The Art of Keeping Faith
Page 4
“Very funny, Chambers.”
“In all seriousness, you can watch the Twitter feed from the comfort of your own bed and it will probably be a far more enjoyable experience.”
What’s a Twitter feed?
“Uh. I don’t want to seem thick or anything, but what’s a Twitter feed?”
Ben chuckles, so obviously I do seem thick. “You know, you have Twitter up and you can watch the photos and tweets come in.”
“I’m not on Twitter,” I say. And I am not, isn’t that something that only famous people do?
“Well then, I suggest you get on their quick before this evening. Now, Lilah, I only have half an hour before I have to get up to leave, just how much better are you feeling?”
I giggle like a schoolgirl as he rolls me over.
“It’s a miraculous recovery.” I give a little gasp as he lifts my hands above my head catching hold of my wrists with one hand while he slides my camisole up with the other.
Ben kisses along my collarbone and shoulder before setting a path down the underside of my arm to my right breast. “Well, I have always had a firm belief in miracles,” he murmurs, lips a little busy.
“Me, too.” I sigh. “Me, too.”
Three hours later
I’m bored.
Boooooored.
Everyone has left for the gig.
I feel like a complete dick for not going. What on earth was I thinking? Who lets a cold stand in the way of an evening like tonight?
Oh, that’s right. Lilah Dickhead McCannon.
Another hour later
Screw it, I may as well get up and do something. I know there is no chance I am going to make it to the gig but I am desperate enough for company that I am willing to go to Uni and my afternoon lecture. I may as well go, I have nothing to lose.
Four hours later
Shit. I wish I had not bothered—good God that was boring.
I am in the library now. Faced with the choice between going home to an empty flat and a night by myself or the nightmare library stairs. I maturely choose the stairs.
I made it to the top floor of the library where the history books are hidden without injury, which is always an added bonus for me.
Right, then. What book am I going to read first? Eeny meeny miny moe …
One hour later
“Hey, Lilah?”
“Mm?”
“Lilah, are you asleep?”
“What? Sorry?” I lift my head to see who is calling me. The voice is not registering, but that does not say very much. The three people I know are not on campus today.
I look at the guy standing in front of me. I do know him. I just can’t remember his name.
“Richard,” he prompts. Oh, yes. Richard from my history course. Ben became mates with him last year.
“Oh, hey, Richard. Sorry, uh, this book was very interesting and then I just, well, you know, fell asleep.”
He nods understandingly.
“So what you doing now? Apart from sleeping in the library?”
“Um. Nothing. Ben has a gig in Manchester but I was too sick to go.” I sound like a complete bloody idiot. Richard just shrugs a little.
“Fancy coming to the bar, a few of the guys are getting together?”
I shouldn’t. I should go home and watch the Twitter feed, but of course Lilah Dickhead McCannon says, “Sure. Why not?”
I pack up my stuff quick sticks, eager to be doing anything other than sleep in the library.
Once outside I turn my feet toward Digby Stuart’s student bar, one of my favourite places, but Richard catches my elbow and turns me in the opposite direction.
“Digby’s that way,” I say gesturing toward the bar.
“It’s closed, Lilah, everything is over at Froebel. Do you mean to say you have not been to the bar yet? We’ve been back two whole weeks!”
Obviously this is very funny, because he chuckles away to himself as we walk to the muddy path that leads to Froebel.
“What about Trev?” I think out loud. Trev is the barman at Digby’s and I am quite fond of the sour old git.
“Don’t worry, he is over there, no doubt wondering why the takings are so low.”
Very funny.
Honestly, I don’t know why people always think I drink too much.
Five pints of Kronenberg later
Damn it.
There are loads of people here. It is crazy loud and I am trying my hardest to watch the Twitter Feed on my phone. I may be looking through one eye.
Ben texts to tell me they are all there and setting up and that he hopes I am feeling better. I have to be honest and tell him I am at the bar.
He calls straight away.
“I knew you would be!” He’s laughing so I guess he is not overly offended.
“How?”
“Because it’s you, it’s Friday and I knew you would be feeling lonely or asleep in the library.”
“Would not!”
“You fell asleep in the library, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
Ben laughs down the phone and I clutch mine even tighter, trying to get him as close as possible.
