Dear Emmie Blue

by Lia Louis

I lean to get the two cups of tea I set down on the bedside cabinet moments ago. “I think you know all there is to know about me, Louise. I’m thirty. I live here with you. I work at the Clarice. You really don’t want me to go on, do you?”

  “I don’t mean that,” she says, stretching, taking a mug from my hands shakily. “I mean… oh, I don’t know.” Her eyes rise to the ceiling, as if she is thinking, searching for something. “Happiness,” she says. “What is that, to Emmie Blue?”

  “Wow,” I say with a smile, “that’s a… big question.”

  “Is it?”

  I bring my shoulders to my ears, look down into the green, minty tea in my hands. “I suppose when I was younger, a few years ago, I would have said… a family. A normal, safe family life.”

  Louise watches me, says nothing.

  “You know,” I say, “a home, with flowers in the window, a relationship with my mum where maybe she pops in for lunch now and then. Children, one day, maybe. Someone…” I swallow, words becoming increasingly difficult to say. “Someone to love. Someone to love me.”

  “Love,” says Louise. “So you think love is happiness?”

  I hesitate, laugh, nerves turning it into a high-pitched giggle. “I—don’t know. Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. For me. Is it for you?”

  “Love?” asks Louise.

  “Yes,” I say. “Have you ever… been in love?”

  “Me?” Louise pauses. Her eyes close. She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “No I have not.” And before I can say anything else, she says, “So, a nice three-bed semi, a family, and someone to love you…”

  I laugh again, my cheeks unabashedly burning red. “Yes,” I say. “To me, that sounds perfect.”

  “Oh. And flowers in the window.” She nods, knowingly. “I see,” she says kindly. “Okay.” Then she drinks.

  “You think I’m mad, don’t you?” I say. “Is this the part where you tell me I have my head up my arse for saying such a sugary, silly thing?”

  “No,” she says, lowering the mug to her lap. “Not even close, Emmie. Silly is something I would never use to describe you.”

  I smile. “Well, that’s a little bit of a Louise Dutch compliment if ever I heard one.”

  “Take them where you can find them.”

  The rain pummels the window, and Louise changes her mind and asks me to read just a chapter from the historical romance we’re midway through at the moment, and when I get to the word “member” she winces and says, “horrible things,” which makes me spit out my tea.

  It’s almost ten when I stand to leave and go to turn out her light.

  “Do you know why I like storms?” says Louise as my fingers reach for the switch. “They’re a little reminder that we’re not at all in charge, but Mother Nature is. And while the world might not look exactly how we’d prefer it to, it is enough, if we just stop and look. The whole sky lit up. The smell of the rain. Safe inside. What more could you need?”

  Tom approaches me now, the way I imagine members of the RSPCA approach an agitated animal. With trepidation, his words careful, nervous. Almost the way the pharmacist’s assistant spoke to Louise last week when I took her in the wheelchair to pick up her prescription. Polite enough, but with a hint of pity. And I thought as we’d walked away, “No wonder she never goes out.”

  “Happy with how it turned out, yeah, Emmie?” he says now, standing at the ballroom’s long arc of a bar. “Totally,” I tell him. And I am. I really am. It’s very Lucas and it’s very Marie. White and shiny and modern and opulent. That’s the word for this venue. Opulent. Huge chandeliers glitter from high ceilings, twists and delicate showers of fairy lights illuminate the room like tiny stars, and tuxedoed waitstaff flit wordlessly about the room. It looks more like a wedding than a joint stag and hen party. The only thing that takes it away from looking like a wedding is the lack of tables and chairs. There is a huge, shining dance floor, a DJ, and just two long banquet tables. One dressed in black and white, like a tuxedo, and the other donned with white fur and gems. One for the stags. One for the hens. I just don’t know where I am supposed to sit…

  “You’ve done an amazing job, Tom,” I say, and he nods woodenly.

  “And you too,” he says. “Lucille’s singer friend arrived awhile ago, by the way. She did a warm-up. Sounds good.”

  “And what about the pop-punk band? For Luke?”

