After lunch we head to the Pont des Arts on the Seine River, otherwise known as the love-lock bridge. Elliot is determined to get a padlock, write both our names on it, and attach it to the bridge forever as a little homage to our friendship, but when we get there we see that all the padlocks have been taken away. In their place, there’s a big sign asking people not to keep putting locks on because the weight of them is damaging the bridge.
Although Elliot is disappointed, I’m not. I don’t think I like to imagine my love as a lock. Instead, I prefer to think of it as being like the bridge we’re standing on—something that connects two hearts together that otherwise would never meet. The love locks are a bit like all the problems Noah and I had: each one was small, but together they were enough to make us buckle, and eventually break.
Despite the fact that the love locks are now banned, we are still surrounded by happy couples taking photos on this bridge which for so long has stood as a symbol of unending love. I wish Elliot hadn’t brought me here. The last thing I want to see are couples making kissy faces at their phone screens.
“OK, so no lock, but how about a romantic stroll along the Seine?” Elliot brings me back into the moment as he scurries along the bridge, dragging me by the arm.
“Did you know there are over thirty bridges that cross the Seine in Paris?” Elliot says, linking his arm with mine.
“I can believe it,” I say. It seems like we’ve passed half a dozen in our short walk. I lean my head against Elliot’s shoulder and we follow the path alongside the river, watching as long boats packed with tourists glide serenely by.
“Look! Look!” Elliot points up at the Eiffel Tower, which is now looming in front of us.
Even though it instantly makes me think of Noah, and how close we got to having a Magical Mystery Night, I can’t help but be awed by how majestic it is up close, with its iron body stretching into the clear blue sky. It’s so iconic that my heart catches in my mouth as I look up at it. Elliot grabs my hand and we pick up into a run, desperate to get closer.
There are hundreds of tourists milling around us and we’re forced to slow down to a halt. Elliot lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. Now my heart has stopped for a different reason: a group of Japanese tourists has just moved away, revealing a line of posters taped to a temporary wall, and on them is Noah’s face. They’re the first posters for the tour I’ve seen: he is holding his guitar and smiling at the camera, his picture just below a big photo of The Sketch. Although the headline band takes up a larger portion of the poster, it’s Noah’s face that stands out to me like a sore thumb.
He looks so rock-god-tastic—except he’s not my rock god anymore. Just as I feel like I’m about to have a breakdown, I hear “I Will Survive” booming from some speakers nearby. I turn to see a middle-aged guy singing and dancing in the street next to a boom box. There is a part of me that wants to cringe—I mean, how many people do you know who would rock out to a seventies disco anthem in the middle of Paris? The absurdity of it makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time.
There are so many different emotions running through my body and I can’t work out which one to convey, so I turn to Elliot for a bit of guidance. His face makes it a little easier for me, as he smiles so big I can almost see his fillings. He reaches out and lifts me into a dance. I follow his lead and, before we know it, we’re dancing around like absolute idiots under the Eiffel Tower along with the Frenchman, and we’re belting out the words to “I Will Survive” just as loudly as he is. Soon everyone around us is also joining in. It’s like we’ve created one giant Parisian breakup flash mob.
I feel like a lunatic, I feel crazy, but I feel free. And it’s the first time in a very long time that I feel like me again.
3 July
Songs to Cure Your Heartbreak
You know that day I thought would never come?
The one I could never picture in a million years?
It’s happened.
Brooklyn Boy and I are no more.
I can’t write more than that at the moment. I will say this, though: heartbreak is never easy, but they do say that music cures the soul. Along with Wiki, I’ve been compiling a list of the best songs to get through the emotional roller coaster that is a breakup.
