Truly, Wildly, Deeply

by Jenny McLachlan

  ‘Fab, you’ve got to come and look.’

  He joins me at the window.

  ‘Have you ever seen snow sparkle like this? It looks like a fairytale!’

  ‘It looks like it will stop buses,’ he replies.

  I groan and, while Fab starts throwing things in his bag, I ring the bus company. Fab’s right: all the buses out of Haworth have been cancelled.

  I hang up. ‘Fab, I need to get back. My mum’s coming home at six and she’ll be mad with me if she finds out I came here. She specifically said: “Annie, don’t you dare go to Haworth!”’

  ‘We will get back in time.’

  ‘But how? There are no buses and Bob “the only taxi driver in Haworth” told us he doesn’t work Sundays. After I’ve paid for the youth hostel, I’ve got less than twenty pounds and I don’t even think that will be enough for a taxi from Keighley. We’re trapped in Haworth!’

  ‘Unfortunately, I only have ten pounds,’ he says, peering into his wallet, ‘but there is always a solution.’

  Even though I’m worried, I can’t help smiling, because it’s so good to have invincible Fab back again, even if it is a wildly optimistic, invincible Fab.

  He gives me one of his biggest smiles. ‘I will go and get us some breakfast and at the same time find us a way out of here.’

  Ten minutes later, I’m eating toast in the back of Edvin’s Ford Fiesta. Fab’s up front with Edvin, who’s taking us to a service station, where Fab is confident he can convince a Polish lorry driver to give us a lift closer to home.

  I lean forward. ‘You really think this will work?’

  ‘Of course it will work,’ Fab says, then he rummages through Edvin’s CD collection and holds up an album by someone called Yanni. ‘Sensuous Chill,’ Fab reads. ‘Annie, this is what you need to listen to right now.’

  Fab’s plan does work, and at the service station we swap Yanni for a prog rock singer called Agnieszka Świta and the Ford Fiesta for a thirty-six-tonne articulated lorry.

  Our new driver is called Milek, and as we pull out on to the motorway he tells us that he can’t talk as he needs to concentrate. ‘Driving a lorry like this is a huge responsibility,’ he says – at least, that’s what Fab tells me because Milek doesn’t speak English so Fab’s translating for me.

  The good news is that Milek is on his way back to Poland and can drop us at a service station very close to home. The bad news is it’s going to take four hours to get there. I do a quick calculation and realise that I can still make it home before Mum.

  ‘Nie zatrzyma,’ Milek says as he shifts through the gears.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask Fab.

  ‘We don’t stop.’

  ‘What? Not at all?’

  Fab shrugs. ‘Apparently not.’

  Feeling relieved that I went to the toilet at the service station, I ball my damp coat into a pillow and lean against the window.

  As we travel along the motorway, the snow-covered fields gradually fade away and by the time we hit the Midlands, it’s hard to believe we dug a car out of snow this morning. Next to me, Fab alternates between singing along to Agnieszka Świta and talking to Milek in Polish – although Milek doesn’t talk much, he doesn’t seem to mind if Fab talks. Polish sounds so relaxing – like water tumbling over stones – that it’s hard to stay awake.

  When we finally pull into the service station, my back’s aching, I’m dying for a wee and I’ve listened to the same Agnieszka Świta album five times. Milek really needs to expand his music collection.

  Inside, Fab goes into the cafe to buy Milek a coffee, while I head to the toilets. When I come out, I find Fab sitting at a table by the window. He’s texting and in front of him are three steaming drinks. I sit opposite him, sip my coffee and look out of the window. I watch the constant flow of cars in and out of the car park. It’s grey outside and already starting to get dark. Rain trickles down the glass.

  I smile, then see my reflection smile. This is what my big romantic gesture has come down to: a sticky table in a service station, ‘Wrecking Ball’ blaring out of some speakers courtesy of UK Services FM and the powerful smell of fried egg.

  Milek appears for his coffee. We say thank you, and just before he goes, he nods at me then says something to Fab in Polish.

  Fab shrugs, and says, ‘Może.’

  ‘You were talking about me, weren’t you?’ I ask when he’s gone.

  Fab laughs. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So tell me. What did he say?’