  “All here and counted for. They sound mega. Eliot’s out back with them, going over their list. They have a set list of twelve, then it’ll be the DJ. You might want to have a look over their list, just to be sure, but I’ve chosen mostly crowd-pleasers, and some songs I know Luke loves. Eliot’s looking it over.” He gives me a look that’s an almost eye roll, as if to say, “I don’t know what it’s got to do with him.” “Anyway. I’m just going to see where they are. Should be here soon.”

  I stand alone at the bar for a moment, my hand resting on the smooth counter. My stomach fizzes at the idea of seeing Eliot for the first time since that moment on Louise’s drive. What if it’s awkward? What if he’s with Ana, and he told her about that moment on the drive—that I was so close to him, inches from his lips? What if that moment was all me—me reading it wrong—and now I’ve made him feel weird about us? But he asked me if I wanted him to stay, didn’t he? God. You’d think after weeks and weeks of me asking myself (and Rosie and Fox, of course) these questions, I’d feel clearer about it all. But I don’t. Not even close. A waiter places down an ice bucket beside me and I consider, for a moment, sinking my head into it.

  I find Eliot where Tom said he would be: out back, hunched over a piece of paper. When Eliot sees me, he smiles warmly, and stands. Broad shoulders beneath a fitted dark shirt, open at the collar, straight-legged, black trousers. Strong. Tall. Unmistakable, this somersaulting in my stomach at the sight of him.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey you,” he says, eyes flicking for a small second over my dress. “You look amazing.”

  “Do you think? I was iffy, about it being black, like maybe I was dressed for a wake or something, but—”

  “Nailed it,” he says, teeth grazing his lip. “Completely.”

  I can’t bring myself to hold his gaze, so I look down at my feet. “You’ve nailed it yourself,” I say. Because he has. He looks gorgeous.

  “Thanks.” He nods. “It’s been a while.”

  “I know.”

  “What have I missed?” he asks softly.

  “Not a lot, actually,” I say. “Work. The usual. And you? How was Luxembourg?”

  This feels like a dance, asking pointless, polite questions, avoiding the burning coals at our feet: that moment on Louise’s drive. The weeks we’ve gone, barely speaking.

  “Ah,” he says, hand coming up to his chin, fingers on neat, dark stubble. “I didn’t go to Luxembourg. I spent it in Le Touquet, at Mum’s, alone.” He gives an awkward grin that’s almost a grimace. “Me and Ana, we… we’re taking some time out. Well, that’s the polite term for it, I suppose.”

  “Oh,” I say, and silence stretches between us like elastic. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he says. “It’s been a long time coming. Sometimes you don’t realize how you feel till something shines a light on it. You know?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I get that.”

  Nobody says anything else, and I struggle to not blurt everything desperate to break free. I want to ask him why, and what taking some time means. I want to tell him I’ve missed him, and that I have typed out a text to him every single day, but not been able to send it. I want to ask him if he meant what he said, on the drive. If he’d have stayed with me, for Christmas, if I’d asked him to. But I don’t. Instead I clear my throat, clap my hands together, and say, “So, expert opinion please. Do I sit at Marie’s table, with all the girls, or do I sit at the black, tuxedo table among all the testosterone and man-spreading?”

  And like the mood dispersed as my hands clamped together, Eliot laughs.

  “Tough
one, Em,” he says, closing the gap between us. “I mean, if I have my way, you’ll sit with me,” he says ducking his head, eyes on mine. “I’m not getting stuck with Tom or that ridiculous boss of Lucas’s with the eyebrows, who goes on about getting mistaken for Brad Pitt but actually looks like—”

  “An armpit?”

  “Weak,” laughs Eliot, shaking his head. “So weak. But surprisingly accurate.”

  Tom, flustered, his cheeks the color of pomegranates, appears in the doorway. “They’re here,” he says. “Just pulled up.”

  Eliot turns to me. “Time to go greet the bride- and groom-to-be,” he says. “You ready, Flower?”

  * * *

  The party is in full swing, the music loud, and tables littered with empty, sauce-smeared plates and half-full glasses.

