Page 9 of The Truth About You and Me
‘Oh! Sorry, automatic locks. They should have been on when you arrived, actually. Give me a sec.’ I stride across to the keypad trying to compose a different reply, where I say yes I’d like to go for a drink with him. Instead I quickly move the conversation away. ‘So you like John Hughes films?’ I ask, opening the black box beside the door and glancing over. Under the brighter lights, he looks more Mediterranean than I’d first noticed, Italian, or Greek maybe? He frowns, possibly due to the breakneck speed I’ve changed the conversation, but there isn’t a hint of recognition. ‘Some Kind of Wonderful?’ I nod to the poster on the wall. He follows my line of sight and shakes his head. ‘The Breakfast Club?Pretty in Pink?’ Nothing. ‘She’s having a Baby?Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?’ A glimmer of recognition.
‘I thought that was Matthew Broderick?’
I shake my head. ‘It is but it’s written and directed by John Hughes. I’m a massive fan. He always strikes the right balance between humour and heart. And I know most of his films are for teens, but he always champions the underdogs, and makes all that awkwardness feelnormalsomehow. The soundtracks are alwayssogood too.’
I punch in the number and frown. There is no reassuring click from the doors. Weird. I peel back my mitten and try again.
‘Right. And I guessSome Kind of Wonderfulis a Ted Hughes?—’
‘John.’ I smile, stepping towards the door, giving it a yank. ‘I must have hit the wrong number.’ I head back to the keypad. ‘It’s my favourite of his actually,’ I add, punching the code in again.
‘And is it?’ He pauses, drawing in his eyebrows. ‘Wonderful?’
‘Oh, it’s dreamy.’ I walk back to the door, Jack stepping away to allow me space as if he senses the distance I need. ‘It’s about two friends’ – I yank the handle – ‘she’s a drummer, he’s a mechanic,’ I explain over my shoulder, ‘and she’s, like, totally in love with him.’ I pull on the doors again but they don’t budge. ‘But he’s in love with this popular girl and there’s this scene where she lets him practise kissing on her and it’s—’ I sidestep, landing my hands on my hips, puzzled.
‘Dreamy?’ he prompts. There is a hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth, but his gaze is sincere, like he’s genuinely interested in what I have to say.
‘Yeah.’ I clear my throat. ‘Dreamy. Let me try the code again. They should be opening.’
The lights flicker, and both of us look up towards the ceiling. I try the number a third time, but the door is locked. ‘It must be the electrics. Not to worry.’ I smile. ‘There’s a fire door downstairs; you can go out that way.’ I give him a reassuring smile, but something in the air between us shifts, like it’s alive. He tilts his head, eyes serious.
‘I wasn’t worried.’
If this were a movie, maybe he would step closer and tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear. I wouldn’t feel the need to secure the pearl button on my gloves; instead, I might move closer to him, the camera picking up the way I’m looking at his mouth, the intensity of his gaze as he leans in, his lips finding mine.
But this isn’t a film.
Because this leading lady can never have the kind of love you see in movies.
Not when she would hear exactly what he’s thinking the moment they touch.
7
JACK
Shit.
I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ve let Nell get into my head and now there is this monumentally awkward situation where the two of us are stuck in the same place, her knowing I’ve asked her out, and both of us knowing that she has shot me down. And if someone asks you out for a drink, and they don’t come back with a positive response, then the writing on the wall is pretty clear, isn’t it, even for me. What the hell was I thinking?
Despite Nell’s insistence that I should move on, I know I’m not ready. A year ago, I was ready to stand in front of my family and friends and commit to spending the rest of my life with Vicky. I still wake up expecting her to be next to me, or hear her in the shower; I swear I can still sometimes smell her perfume. And now here I am asking a stranger out on a date.
But there is something different about Maggie – a familiarity.
I’ve read about this feeling, that certainty ofknowingsomeone with one look. But reading about this feeling and experiencing it are two very different things. I’m trying to explain this to myself as she approaches the fire escape to the right of the screen.
My sister, Charlotte, wrote her dissertation on the love at first sight phenomenon; if I recall correctly, she had described it as our brains creating a perfect storm. We see someone, something ignites, and our brains flood with chemicals that cause an addiction: a need to be closer to that person. Ironic. In the short space of time I’ve spent with Maggie Wright, I have come to understand that she is fiercely protective of her personal space. I get it. I’m a stranger to her, even if she feels nothing like a stranger to me.
Maggie meets my eyes, her pink gloves on the fire escape door, which has refused to open more than a few centimetres. There is another jolt, deep in the pit of my stomach. She has eyes the colour of moss and hair that hasn’t quite made up its mind whether it’s curly, straight, blonde, brown, long or short. She makes a small grunting noise and pushes the bar again, but it doesn’t open any further. She looks at me over her shoulder: bright pink fur coat, purple boots, and feline eyes.
‘There must be something parked in front of it,’ she explains. Even the tone of her voice is appealing to me. Or maybe I’ve had another stroke and this attraction is nothing more than a new symptom.
‘Maybe if we both push?’ I suggest, walking slowly towards her. I’m careful with my steps, keeping a good distance, especially given my recent confession. If we can’t push the door open any further, we might well be trapped in here for the night. Although, if I’m honest, there are worse fates to be had.
‘It’s no use.’ She crouches down, selects the torch app, and looks through the small gap, her voice dampened. ‘There’s something blocking it.’
She stands back up and yanks the door closed.
‘So’ – I lean against the front row of seats – ‘what now?’
