Love Is A Thief

‘What do you mean I don’t dance? I can dance. I dance! I’m a dancer!!’ Peter frowned at me.

‘OK … You can dance. I mean, you can’t dance but if it makes you feel better I can say that you do.’

‘It’s not about me feeling better, Peter. It’s about operating within the realms of truth.’

‘I think you mean the realms of possibility. It’s possible that you could learn to dance with some instruction and dedicated practice. But the truth is that you currently can’t.’

‘You’ve been away for 15 years! How on earth do you know what I can and can’t do? I could have won the bloody Dance Olympics in that time!’

‘Well, did you? What year? In what dance category? Who designed your dress? Who did you compete against? What was your most complicated dance move?’

Why was he obsessed with the details!?!

‘Well, we have had lovely weather today, haven’t we, darl?’ Delaware cooed. ‘And Kate and I have been busy reminiscing—’ she patted my knee ‘—helping me reconnect with my younger self. Although I’ve been talking nonstop and I know nothing about dear Kate, apart from the fact that you are a dancer,’ she said reassuringly.

‘She’s not a dancer,’ Peter muttered. ‘Fictitious Olympic appearances or otherwise.’

‘So, Kate,’ Delaware continued, ‘tell me a little bit about you.’ For the first time all morning she took off her dark glasses and put them on the table in front of her. ‘What exactly are you trying to do here?’ she said, looking me directly in the eyes. ‘What is this all about?’

I looked from Peter, who was still frowning on account of my truth-bending, to Delaware.

‘I want to know what people gave up when they fell in love, so I can help get those things back. It’s a quest.’

‘I know that, darl. I just don’t understand why.’

‘Oh, well, I, well …’ I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat. ‘I, er, I want to—’ Peter turned away and pretended to stare at something fascinating on the shore. I turned back to Delaware but spoke more to my knees. ‘I would like people to acknowledge the preoccupation you mentioned in your diary.’ She nodded along, encouraging me. ‘I want people to live more in the moment, to be more present, for people to truly know what they want for themselves. People sometimes forget the things that make them happy when they fall in love. The relationship becomes the source of those feelings. It becomes the source of everything. So I suppose my goal is for people to reconnect with that lost part of themselves and stay connected to it. But I’ve found that lots of people don’t even know what makes them happy. So if I ask them what they’d be happy doing for the rest of their life in the absence of love it seems to help them answer from a place of naked truth.’ I couldn’t help but glance at Peter’s body when I said the word naked. He was still staring out at the lake. ‘And with that knowledge they’ll never lose themselves again, whatever happens in their life. They’ll be their own energy source, their own sustenance, their own sun, if you will.’ By this point I had pretty much faded out to a whisper.

‘But, Kate, darling girl, there are a million things you could be doing at this point in your life. Why would you want to spend all your time doing this?’

‘Because I plan to live the rest of my life alone, so I have the time. And I think if I could prevent even one person feeling how I felt, going through what I did, am, then it would be worthwhile. So that’s why I spend my time doing this, helping others to help themselves, helping others become their own sun.’

‘Well, that is very noble, isn’t it, Peter?’ she said, turning to Peter Parker. ‘Peter?’

I looked around to find Peter staring blankly at me. I had an odd and unfamiliar feeling in my chest when our eyes met and Peter looked as if he’d been severely winded.

‘I should be helping your grandma,’ he said quietly before getting up and slowly walking off.

He spent the rest of the afternoon standing next to the unlit bonfire in deep conversation with Grandma Josephine. He left just before it was lit.

6Millennium Bridge - steel suspension bridge for pedestrians crossing the River Thames, London

two peas in the proverbial pod of happy coupledom

‘Kate Winters! Or should I say bonjour!’ Jane Brockley-formerly-Robinson answered the door wearing a Cath Kidston apron and strawberry-shaped oven gloves. ‘You lot will have to excuse me,’ she said, ushering me, Federico and Leah through her front door. ‘I’m just taking something out of the oven. I’ve been trying out new recipes for gingerbread men and something is always missing. It’s driving me crazy. Come through, come through,’ she said, marching off. We followed her down the hallway passing a coat stand covered in hundreds of brightly coloured raincoats. It looked like a multicoloured willow tree. Federico and Leah both stifled a giggle.

You see, Jane Brockley-formerly-Robinson, a friend of mine from college, is totally colour obsessed. She always has a waterproof of some description on her person and it is always brightly coloured or highly patterned. I’m actually a fan of colour too. I rarely wear black, or white, and when clashing primary colours were in fashion I was in block-colour heaven. But Jane is the kind of colour wearer that makes you think she wasn’t allowed coloured clothes as a child. Every colour of the rainbow and several the rainbow is not even aware of can be found on the raincoats of Jane Brockley-formerly-Robinson. Then there are the plastic coats; hundreds of waterproof coats covered in smiling cats, Christmas trees or flowers. A vomit-inducing collection of colour was Jane’s signature style. As was introducing herself as ‘Jane Brockley-formerly-Robinson’ as if without this extra piece of information a person who knew Jane premarriage would forget all about her. Jane’s 1998 pink plastic Pac-a-Mac covered in light grey mice building things and driving small mouse cars would be the primary reason no one would forget pre-married Jane; that and the fact that she’s ever so slightly boss-eyed.

