‘Nick! You threw it into the pond! They aren’t going to be able to get that now!’ she yelled angrily at me.
‘I don’t give a shit, Sienna. This is important.’ I pulled her arm gently as she started to get up to retrieve it.
She landed back down beside me like a balloon on a string. I could hear the snotty-nosed children whinging like they were right next to my ear. I tuned them out. ‘Look, this doesn’t change anything, OK?’ I said, with a new level of determination. ‘She pretty much lives with me now and we can still do everything we did before. It’s going to be OK.’
A horrible ache filled my stomach. I was all too familiar with this sensation, and it felt like doom. As though Chris Moyles had casually announced on Radio 1 that the world was going to end, before dropping the needle on an N-Dubz song and playing it on repeat while we all huddled in groups, drinking ourselves to death. It was that bad.
‘No, Nick. It’s not fair on her,’ she insisted, lying back down on the grass and curling into a tight ball. She only ever did that when she was really unhappy. She used to do that when Daniel House was being an idiot, which was quite often.
‘But there’s nothing like that between us, Si – nothing to feel guilty about,’ I lied, trying to make it all OK. I guess I secretly hoped that she would just tell me that there was something. That there was something more between us than half a metre of lush green grass and the sticky summer air, which was so heavy you could almost dig a spoon into it.
I lay back beside her, lifting my T-shirt up slightly as the sun beat down on us, unforgiving and inescapable as the spotlights the time we were on stage. She pulled a thick layer of hair over her eyes.
‘Hey, Si. Are you really happy for me?’ I rolled over and faced her, hoping she would stop pushing me away.
‘Yes, Nick. I’m thrilled. She’s incredible. You’re both very lucky,’ she responded.
Genuinely. Truthfully. I knew she meant it. ‘And you’re going to stop all this silly talk about us, aren’t you?’ I asked.
She said nothing.
Sienna
It’s Monday and things aren’t good.
Mondays are bad enough as it is. There are more people on the train than on any other day of the week, the corner shop always runs out of croissants by the time I get there, and it’s the day of the editorial meeting, where Ant successfully quashes all of our journalistic ambitions in the course of an hour. Even on a sunny day like today, things are distinctly rubbish.
And this Monday I got up and approximately five minutes later, I remembered what had happened on Saturday, and then I felt even more shitty. Yes. There was a blissful 300-second period where I’d forgotten what had happened just two days before. When I remembered, I was in the middle of brushing my teeth, and I bit the head of my toothbrush in frustration.
It had all started at around 9 a.m. when I’d had a text message from Nick asking me to meet him at Alexandra Palace because he had ‘something huge to ask me’. I thought this might be it, you know. That moment I’d been waiting for all this time, where he might have chosen a view over London on a sunny day to tell me I was all he could think about.
I quickly prepared a lovely salad, and strangely enough Dad and I had made a quiche and a pudding the night before, just for fun. He insisted that I took them with me, which made me feel bad. ‘You never know what he’s going to say to you, Sienna,’ my father said oddly as he wrapped up the food. He was a cryptic one at times.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, suddenly wondering if he might know something I didn’t.
‘I don’t know . . . I just have a feeling about this. And I’ll only spend the whole day working my way through it all and getting fat, so please take it with you to share with him,’ he added, before sneakily cutting a slice of banoffee pie for himself.
‘Anyway, I’ve really got into this writing thing. There’s a lot I want to get down today and I could do without you moping around the house,’ he went on, poking me in the side playfully and pointing towards the small pile of black notebooks on the kitchen surface.
I didn’t know much about what was written in those books – they were his and his alone – but what I did know is that he wrote about all the things he wanted to see and do, and how he thought they might be. I wondered if his imagination had become super-developed to make up for his inability to experience things for real – rather like the way a bat has incredible hearing to compensate for its blindness.
‘I’m going to write about what it must be like to run a marathon,’ he announced, grinning from ear to ear and holding up a running magazine.
‘Are you going to be OK?’ I asked.
