Rishaan snorts. ‘OK one “wine” coming up. Is that a Sauvignon Blanc? Chardon-Rish? Pinot Issa?’
I glance at his big face. He’s looking right into my eyes and standing so close I can smell his warm breath. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He’s listing more names now – ‘Rish Riesling’ and ‘Issa-Shiraz’ – his booming voice almost shakes the plastic table in front of us. I wish I knew what he was talking about.
‘Um, just whatever you suggest.’
He throws his head back, laughing, and heads into the bar with Andy.
As soon as the boys are out of sight, Chloe and Louise lower their voices and start talking about them.
‘God, does Rish ever shut up? And Andy – what’s with him? Is he, like, permanently stoned?’
‘Ugh, I know. Tom better show up soon.’
I listen, but I can’t join in as I don’t really know them. When the guys come back holding our drinks, my body tenses up. Did they hear us? But Andy is too busy teasing Rishaan about getting his ID rejected.
‘Short-man syndrome.’ He coughs.
‘So you’ve heard of that, but not where the Vatican City is?’ says Rishaan.
Andy throws the beer mat into the air and catches it. ‘Piss off.’
I find myself giggling. Rishaan grins at me.
Out the corner of my eye, I sneak a look at Andy’s floppy hair and broad shoulders. He flicks his hair in the wind and flashes the strong outline of his jaw as he pulls something from his lips.
He catches my eye, and the top of his lip twitches.
Oh God, did he see me staring? Quick, say something.
‘So where is the Vatican City?’ I say.
Rish barks out a laugh.
Andy snorts. ‘How the hell should I know?’
There’s a sinking feeling inside me. Is he annoyed? I’m so stupid – why did I say that?
Andy turns to look in the direction of the bar. Am I boring him?
‘Um . . . do you come to Playshack often?’ I say.
‘Yeah. I mean . . . it’s the worst.’ He speaks slowly, like he’s thinking about every word. ‘It’s too cold outside, and the music’s too loud by the bar—’
‘And outside the music is too quiet, and inside the air is too warm,’ says Rishaan in a stupid high-pitched voice.
Andy ignores him. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Rish watching me, his eyes wide, lips apart. A blush creeps up my neck. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but Andy speaks.
‘We only come here because they’re pretty lax about ID,’ he says. ‘Well, when tiny Rish’s not around. Bars suck, anyway. House parties are where it’s at.’
‘Mmm,’ I say, hoping he doesn’t ask me about parties.
To be honest, I’ve never actually been to a house party. It’s probably not that surprising – nobody’s ever asked me. I catch Andy looking down at me and sweat prickles on my forehead.
‘Rish’s having one in a couple of weeks,’ he says. ‘You can actually talk; it’s way better.’
‘Oh yeah, um, sounds fun.’
‘You should come along,’ he says. ‘Rish’s not gonna mind more girls.’
My mouth turns dry. Did Andy just ask me to a sixth-former house party? Does he mean . . . with him?
I sneak a glance at his athletic arms. My brain starts whirling with images of Lily and Bryan cosied up on the sofa together. But this time it’s not Lily and Bryan: it’s me and Andy. Me looking cute in an oversized jumper with necklaces tumbling across my chest, leaning against his strong body, weaving my fingers through his tousled hair. Us running around Greenwich Park, giggling together and collapsing against a tree as he leans down and puts his fingers over the camera lens to kiss me . . .
I flush from head to toe, remembering he’s standing right next to me.
But it’s true. I’m going to go to Rish’s party. It genuinely could happen. I give Andy a tiny smile, but he’s already turned round to punch Rish in the shoulder.
I bite my lip and look down. I can’t wait.
CHAPTER 9
Lily
Mum won’t believe that I bumped into Chris Walker. She’s definitely going to remember him; we were pretty much inseparable in primary school.
I can’t get over how different he looked. His face was so tanned and weather-beaten and . . . well, older. I almost didn’t recognize him. Well, I guess it has been over fifteen years; I probably don’t look the same either.
