This is a Love Story (49 page)

opposite me and wished my father was sitting in it. I wished so hard that I imagined it before my very eyes, his lovely, kind face and

his thin frame, draped in a jumper and a pair of chequered trousers. The thought of it made me smile so wide I forgot for a moment

that the film was on. I just stared at the emptiness where he used to be. When I turned back to the screen, I was reminded of all my

favourite scenes. Audrey Hepburn’s passion for parties, diamonds and sleeping until midday. It was a magical world I could lose

myself in. I just wished I could live like that, wandering around with a cigarette and a sexy smile, needing nothing else in life but the

date and whereabouts of my next social gathering.

And then I remembered my dad’s notebooks. Reams and reams of writing I had never looked at because I hadn’t wanted to

intrude. They were scattered all over our flat and I hadn’t touched them. It had felt wrong to move them, and when Elouise, Nick

and I sorted through his possessions, I’d begged them to leave them where they were.

I could see them now, all around me. Big books with thick, black covers, white labels with dates on. They were stacked in neat

piles, some on the shelves, a few on top of the TV and a whole load more in boxes under his bed. I sat for a moment and wondered

what it would be like to read them. Would it be too soon? Would it rekindle all the fear and agony, or would it be like he was with

me all over again?

I paused the film and sat for a while, taking a few more sips of my wine and wondering what to do. I picked up the book that was

closest to me and ran my hands over the smooth, cool surface. A flash of lightning shot across the skyline and I pulled a light blanket

over my body. A storm must be coming, I realised, thinking back to how hot and stuffy it had been today. I wasn’t scared of it. Not

at all.

I held the book, slipping my fingers between the pages, feeling the thickness of them, which seemed even denser now they were

covered in scribblings, the words pushed into the paper where he wrote so hard. Would he mind? I wondered. I opened it at the

middle, greeted with his familiar handwriting, which had so often been scrawled on a Post-it note on the fridge, little reminders to me

of the things we needed. Peanut butter. Cooking oil. Soap.

My eyes glazed over the letters, too frightened to read but too curious to look away. More flashes of lightning bolted across the

summer sky like strobe lights. They illuminated the room in brilliant white for a split second before plunging me back into the warm

light of the candles in the middle of the table. Rain started to patter on the windows. What would I find? Would I discover that he’d

been deeply unhappy, but kept it from me? Did he ever think I’d neglected him? Let him down? My heart started to thump as I

began to read.

It is mile twenty-three and hurting is an underestimation. The streets of London are lined with crowds,

screaming and shouting. There are lots of names, none of them mine, but I can hear my daughter cheering me on

in my head. It’s the only thing that will get me through the last three miles to the finish line. I can see her face, too,

ahead of me all the time. My beautiful daughter. I know she is waiting for me at the end. She would never let me

down, I just know it.

My legs feel like raw meat and some of my muscles are starting to spasm now, twitching and jerking under my

sweaty skin. It’s just a pounding sensation reverberating up my calves and thighs. Thousands of steps melting into

one huge effort. To be honest, it just feels like a funny dream. I panic for a few moments as I’m unsure whether I

will make it to the end or not. I can’t let her down.

A water gun is squirted from the sidelines over the runners, and some of the droplets land on my face. It’s so

cooling I want to hobble to the water station and tip a glass of it all over me, feeling it run into my mouth and down

my throat. But no amount of water would quench my thirst now – it’s as if I’ve been wrung out like a flannel. I’m

sweating so much it’s getting into my eyes. Stinging. Hurting. Everything hurts. I need the loo, but stopping would

be the end of me. It feels like my muscles would seize up and dry, fast and thick like concrete. Got to keep going.

People around me are really struggling now, breathing is laboured, groans and sighs like a crowd of zombies in

expensive sportswear. Got to keep going.

People are dropping like flies, collapsing on the pavements and falling onto grass verges. I don’t want to look at

them because it scares me. Somehow I’m still going. I don’t know how, and the more I think about this, the more

terrifying it is.

The soles of my trainers feel like squashed steaks when they started off like clouds. Each movement is painful,

each breath is sharp. I know it isn’t far to go. I’ve run miles and miles in training, but my mind is playing tricks on

me. Suddenly it feels like three miles is an awfully long way. But Sienna is on my mind, because I know she will

be there, waiting for me.

My vision is blurred, my brow furrowed with concentration. People in brightly coloured fancy dress are confusing

to me. The shapes and the colours seem to morph in front of my eyes. I’m angry, scared, yet euphoric, because I

know the end is coming. I know that I’ll have run a marathon, and I’ll have achieved it after all this time. All the

hoping and wishing and dreaming. I could start to walk now, but I won’t.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

There is pain in my shoulders, acid in my stomach and my guts are ruined. I have to make it. This is my mantra.

There is a balloon up ahead, a big pink one suspended by a string. I keep my eyes on that and follow it as we

navigate the streets of London. Familiar tourist attractions are now mere inconveniences on the way. Roads are

just something I have to defeat before I can truly taste achievement.

As I turn one corner a woman is holding out a tray of energy cubes. I grab one like a monster, groaning my

thanks and shoving it into my mouth, which is so dry it makes my taste buds twitch. I feel the jelly melt into my

tongue as the flavour of blackberries explodes on my taste buds. It’s so intense and I need all the energy I can get.

I turn more corners, winding roads, small ups, small downs. Nearly there now. After what seems like an age the

finish line is ahead, covered in yet more balloons. Sound is going now. It’s all muffled and the only thing I can hear

is my breathing, rattling through my brain. My long, positive strides have turned into drags, one leg after the other,

like wading through treacle. Closer. Closer still.