“I’m sorry I did not come.”
“Lilah, it’s fine. It’s about a million degrees in here and we have not even started yet! You would have passed out.”
“Classy.”
“Scene stealing.”
“Okay. I’m watching that Twitter thing.”
“I’ll call you after, be careful.”
“Yeah, yeah. Love you.”
“Love you.”
Another pint of Kronenberg later
“I’ve gotta go.” I groan and push myself out of the sofa I am wedged into. “Ben’s going to be on stage soon and I want to be able to watch properly.”
“Shpoil shport,” Emma, another girl from the history course, slurs in response. I don’t think I am the only one who should be going home.
“Want to go splits on a cab?” I suggest. I have no idea where she lives but the mature grown-up inside me thinks I should make sure she gets home okay.
“Nah, the shites shtill youngs.”
Okay then.
Richard starts getting up with me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Going to make sure you get home okay.”
Laughing, I turn and wave my hand at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, you stay and have another drink, I will be fine.”
“How about you stay and have another drink and then we will all go home together.”
What’s the worst one more pint could do?”
28th September
7.30 a.m.
Holy crap.
My head’s broken. I think I may have a broken arm as well and I can’t find my phone or purse. I don’t remember getting home. I just woke up face down on the hallway floor. The front door was wide open, my keys still in the lock.
Where the hell is my phone?
One hour later
It’s gone. I have none of my belongings, just an empty backpack. No phone. No purse. What I do have is an enormous bruise down the outer edge of my right thigh, an elbow that won’t bend, and what feels like an egg on my head.
How on earth am I going to explain to Ben that not only have I lost all my stuff, but that I did not watch them play their huge gig? All because I am a pisshead.
Ben’s going to hate me.
I think I may hate me.
4.00 p.m.
“Lilah? Lilah?”
Ben has crashed through the front door and I can hear him taking his shoes off in the hallway. It’s a thing of his; he must always take his shoes off. It’s kind of endearing.
I am still trying to think of a good excuse for not watching the Twitter thingy and losing all my stuff. Any excuse other than I’m an outrageous drunk. “Hey, rockstar,” I call back. My voice sounds phony even to my own ears.
He doesn’t notice. He bounds into our room and lands with a bang on the bed before throwing himself a
t me.
“Jeez I missed you,” he whispers into my neck as he squeezes me so tight I can barely breathe. I feel so disappointed in myself tears start to leak out of the corner of my eyes.
“I missed you, too.”
He leans back a little from where he is holding me tight on our bed to look at me.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing, I am just gutted I missed out.”
“I called about a hundred times last night, what on earth were you doing?”
“I lost my phone, Ben. I’m sorry?”
“What do you mean lost it? How drunk were you?”
“Surprisingly not.” Liar, liar. Pants on fire. “I left to go home and watch the pics come rolling in, when I got home my phone was gone.”
I should be in hell.
“Don’t worry, Miranda got it all taped for you.”
That’s nice.
“Thanks.”
Then I really start to cry.
30th September
Liars never prosper. Or, is it cheaters that never prosper? All I know is that I have fucked up bad. Even bad for me, which is saying something.
We are just settling into our seats in the classroom when I spy Richard walking toward me with my phone and purse in his hand. Ben is already in his seat behind mine but I know he has the blues locked on Richard’s approach.
Shit.
This is going to be bad.
“Lilah, you’re alive! How are the bruises?” Richard laughs as he drops my purse and phone on the desk.
“Bruises? What bruises?” I shrug.
“The bruises from where you fell out of the cab and landed on your head?” Richard laughs some more.
This explains the egg and the two-day headache.
“Ooh, I don’t think it was that bad. Was it?” My fingers graze over the bump on my scalp.
“I tried to get out to help you but you just waved the cabbie off and crawled down your front path on your hands and knees.” He laughs some more.
This explains the very sore elbow.
“Guess it did not help that you fell over on the dance floor twice either.” He continues.
This explains the bruise on my thigh. Someone kill me now.
“Mm, guess not.” I slide a hand down my sore thigh. Yep, it’s still sore.
Ben’s chair scrapes across the floor as he slides it back. “Lilah? What’s going on?” he asks, coming around and sitting on my desk.