Glancing down at my skinny body, I try to remember what I looked like as a kid. Probably the biggest difference was my hair. I used to have long, thin, white hair that fell almost to my bum. And my eyes were way too big for my head – they looked like googly eyes. Almost cute, but not quite – more child-in-a-horror-movie-esque. At least I grew into my face a bit. I ruffle my short hair with my fingertips. The eyeliner and pixie cut was probably a bit of a shock for him.
The wind whistles through my bones as I walk up our drive, and my teeth start to chatter. I wonder what Chris is doing now. Didn’t his older brothers take over the farm? I wonder what he does for a job. I really need to ask Mum.
As I step into our hallway, there’s a crashing sound, followed by a thud. A familiar bitter smell lingers in the air.
My stomach tightens. Please tell me it’s not Bryan.
The low hum of a bass thumps out of the left-hand wall. I wrinkle my nose and push open our front door. An odour of beer and sweat hangs over the living room like a damp towel.
The thumping of the bass gets louder.
I cough. Jerry is lounged out across the far sofa, his eyes closed and dark dreadlocks swinging limply in time to the music. Bryan is doubled up on an armchair, giggling silently into his hands.
The entire flat is a wreck. There’s a crumpled beer can dripping on to our Persian rug. Empty bottles litter our 70s-style coffee table – and an assortment of guitar picks, crisp packets and microwave containers are strewn across my desk.
The poster on the far wall has been torn by Bryan’s guitar, which has several broken strings jutting out of the body.
I thought they were at band practice?
My face hardens.
‘Bryan, what on earth—’
‘Lily . . .’ Bryan sees me at last, and his lips slowly stretch into an inane smile.
He leans forward, holding out his arms to me – and falls down the side of the armchair.
CHAPTER 10
Melissa
I’ve found Andy’s Facebook profile. It literally took me about two seconds. I searched Chloe MacNeil’s friend list for ‘Andy’ – and there he was.
Andrew Butcher.
His cover photo is this brooding picture of him standing by a beach in swim shorts. He’s lean, but his shoulders are big, and in the soft light you can make out light muscle definition on his chest.
I imagine running my fingers over his stomach and feel a blush creep up my neck.
Hmm . . . I wonder what it would be like to have a boyfriend like Andy?
Without thinking what I’m doing, I click back on his profile and skim through his public photos. In one of them you can see his face up close – he’s squinting and half smiling at the camera, his blond hair skimming his eyelashes. He looks so good.
I wonder what we’d look like together?
In a couple of clicks, I download his profile picture and open it up in Photoshop. I copy and paste a selfie of me into the image so our faces are side by side.
Mmm . . . the lighting is all wrong.
I start fiddling with the contrast and exposure levels.
A minute or so later, the photo looks passable. Licking my lips, I save the file and admire my handiwork.
Now this really is #relationshipgoals. We look incredible.
Oh, imagine if I had Andy as a boyfriend. We could visit restaurants and clubs, and go and see bands together – and post countless photos on my blog – just like Lily and Bryan. All the girls in my year would be mad with jealousy.
While chewing on t
he inside of my cheek, I start writing a new post: Amazing night out on Friday with my favourite people! How were your weekends? Love IssaAdores xoxo
As I upload the photo of me and Andy, I pause. There’s a weird churning feeling in my stomach.
Is this OK?
I click back to Lily’s Instagram. She has hundreds of similar photos of her and Bryan. Everyone seems to love them.
Besides, how would anyone know? I’m not explicitly saying he’s my boyfriend. I’m not actually lying about anything. Plus, I did really go out with Rish and Andy on Friday. I could easily have snapped that photo while I was chatting to Andy on the walk home. They were all drunk – how would Andy even know if I had taken a photo?
I twist a lock of my hair tightly round and round my finger until the end goes numb.
I know what I’ll do – I’ll only put this photo up for a couple of days, just to see what people say. Then I’ll take a really good photo of us together at Rish’s party on Friday and replace the fake photo with the new one.
So, really, no one will find out. And if anyone questions it later on, well . . . they can’t. It’ll be a real photo. I’ll just fudge the dates.