It is then that I see her, near the end of the race. My beautiful daughter, standing against the railings and

cheering me on. Her lovely smile is all I need. There are so many people around, but I can spot her immediately.

She is distinctive, one of a kind. Strikingly beautiful and every day I wake up and wonder how I created something

so special. How I didn’t screw it up like so many other things in my life.

That was all I could read. The emotion was tearing at my chest again. It was too hard. I slammed the book shut. His imagination

astounded me, and I’d had no idea he felt so proud of me until then. I knew he would ‘finish’ the marathon. It was my dad, of course

he would. I believed in him, but I had to close it, just for a short while, otherwise I would trip up and fall down that hole of grief I

knew was so difficult to climb out of.

I wiped a single tear from the corner of my eye, wondering what secrets the rest of the books would hold. The film was flickering

in the background now. Curiosity got the better of me. I poured another glass of wine and went into his room, pulling from under his

bed a large box, which was full of notebooks. It shocked me how many there were. I wanted answers. I wanted a sign. Something. I

wanted to know my father better. So I closed my eyes and picked a book. Any book. One of at least fifty, I think.

I clutched it between my fingers and carried it back into the living room, sitting on the sofa and drawing the blanket around my

body once more. The rain was beating so hard against the glass now that the noise took my breath away. It was one of my favourite

sounds: nature battering the world around me, leaving me safe in my little man-made box, sipping wine and reading.

I looked at the label on the front of the book. 1 JULY 2006. Wow, this was ages ago, I thought. I’d only been in my job for a

couple of months then. Things had been very different. Again, I braced myself before opening the pages. I could handle this . . . and

if it was too much, I would put it away and come back in a few months’ time. No one is forcing me to read this, I thought, peeling it

open with trembling hands. I flicked through the pages, my eyes scanning over words. In a flash I saw Nick’s name pop up. How

strange . . . I’d only have known him a short time by then. I leafed back to the place where I found it, and started reading.

It’s hard having kids. How much do you show them the way and give them the answers? I’ve always been the

kind of dad who let Sienna make her own mistakes, find things out for herself and solve her own problems. I won’t

just give her all the clues. I want her to be able to stand on her own two feet one day because to be truthful, I’m not

sure how much longer I’ll be here. Anything could happen. Well, anything could happen to anyone, that’s certain,

but with me there’s so much more risk when I could collapse at any given moment.

I promised myself, before I got ill, that I wouldn’t just buy her the things she wanted. No, I wanted her to work for

them so she truly knew their worth. I don’t tell her all the wonderful things people say about her, because I want

her to realise her talents and value on her own. I want her to truly see them for herself as she grows up.

I hope this makes sense and doesn’t make me sound like an exceptionally selfish human being. I mean, if she

was in trouble then of course I would jump in and save her. But if it’s not urgent, and if it makes her stronger, I

would rather she went about it all her own way. I watch from the sidelines, like a hawk, and swoop in to get her if

she needs me. And don’t get me wrong. I am watching (when I’m not asleep – then I’m just listening), but now I’m

in a bit of a situation. One that I’m in two minds about.

She has this friend called Nick, a man she met at work. He’s an artist at the publishing house she writes for. She

adores him. In fact, she loves him. She’s only young, but I think I can safely say this is pretty big for her. Although

she won’t admit it . . . I had never met the bloke before until yesterday, when he just turned up at my house to ‘drop

a CD round’ on his way into town.

Now I’m a man, and there’s no way he was just casually on his way to the shops. I could tell that he loves her by

his dopey eyes and his bashful demeanour the minute I opened the door. It was the look of a man in love – and he

seemed like a great bloke.

Sienna wasn’t in and I think it’s safe to say we had something of an incident. I collapsed. Now it seems that

Sienna never told Nick about my condition, because the poor man thought I’d had a heart attack or something. He

was wailing like a banshee. Panic wasn’t the word. He was making me worse because the more I wanted to

scream out to him that I was all right, the deeper I was pushed into sleep. There I was, lying in my body, which I

couldn’t move, but able to hear everything. Everything.

And he said something. He told me that he loves her. I’m sure I didn’t mishear him. He was pleading with me,

and I think he said, ‘I love Sienna, she loves you, and she needs you. Don’t go anywhere . . .’

So how do I handle that? He might have just said it in the heat of the moment, or he might have meant he loves

her as a friend. And however he meant it, is it my place to tell her the things he said when he thought I was

knocked out for good?

But if it is love, real love, then I want them to find each other. Because I believe that love is an overwhelming, all-

consuming force, and when it’s genuine you can’t really ignore it. No matter how long it takes. It knocks down your

door by force. It keeps you awake at night. It plagues your thoughts and burns your soul. If it is love, they won’t

need me at all. By telling my daughter that the man of her dreams loves her too, would I not be getting in the way?

Meddling with fate?

Anyway, I tried to tell her, but I couldn’t. Something inside was pushing me to keep it quiet. And if he loves her, I

hope to God he sorts it out soon, because she’s one of a kind, my daughter. Really quite special.

Nick

Sienna has gone home and now I’m left like a lonely, sad zoo monkey. A miserable creature whose considerably more attractive

monkey wife has been exported to a zoo for better-looking animals on the other side of the world. That’s how bad it feels to be

without Sienna. How will I sleep without knowing she’s just across the hall? What is there to come home for if I know she won’t be

here?

No. I had to be cool about this. It’s important she spends her first night alone. I must give her some space. I have my phone on

loud, though. And vibrate. And in a glass dish so it rattles really hard if she calls me while I’m sleeping.

I lay down in my bed and decided I would try to read a book. Yes. Maybe I could find something to distract me in Charles

Dickens’s Great Expectations. As far as I’m aware it has nothing to do with stunning, blue-eyed girls from west London. You know