“Oh, Ben, it’s nothing really. I may have had a little more to drink than perhaps I thought.”
“A bit more, you were completely lashed!” Richard exclaims. “Kept telling everyone your boyfriend was about to play a gig and that you hadn’t wanted to go because of some skinny American woman called Mihraandah!”
Please shut up. Stop talking now.
Ben is staring at me. “Is that true, Lilah?” he asks, his voice level.
“No, Ben, I don’t remember saying anything like that.” This is the God’s honest truth.
“Well can you remember anything at all, Lilah?”
I hesitate for a moment and scramble around in my head for something to say, coming up unsurprisingly blank. “No, Ben, not really.” Let’s make a joke. “I just woke up on the hallway floor with the door open Saturday morning!”
Ben’s mouth is now hanging open slightly as he continues to stare at me.
Richard realises that he has put himself in the middle of a potential domestic and backs away offering me a shrug. I watch him walk away and then turn back to Ben, finding him still scrutinizing me. Before I can explain any further he gets up from his perch on the edge of my desk grabbing his battered old notebook and walks out of the door.
12.30 p.m.
He has not come back and he is not answering my messages or phone calls. I feel so stupid, I want to go home and find him, but I can’t miss lectures. I missed too many last week when I had the sodding man flu.
Fuck it. I’m going home.
1.10 p.m.
I just ran the whole way. He is not here.
Shit.
2.30 p.m.
Still not here.
3.15 p.m.
Emergency call to Meredith.
“Have you heard from him?”
“No. Is he not with you?”
“Well, obviously not.”
“That’s a bitch.”
Very helpful.
I give a little screech and hang up the phone.
4.30 p.m.
Emergency phone call to Tristan the Arse.
“Have you heard from Ben?” This time I try to keep my voice more neutral. Tristan does not need to know about my evening on the hallway floor.
“Not for a while. And you are in so much trouble with me, young lady.”
Crap balls.
“Oh, Trist, lay off, you bloody arse. Have you seen Ben?”
“Maybe.”
“Yes or no, dumb shit?”
“Well then, that would be a no.”
I give another little screech and hang up the phone before going back to pacing our postage-stamp garden and power smoking.
6.10 p.m.
The front door slams and I launch myself back through the house. I know it is not Meredith or Tristan because they are both home.
I have already done the front door dash twice.
I swing myself through the door and straight into Ben’s rock-solid chest. That’s another bruise.
“Where on earth have you been?” I demand, standing on tiptoes so I can look him in the eye.
“Out,” he states, arms folded across his taunt body. His hair is standing on end and he is looking crazy hot in a pale blue hoodie.
Stop drooling, I’m supposed to be cross.
“And you didn’t feel the need to answer my calls or messages?”
“My phone’s here, Lilah, where was yours on Friday?”
Damn it.
“I have been going out of my mind with worry, you can’t walk away from me like that and then disappear.”
He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Oh, my God. Is this some form of punishment?” My voice starts to rise with a will of its own.
“No, Delilah, I am not that immature. I have been busy.”
I’m going to explode.
“Are you implying that I am immature?”
He doesn’t respond, just looks at me with an expression on his face that I cannot read.
“Is it true that you didn’t come to the gig because of Miranda?” he demands, moving ever so slightly into my space. “Because I would find that seriously off pissing.”
“No. Oh, my goodness. I don’t even remember saying that. And I definitely don’t remember thinking it. I was just drunk.”
He gives a little snort.
“What?” I demand.
“Well how smashed must you have been to spend the night on the floor with the bloody front door open? I mean bloody hell, Lilah, any pervert could have come in and done anything. Why on earth did you get so drunk?”
“Ben, I don’t know, it just happened.”
Hold on a minute.
Paracetamol! Oh my goodness I had taken loads of flu medicine that day.
“It was the drugs!”
“Oh, it’s drugs now?” His lips twitch a little. I am not sure if it is a smile trying to escape or an angry tick that I have not yet been introduced to.
“No. Don’t be daft! I mean it must have been the Day Nurse or something. I did drink the best part of a bottle. Come on Ben. You know me. I do get drunk but I don’t do anything that silly.”