‘Yes, of course, darling. I promise I’ll wear my helmet,’ he added, shoving the headgear on, which made him look like an extra from a Saturday night game show.
‘Thank you,’ I said, before kissing him on the cheek and walking out of the door.
When I arrived at the park gate I saw Nick and he looked nervous. There was something about his demeanour that told me I wasn’t going to like his news. Oh God, what if Chloe was pregnant? I suddenly imagined having to hold said child and look really happy. Or maybe they were getting married? Oh Jesus, yes. I bet that was it. He was at that age now . . .
‘Hello, skinny,’ he said, pulling me into his arms. His body was tense. He was tense. On the other hand, maybe my quiet expectation was correct this time. Maybe he was going to say something about us. Me and him . . . Something good. Wonderful, in fact. But then I could be wrong. Maybe he’d just got a new job or something. That would be pretty bloody bad. I quietly told myself off for speculating so wildly about whatever he was planning to tell me.
But then my sunny day seemed to melt into a moody painting where the colours had all been dimmed, because he told me he was going to ask Chloe to live with him. Cohabit. The temp was permanent. It was official.
I faked the kind of happiness you reserve for the colleague who got the promotion you both went for, or the bloke who reveals a million-pound-winning combination on the scratch card he bought just before you.
Nick leaned back on his elbows, the outline of his washboard stomach showing subtly through a deep green T-shirt emblazoned with a white abstract graphic. His rebellious dark hair poked out from underneath a disgustingly sexy fedora, which cast a shadow against his strong, stubbly jawline.
I didn’t know what to do, so I leaped on him and cuddled him. Emotion washed over me like a huge wave. It was utterly overwhelming. I was losing him. I wanted to hold on to him before the gods swooped down from the sky, picked him up and took him away. Forever.
He held me back and as the tears started to come I felt my chest shake. I held my breath hard so he wouldn’t feel it. If he didn’t feel it, then maybe he wouldn’t see the water streaming from my eyes and I would get away with it.
Nick continued to talk about the big decision – how it had come about, cheap removal companies for Chloe’s stuff, bubble wrap – but to me it was just a load of mixed-up drivel.
But then he noticed my tears and I unravelled. All I could think about was how our nights of vintage gaming would have to end. No more Donkey Kong or Street Fighter sessions with a few Jack Daniel’s and Cokes, followed by a shared cigar with the cherry filter in the garden. Bollocks.
‘But don’t forget about me, Sienna, please. We can still see each other loads. Chloe loves you. Nothing has to change. Do you promise that nothing will change?’ He mimicked moving his thumbs on an imaginary control pad, wincing slightly as if he’d read my thoughts.
I knew deep down that this would be the beginning of the end. Nick had to grow up one day soon, after all, but I just wished it could be with me. Then I pictured Chloe’s and Ben’s faces and felt guilty about my thoughts. Ben had just gone out for the day, I was due to see him later, yet I’d been daydreaming that Nick would suddenly turn around and tell me he loved me, just like I’d always loved him. If he’d said those words, would I have even given Ben a second thought?
Nick casually lit a cigarette. I had pissed around too long, and now he was about to start cohabiting with the gorgeous office temp I’d dismissed as just another one of those good shags he wouldn’t quite be able to commit to. All the others girls had just come and gone, something I’d taken for granted. I’d never imagined that he would actually settle down. He was so carefree – there was something truly magical about him, like he could do anything and get away with it. He was a free spirit, annoyingly unable to stick with just one person for long. But now he was talking about Chloe moving in with him.
Nick was, and always had been, superhuman to me. He even made the lazy curls of smoke leaking from his Marlboro Lights look cool – on anyone else, this would have looked like a small, obnoxious factory chimney hanging out of their gob, the kind that leaves a lingering smell like rotten eggs hanging limply over the surrounding town. Poor Chloe, she had done nothing wrong at all, just fallen in love with one of the most beautiful men to ever grace west London. He was a guy, she was a girl, and all that, and this was a love story. A love story that didn’t include me. I did play some part, but a crappy one. Like the time they made me the back end of a donkey in the school nativity.
