This is a Love Story (10 page)

‘Sounds interesting,’ he said, gesturing to the waiter for two more drinks. Unfortunately the gesture was a little too energetic and

mainly involved his right hand, which was clutching a pair of chopsticks and half a California roll. Said roll became separated from

the sticks and flew through the air and into a woman’s handbag in the process. We watched with our mouths open as it sailed across

the way and dropped into the silky lining of what looked like a brand-new Mulberry bag.

He looked at me. I looked at him. We decided not to tell her. He was shockingly clumsy, and it was great entertainment.

The rest of the night was a happy blur. I hadn’t laughed like that in a long time, and it seemed possible he hadn’t either. My face

hurt. I felt free for the first time in ages, like anything was possible.

We spent the evening charging round a strip of bars, throwing back brightly coloured shots and slamming them back down onto

marble surfaces. It was a blur of bright lights, giggling and the scent of his aftershave, which made me hungry for him.

He was silly. Funny. Hilarious, in fact. It all got more amusing the more we drank. I dared him to eat the large slice of lemon

bobbing in his drink. He did it, in one, including the peel. He dared me to wear his shoes to the toilet and keep a straight face. I did.

Because I was tired after a long day, he gave me a piggyback down a long, straight avenue lined with expensive-looking planters

brimming with luscious flowers. Neither of us knew what the time was. It didn’t matter. It felt like the moon was looking down on

us and smiling.

I tried to return the favour but he was heavier than I expected and my legs buckled under his weight and my laughter. After thirty

seconds and a metre of staggering, the two of us landed on the pavement in a heap of hysteria and scraped knees. One of his legs

was caught in a planter. I couldn’t breathe as I lay on the cool stone, giggling loudly.

It dawned on me that a real friendship was developing. I had never had such a connection with a man before. Whilst I was deeply

attracted to him, this was something altogether different, a one-off. I was sure he didn’t feel the same. It dawned on me, even at this

early stage, that I might be capable of loving him. Falling hard, and instead of laughing, crying. It scared me. I had never felt this

before and it filled me with a terror of the same magnitude as my joy. I had never been ‘in love’ before. I didn’t know how it felt to

be loved like that. Love scared me. Closeness scared me. This scared me.

I made a decision during our trip to America; I realised this was a matter of the heart that I should keep close to my chest. For my

own protection. This connection had the potential to be too special to ruin it with the hurt of misfired romantic intentions. Plus we

worked together. It would be messy. And while half of me wanted to tear off his shirt with my teeth, I also wanted him to be in my

life for the duration. I didn’t want him to be the one I avoided because he’d hurt me. If I was just his friend, then I would still be

blessed. If that meant swallowing my pride and being his shoulder when he got hurt, or being the one he ranted at when he was

angry, I was prepared to do it and to do it with dignity.

Surely the physical attraction would melt away in time? Women would come and go, but real friends wouldn’t. I had only just

realised how incredibly lucky I was to have even met him, and the smartest thing I could do was to gather myself together and

recognise that.

I made a decision. I had to put a lid on my feelings and I had to do it now. Yeah, right.

Three

‘I love your daughter. Terribly.’

Nick

It has been over a year since Sienna came into my world and turned it upside down. I adore her more every time I see her. I still

haven’t told her this, though, and I’ve left it too bloody late now. So many times the words got caught in my throat and never made

their way out and now we’re in that horrible place. The friend zone. The arm’s-length, hugging, air-kissing, hair-ruffling friend zone.

She dates totally unsuitable men – cowards who can’t handle her, guys who lie, blokes who give her the runaround. But because

she tries to see the good in people, she ends up involved with men who will never change and ends up feeling disappointed every

time. Sienna doesn’t have a clue just how gorgeous she is, either – which is probably a good thing because if she did, she wouldn’t

be the girl I have grown so fond of. That’s what I like about her. The fact that she doesn’t know.

