by Sara Barnard
Maybe we should stick to The Lift Six for now?
Sasha:
The Lift Lot? (Putting a number on things makes it seem . . . dangerous, like tempting fate??? I mean . . . there were seven. Technically . . . )
Joe:
I’m OK with the Lift Lot
Dawson:
I have it . . . WE SHOULD’VE TAKEN THE STAIRS
Kaitlyn:
Yessssssssssssss
Hugo:
I honestly don’t mind
Sasha:
Velvet? Velvet??? What do you think? It has to be unanimous
Joe:
Like The Beatles. They never did anything without all four of them agreeing. Well, until they all fell out . . .
Velvet:
Should’ve Taken The Stairs it is! Just like the Beatles. OK, maybe not *just* like the Beatles
Dawson:
The stairs could have been our Abbey Road moment. Instead we have this. What a legacy
YEAR TWO
‘Shouldve taken the stairs’
Hugo:
Hey everyone. I’ve been thinking really hard about this, and I just feel like we should mark the first anniversary of Stephen’s death. I don’t know about you, but I think about him a lot. My mum’s flat in Manchester is free on the 14th. Anyone fancy coming around for a party? Celebrate our lives and living, etc.?
Anyone? I’m not used to people ignoring my invites to parties. You guys obviously don’t know how epic they always are
Velvet:
Sorry for late reply! I think this is a lovely idea, Hugo. I’m in
Joe:
Yeah, sounds good
Dawson:
It’s ‘Steven’
Hugo:
That’s what I meant
Kaitlyn:
Yep, I’m in
Hugo:
Great! The whole gang back together
Sasha:
Um . . . yes. Me too.
DAWSON
I don’t realize Kaitlyn has messaged me four times – and actually tried to call – in the last hour, until I get back to my dressing room and check my phone. Josh has messaged too, and my mouth curves into the automatic smile that just seeing Josh’s name brings . . . but I reply to Kaitlyn first, saving Josh’s message for after, as a reward.
Can’t talk now. On set, I reply to Kaitlyn, then instantly regret it. ‘On set’ implies a kind of coolness, which today’s job distinctly lacks. I’ve barely opened Josh’s message when she replies, her response popping up at the top of the screen:
OK. Speak later x
Then a split second later:
Break a leg x
If only she knew how close to the truth she was . . .
Josh’s message is to confirm plans for later. I reply to say I’m looking forward to it, and debate whether I should sign off with a kiss. On the one hand, we’ve been seeing each other for almost two months. I’ve touched his penis eight times now, and he’s touched mine twice, so a kiss isn’t out of bounds. But it’s very couply, and we haven’t had ‘The Talk’ yet. And he didn’t add a kiss. Is he waiting for me to do it? Should I google ‘When to Add a Kiss to a Message’? No, I don’t want that in my search history in case I die on the way to the pub, or someone steals my phone. Today is tragic enough.
I’m saved from making a decision when Nita the assistant director appears and tells me I’m wanted, so I send the message without one and hurry after her, back to what they’re euphemistically calling the ‘set’. The ‘set’ is, in fact, the hallway of the terraced house owned by the director’s mum in Eccles. ‘Authentic,’ Alun called it.
Cheap, I call it. The whole house smells of cats, and meat.
‘Ah, Dawson, you’re back,’ Alun says when I make my way down the stairs, as if I’ve been somewhere other than his mum’s spare room. ‘Don’t bother coming all the way down – we’re going to do the whole thing one last time. Marty, you get back up behind him.’
Marty, who is by far and away the biggest human I have ever seen, and also who has not said a single word all day, shuffles up the stairs and stands behind me.
‘OK, Dawson, from the top. Can you remember what to do?’
It’s the eighth time this afternoon that we’ve done this.
‘I sure can, Alun!’ I beam at him, and he tips me a wink that makes me feel both pleased with his approval and a little creeped out.
‘Ready . . . And . . . action!’ Alun says.