  Fab wraps his hands round his mug. ‘He asked me if you were my girl.’

  I sit up, suddenly feeling more awake. ‘Oh … And what did you say?’

  For a moment, Fab doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. So I look right back at him, meeting his gaze.

  ‘I told him that although I don’t call you “my girl” as such, that is what you feel like to me, because when I am with you, life is better. In fact, I told him I am better when I’m with you.’

  ‘Really?’ I manage to say. ‘You said all that with just one word?’

  He nods. ‘Yes, Polish is very economical. But that is not all. I also told him that I will never try to change you or take anything away from you, that you will never be my anything. You are Annie: the girl who gave me Wuthering Heights.’

  My heart beats faster and a woman brushes past me with a tray. All I can say is: ‘But you said I wasn’t the person you thought I was.’

  Fab doesn’t take his eyes off me. ‘You’re not, and that’s why this has been the most wonderful adventure.’

  Around us, people talk, cups bang down, knives and forks scrape across plates. But for me, the world is standing still.

  ‘So.’ He reaches across the table and takes my hands in his. ‘You and me, Annie and Fab, are we a thing?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘If you’d like to be my thing, then I’d like to be your thing.’

  He squeezes my fingers. ‘I would like to be your thing.’

  And at that moment, at that exact moment, ‘Blurred Lines’ fades out and UK Services FM decide the travellers of Great Britain need to hear Kate Bush sing ‘Wuthering Heights’.

  My eyes widen. ‘Fab, have you heard what they’re playing?’

  ‘It’s the song that isn’t our song,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t I owe you a dance?’

  ‘Really?’ Fab glances round the cafe. ‘You think we should dance right here?’

  ‘Maybe over there.’ I nod towards the entrance. ‘Between the toilets and the slot machines.’

  He laughs. ‘But I thought you hated slow dancing?’

  ‘Who says it’s going to be slow? Come on, life’s too short for embarrassment, Fab.’

  ‘You’re right!’

  He takes my hand and together we weave between the tables and chairs. When we get to the fruit machine, he bows and says, ‘Annie, will you dance with me?’

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ I say, stepping into his arms as the music builds up.

  Fab pulls me close and he moves me around the small space, past a man in a football shirt and between the racks of discounted DVDs. We shuffle round in circles, just like those couples at Sophie’s party. I rest my head on Fab’s chest and he rests his hand on my back. The end of the song is cut off abruptly by a traffic report about a hold-up on the M40. By now, we’re back by the slot machines, arms wrapped around each other, our hearts beating together. Behind us, the machines buzz and ping.

  Fab puts one hand on the back of my head, and I reach up on my toes and I pull him towards me, my slightly damp fur coat pressing into his leather jacket, and our lips meet for a kiss. A kiss that is so familiar, so exciting, so utterly right, that it really feels like coming home and the start of something, all at the same time.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  When Mum’s car pulls up outside the house, I’m curled up on the sofa reading Wuthering Heights.

  ‘Hello, love!’ she shouts as she opens the front door.

  ‘I’m in here,’ I call f
rom the front room, then I watch her in the hallway as she drops her bag on the floor, shrugs off her coat and unwinds her scarf. ‘Was it fun?’

  She bends down and pulls off her boots. ‘Brilliant, but I’m knackered. I don’t know how I’m going to go to work tomorrow.’

  I lean my head back and let my aching body melt into the sofa. About seven minutes ago, a lorry loaded with fruit and with Cytrusy! written on the sides dropped me off outside my house. About six minutes ago, I waved goodbye to Fab, and he shouted, ‘Żegnaj, piȩkna dziewczyna!’ out of the window. He shouted it so loud, he made our next-door neighbour’s cat shoot across the road.

  Mum comes in and flops next to me on the sofa. ‘So,’ she says, turning to face me, ‘how was your weekend?’

  ‘Oh, you know … Quiet,’ I say, then I smile. And the smile gets bigger and bigger until it’s out of control and spreading across my face and taking on Cheshire cat proportions. Too late, I try to hide my huge smile behind Wuthering Heights.

  Mum gasps. ‘You went, didn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother.’