  Lucas and Marie were welcomed into the ballroom the way a bride and groom are when they enter the reception for the first time. And their joy was unmistakable as they walked in, both of them holding on to each other, gasping, gawping, their eyes traveling around the room in amazement.

  Lucas grabbed Tom into a rough, tight, rugby hug when he arrived, then ran toward me—actually sprinted—and threw his arms around me, lifting me from the ground.

  “Em, this is fucking awesome,” he spoke into my ear. “The band. There’s an actual band.”

  “I couldn’t resist. Eliot helped me,” I told him, and I think that was the moment I have loved more than anything, tonight, watching Eliot put his hand out to shake Lucas’s, before Lucas pulled him in for a hug, and not like the one he gave Tom. This was a still, slow hug, ending with two rough fist-pats on the back. Two brothers. Too much time between them passed, for silly, drunken mistakes to have the clout they once had. Because so much time had passed since then. We have all changed; are still changing.

  There was a warbling, rambling speech from Tom, who talked mostly, for some reason, about the women he and Lucas had hooked up with in their very short traveling days and the unexpected safety of the yurt they’d slept in; and then Marie stood up and did a quick toast, when she even mentioned me, holding her hand out to me across the table—the “girls” table, where I was swiftly put by Lucille, directly opposite Eliot, across the way on the boys’ table. And who kept texting me from the other side of the room. During dinner, he’d sent:

  * * *

  Eliot Barnes: Tom is talking about the day he pulled 21-year-old twins.

  Eliot Barnes: I sort of want to die.

  Emmie: It’s nice over here, although the subject derailed to balls a minute ago.

  Eliot Barnes: Of course it did.

  Emmie: We’re back on asparagus now, and a farmer Marie has made friends with for the deli. His name is Sven. Looks like Henry Winkler, apparently. Also, someone just mentioned conjunctivitis.

  Eliot: Very civilized. We’re on to cars. Not cliché at all.

  * * *

  And now he looks at me, slight smile on his pink lips, two men beside him in fast, passionate conversation, all hand gestures and deep nods. He mouths to me with a hand to his ear. “Phone.”

  * * *

  Eliot Barnes: So, Emmie. Closed book. Flower.

  Eliot: Dance with me?

  * * *

  I look up at him, and he’s already looking at me, smiling wider now. I shake my head.

  * * *

  Emmie: I don’t dance.

  Emmie: I haven’t danced in almost fifteen years.

  Eliot Barnes: Time to overwrite a shit memory with a new one?

  * * *

  Across the room we hold each other’s gaze. He knows. He remembers the last time I danced was the night of the Summer Ball. And I loved dancing. I remember the way Georgia and I danced that night, and I remember the song and the color of the light, and the way it painted her blue dress pink. I felt so free and young and excited that night. We were going into sixth form, and then it would be the next step; the next big step into the world. College. Then maybe even uni. Then: the rest of our lives. I remember the hope. I remember the excitement. Robert Morgan had found a Peter. A musician that could be my dad. Things were going to be okay—I wasn’t going to be lonely anymore. And then, in one decision, in one moment, minutes later, the hope was sapped from everything. I was lonelier than I had ever been.

  * * *

  Emmie: Also, I can’t dance.

  Emmie: At all.

  Eliot Barnes: Nobody can.

  Eliot Barnes: Well, unless you’re Nick Carter from the Backstreet Boys, and he isn’t here.

  * * *

  I look up at him, head to one side, and shake my head, but he’s getting up. He leans over, says something to the group of men he’s sitting with, tosses down his napkin, and makes his way over to me.

  “It’s a slow song,” he says into my ear. “You don’t need to be able to dance, just… stand and breathe.”

  I laugh. And despite myself, despite not dancing since that night, despite my washing machine stomach and cold, shaky hands, I take his and stand up.

  “One song,” I say, as one slow song flows flawlessly into another. “Just this one.”

  He nods, looking down at me, brown eyes fixed on mine. “Just one.”

  We walk together to the dance floor, meandering in and out of dancing, swaying couples, his strong hand holding tightly on to mine. Ironically, Lucas and Marie, the bride- and groom-to-be, are at opposite ends of the dance floor, in quick, all-smiling conversations with people I don’t recognize.