1. “Someone Like You”—Adele
2. “Irreplaceable”—Beyoncé
3. “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together”—Taylor Swift
4. “End of the Road”—Boyz II Men
5. “I Will Survive”—Gloria Gaynor (courtesy of a French busker we danced with under the Eiffel Tower yesterday)
6. “Since U Been Gone”—Kelly Clarkson
7. “Forget You”—CeeLo Green
8. “Without You”—Harry Nilsson cover
9. “I Will Always Love You”—Whitney Houston
10. “You Could Be Happy”—Snow Patrol
11. “The Scientist”—Coldplay
12. “With or Without You”—U2
13. “Survivor”—Destiny’s Child
14. “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)”—Beyoncé
15. “Losing Grip”—Avril Lavigne
Listening to the following playlist could make you feel better, or it could make you cry, or it could make you feel all of the above—in which case, you and your best friend can finish with a dance-off to “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé, jumping between two single beds in the smallest hotel room in Paris.
Girl Offline . . . never going online xxx
Chapter Forty-Five
As the Eurostar train pulls out of Gare du Nord to make its way back to England, I rest my head on Elliot’s shoulder and watch Paris disappear through the window. It feels weird to be leaving Noah here, on a journey that started out with us together and is now ending with us . . . broken. I guess TheRealTruth got their way after all: Noah and Penny are no more.
So much promise and anticipation seems to have spiralled into all of this. It’s a runaway train I can’t control.
Now that I really am on my way home, I can’t help but feel a pang of sorrow at the fact that we never had a final hug, one last conversation, or a kiss goodbye. It’s almost as if Noah woke up one morning not remembering who I am or that I ever existed.
“What are you thinking about?” Elliot asks. When I don’t reply, he takes a guess—and, of course, he knows exactly what the answer is. “Hey, don’t worry about it too much. You asked Noah not to contact you. At least he’s respecting that.”
I make a non-committal grunt, and wrap my mum’s cardigan tighter round myself. I can’t wait to replace this cardigan with a real-life hug from her. I really need it now—and I definitely need to not think about the fact that this train travels through a tunnel beneath a great big channel of water.
The point isn’t that I asked Noah not to contact me; the point is that I could be anywhere, with anyone, and he doesn’t appear to care. For all he knows, I could be lying in a ditch on the side of a Parisian road. I’m sure Larry told Noah that he dropped me at the station, but Noah could have at least challenged the fact I was leaving or that this was over—anything but this great big nothing.
I keep replaying a moment we shared up at the top of the Waldorf Astoria in New York at Christmas. It was when Noah kissed me for the first time, and I remember thinking that nothing and no one could ever be more perfect. Another memory pops into my head: the first day we spent together, when he completely embraced the spirit of Magical Mystery Day and took me to a secret Italian restaurant where we slurped up spaghetti and laughed about the same things. People say that it’s impossible for two people to fall in love so quickly, but the chemistry between us was impossible to ignore. We . . . clicked.
It was never just a casual thing. Of course, I tried my best to act casual, but my heart beat at a million miles an hour whenever he walked into the room. I was his Inciting Incident—it was our movie, and we changed our lives forever.
I rewind even further, to when I first saw him in the spotlight onsta
ge, pretending to be a wedding singer. He’d seemed so vulnerable and mysterious. I didn’t realize then that he would be this amazing, goofy, romantic, perfect guy. No, I tell myself. Not perfect. Not perfect at all. Where did it all go so wrong? How did we let it get to this point? Where did that Noah I first met go? It feels as though on each leg of this tour he has shed something that I loved about him, until all that was left was someone I don’t know.
As the train hurtles along and Elliot drops off to sleep, I also think about how this is all my fault. I should have known this would happen. I dived headfirst into this entire thing, thinking it would be like it is in the movies. The rock star gets famous, falls in love with a girl, and they live happily ever after. But this isn’t a Hollywood script. This is real life, and newsflash : sometimes real life sucks.
My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my thoughts. It’s a text from my mum.