Crouching over the screen, I click publish: ‘A Fun-Filled Friday Night!’
It takes a few minutes for the comments to flood in.
Whoa, doing well there, Issa. He’s hot #relationshipgoals
You two are the cutest xoxo
Looks like a good night!!! <3
Is this your boyfriend? Nice ;)
My follower count has jumped to 102. A warm feeling radiates through my chest. I’m getting much, much better at this.
Picking up my phone, I notice a message from Suze: Hello, Issa?
Shit, I never replied to her on Friday. I quickly open the chat box. She’d asked about the Victoria’s Secret model photo – what should I say?
There’s a ding from my laptop as another comment appears on my blog.
Oh my God, will your life stop being so perfect <3
Dropping my phone on the bed, I grin and pull my laptop towards me.
CHAPTER 11
Lily
My desk is completely trashed. There’s a yellow stain swelling the pages of my notebook, a wet, crumpled beer can balanced on the edge of the desk and a half-eaten bag of peanuts scattered like confetti over the keyboard.
I keep my voice steady.
‘Bryan, where is my memory card?’
Bryan’s face is blank. His mouth hangs open and spit gathers in the crease of his bottom lip. He slowly lifts his eyes as he tries to focus on me.
‘Bryan . . .’ I look at him. ‘Where is my memory card? I left it next to my laptop. Right there.’
He blinks at me.
‘I need that memory card. It has three videos’ worth of footage on it. Where is it?’
He closes his eyes.
‘Chill, Lily,’ Bryan murmurs. He opens his eyes and the pupils glide to one side. ‘Why’d you need it now?’
‘I have to edit my footage. I actually have things to do! I can’t sit around with Jerry getting drunk in the middle of the day.’
My voice is getting louder. Jerry will hear us – that’s if he’s even awake – but I really don’t care.
‘What is wrong with you? Where is the memory card?’
Bryan’s eyes finally focus on me.
‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ he says.
‘Like what?’ I throw my hands up in the air. ‘You’ve trashed our house; you’ve spent the whole day drinking with Jerry, again! You’ve lost about two days’ worth of my work!’
I can feel blood drumming in my neck.
‘Unlike you, I can’t just sit around all day! I can’t just film whatever the hell I like! I have to write stupid adverts about lipsticks that I haven’t even used! You refuse to play gigs all the time, which is fine, for you, but I need to make money. I have to fill my channel with adverts and sponsored videos and crap . . .’
My tears blur Bryan’s face. Oh God, don’t cry. Not now. Don’t cry.
Bryan stands there, swaying slightly, and takes a step towards me. He’s so close his beard is almost tickling my nose. I can smell cigarettes and sweat on his T-shirt. My lip curls.
‘It’s my house,’ he says quietly.
‘I own houses too. I pay rent—’
‘It’s. My. House,’ he says, louder this time. His eyes are still travelling around the room, but his expression has sharpened, finally he finds my face.
His lips curve into a smile.
‘You want to talk to me about money? How about paying the going rent for half a three-bedroom town house in Hackney.’
I stare at him. My pulse thuds.
Bryan lets out a snort of laughter.
‘As you so desperately want to, let’s talk about it. What is it you pay me, Lily? Seven hundred pounds a month? That wouldn’t even get you a studio flat alone.’
My chest swells with disgust. I can’t believe he’s bringing up money. I can’t believe he’s saying this to me.
‘I own three houses in Suffolk; I don’t have to live here—’
‘Yeah, and how did you make the money for that? How long did you live here for free? Two years? Three? Were you working – oh no, that’s right, you were a student. Funny. And when you graduated, did you get a job? Or did you keep making videos while I funded you?’
‘You know I didn’t have to live here, I had a room. You told me to do my channel. I make money now . . .’
He smiles, shaking his head.
‘But, wait, I’m the drunk leeching off you.’
As he gets louder, his voice is getting more public schoolboy by the second.