  I stand in front of Eliot and look up to the lilac-and-blue strobes of disco lights. I remember. How Freddie, Georgia’s date for the Summer Ball, was late, arriving two hours after everyone else, with his scruffy friends in tow, their shirts untucked, hair gelled, and he’d ignored her. When the slow song had kicked in, I’d taken her hand and said, “I’ll dance with you,” and she’d laughed and said, in a mock-posh accent, “I would be honored, Emmeline Blue.” And we did. We danced in the middle of the floor, arms around each other, spinning each other in turn, all smiles, all laughs, all taut apples of cheeks and happy eyes. That was me and Georgia. Sisters, practically. Until he ruined that. He ruined dancing and discos and even dresses, for me, for a while. And I find my hands trembling, just a little, as I put my arms around Eliot’s neck. The music. The lights. The bodies swaying around us; it’s the same.

  “Okay?” Eliot asks, arms around me.

  “Fine,” I say, looking up at him.

  “Good. Only thing for it,” he says, “hold on and hope for the best.”

  “And that’s dancing, is it?”

  “Well, yeah,” Eliot says, then he leans in, and says into my ear, breath tickling my neck, “And everything else, too, Emmie Blue.”

  The longer we dance, the more relaxed I become, and one song turns into two, turns into three, and my head is against his chest now. I love the way he smells. Of a deep, woody aftershave and fresh laundry, and I can hear him singing along. And he can sing. I remember that now, about Eliot. The way he’d play guitar along to the Beatles, trying to work out chords, and I’d stand on the landing outside his room as I was passing, and listen. And he could hold a note. More than a hold a note.

  The music changes, and I look up at him. Somersault. Somersault. Do I like him? Is Rosie right? I do. I think I do.

  “Morning,” he jokes as I straighten, the music changing into something more upbeat, slow dancers drifting back to the bar. “And look. Three dances, and you survived to tell the tale.”

  “I know,” I say, “thank you.”

  Eliot scrunches up his brow. “Thank you?”

  “For asking me to dance. For succeeding in overwriting a shit memory with a nice one.”

  Under the dim, smoky lights, I see Eliot’s handsome face soften. “Anytime,” he says.

  And I don’t know exactly how it happens and who leans into who, but Eliot is taking the side of my face in his hand, and our lips slowly collide. It’s for just a second—a slow, soft press—and we pull away, inches apart, unmoving for a
second, breath tickling my throat.

  And I giggle. A delirious giggle that makes my cheeks burn, and I bury my face in his chest.

  “I finally kissed Emmie Blue.” Eliot bends, laughing into my ear. “My inner nineteen-year-old is beside himself right now.”

  When I answer the door of the guest cottage, I think Lucas is surprised to see me awake, dressed, made-up, and holding an almost empty mug of coffee.

  “Who are you, and what have you done with my lazy-arse friend, Emmie,” croaks Lucas, his sandy curls a giant bouffant of a mass on top of his head. He is wearing nothing but a pair of gray jogging shorts and a pair of sunglasses. His skin is tanned. His breath, enough to get you tipsy from just a sniff. “God, I’m gonna hurl.”

  “Good morning to you too,” I say as he groans past me and throws himself facedown onto the guest cottage’s soft gray sofa. “Nice night? I assume from the sunglasses in winter, the answer is yes.”

  He groans again into the cushions as I close the front door.

  “Is that Lucas for ‘yes, but I have thrown up into my dad’s briefcase again and I need help blow-drying the checkbooks’?”

  Lucas laughs into the cushion. “Who knows?” he moans, turning his head to face outward, his sunglasses wonky on his face.

  I crouch. “Coffee?” I say, and he nods. “Also, you stink, Luke.”

  “Do I?”

  “You smell like whiskey and garlic and… bed.”

  “Oh,” he says sleepily. “Sounds quite nice.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Harsh,” he says. “Just because you have a spring in your step. What happened? Were you in bed by ten with your best man book and one of Louise’s hippy teas or something?”