I take three steps, then slip my foot over the edge of the carpeted stair. Then Marty grabs my waist, and I let myself fall back, kicking both legs out from under me as if Marty and I are in the world’s stupidest ballet. When I’m standing again, Marty releases me, and I make my way to the bottom of the stairs, where I sit and imagine Hugo Delaney watching this advert. I rub my ankle, until Alun yells, ‘Cut!’
He smiles at me. ‘That was great, Dawson. Best take yet. Your face was a picture. I almost believed you were in real pain. I think that’ll do it. All that’s left is the stunt double doing the actual fall.’
‘Thank you, Alun,’ I say, rising to my feet. Nita told me earlier that Alun was the stunt double. ‘Erm . . . any word on when it’ll air?’ I ask. ‘And where?’
‘Sometime in the next couple of weeks, I reckon.’ Alun scratches his head as he thinks; I had no idea people actually did that. ‘It’ll be on the website, for sure. And they’re looking into television slots. After Jeremy Kyle, and those shows. Get the daytime-telly crowd.’
‘Sounds great – I’ll have to keep an eye out for it.’ I force a smile. ‘I’ll just get my stuff . . .’
I make my way back to the spare room, slipping past Marty the Human Mountain, who’s still on the stairs, and grabbing my phone and jacket. Josh hasn’t replied, but he’s always a bit slow to, so I’m not worried. Instead I decide to head to the pub early, get a quiet drink, and browse The Stage site.
The pub is empty, as per, with only the one-armed barman working, so I get a vodka and Diet Coke and find a corner near a socket, plugging my phone in. Josh hates it when I order vodka and Coke (he’s a pint drinker, but I think it tastes like halitosis), so I’m glad to have some time for a drink I like. Maybe if I drink enough, I won’t taste the lager later. My shoes stick to the carpet beneath the table, and I move them, ignoring the sucking sound it makes. I would never have guessed Josh would like this kind of place, but he says it’s an undiscovered gem and old-man-pub-chic is very hot right now.
While I wait, I message Kaitlyn back, confirming I’ll meet her outside the Slug and Lettuce for a drink before Hugo’s party tomorrow. Again she replies so fast, I’m almost impressed:
Can’t wait. See you tomorrow xx
My stomach twists then, something like shame niggling at me. I’m not really going. I only said I was to get her to stop messaging me about it. Nothing against her, or any of them, but I don’t see the point of it.
I’ve been thinking really hard about this, and I just feel like we should mark the first anniversary of Stephen’s death. I don’t know about you, but I think about him a lot . . .
Hugo messaged the group a couple of weeks ago, offering to hold a party at his mum’s flat in Manchester. No one had really used the group chat in a while. After the funeral we all did for a bit . . . but life, and stuff, and then Josh happened – at least for me – and it stopped. Sasha still sent animal videos and memes a couple of times a month, but that was it. Until Hugo’s message.
You’re going, right? Kaitlyn had messaged me. It might be nice? A few minutes later, she messaged again. I’ll go if you go. I don’t feel comfortable enough with just the others. As I was wondering why she felt comfortable with me, she messaged AGAIN. It would be great to catch up properly x
I know it’s a dick move, but I’m going to message her in the morning and say I’m sick. Again, that guilty feeling makes my stomach churn. I down my drink and go back to the bar.
‘Can I get—?’
‘Two pints of Stella,’
a voice says over my shoulder, and I turn to see Josh standing there.
For a minute, I can’t quite speak – he always has this effect on me. It’s not just that he’s gorgeous, but there’s something else about him that makes you stop and stare. Arresting, that’s the word. Josh is arresting. He’s way out of my league, like a blond Douglas Booth to my mutant inbred from The Hills Have Eyes. I can’t actually believe he likes me. I have no idea why he likes me. He says he didn’t watch Dedman High, so it’s not even like it’s the novelty value of that.
‘Well hello,’ I say, leaning forward for a kiss.
‘Steady.’ He holds up a hand, and I roll my eyes affectionately. He has a weird thing about PDA.
I pay for the drinks and carry them back to the table, taking my phone from Josh when he hands it to me, his own now plugged in to my charger.