‘That’s how it works, isn’t it?’ he spits. ‘You’re the hard-done-by one. You’re the one having to put an advert hashtag next to a pouting selfie of you in make-up. Oh man, life’s so hard for you, Lily, isn’t it.’
I blink at him. Wetness spills down my cheeks.
‘Oh now you cry. Go on, cry. You’re pathetic!’
My vision swoops and blurs. I can’t think straight. I turn away from him and walk out of the room.
‘Don’t turn away from me,’ he says, but I’m too quick. In less than two seconds, I’ve grabbed my coat, keys, phone and purse.
I walk back into the living room. Jerry is passed out on the far sofa – or at least pretending to be – his arms spread-eagled across my beautiful broken plant pot, which has spilt on to our Persian rug. I don’t even care.
‘Lily!’ I hear Bryan behind me.
My sight is foggy, but I blink hard and grab my laptop without the memory card. No time to get the case. I snatch up my camera, jacket, and throw open the door.
Bryan follows me into the hall.
‘What the hell are you doing? Running away?’
I turn and look at him. His grey, ripped tank top has fallen off his shoulders to reveal his too-skinny arms and chest. His nose is pointed and upturned, his pupils hard and black.
‘I’m leaving,’ I say, and slam the door shut.
CHAPTER 12
Melissa
The sun warms my cheeks as I stand by our back wall, smiling while keeping my eyes open wide. I suck in my stomach and stick out my chest, twisting my arm to the side to make the curve of my back stand out.
Mum picks this exact moment to come into the garden and hang the washing out. She hasn’t spotted me, but any moment the camera sound is going to go off. My eyes flick to the phone. CLICK.
Mum hears the noise and looks up. She’s wearing some loose jogging bottoms and a baggy T-shirt over her slim figure. Her unwashed hair is cropped into a severe brown bob, and her face is bare. She balances the bag of pegs on her hip and clicks her tongue against her teeth.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
I smooth down my crop top and take a step towards my phone.
‘Why are you wearing so much make-up?’
She looks at the stack of books on our garden steps that I’ve propped m
y phone against. Her eyes widen.
‘What are you doing with my books?’
My ears grow impossibly hot. Oh my God, I wish she’d shut up.
‘I’ve come out here to do some work. It’s . . . for my school project. Art. It’s an art project. I need this space.’
Mum’s lips tighten.
‘You’re taking posey pictures? Again?! You are not sending these to boys, are you?’
I make a dash for my phone, but she’s already grabbed it and is jabbing at the screen. Luckily it’s locked so she can’t snoop at the photos. I feel a smug satisfaction as she fumbles with the password screen.
‘Look – I’ll only be five minutes, I swear. I just need this image for art. Can’t you hang out the washing in a couple of minutes? I’ll be done really quick.’
‘What are you doing, Issa?’ Mum’s voice has changed tone.
‘Nothing!’
Her face darkens. Oh God, she’s going to start talking about paedophiles again.
‘Look. I told you – NOTHING!’
My neck and ears are now burning up. All I’m trying to do is get a good shot of me against a plain white wall so I can add in the backdrop of the beach – like Lily’s photos of her at Frinton from last summer.
How on earth can I explain this to her without her freaking out? If she knew there was even one photo of me online, she’d probably hyperventilate.
It’s not like Mum exactly cares what I do, anyway. This is the first time she’s said two words to me in the last week, and – surprise, surprise – she’s used them to shout at me.
I stare at her. She holds my gaze. Finally, something in me snaps.
‘Fine, I’ll go inside. But I do actually need my phone for my schoolwork!’ I say, snatching it back.
‘What about my books!’ she shrieks.
I clench my teeth and pick up her books.
In the kitchen, Aidy is making aeroplane noises and running in circles round the breakfast table.
‘Hey, little man, watch out,’ I mutter, dumping the books on the table as he flings himself against the worktop.
‘Neeeeeeeaaaaaoooooowwwww!’ he shouts.
I sidestep his pudgy outstretched hands as he sails past my elbow.
I start filling up the kettle, and he whirls round, smacking his head straight into the kitchen cabinet.
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