One bad thing is that she listens to terrible music, like The Kooks and the Pussycat Dolls. I think I even found some Backstreet

Boys on her iPod once . . . This music thing, this affliction, was my mission for today. I bought a CD that reminds me of her every

time I listen to it, and I think she needs to hear it. Obviously I won’t tell her that those lyrics and gentle guitar melodies make me feel

the way she does when she’s by my side. But I just hope she feels that warmth every time she plays it. I hope it makes her happy.

She hasn’t been her usual chirpy self just lately. She looks a bit tired and worn down and this worries me. I think it’s to do with

the chump she’s seeing at the moment. He is, to put it frankly, a moron. I have to act all pally with him when we go to the same

parties and stuff, when actually I want to jab him in the eye with a cocktail stick. He has this horrible self-appreciating air about him

and he doesn’t treat her right.

His name is Daniel House and he’s a primary school teacher cum rock band twat. I hate him. He’s twenty-five, has crazy dark

hair which he waxes at silly angles, and wears pretentious vintage T-shirts with slogans on that he doesn’t even understand.

Daniel House is another reason why I just know that Sienna would never feel for me what I feel for her. We couldn’t be more

different. His jeans are so skinny I’m convinced he must have blood-flow problems, and his pants hang out the back. I want to give

him such a big wedgie that his boxers rip in the middle and come right up over his head. His friends call him Housey, for Christ’s

sake . . . Any man who is regularly addressed by his surname is definitely either from public school or an idiot – or more likely, both.

I don’t understand why she likes him. I really don’t. He is quite good-looking, I guess, for a bloke and all. But it still doesn’t make

it OK. I don’t know what she sees in him, but of course I can see why he went for Sienna. She’s so beautiful that men just swarm

around her, but they never know quite what to do with themselves when it comes to the crunch.

Dan’s gigs are crap, too. I’ve been to a few of them, trying desperately hard not to laugh, but then I turn and look at Sienna gazing

adoringly at the stage and realise that I have to just, well, man up.

‘So you like Che, then?’ I said once, pointing to an image of the iconic man on his top at a pub lunch one day.

‘Who?’ he asked, looking puzzled at the blazing political imagery splashed across his chest.

‘Guevara, the bloke on your T-shirt?’ I looked him up and down, hoping for Sienna’s sake that there was more to him than

expensive clothes and chiselled cheekbones. I wanted to push his face into a large bowl of rice.

‘Oh, yeah, he’s one of my favourite guitarists,’ he responded blankly.

I nearly choked to death on a sausage.

He regularly lets her down, fails to give her the attention she deserves and spends more time with his so-called band mates than he

does with her.

Of course, she adores him. But then they always love a bad boy, don’t they? ‘That’s just the way he is, Nick,’ she protests when I

tell her that he is the biggest knob I have ever met.

‘What – a twat?’

‘No, not a twat, just a bit, you know . . . busy,’ she responds. She’s usually looking away from me by that point, because she and

I both know she’s making excuses. I’ve caught her crying in the cloakroom at parties on a couple of occasions while he stands

holding her waist and pleading with her.

He’s on borrowed time and he knows it. I’m sure he wishes I would butt out, maybe even die in some freak skiing accident, but

I’m not going anywhere. Plus I don’t ski.

It was a warm Saturday morning. I slipped on a pair of stripy shorts, some flip-flops and a T-shirt, and made my way to her place.

As the heat started to really take hold, girls were everywhere, wearing less and less. I loved it. The sun was doing that magical

thing of giving women gorgeous little freckles on their faces and making them wear tiny dresses and skimpy tops. There was skin

everywhere – long sexy legs swaggering down the high street, a defined back set off by a plunging dress. It was driving me nuts.

As frustrated as I was by the situation with Sienna, I was really enjoying being single, even though I was twenty-eight.

Nick, single, twenty-eight. It had a ring to it. I loved it.