‘It’s almost dead,’ he says, then takes a big gulp of his drink. ‘Is that glass yours?’ He nods at my empty vodka glass.
‘No,’ I say straight-faced. ‘It was here when I got here.’ To prove it, I take a huge gulp of my lager and try not to gag.
‘So my day was shit,’ he says.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Nah – it’s old news. Just sixth-form crap. I’m over it.’ He takes another big swig of his pint. ‘You’re lucky you don’t have to go to school or do an apprenticeship.’
‘I’m technically home-schooled,’ I remind him.
‘Like I said: lucky.’
‘I had a shoot,’ I offer, when he doesn’t say anything else.
‘Yeah? For what?’ He pulls his phone over and looks at it.
‘Just an advert.’ I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. It’s too tragic to tell him about.
‘What kind of advert?’
‘Nothing major.’
‘Why are you being shy? What kind of advert?’
He leans forward then, blue eyes fixed on mine, and any hope I had of resisting crumbles.
‘A legal one. For a law firm.’
‘What kind of law firm? Not like a “If you’ve had an accident in the last fifty years, you could be entitled to a cash payout” one?’
He laughs.
I don’t.
‘Fucking hell, Dawson. You can’t be that desperate!’ He laughs again and drains his pint. ‘I’ll be back in a sec. You all right?’ He points at my still-full glass, and I nod.
I can be that desperate, actually. This is the first time I’ve worked in six months. Two months after the funeral, I did some voiceover stuff on a radio play, and had a small part in a costume drama as a plague victim. Kimba barely responds to my messages any more. So when Alun approached her and requested me for the advert, I couldn’t say no.
Josh returns with a new pint and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.
‘So what are you doing tomorrow night?’ I ask him. If I don’t go to Hugo’s maybe we can hang out.
‘Sixth-form thing,’ he says, opening the crisps and cramming them in his mouth.
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Just a party.’ Bits of crisp fly out with his words, peppering the table.
I’ve never met any of his friends. He says it’s too soon, but it’s been seven weeks and two days. ‘Oh. Well, I’m free if you want some company?’
‘It’s sixth form. I already know everyone there.’
‘I’m just saying I’m free. If you wanted me to come.’
‘Nope. You’re all right.’
I can’t think of a single thing I can say back, so I drink my lager, the whole manky pint of it, and he does the same.
‘Your round,’ he says when we’re done, and because I’m an idiot, I get us fresh drinks.
Two more pints, and his knee is pressed against mine under the table. A third, and his hand drops to my thigh, tracing lazy circles on my leg. A jolt of something like lightning fizzes through my blood. I know what this means. I know what to do. Buzzy and blurry and turned on, I stand, shove my phone in my pocket, and weave towards the door, out into the warm summer air.
A moment later, Josh takes my hand and drags me down the alley behind the pub. He pulls me behind the bins, next to the barrels, which I like to think of as ‘our spot’. It’s still light outside, the sun turning Josh’s hair to gold. I can hear people on the street, laughing and chatting as they walk past. They have no idea we’re here. He wants me so badly, I can feel it when he finally kisses me, pushing me against the wall, his lips mashing against mine as he fumbles with my belt. I do the same, reaching for his zip, and wrapping my fingers around him. He moans into my mouth, and I swear to God it’s the hottest thing that has ever happened to me in my life. So when he pushes me down to my knees, I don’t even mind.
‘I suppose you’ll be wanting another drink?’ he says afterwards, with a smile that’s more like a leer. He’s so, so pleased with himself, it radiates from him, there in the smirk that won’t go away, the swagger of his walk as I follow him back into the pub.
I do want a drink, actually. I feel really weird. After I was done, I tried to kiss him again, and he pushed me away, saying it was ‘rank’. He didn’t try to touch me.
‘I’ll get them,’ he says, and there’s something about it that makes me feel cheap. I don’t like it. ‘Put this back on charge for me?’ he says, handing me his phone before heading to the bar.
Like a robot, I do, having stupidly left my charger in the wall, and as the screen lights up, I see he has a bunch of notifications.