It was Chloe who interrupted my train of thought as I sat at my desk, chewing my lip hard and remembering that Saturday. ‘Do you want a cup of tea, sweetheart?’ she asked, appearing as if from nowhere. I jumped out of my skin.
‘Oh, hi, Chloe. I’m OK, actually, thanks, hon. I have to go to a meeting in a minute and then I’ve got the afternoon off.’ I had no idea why I was telling her this. It had nothing to do with tea.
‘Afternoon off on a Monday? That sounds exciting,’ she responded, then she leaned in close and whispered in my ear, ‘Are you going to a job interview?’
‘Oh, no no no. I’m just doing something for a friend,’ I replied, hoping she didn’t think I was talking about Nick – because for once I wasn’t. She waltzed off into the kitchen with a spring in her step. I wondered if he’d told her yet.
When the meeting was finished I left the office and marched to Balham train station where I was to meet Laura. I was nervous. My heart was pounding in my chest. I knew this was a huge move that could potentially change Pete’s life forever – for the better. But I also knew that with that move came a risk. An enormous risk. I had seen on more than one occasion the horrible rages he was capable of flying into, and I knew this might well end the same way. This was such a bold thing to do, and I had a terrible fear that he would hate me for it.
As I weaved my way through the people I saw Laura standing by the ticket machines. You could spot her a mile off. Her hair was in thick blonde dreads, intermittently streaked with faded blue and red. She was strange-looking, but in a fascinating and beautiful way. She had a tiny nose piercing and small white teeth, set against a delicate face. A face almost too delicate to be surrounded by such a wild tangle of matted hair.
‘Hello, Sienna,’ she said, pulling me into a hug.
She wore baggy jeans and a black vest top with a pair of chunky trainers. She was the kind of girl I would have felt intimidated by as a teenager because she was a bit cool. Now I just looked at her and wondered about her past, where she’d come from and how she’d ended up doing this unusual job. An outreach worker, scooping up ruined lives from the city’s pavements.
‘Hello, Laura, thanks so much for this. I’m really nervous,’ I said, realising I was fiddling frantically with my hair.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort this out. Do you know where he’s likely to be?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side enquiringly like a dog. She pulled a large piece of pink bubblegum from her mouth and threw it into a nearby bin. Underneath one arm was a thin black folder with a pen attached to it.
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to find him.’ I was starting to feel sick now.
This was terrifying. Was I doing the right thing?
‘Now, you remember what I said when we spoke on the phone?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow at me.
The phone call. The phone call . . . It had been long and I’d been nervous. It was all a bit of a blur now.
‘You know, about how he might react? It’s very common for people to be pretty aggressive when we approach them. Rough sleepers are incredibly settled in many ways; they can’t see a way out so often they’ve carved a whole new lifestyle, a whole new set of attitudes.’ She waved her arm through the air as she said this, as if to emphasise the drama of it all. ‘All I’m saying is that it might take more than one try, OK?’
More than one try? I wasn’t sure if that was an option. What if he rejected us the first time and then never spoke to me again? What if he ran off and disappeared and I didn’t get a chance to explain.
‘Come on,’ she said, pulling me gently away from the station.
‘I think he’ll be on the common near here. There’s this particular tree he likes, a fallen-down tree, actually, and I often find him there,’ I said, starting to shake now. The situation was making me hot with nerves, I could feel that my ears were bright red and my cheeks were flushed. This meant so much to me. It meant the world.
‘So, if we find him, I want you to go over just ahead of me and tell him who I am and that you contacted us at the charity, OK? I’ll be right behind you the whole time, and then let me take over, yeah?’ She looked into my eyes like this bit was really important and I really needed to pull myself together and just listen.
‘OK,’ I said. I had to trust her. These people knew what they were doing. I had learned all about how we could sort this out when I called them. How if Pete wanted to, he could go to a temporary hostel, which wasn’t great, while they got him a better hostel. Then, if he wanted to help himself, he might be able to get a job and a proper house. They would feed him at the hostel. He would have his own room. A chance.