  She snatches the book away. ‘Don’t even try to lie to me, Annie Demos. Did you, or did you not go to Haworth with Fab?’

  I decide it’s impossible to fight the smile and I let it run free. ‘Yes!’ I say, throwing my arms wide. ‘And I don’t care what you do to me!’

  FIFTY-FIVE

  So what does being someone’s thing look like?

  Actually, it doesn’t look very different to not being someone’s thing. I still get the train every day with Jackson and recently we’ve given the cows names. We’re considering taking a trip to visit them, but we’re worried they won’t recognise us. I spend break with Hilary and the boys, eating waffles and talking nonsense. Sometimes Fab joins us, but only for a bit. He’s got too much energy and too many friends to stay in one place for long, even if I’m in that place.

  We’ve moved on from Wuthering Heights in English. Now we’re reading Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Fab loves it. I hate it. Miss Caudle says that our arguments are resulting in the best essays she’s ever marked.

  Fab’s made me passion-fruit cheesecake and he’s met Alice and Mabel. He passed the test.

  We’ve been on two dates, and both involved members of Fab’s family so on Saturday we’re going on one of our own, to Pizza Express. Mum’s got us a voucher. Fab’s never eaten a dough ball before so I’ve decided to overcome my fear of overtly romantic situations so I can introduce him to one of my favourite food items.

  I am Annie. He is Fab.

  This is our story, and we don’t have a clue how it ends.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank my wonderful editor, Zoe Griffiths, for her excellent advice, and Hannah Sandford whose early insights helped so much. I feel lucky to be published by Bloomsbury and to have worked with such a fantastic group of people.

  Thank you to Agnieszka Oliwa, who patiently helped me with the Polish words and phrases and described Polish weddings so temptingly. If there are any mistakes, they are my own!

  I am hugely grateful to my agent, Julia Churchill, and for the support I get from the team at A.M. Heath. Julia offers the wisest council; her belief in my writing means a great deal to me.

  Finally, I would like to extend a very special thanks to my first readers, Lauren Huggett and Chloe Smith, whose advice, support and suggestions have been invaluable. Thank you, Lauren and Chloe, for helping me to tell Annie’s story.

  ONE

  On my seventh birthday, Grandad made me a rocket. He used the cardboard box the washing machine came in, put a cone on the top and painted the whole thing white. Then he stencilled MEGARA 1 on the side with red paint.

  Mum took her hands away from my eyes and I blinked. The rocket nearly touched the ceiling. ‘Is it real?’ I asked.

  ‘Almost,’ she said.

  Grandad handed me my bike helmet. ‘Are you ready for your first mission, Meg?’

  I nodded. ‘I think so.’

  I was already wearing my astronaut pyjamas so all I had to do was put on the helmet and climb inside the rocket. Mum handed me a broken keyboard – my control panel – then shut the door. I ran my hands over the keys. Grandad had stuck labels on the different buttons: fuel boost, disengage, pressure drop. One button was painted green and simply said, LIFT-OFF.

  ‘Megara 1,’ Grandad said, putting on his smoothest American accent, ‘you’re good at one minute.’

  ‘Roger,’ I replied. Grandad and I were always watching NASA documentaries so I knew exactly what to say.

  ‘Megara 1, this is Houston. You are go for staging.’

  ‘Inboard cut off,’ I said, tapping buttons randomly, ‘staging and ignition.’ At that exact moment a deep growl burst out and I realised Mum had turned on the vacuum cleaner. Its roar filled the cardboard rocket. I felt my heart speed up with excitement and I tightened my grip on the keyboard.

  ‘Megara 1, this is Houston!’ Grandad shouted to be heard over the vac. ‘Thrust is GO. All engines. You’re looking good. This is ten seconds and counting.’

  ‘Ten,’ I called out, ‘nine … eight …’

  Grandad and Mum joined in. ‘Seven … six … five …’ Then one of them started shaking the rocket around.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘What is it?’ Her face appeared at the cut-out window.

  ‘I’m scared!’

  She reached through the window and took hold of my hand. Her silver rings pressed into my skin. ‘Don’t be scared, Meg. I’m here.’

  ‘Four … three … two … one …’ continued Grandad.

