The Things I Know(54)

‘I want to be the man you think I am. I want to be the man you make me think I can be.’

‘And I want you to feel about me the way I feel about you.’ She reached up and kissed his face.

‘I do.’ He kissed her in return. ‘I do.’

Grayson let go of her hand and pulled back the duvet before lying down on his side. He lay watching her, propped up on his elbow in the half-light as she shrugged off boots and jeans, leaving them in a crumpled pile on the carpet. The feel of his skin as she slid in next to him was a moment she knew she would never, ever forget. It was as if all the spaces were suddenly filled – those aching voids of loneliness, the crevices that had turned into canyons over the years, levered open ever wider by self-doubt until she was almost entirely comprised of hollow pockets of emptiness. She felt whole with a warmth that started in her stomach and spread throughout her limbs, and at that precise second she knew what it felt like to be one of those neat, clean, glossy and artfully painted girls with knowledge of what to wear, how to act and where to go – knowledge that was now hers too, because here she was with a man as wonderful as Grayson Potts.

And it felt as if the whole wide world and all it had to offer lay in the palm of her hand.

I know he’s the man I thought he was.

I know he’s more than the man I thought he was.

I know what pure happiness feels like.

I know I’m going to carry on being brave and making things happen!

I know I absolutely hate Liebfraumilch.





TEN

Thomasina opened her eyes slowly and was happy to find herself wrapped in Grayson’s arms. It was the dead of night, and she looked around in the darkness at the wooden furniture with its air of utilitarian functionality, along with the map on the wall, the shiny brown curtains and the apricot wallpaper. It was a dated and depressing room, despite the bubble of joy in which they nestled.

‘Are you awake?’ he whispered into her hair.

‘I might be. Are you?’ She giggled, sliding down the bed and turning dexterously until her face rested against his chest. ‘I can’t sleep.’

‘Because it’s so cramped.’

‘No, Grayson, because I’m happy! Excited! And I don’t want to waste a second of being with you.’

He kissed the top of her head and combed her hair with his fingers. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘Oh.’ She considered lying, but instead told him plainly, ‘I was thinking that your bedroom is sad. There’s no colour here and nothing pretty.’

‘I know. When my dad left, I remember sitting in here and thinking it felt like a safe place to be, the last place I saw him and where I could picture him, hear his words. But then, as I got older, I could see that it was as miserable as the slow beat of a solitary drum – you know, the way that sound goes right through your chest and drags grieving from you, lays it bare.’

Thomasina nodded. She understood what he meant and again appreciated the beautiful eloquence of his words.

‘So, I put more stuff in it: the wall map, the books.’ He took a breath and looked at her briefly. ‘But it still feels like a sad place, a prison. So when I’m here, I spend a lot of my time looking out of the window. Looking down on the world and the strings of lights that shine brightly in the rain and punch holes in the dark.’

His eyes twinkled, and she liked the look of him when he spoke like this, animated and happy. She was so very intrigued by anything to do with him.

‘My dad told me once that the tower blocks where we live are ugly – “Ugly on the outside, ugly on the inside, but there’s magic if you know where to look for it.” That’s what he told me and he was right. I didn’t always know what he meant, but he used to say we had a rich man’s view: we get to see something quite remarkable – London from way up high. And we get it for free!’

‘I’m afraid I don’t really know what you mean.’ She felt a little foolish for having completely lost the thread.

‘I like to rest my elbows on the windowsill and look at all the lights twinkling in the dusk. It’s wonderful. It makes the city look otherworldly and strangely beautiful, and yes, like magic – the way the ugly, bland, square, mismatched, unloved concrete buildings that during the day reek of deprivation by night become almost a single thing. And it’s a beautiful thing, a community almost, unified by the street lights that line the routes, looping in every direction and joining the dots. They’re a dazzling carpet of lights, shining brightly from windows and headlamps, a clear sparkle against the inky sky.’

‘I remember you asked if we had any street lamps when you arrived at Waycott Farm. I thought it was a strange question!’

‘It probably was. Come and look at this.’ He raised his knees and scrabbled out from under the duvet. Leaning against the headboard, he threw the heavy red curtains open wide and placed his elbows on the windowsill. Thomasina took up position in the small space to his left, the mattress creaking under their combined weight, and she too leaned on her elbows on the windowsill.

He pointed down towards the industrial area and the housing estate and the tower blocks beyond. ‘Look, you can see for miles and miles from here.’

‘Yes, you can!’

She leaned closer to the glass, aware he was studying her profile, and it felt nice to be able to share one of his favourite things.