The Show Must Go On

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Mess Is Mine

Chapter Fifty-Eight Soundtrack: Mess is Mine by Vance Joy

Turns out self-growth Saturday doesn't save you from self-hatred Sunday. The human mind is an incredible thing.

Is it girl bossing to stay in my pyjamas and eat stale candy at 10 am? Surely that's just as good for me as running.

I sink into my couch and inspect my flat. I did 90% of the job with the DIY, but at this angle, I can see a huge patch of missing varnish on the counter. That seems important, but also, life is short. I won't have my youth forever. I can't spend all of it varnishing.

I've got drinks tonight with some uni friends, so I reckon I can get a good five hours of rotting in before I have to move. Six, if I don't wash my hair.

I'm mindlessly trawling through TV channels when an old rom-com starts playing. Fine. Let's watch other people in love. That won't make me suicidal.

There's something so cosy, though, about these old films. The imperfections in their hair and makeup, the poor lighting and wobbly sound, from before films had to be high resolution and actors had to be flawless. It feels like childhood.

I think I've seen this before. It's Nas's favourite, actually, and I meant to rewatch it after he mentioned it. Yet another missed opportunity.

There's a famous scene at the end with a boombox. What did Nas say about it?

'It was so embarrassing, but she told me that's why it was love.'

With the sinking feeling of a brilliant idea, I know what I have to do.

*

It is unbelievably hard to find a boombox in Central London on a Sunday morning. Truly, wildly hard. I've resorted to texting all of my production friends to see if they have a hidden prop warehouse above a tube station, but no luck there. It turns out that no one's listened to CDs in two decades, myself included.

So I have another brilliant idea. I don't run this idea past anyone, because I suspect it's not actually brilliant, and might, in fact, be really weird. I don't need criticism right now. I need decisiveness.

That's why I'm elbowing tourists in Soho, swearing loudly, with my brilliant idea held overhead. I can't risk it being knocked. It's not very stable.

Another tour group bumps into me, knocking me into a puddle. This had better be worth it.

Is it left or right at this corner? I shut my eyes and try to picture the neon evening lights. Left, I think. No, right.

And there's his door, up ahead, with those huge bay windows two floors up. He's right there. I know he hates mornings, so unless he's out running, he's almost certainly home.

I tuck the cardboard box under my arm and ring his bell. The plan is my last resort. Hopefully, he'll let me up.

The bell rings and clicks to the intercom.

'Nas?' I shout into it.

Silence.

'Nas, can you let me up, please?'

His voice crackles through. 'It's Sunday. If you have a work question, please email me tomorrow.'

'I don't have a work question!' I can hear my voice getting squeaky. 'I miss you. I really miss you, and I'm so sorry, and I just want to see you.'

He sighs. 'I'm tired of being your secret hook-up. I'm tired of being pushed away. I just can't do it anymore.'

'Please, please give me another chance.'

'That's all I've given you.'

He clicks off. I push the bell again. A third time. No response. 'Nas,' I shout down the intercom, 'you are not my secret. Look out your window.'

I hope he heard that. But I don't have time for doubt.

I step back into the middle of the street, in full view of his window. A little too late, I remember that I didn't wash my hair or my face or any part of me, before jumping up from my couch to execute my vision. Ah well. Too late now.

I've assembled, from a cut-up shoe box and some leftover varnish, a cardboard boombox. Inside is my Bluetooth speaker, and I'm assuming the sound will travel, though I did use a lot of duct tape. If you squint - I mean, really, really, squint - it's obvious what it is. I think in this case, the gesture is what matters.

I hold it up over my head and press play.

As Long As You Love Me, by Nas's secret favourite band, The Backstreet Boys, starts. It's surprisingly loud.

'Nas!' I shout. 'Come to your window!'

Pedestrians are stopping to watch me. Several are also swearing at me, but that's okay.

'Nas!'

His window cracks open and I squeal in excitement. The song is nearing the chorus.

He leans out, propped on his forearms, and wow, he looks like shit. He's clearly not slept in days. His stubble is out of control. But I can't stop the smile splitting my face, because he's right there, looking at me, and I love him.

I love him.

'Yes?' he asks politely. His eyes dart across the onlookers.

'Nas,' I tell him, 'I was wrong. I hate admitting that. But I especially hate it because I think I'm in love with you.'

He groans. 'This is so embarrassing.'

'Good.'

He leans even further out. 'Don't you dare turn that music off.'

Damn. Busted.

'Eleanor,' he continues, 'do you think you're in love with me, or are you in love with me?'

Half of the street is watching now. I am definitely being filmed from at least six angles, none of them flattering. But that's the point of embarrassment, I guess.

'Nasir, I am absolutely in love with you. I love you so much that it's embarrassing. This, specifically, is embarrassing, but I am here anyway. For you.'

A couple across the street applauds.

I continue, 'Please, because I think my arms are about to give out... Can I come upstairs?'

And with his defeated smile, he lets me in.

...The Beginning.

*

and that's a wrap! thank you so, so much for reading. i've had so much fun writing 'The Show Must Go On' and i feel quite teary at letting the characters go. i hope you enjoyed it xx