Penny darling, Dad and I will be waiting for you at St. Pancras station. We’re so excited to see you. We’ve got Dad’s cottage pie for dinner tonight—your favourite. We’ll also sit down and watch Elf, even though it’s July. Can even go as far as wearing our Christmas jumpers if you want? xxx
The text makes me smile. My parents don’t know all the details yet—but they know me well enough to guess. Initially I tried to get away with simply telling them that the tour wasn’t quite what I imagined, but they grilled me like a suspect over Skype.
I got about as far as telling them that things with Noah weren’t the best before my bottom lip started to shake. They could see that I wasn’t quite up for an in-depth question-and-answer session yet, and any further questioning would have to wait until I was safely back at home.
I love my parents—they’re so caring, if maybe sometimes too caring. I know what they’ll be like: they’ll be baking me cookies every morning, noon, and night, taking me out to all my favourite shops, and trying too hard to make me happy. I’m so grateful to Elliot for taking the sting out of that first night by coming to visit me in Paris. I think if I had gone home straightaway I would have been crushed under the weight of my parents’ sympathy. There’s nothing bad about being loved—my parents just want me to be happy—but sometimes it can be smothering.
At this point, the only smothering I want is from my own duvet. I want to wrap myself in it (even though in the heat of summer my attic room is like a sauna) and bury myself away from the world. To just wallow in the deep pool of my own self-pity. To eat my body weight in ice cream (to counteract the sweltering bedroom, of course) and disappear from real life.
I sigh and tap out a quick reply before we head into the tunnel (which I am NOT thinking about) and I lose signal for a while.
Thanks, Mum. Excited to see you both too. No Christmassy stuff, please, but cottage pie does sound good xxx
I don’t want to taint my favourite season with sadness. They know how much I love Christmas, but right now all I can think of is spending Christmas at Noah’s and helping him to decorate the tree with Bella. I flick through my texts and my finger hovers over the conversations with Noah. There is a part of me that really wants to go through them all and relive them. The I love yous and the forevers and the Inciting Incidents, but I don’t. Stepping off this train needs to feel like the beginning of something else, not the end.
Noah will be getting ready to pack up and head to Norway right about now, and then he’ll be heading off for the World Tour. Our lives feel so different already. Noah has everything in place, but a nagging question still haunts me.
What am I going to do now?
Chapter Forty-Six
News travels fast when it comes to Noah Flynn. As soon as we pull into the station and I finally get data on my phone again, I’m bombarded with messages and alerts.
“Wow, Penny, have you seen this?” Elliot holds up his phone, where a popular online magazine is shouting the headline: NOAH FLYNN IS SINGLE. QUEUE UP, LADIES, YOUR FAVOURITE BROOKLYN BOY IS FINALLY UP FOR GRABS.
I guess the PR machine doesn’t waste any time. But up for grabs ? Really? Like he’s some prize at a local fete? I thought I was starting to get the hang of the media, learning the hard way that they are always trying to grab attention with their completely twisted, magnified, and sometimes blatantly untrue headlines. This time, though, they’re right on the money. I guess Noah Flynn is single. I just didn’t think he’d want to make that so clear, so quickly.
It feels like every person on my contacts list is messaging me with condolences. It’s way more than when I got dragged through the mud last time. I guess getting dumped is easier to empathize with. I scroll through the messages and most of them make me alternate between smiling and cringing.
Kira:
OMG! Penny, I just heard the news. That SUCKS. Let me know when you want to see people and I’ll bring over sweet treats and my fave horror movies! Nothing like an Insidious + Paranormal Activity movie marathon to get over heartbreak . . . xx
Amara:
BOO! I thought you guys would be forever. Kira said she’ll bring the horror flicks . . . I’ll bring the popcorn! xo
Megan:
TELL ME IT’S NOT TRUE!! xx
There’s even a message from Pegasus Girl.
To: Girl Online
From: Pegasus Girl
Subject: Noah Stuff
Hey, Penny,
I wanted to email you to say that I’m thinking of you. I’m sorry to hear about you and Noah. I want you to know I’m always here if you ever want a chat. I know it must feel like the whole world is against you at times, but I wanted to reassure you that I absolutely love what you do, and think you’re very talented and extremely brave. I would never have been able to jet off on tour, and I bet you never thought you’d be able to either. Anyway, I’m sure he will come to his senses and whisk you off your feet. Don’t most guys do that in the end?