‘James is just through there. Why don’t you go through and say hi? I’ll be in in a minute,’ she said, gesturing for us to walk through an archway from the kitchen into the lounge. There we found Jane’s husband, a rotund gentleman called James. His well-fed self was watching rugby on a large leather sofa with a cat they call Nibbles. Nibbles eyeballed me as we walked into the room. James was wearing a non-ironic burgundy cardigan.

‘Katie!’ he said, getting up to greet me. ‘I was saying to Jane just last week that we’ve barely seen you since your return from France, lovely to see you now, and, Leah, terribly sorry to hear about your divorce. You must be crushed, totally crushed. My second cousin Susan just got divorced and it has totally destroyed her life. And of course he’s immediately pushed off with someone else, as is always the way—isn’t that right, Katie? Jane said it was the same for you. Gabriel immediately ran off with someone a lot younger. Yes, younger or slimmer I think is the normal way of doing things. You know, I really rather liked that Gabriel. He was terribly attractive. Did you meet him?’ he asked Federico. ‘Probably almost a challenge for someone like that to actually stay single. Incredible skiing instructor, really incredible—well, these boys start skiing before they can walk. I mean, he could do things on the mountain that I just …’ He started welling up. ‘Well, let’s just say that he skied up a mountain once to save me when I found myself in somewhat of a sticky situation. And I remember seeing him skiing down the mountain carrying Katie in his arms a few times. Good God, if I could do on skis what that man could do …’ He dabbed the corners of his podgy eyes. ‘Britain needs a strong ski team, we really do. Yes, they were probably lining up the day you left, offering him a shoulder to cry on. Don’t take it personally, Katie darling. We can’t be alone, us men, can’t bloody well be alone.’

an emotional interlude

When the existence of a man called Gabriel is mentioned in my new life, by my highly patterned friend’s sensitive husband, it feels like a door blasting open into a room I’ve spent weeks and months tirelessly boarding up, and it scares the crap out of me, because I’d started to forget the room was even there. So I have to start all over again, closing it all back off, nailing it shut, triple-checking the locks are in place so that I can safely turn my back on my past. And that’s just in my waking life. Different distorted versions of Gabriel live in my dreams most nights. Gabriel lives in my head, my heart, my subconscious mind and on days like these my defences seem futile, useless, ineffective, because just the sound of his name, seven letters put together to form a noise, can blast open all the doors and windows of the derelict house in my heart. And suddenly he exists again, as powerful as before, and I wonder if anyone ever felt as broken inside as I do.

‘Well, do take a seat,’ James said, pointing at the sofa. ‘Make yourselves at home. Wine, anyone?’ He trotted out to the kitchen as we all tried to squish on a sofa meant for two. Nibbles rolled onto his back on the big sofa and stretched out to full length. Then he started a barely audible growl. You see, Nibbles is their pride and joy. He is their baby. If there was an overly expensive local cat primary school they would have enrolled him at birth. But Nibbles is actually a highly duplicitous creature who snuggle-wuggles against his owners as if butter wouldn’t melt only to lash out like a sabre-toothed tiger when their backs are turned. That cat is responsible for at least five of the seven permanent scars on my body and once attacked the neighbour’s German Shepherd, permanently damaging its right eye. Sometimes when I visit it feels like I’m in the cat version of Orwell’s 1984, Nibbles being Big Brother and everyone buying into his bullshit. Everyone that is except me, and that poor one-eyed German Shepherd.

James wandered back into the lounge with a bottle of wine, Jane with a plate of hot gingerbread men. Then they perched on the edge of the coffee table (so as not to disturb Nibbles, who pretended to sleep) and they stared at me, expectantly, as people often do when I visit their houses, as if I am a West End show or human-sized television set with only one channel and more often than not only one volume setting.

‘I er, we, I wanted to pop in, to say hi, obviously, and also because I wanted to ask Jane a question. It’s a work thing really, a little investigation. I just wanted to know if there was anything you didn’t get to do because you met James and, well, fell in love.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jane looked flustered and brushed her fringe to one side with an oven-glove-covered hand. ‘I think we have done everything we’ve ever wanted to?’ she said, looking to James for confirmation.

‘There isn’t one thing, one small thing that you haven’t had a chance to do, alone; a course you wanted to take; or an experience you haven’t had? One little thing that was stolen, by love.’

‘I’ve asked Kate to do a past life regression,’ Leah said, mouth full of gingerbread. ‘But apparently that’s not the right kind of request, so now I’m not sure what I’m going to do.’ Manipulative.

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