Field Notes on Love(30)

“Is that a code word for love?” Hugo asks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Mae laughs. “No, I meant actual Chicago-style pizza. It’s a thing.”

“Then maybe I’ll have to wrangle some myself,” he says, and when she gives him an exasperated look, he puts a hand over his chest, trying to keep a straight face. “Pizza. Not love.”

Ludovic gives them a hand as they step off the train, and Hugo feels strangely nostalgic as they say goodbye. It’s been only twenty-four hours, but somehow it seems like much more. As they make their way down the platform, his mobile begins to ding. He reaches for it and sees the texts stacking up one after another.


Poppy: So how’s Margaret Campbell, the sequel?

Alfie: Yeah, are you two in loooooooove yet?

Isla: You are a five-year-old.

Alfie: I know you are, but what am I?

Oscar: Bloody hell.

George: Seriously, though. How’s it going?

Alfie: Yeah, are you in loooooooove yet?

     Isla: Don’t be silly.

Poppy: He only just split up with Margaret Campbell, the first.

Alfie: Doesn’t mean he’s not in loooooooove.

Poppy: Doesn’t mean he is.

Hugo: Do I need to be here for this?

Alfie: I’m going to take that as a yes.

Hugo: You can take it however you want.

Oscar: Sounds like a yes to me too.

Alfie: The real question is…what are the sleeping arrangements??



Hugo looks up as Mae climbs onto the escalator ahead of him. He follows her, standing a few steps below, deep in thought. Halfway up, he clears his throat. “So.” When she twists around, he lifts his eyes to meet hers. “I was thinking I’d just…”

“What?”

“Well, we sort of agreed that…” She turns away as they reach the top, emerging into a cavernous marble building, which is noisy and echoing with footsteps. Hugo digs in the pocket of his jeans for a scrap of paper. “I wrote down the name of a hostel that’s not too far from your hotel.”

“Oh,” Mae says, finally understanding. He expected her to be relieved, but instead she looks uncertain. She takes the paper from him and examines it. “I should go with you. I mean, not to stay. Just to make sure you get in and everything.”

A few days ago, he would’ve guessed he’d be claustrophobic by now, eager for some space after being stuck overnight in a shoebox with someone he hardly knows. He figured at least one of them would try to scarper off the moment they arrived. But to his surprise, he finds he’s not looking forward to parting ways just yet. And neither, it seems, is she.

    “We can drop off your stuff,” she says, “and then…”

She trails off, and he finds himself smiling at the open-endedness of it all. “Brilliant.”

As they walk toward the exit, he wonders what it means that he’s spent his whole life longing to be alone, only to cling to the very first person he meets when he finally gets the chance for some solitude. Maybe he’s not cut out for this after all. Maybe if you’re born a pack animal, it’s simply not possible to become a lone wolf. Even for a week.

But right now he’s not all that bothered by it.

Outside, the clouds are a deep gunmetal gray, and the sky is starting to spit at them. Mae looks up at him expectantly.

“What?” Hugo asks.

“Do you have an umbrella?”

He shakes his head. “No. Why, do you?”

“No,” she says. “But you’re English.”

“So?”

“So I thought you’d have one.”

“Nope. No brolly.” He pretends to reach into his rucksack. “But I think maybe I’ve got my chimney sweep in here somewhere….”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I’m pretty sure a chimney sweep is a person, not a tool.”

“Well,” he says, laughing, “sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have any of the above.”

They begin to walk faster, blinking away the rain. It’s not like back home, where the rain is sideways and pelting; here, it comes straight down like someone has dropped a bucket over the city, and it’s not long before they’re both completely drenched. As they wait to cross at a stoplight, Mae holds a hand over her head.

    “I’m not sure that’s really helping,” Hugo says over the roar of the rain, which is coming down so hard that it’s splashing up all around them.

She looks over at him, water dripping from her eyelashes. “Got any better ideas?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s peg it.”

And so they run, their rucksacks thumping against their backs, their trainers soggy and slipping. By the time they reach the enormous brick hostel, they’re both panting hard and laughing a little too. Once inside, they stand beside a rack of brochures about Chicago, their clothes dripping water onto the floor. Mae wrings out her hair as she peers into the lobby, which is full of ratty-looking armchairs occupied by scattered groups of teens and twentysomethings.

“Maybe this won’t be so bad.”

Hugo shrugs. “As long as they have a towel, I’ll be fine.”

“I just feel bad that—”