was talking about. I was making huge assumptions. Perhaps it wasn’t her parents she lived with,

maybe it was another man. I wondered again if she was with anyone. I’d never heard her mention anything, but she seemed so

private anyway, I doubted she’d tell me. I prayed the situation, whatever the hell it was, wouldn’t stop her coming.

Sienna dashed out of the room and then it was just Ant, me and the buzzing sound coming from his drinks cooler. ‘Actually, I

have some ideas I wanted to present to you, while we have a minute.’ I started to hand over the twenty-page document I had

prepared, hoping I hadn’t typed a load of inane rubbish.

He jabbed the pages with his chubby digits, and it felt like an unwanted intrusion. There was already oil on the first page from

where he had food on his hands. For Christ’s sake . . .

‘Hmm, this looks great, Nick,’ he said in the slightly patronising manner of a parent responding to their child’s cack-handed

paintings.

This looks great? You haven’t even bloody read it, you tosser.

‘Well, there’s quite a lot there. I was thinking you might need a bit longer to go through . . .’ I tried to demand more of his time,

but Sienna was back already.

She had a wide smile on her face. This must be good. Ant’s attention was gone.

‘Yep, I’m in,’ she said briskly.

‘Are you sure that’s all OK?’ he asked sympathetically, his greedy eyes looking her up and down.

He fancies her! He bloody fancies her! I must get to the bottom of this. I hate not being the centre of attention, and I hate not being

in the know.

‘OK, well, that’s just great. You can leave a couple of hours early to prepare. Just call me if you have any questions – and

remember, Sienna, I need to see you just before you go,’ he continued as he stood up to usher us out. ‘One more thing: don’t forget

your passport!’ he added, raising his voice a little. Another button popped, revealing a huge belly button. I wondered for a moment –

if anyone got lost in there, would we hear their cries of distress?

As Sienna and I left his office, I wondered how to handle this. It was like a dream come true, but looking too happy would

definitely freak her out, and I was still a bit pissed off that Anthony had dismissed my work. He didn’t even know Sienna that well

and all of a sudden it was like everything revolved around her. He would normally have read my ideas with interest, he was always

encouraging creativity, but now there was something different about the office. The dynamic had shifted.

But still – how should I react to the news of our trip? Being too blasé would just make her feel alienated. I also had to be careful

with my choice of words. Already I had told her how she reminded me of my sister. My sister? God knows why I said that. I think it

was some kind of defence mechanism to push her away because I was worried she didn’t like me.

However, telling her she reminded me of my sister was probably the ultimate sin. Worse than saying she was cross-eyed, bad at

spelling or pigeon-toed (she is none of the above, and even if she were all three I think I would still fancy her).

I have a habit of filling quiet moments with stupid chatter rather than intelligent vocal contributions to society. ‘So, what do you

think?’ I said, turning to face her at the entrance to the main office floor, my hands shaking a little. I thought I’d been nervous before

the meeting, but I was really nervous now. If I did anything stupid, everyone would see.

‘Oh my God, Nick, I’m so excited!’ She started to jump up and down, using my arms as support. Sparks of electricity danced

between us and I felt them. Each and every one. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly tense in her presence and needed to excuse myself.

‘Look, I have to go, got so much to do before tomorrow! Got to clear out the remains of my ex-girlfriend tonight!’ I said

unblinkingly. There was a pause and I noticed her expression had melted from a smile into a look of horror.

‘I mean, erm, not her actual bodily remains – her clothes and stuff . . . Ha ha, got you there!’ I said. Foot-in-mouth syndrome had

taken hold.

She smiled again, but still looked slightly disturbed.

I cleared my throat and exited stage left before I truly hung myself. How was I going to cope with this? I wondered as I ducked

into my office. It was total chaos in there: pens, paper and measuring tools spread across my desk like artist vomit. I set my out-of-

office. It went something like this:

I am out of the office from Thursday 21 April until Monday 25 April.

Please direct any urgent enquiries to [email protected].

I will answer all other correspondence upon my return.

Thanks.

What it actually should have said was this:

I am out of my mind from now (Thursday 21 April) for the foreseeable future.

Please direct any urgent enquiries somewhere else. I don’t really care where, but don’t bloody well bother me.

Oh, and Amelia – please fuck off and die.

On the way out I walked over to Sienna’s desk. She was typing so fast I feared I might go blind just watching.

‘Sienna?’ I whispered, concerned that I might frighten her to death. She did jump a little. ‘I’m going home now, but I can come

and pick you up in the morning, if you like? I’m not sure what time it’ll be, but I’m guessing it’ll be pretty early.’ I pushed a small

piece of paper her way with my mobile number scrawled on it in black ink.

She looked panicked. I wasn’t surprised, considering I’d almost made myself out to be a girlfriend-murdering nutter.

‘That’s really kind – thank you, Nick. I’ll, er, have a think about it and call you. I’m really looking forward to the fair,’ she added.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dave, our camp sports writer, dancing around behind Sienna, moving his hips like an

oversexed R’n’B singer and pointing at her, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Then his fringe flopped over his face. Oh God,

this was embarrassing . . .

Sienna must have sensed something was going on behind her and she turned her head around. But by the time she did, Dave was

sitting still with a false look of diligence on his face, probably typing the letters XyXyXy all the way across the screen. Cheeky

bugger.

‘Right, OK then, see you in the morning,’ I called and turned on my heels.

When I got home I dreaded what I might find when I turned the key in the door. Maybe Amelia had created a floor mosaic out of

raw meat spelling the word ‘Fuckwit’, or even worse, taken my Radiohead CD. The very worst-case scenario would be if she was

still here . . .