We walked timidly on to the common, which was stretched out in front of us like a huge green blanket. Turning just a few corners revealed the fallen tree and to my relief there was Pete, sitting on top of it and fiddling with a stump of wood at his feet. I walked towards him slowly, the fear caught in my throat. He didn’t notice me until I was really close.
‘Pete,’ I said quietly.
He flinched. ‘Oh hello, love,’ he responded, looking at the woman behind me in confusion before something shifted in his face as he seemed to realise what was going on. I kneeled down to his level and put my hand over his.
‘Pete, I really don’t want you to be angry with—’ I tried to explain, but he interrupted me, leaning up and whispering into my ear, his stubble brushing my face.
‘Who’s that woman with the clipboard, Si? Who is she? What have you done?’ He sounded angry. His eyes were narrowed and the skin around them wrinkled. I recognised this hostility from the time I’d taken the photo from him for too long, and the time I’d asked him about the fight. I knew where it led. My words caught in my throat and got stuck there.
Laura seemed to pick up on this, and tiptoed into our space. ‘Pete, my name’s Laura and I’m here from a homelessness charity,’ she said warmly, holding out her hand in his direction.
He spat at the ground and grunted, pulling his grey T-shirt over his knees so it stretched to cover him.
The spitting. The fury. They were the traits of an angry, frightened teenager, far from the intelligent man I had grown to love. This wasn’t the Pete I’d come to know, the Pete I wanted her to meet. This was the angry Pete who threw beer cans at office windows. I’d been hoping it was just the alcohol back then, but he looked sober now and still as angry. I just
wanted him to show her who he really was. How he was a bright, loving individual who had just got a bit lost. Come on, Pete. This is our chance . . .
‘What do you want, Laura?’ He raised his voice and threw his arms into the air. ‘You want to help me? I can tell you now, I’m not worth helping. I got myself into all this mess so I can get myself out. Alone.’ He pulled his knees even closer to his chest, the plastic logo on his top stretching and peeling where the paint was being torn apart. He scrunched his eyelids together in frustration.
‘OK, I think we should leave it.’ I turned to Laura. I’d got this all wrong. I never should have interfered. Laura ignored me and sat herself next to Pete.
‘Now, Pete. I just want to have a chat with you, OK? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We aren’t going to take you anywhere, we aren’t going to force anything upon you. Will you just talk to me for a bit?’ She looked at him but he kept his eyes to the floor, as if he was trying to bore down and communicate with the worms. I kept my distance, but listened to every word.
‘So how did this all start? You don’t mind if I write, do you?’ she asked, direct and to the point, pulling the biro from its clip on the board, poised for note-taking.
‘How can you help me? No one can. There’s nothing free in this world,’ he muttered, finally looking towards her. I was scared. Terrified, in fact, that I had made a huge error. An error that would undo three years of gentle friendship.
There was silence. Long, deep, cavernous silence. A squirrel ran down the tree trunk, gripping the bark hard with its claws and shuffling around nervously. Pete was distracted, watching its every move and starting to laugh to himself. But it was a strange laugh . . . A wicked one, loaded with frustration.
Suddenly, he seemed to soften, and after a few minutes he spoke. ‘My wife died. That’s when it began.’ He leaned back against the scratchy bark and put his head against it, looking up into the leafy canopy, shards of sunlight cutting through it like rows of glitter powder.
‘I was at work when I got the call. I used to be an events organiser – you know, music venues and stuff. I’ll never forget it. You would know it as the Oakwood Park rail crash.’ He paused again like he had with me so often. It was incredible how his mood could change so quickly. ‘The train derailed and she was in it – you probably know all the details anyway. I thought it was a joke so I just said “No” a lot. Then I turned on the news and there it all was – chunks of twisted metal, torn bodywork, like it was a bit of scrunched-up paper. And I knew my beautiful wife was inside, and I hadn’t been there to save her, to protect her.’ His tone started to grow angry again as he recounted the story.
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