I’d been on a few dates, and some of them had been great. Nights of laughter and flirtation with pretty girls, occasionally ending

in no-strings passion. I’d forgotten how much fun it was to be single. I hadn’t really felt anything deep for any of them, though – it

was all just good fun at the moment.

It was just two stops on the tube to Sienna’s place, although in the past year that we’d been mates I’d never actually set foot

inside. This was something I found very odd, particularly when she seemed to be so tied to home. She dashed off there sometimes

after hurried phone calls, never telling me why.

Dan had gone to Amsterdam for the weekend with his equally silly friends and she’d mentioned something at work yesterday

about spending the day watching old films, so I thought it would be a good time to surprise her and drop round that CD.

I walked slowly up the drive to her building, hoping I was doing the right thing. The sun was beating down on me; my palms

were getting a bit sweaty. I pressed the buzzer and waited.

‘Hello?’ came a male voice.

‘Er, hi . . .’ I started, instantly regretting what I was about to do. Who was this guy? Her father, maybe? God knows – it had

always been such a mystery.

‘It’s Nick. I’m here to see Sienna.’

There was a short pause. ‘Oh, hello, come on in.’

There was another buzz and the heavy entrance door opened for me. I tucked the CD into the back of the waistband of my shorts

and made my way up the stairs. The corridors were dark and smelled of bleach. It was all very clean, white and functional.

The man was standing in the doorway, waiting for me. ‘Nick. So good to meet you,’ he greeted me with a warm smile. It was

almost as if he knew me well. The greeting made me panic – I was about to have to ask a very embarrassing question.

‘I’m sorry, but who are you?’ I said, running my hand through my hair nervously.

He looked slightly taken aback as he stood there in checked pyjama bottoms and a baggy jumper. ‘I’m George. Sienna’s father,’

he replied, a note of disappointment in his voice.

He was nothing like I’d imagined. I was pleased to finally meet the guy who had brought up Sienna. If he had a daughter like her,

he must be one hell of a good bloke. I was slightly shocked by what I saw, though. The man in front of me looked fragile, pale and

older than his years. The skin on his face had a translucent, paper-like quality, as though he hadn’t seen the sun for a while. I

couldn’t put my finger on why that could be.

The little hair he had on his head was silver; his lips were small and wrinkled. I spotted a deep scar on his forehead. Maybe he’d

had too many jars last night, or possibly I’d misheard his age when Sienna told me he was only forty-six. I’d expected him to be a

tall, dynamic, powerful presence.

‘Sienna isn’t actually here, Nick, but come in. I’ve heard so much about you . . .’ He trailed off, obviously slightly self-conscious

about how keen he was sounding. I felt suddenly aware that I knew precious little about him. Sienna had never volunteered

anything.

‘I just brought her a CD as a surprise, thought I’d drop it by on my way into town,’ I responded, trying really hard to be casual.

Way into town, my arse. Sienna and I only live two tube stops away from each other. It’s the kind of distance you can drive in ten

minutes, or walk in forty if you’re feeling particularly energetic.

George ushered me in, revealing the living space they shared. It was a typical London flat, all on one level, with a small corridor

leading from the front door to a large living room and open kitchen. It was modest in size, and seemed to go on past the kitchen as

another corridor led further back, revealing an open bathroom door and two other closed doors beside it. They must be the

bedrooms.

I looked back at George, who was standing by a running machine wedged against the wall near the entrance to the kitchen.

I could see Sienna’s touches all over the main living space. Owl-shaped cushions lay on the chairs, stitched together with thick,

black cord. They were beautifully quirky; they looked like they’d been found in a gift shop in somewhere like the Brighton Lanes.

Her jewellery was scattered on a small coffee table, and a faint trace of her perfume filled the air. It all looked messy and warm and

had oodles of personality.

The sofa looked worn and loved, and there were large shelving units on almost every wall, packed full of books and films. The

DVDs included everything from Pulp Fiction to Sex and the City. You could tell a lot about a person by looking at their books and