PG xx
I smile at her message, but only manage a small one. I don’t think Noah is going to come and whisk me off my feet any time soon. More importantly, I don’t think I want him to.
I’m still staring at my phone when Elliot plucks it out of my hands. “Pennylicious, your expression has changed so many times while looking at your phone it CANNOT be good for you.”
“You’re right,” I say, trying to put on a good face to see my family. “I’m not going to let this get me down.”
As soon as we get through the Eurostar gates at St. Pancras station, I fall into my mum’s arms and all my good intentions slip away. I can’t help it; the tears stream down my face. Now that I’m officially back on British soil, I have to acknowledge that it’s over.
Really and truly over.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Things go from bad to worse in the week that follows. I spend way too much time sitting on my window seat, head pressed against the glass, wrapped up in my duvet. If someone took a photograph of me during this week, they’d have to call it Portrait of an Impossibly Sad Girl.
As promised, the twins come over for a horror-movie marathon, but I’m so spaced out that I don’t even jump during Paranormal Activity. That is not normal activity for me—I’m usually the one clutching the arm of the sofa until my knuckles go white, and screaming down the house at every appearance of a ghost. Even the wind rattling at the window freaks me out.
I don’t hear from Noah either. Despite telling myself I don’t want to, I keep looking online to check he isn’t signed in on Skype. I follow his tweets, Instagram, and other social-media posts like one of his obsessive fans. Elliot comes over after he’s finished at CHIC every day. My Internet stalking has become so bad that he makes me log how many hours I spend each day checking up on Noah online.
The day I log almost ten hours is a bad day.
I find myself wanting to see Noah go into meltdown mode, for him to write something moody on Twitter, to see that he’s struggling to cope without me. In reality, though, I know he is incredibly private about that kind of stuff, so there aren’t any personal updates an
ywhere. Instead, there are endless posts about his tour dates, and the occasional thank-you to his fans for continuing to support him as he embarks on the World Tour.
Sometimes I wish I could be more like Elliot. His way of making himself feel better about breaking up with Alex is just to blank him out completely—delete his number, block him on social media, avoid the vintage store—then carry on as normal. But it’s almost impossible for me to do that. Whenever I leave my room, I seem to hear “Autumn Girl” on the radio in the car or in the supermarket. It’s as if now that I’m not with Noah I’m surrounded by him more than ever.
That’s why, even though it’s now been over a week since we got back from Paris, I’ve retreated to my little window seat. I know I’m wasting the last few weeks of summer freedom by being a walking zombie. I know I can’t turn off every radio on the planet while I try to get over Noah. I know I shouldn’t be refreshing his Twitter feed every thirty seconds. But, without Elliot to distract me during the day, there is nothing except the occasional squawk of seagulls or Dad shouting at the football to pull me out of this mind-numbed state.
Whose fault is that, Penny? You were the one who decided to trail around after your boyfriend instead of pursuing your own passions.
I hate my inner voice sometimes.
12 July
How to Stop Obsessing Over Someone
When going through the highs and lows of a breakup, it’s all too easy to become modern-day Sherlock Holmes. Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat—it’s so easy these days to see what people are up to, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. There are impulsive moments when you want to sit and read through everything until you find some incriminating evidence to suggest your ex has moved on and doesn’t care about you anymore. But, in reality, can we really judge these things by a 140-character sentence?
I have to admit, it’s hard. You want to know, but you also don’t. It could crush you into a million tiny pieces. Obsessing over someone is unhealthy, we all know this. Obsessing over someone who is an up-and-coming international rock god is an emotional roller coaster, because I’m not Brooklyn Boy’s only stalker: there are hundreds of Tumblrs and fan sites doing that for me. I could know his every move if I wanted to . . .