Sweet Sorrow(78)

‘So. D’you want to come in, meet Graham and Claire?’

‘Oh. It’s half seven …’

‘Come on, we’ll wake them up, tell them the news!’

‘Oh. Okay, so if you think it’s—’

‘I’m kidding, Charlie.’

‘Okay. That’s really funny.’

‘I mean you’ll meet them one day, but …’

‘What will you tell them now?’

‘I’ll say I’ve been at Sarah’s. They half know it’s not true, but they’re cool about it. Or they pretend to be. “Been at Sarah’s” is a kind of code for “I’m sorry but don’t worry”.’ She took my hand and, between kisses, ‘Wish I could take you up to my room. Smuggle you in, keep you there.’

‘I wouldn’t mind.’

‘We could wait ’til they were out, then I’d fall on you – we could stay in bed all day, listen for the car and then I’d put you back in the wardrobe.’

‘What would I eat?’

‘I’d sneak food off my plate like in a novel, slide it under the door.’ We elaborated on the plan and kissed, but my jaw was aching now and Fran had the beginnings of a scoured rash around her mouth, a red ring like a clown’s make-up. ‘You should go,’ I said.

‘I know,’ she said, then, more earnestly, ‘but let’s be clever about this.’

‘So – you want to keep it secret?’ I’d expected this – most of the kisses I’d shared had come with stern vows of non-disclosure – but Fran just laughed.

‘No! Bollocks to that. No, I want to tell everyone! I mean we’re not going to put an advert in the Advertiser, but we’re not going to hide it. We’re going to be … cool about it.’ She kissed me. ‘We’ll be cool with everyone except each other.’

‘So – what will you tell people?’

‘I met this boy. I like him, I really do, and … we’re going to see what happens. Does that sound about right?’

‘Okay. I’ve got to work until nine tonight, but … could I see you after?’ It was a joke, but not entirely a joke.

She laughed. ‘Nope.’

‘Tomorrow then.’

‘No! Monday, after rehearsals.’

It was essential, I knew, to betray no disappointment at this, but something must have passed across my face, because she held on to both my shoulders. ‘Don’t worry. We will find a way.’ We kissed and stood holding each other as if I’d been banished to Mantua, and I thought that I might risk something.

‘Sweet sorrow.’

‘What?’

‘Sweet sorrow?’

‘Oh.’

‘You know. Parting is such—’

‘Yes, I got the reference, it’s my line. I just didn’t hear you.’ She mumbled something.

‘What?’

‘I said, “It’s important to enunciate”.’

‘It is important.’

‘It is.’ We kissed again. ‘Okay, that’s enough. Monday.’

‘Monday.’

‘Bye.’

‘Goodbye. Bye.’

By now the tyres on my bicycle were too flat to ride it home and so I walked through the summer morning with a new conviction, one that didn’t come from an entirely rational mind, and it was this: That if I could be with Fran Fisher, if she could somehow accept me and all my past faults, all the squalor and weirdness and worry, then in turn I would become a better version of myself, a version so excellent and exemplary that it was practically new. I had not been the person I wanted to be, but there was no reason why this couldn’t change. A new phase of life had begun, as precisely as if at the click of a stopwatch, and from now on I would no longer be defined by absences, the things that I was not. In the play, the Nurse lists Romeo’s qualities: honest and courteous, handsome, kind and virtuous, and while ‘handsome’ was not for me to say, there was no reason not to take the others on and to supplement them. I would be wise too, brave and loyal, a champion against injustice. I would be funny – was this something you could decide to be? – but not foolish, not a clown. I’d be reckless but not irresponsible, popular but not ingratiating. I’d read more and better books, wash more thoroughly, I’d brush my teeth with flair and zeal, devise a daily fitness regime and stick to it, carry myself differently, confident and straight, and get up earlier so that the days were as full as they could possibly be. I’d buy new clothes, get a smarter look, cut my hair, stop stealing, be more tolerant of Dad, more forgiving of Mum, a better older brother to Billie. I’d eat salad. Fish. Water – I’d drink a lot more water, two litres a day; no one, not even Miles, would drink more water than me.

On this warm, bright summer’s morning a lifetime’s worth of New Year’s resolutions were being made at once. An entirely new way of being – it was not something to take on lightly, an overwhelming project really but one I couldn’t wait to start, and I began to wish I had my headphones in my pocket and my portable CD player so I could give this all a soundtrack, an anthem of self-improvement. I’d write the resolutions down if necessary, pin them to the wall like a proclamation and stick to them, because being in love – no other word – was like being pushed out into a spotlight on a stage and under that kind of scrutiny it was important that I get everything absolutely right. From now on I would live beyond reproach and I would move differently through this world. ‘A Good Town’ said the road sign, Bonum Oppidum, and I thought, yes, perhaps it is, perhaps it can be.