One of which is from ‘Sex-face Stacey’.
Come over tonight. My parents are out and you owe me a . . .
Stacey? Who the hell is Stacey? I swipe to try to read the whole message – read all of the messages – but don’t know his passcode. I’m about to try his birthday, when I see him coming back, so I put it down and reach for the pint he places before me, taking a huge gulp. I watch in silence as he picks up the phone and checks his messages. I watch his smirk broaden into a smile. Then he lifts his pint and pretty much downs it.
‘Gotta go,’ he says, standing up and pulling his coat on. ‘Mum wants me home. I’ll message you, yeah?’
Then he leaves. He just leaves. After I . . .
I really am a fucking idiot.
My face burns, and I feel sick, and stupid. And then my phone lights up, and I can’t help it; I think he’s changed his mind about the party tomorrow, he’s—
It’s Kaitlyn, wanting to know what sort of thing I’m wearing to Hugo’s . . . and for a moment, I’m seriously tempted to tell her to fuck off. I’m seriously tempted to tell everyone to fuck off so I can go and die quietly.
Then a weird calmness comes over me.
Probably a tiara and furs, I type. Something befitting a night at Castle Delaney.
She replies with the cry-laughing emoji.
Fine, I’ll go to Hugo Delaney’s party. I’m not sitting at home like a loser. And when Josh asks . . . If Josh asks . . .
Josh won’t ask. Who am I kidding?
KAITLYN
My head is having a conversation with itself. An annoying conversation. The kind I’d put my headphones on to avoid if I had the chance.
This is going to be great!
No, it’s going to be awful.
It’s going to change my life!
No, it’ll be terrible. No, worse than terrible. An anticlimax.
I’m standing outside the Slug and Lettuce, as instructed, waiting for Dawson. Dawson. A smile spreads over my face, and I clutch my phone a little tighter, looking down at it again to check he hasn’t messaged me to tell me he’s cancelling. That would be awful.
He hasn’t. He hasn’t messaged me at all, actually, but that’s OK. We’ve made the plan, why would he need to message me? I unlock my phone and open WhatsApp, tapping You on your way? :) before reconsidering and deleting it. He’s obviously on his way, Kaitlyn. Chill out.
I think I’m allowed to be a bit un-chilled about this though. I mean, Dawson Sharman. I still can’t quite bel
ieve that we’re friends, let alone the kind who meet up for a drink before going to a cool house party. (I mean, I’m just assuming it’s going to be cool, but it has to be, right? Hugo doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who does things by halves.)
I thought I wouldn’t see anyone from the lift again after the funeral. It was all so depressing, so sad, that I thought everyone would just want to forget about the whole thing. But then, somehow, everyone was exchanging numbers, and it would have been rude to be the only one not doing it. And then the group chat was actually quite fun for a while, at least over the summer when I wasn’t at school. It was really nice to have people to talk to who didn’t know me, didn’t know about my sight problems, didn’t know me as anything other than Kaitlyn, The Girl from the Lift. It’s quietened down a lot since then, but every now and then someone, usually Sasha, checks in every now and then to make sure everyone’s doing OK.
But still, Dawson is the only one out of the group that I feel any kind of connection with. I mean, a real connection that isn’t just we-were-all-in-the-same-lift-when-that-guy-died. I don’t know why, really, because it’s not like any of the others are awful or anything. There’s just something about Dawson and me. We get each other, I think. It’s like we have a sense for—
‘Kaitlyn?’ There’s a hand waving in my face. ‘Uh, Kait?’
‘Hi!’ I say, overcompensating by practically yelling in Dawson’s face. ‘Sorry! Hi!’
His face crinkles into a smile. ‘Hi,’ he says, like he wants to laugh, and I mentally try to dial it back a notch.
‘Where’s the tiara and furs?’ I ask.
He blinks at me, confused, and I flush. Of course he won’t remember some silly jokey text from yesterday. ‘Remember, you said you’d wear . . . ? Never mind.’
‘No, yeah, the tiara,’ he says, nodding. ‘I left it at home – damn.’