  ‘All engines running,’ I said, then I slammed my finger down on the green button. ‘Launch commit!’

  ‘Lift-off!’ shouted Grandad. ‘We have lift-off!’

  Mum let go of my hand and disappeared.

  The vac roared, the rocket shook wildly from side to side and I was leaving Earth and shooting into deepest space!

  TWO

  Eight years later. Back on planet Earth.

  Before I get my breakfast, I make sure everything in my bedroom is just right.

  I smooth down the duvet, push the chair under the desk and turn my globe so England is facing the sun. Then I get a red pen and cross yesterday off my homework timetable. Good. If I spend a couple of hours working on my speech tonight then I’ll be right on track. I don’t believe in luck or superstition, but before I leave the room I take a moment to glance at my picture of Valentina Tereshkova – the first woman to fly in space. Her steely gaze keeps me focused during the day.

  I grab some Weetabix from the kitchen then follow the thud, thud, thud coming from the front room. Only Mum would play bass anthems at eight in the morning. I find her kneeling on the floor, blowing up a paddling pool. Sitting on the sofa is my sister, Elsa, a jammy crust dangling out of her mouth.

  I turn down the music then join Elsa. I start eating my cereal, trying to ignore Elsa’s powerful wee smell. Her nappy looks suspiciously bulgy.

  There’s a hiss of air as Mum pushes in a plastic stopper. ‘Looking forward to trying out our new paddling pool?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘Mum, we live in a flat. Why do we need a paddling pool?’

  ‘So we can have fun, Meg! I thought we could fill it up and pretend summer’s here.’

  I look around. Toys, clothes and books are spread all over the carpet and Pongo is running round and round the paddling pool, barking at the inflated rings. ‘Mum, there isn’t enough room for it in here.’

  ‘There’s loads of room,’ she says, then she jumps to her feet. ‘I’m going to start filling it up.’

  Elsa takes the crust out of her mouth and holds it out to me.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say, but she keeps jabbing it in my direction.

  ‘Da!’ she says. ‘Da, da!’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I take it off her and pretend to eat it. ‘Nom, nom,’ I say. ‘Happy now?’

  Elsa smiles, sticks her thumb
in her mouth and flops back on the sofa. Then we watch as Mum runs to and from the kitchen with pans of steaming water. She’s wearing her Tinker Bell nightie and her bleached-blonde dreads are gathered on the top of her head with a scrunchie. Her bracelets jangle as each pan of water splashes into the pool.

  After six trips, the water just about covers the bottom. ‘It’s going to take ages,’ she says sadly, swishing a toe in the water. ‘Can you help me, Meg?’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve got to get to school.’ I go to the mirror over the mantelpiece and start brushing my hair back into a ponytail.

  ‘Such beautiful hair,’ says Mum. I can see her in the mirror watching me, her turquoise nose stud gleaming on her pale face. We look so different: me with my dark eyes and hair and Mum, blue-eyed and with hair so blonde it’s almost white. ‘I wish you’d wear it down.’

  ‘It’s easier this way.’ I smooth a strand of hair behind my ear and button up my blazer. I brush some toast crumbs off my shoulder. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work, Mum?’

  ‘In a minute. I’ll just put a bit more water in.’

  Mum runs the Mencap charity shop in town. That’s her paid job, but she’s got loads of others, like fundraising for Greenpeace and running the community allotment. She wants to make the planet a cleaner, better place. It’s fair to say she doesn’t feel the same way about our flat.

  ‘Meg, can you babysit Elsa after school?’ Mum dumps another pan of water into the paddling pool. ‘You know my friend Sara, the nurse?’ I shake my head. Mum’s got so many friends I can’t keep up with them all. ‘Well, Sara’s going to do some volunteer work abroad and she needs a lift to the airport.’

  ‘I don’t know …’ I think about tonight’s jam-packed square on my homework timetable. ‘I’ve got so much work to do … Plus I’ve got to practise my speech.’

  Mum looks at me, eyes wide. ‘I’ll be back around six. You and Elsa can just hang out together until then. It’ll be fun!’

  I look at Elsa, who’s now lying on her back on the sofa, gurgling and trying to get her foot in her mouth. ‘You really need to give Sara a lift?’