Love Is A Thief

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.