I slowly made my way into the corridor. ‘Amelia?’ I called out, the fear obvious in my voice as it echoed down the hall. Looking

down at my feet, I saw the key gleaming on the mat. Phew, I was safe.

I shuffled cautiously into the kitchen and saw a folded-up piece of paper. I began to read.

Nick,

What can I say?

I ruined the best relationship I have ever had in my life and I will probably never forgive myself for this.

I am deeply sorry for the pain I might have caused you.

If it helps in any way, the person who is hurting the most in all this is me.

People like you don’t come around often, and I may never meet another.

If you ever find a way to forgive me, I will be waiting.

Love you,

Amelia

x

Well, you had to give it to the girl, that was truly heart-wrenching. I looked at a photo of us pinned to the fridge with a Honey

Monster magnet. We looked so happy. Behind us were the rambling hills of the Lake District, and the bright sun had created a white

flash in one corner of the photograph. A flaw in an otherwise perfect moment.

The true enormity of what had happened suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. My house now felt huge, even though it wasn’t that

big. A two-bedroom terraced place that seemed like a sprawling mansion now I was alone.

I had put the deposit down on it with money left to me by my grandmother. Mum and Dad helped out a bit too. I was lucky to

have this house at such a young age, but right now I felt so alone in it. I would probably have to get a lodger now to help with the

mortgage. Great.

I had thought I was too angry about what Amelia and Toby had done to feel sadness like this. I’d been so incandescent with fury

that I’d hated the thought of her; only now was I starting to feel her loss.

I suddenly remembered what this stage of a break-up felt like; it was all coming back to me now. It was like a really bad stomach

bug after a dodgy takeaway. At the time you feared you might die with your head stuck down the toilet and a hole blown out of the

seat of your trousers, then just a few weeks later you had completely forgotten how terrible it was. It was as if the experience had

been so traumatic that your mind had dulled its memory enough for you to get all cocky again. Otherwise you would never be able

to walk down a street with a curry house on it again. And that would make living in London quite difficult. With feelings, it was

tricky. One minute you might be making a coffee or shopping for milk and cereal, and then bam – out of nowhere the inescapable

would come and sting you. Those emotions you’d buried under a heap of male egotistical bullshit. All the crappy phrases your

friends had reeled off to salve the wounds: ‘Plenty more fish in the sea, mate,’ or ‘We never really liked her anyway . . .’

But I wasn’t sure whether I missed her, or whether I was scared of my uncertain future.

The loud ticking of the kitchen clock only affirmed the fact that I was alone. I’m not a big boozer, I don’t really drink on my own,

but I poured a small amount of whisky into a glass and trickled some Coke on top.

I pulled a Marlboro Light out of my jacket pocket and lit it with a match. The smoke instantly surrounded me in our small, clean

kitchen, dirtying every nook and cranny with its nasty brown fingers.

I sat there for what seemed like hours, feeling the numbing effect of the alcohol settling into my legs. Taking deep drags on my

cigarette I experienced the familiar buzz of nicotine and I convinced myself I deserved it. I had totally earned this moment of hideous

self-indulgence, but I would definitely regret it when I woke up at 3 a.m. to get to the airport.

Nick. Twenty-seven. Single. The labels spun round and round in my head.

Nick. Twenty-seven. Single . . .

My self-pity lasted for about an hour, then I decided I had to sort myself out. All that was left of my broken relationship was this

note, the photo on the fridge and the tablecloth. I calmly picked up all three and put them in the bin. The remains. That’s what I’d

meant.

Suddenly my phone rang, but I didn’t recognise the number. I let it vibrate frantically before I decided it just might be important.

‘Hello?’ I answered, slightly concerned at who it might be.

‘Hey, Nick.’ I recognised that voice.

‘Oh, hello, Sienna. You OK?’ I responded, immediately sitting down, embarrassed as I looked at the display of self-loathing all

around me.

‘I’m fine, thanks. Just wanted to check the details for the morning. Is it still OK for you to pick me up?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll be round at quarter to four, if that’s all right?’

‘Great . . . I was going to ask you. Could you not ring the doorbell or anything, please? If you could just give me a call, I’ll run

out, yeah?’

‘Oh, sure, of course. Wouldn’t want to wake anyone up!’ I joked.

There was a strange pause on the other end of the line.

‘Can you text me your address? I don’t have a pen handy,’ I added, trying to break the strange quiet that had overshadowed our

conversation, while simultaneously scanning the room for one of the hundreds of brightly coloured pens that seemed to be

everywhere when I didn’t need one.

‘Sure,’ she replied.

‘What happened earlier, by the way, Sienna? You know, that crazy man outside the office?’ I realised I hadn’t asked before, and I

really wanted to know.

‘Er, nothing, don’t worry. I’ll explain later. So, what are you up to?’ she asked, swiftly changing the subject.

Oh God, cold sweat. Cold sweat. ‘Just reading a book in French about the Revolution, actually,’ I responded quietly. I cringed at

my lie, but I had to. The reality of me drinking spirits and smoking myself to death over my ex-girlfriend was pathetic. Still, I could

have chosen something slightly cooler than the scenario my brain had just selected at random – like coming back from boxing

training or something.

‘Oh, wow. That sounds fascinating,’ she said. I could hear her smile.

‘What about you?’

‘Just packing,’ came her reply, neat and tidy.

Damn. Why didn’t I just say that? Now she was going to ask me questions about the French Revolution on the plane that I might