Floored

by Sara Barnard

  She walks around the bed and lets go of the breath she’s been holding when she finally spots her phone on the other bedside table. Picking it up, she can feel the cracked glass under her fingers as she curls them around it. She heads out into the hall, back the way she came, to find Hugo still standing by the front door.

  ‘Bye, I guess,’ she says, because she has to say something.

  She waits a beat, but Hugo doesn’t reply, so she dips her head and walks past him out the open door.

  ‘Don’t . . .’ he starts to say, then stops to shrug. ‘Don’t read too much into it. It’s not a big deal. It was nothing.’ He shrugs again. ‘Just a joke.’

  You’re the fucking joke, she thinks.

  The trouble is, he isn’t talking about them; he’s talking about the bet.

  ‘Shouldve taken the stairs’

  Hugo Delaney has left

  Kaitlyn:

  Shame

  Dawson:

  Fuckity bye

  Joe:

  You were right about us not calling ourselves the Lift Six, Sash . . .

  Sasha:

  Did you get home OK, Velvet?

  Velvet:

  Yeah. Thanks, guys. I’m fine

  Joe:

  We’re going to keep going with this group though, right?

  YEAR THREE

  ‘Shouldve taken the stairs’

  Joe:

  Hey guys! I’ve just worked out it’s nearly a year since we last hung out. Wanna try to arrange something? For the anniversary, I mean

  Sasha:

  Hopefully no risk of bloodshed this time . . .

  Joe:

  I solemnly promise not to use the fists of fury . . .

  Kaitlyn:

  What kind of thing were you thinking?

  Joe:

  I dunno. I just want to see you all really

  Sasha:

  Awwwww. That would be nice, actually

  Dawson:

  I’m in

  Kaitlyn:

  Sure, I’m up for that. Somewhere in Manchester?

  Joe:

  Works for me. I can get the bus in

  Sasha:

  Manchester def easiest for me

  Dawson:

  Well, as a DRIVER, with a CAR OF HIS OWN, may I just say I’m easy with wherever . . .

  Joe:

  That OK for you, Velvet? We can make it a day thing if that’s easier (and if that’s OK with the rest of you)?

  Velvet:

  Sorry, guys! Nice idea, but you’ll have to count me out It’s a bit far for me and I can’t really afford the train. Have a great time!

  Sasha:

  x a million

  Joe Lindsay created group ‘To the rescue!’

  Joe Lindsay added Sasha Harris

  Joe Lindsay added Kaitlyn Thomas

  Joe Lindsay added Dawson Sharman

  Joe:

  Guys, is there anything we can do?? Club together to pay for Velvet’s train fare or something??

  Kaitlyn:

  I’d love to help, but can we find out how much first?

  Sasha:

  Um . . . it’s £££

  Joe:

  But it won’t be the same without Velvet.

  I mean, it wouldn’t be the same with any of us missing

  Kaitlyn:

  *cough* Hugo *cough*

  Joe:

  Apart from him

  Kaitlyn:

  Maybe we could go to Velvet? Where does she live?

  Sasha:

  Bridlington. It’s miles and miles and miles away. Um . . .I can’t afford ¼ of the train fare. No way can I get the money for all of it.

  Dawson:

  Sounds like you guys need a car. And a licensed driver . . . If only you knew such a man . . . A cool, funny man, who recently passed his test and knows his way around a vehicle . . .

  Joe:

  Do I hear road trip???

  Dawson:

  All I want, literally ALL I WANT, is for one of you to be impressed I can now drive. That’s all. You don’t deserve Tallulah

  JOE

  I’m brushing my teeth when I get a text from Ivy saying she’s outside.

  I frown. Even though we finished our exams over six weeks ago, Ivy and I have only hung out a handful of times, and on at least seventy-five per cent of those occasions, she’s been grumpy and/or distracted.

  ‘Were you in bed?’ she asks when I open the front door in my pyjamas.

  She’s drunk. Sober Ivy has posture to die for; Drunk Ivy is swaying like a Tokyo skyscraper in an earthquake.

  ‘Nearly,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to be up early to go to Bridlington.’

  ‘Oh yeah, to see your new besties.’ She says ‘besties’ with air quotes. ‘Well, aren’t you going to ask me in?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure,’ I say. ‘We’ll have to be quiet though – my mum and dad have just gone to bed.’

  In the dark living room, Ivy heads straight for the drinks trolley.

  ‘Maybe we should have a sit-down first,’ I say, steering her towards the sofa. She must have caught her foot on the corner of the rug or something, because seconds later, she’s crashing towards the floor, dragging me down on top of her.

  ‘Shit, Ivy – are you OK?’

  She answers me by looping her arms round my neck and sticking her cider-soaked tongue in my mouth.

  I scramble away from her in shock, smacking the back of my head on the fireplace.

  ‘It’s because of that Velvet girl, isn’t it?’ she slurs.

  ‘What? No. I told you, I’m over her.’

  I touch the back of my head. It’s wet. Shit, am I bleeding?

  ‘Don’t lie,’ Ivy says.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘If you’re over her, why are you going to see her?’

  ‘It’s not just me. We’re all going.’

  She snorts.

  ‘Honestly, Ives. We’re just mates.’

  ‘The same way we’re “just mates”?’ (The air quotes again.)

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget it.’ She staggers to her feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Where do you think? Home.’

  ‘Can’t we talk first?’

  ‘No, Joe, we can’t,’ she spits. ‘Have fun in Bridlington.’

  ‘You’ve got blood in your hair,’ Sasha says.

  It’s the following morning, and we’re standing in a lay-by waiting for Dawson and Kaitlyn to pick us up.

  ‘It’s a scab,’ I reply, touching it gingerly. ‘I hit my head on the fireplace.’

  ‘How’d you manage to do that?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘Long stories are my favourite.’

  I’m saved by the bell, or more accurately, the car horn.

  ‘What’s in the humungous bag?’ Dawson asks as Sasha and I pile on to the back seat.

  ‘Just a few snacks,’ Sasha says breathlessly, plonking the bulging plastic bag between us.

  ‘It’s only a two-and-a-half-hour drive,’ Dawson points out.

  ‘I know,’ Sasha says, ripping open a bag of Haribo a bit too enthusiastically, sweets flying everywhere. ‘It’s just that I’ve never been on a road trip before. I mean, not with mates anyway.’

  Sasha waggles the bag under everyone’s nose before picking out a cola bottle for herself. ‘I, er, put together a bit of a playlist too,’ she continues, her cheeks reddening as she gets her phone out. ‘We don’t have to listen to it, or anything. I mean, it might be shit . . . in fact, it probably is. So if you don’t like it, just say so, and we can put the radio on or something instead, I honestly won’t mind . . .’

  ‘Oh, just give me your phone,’ Dawson says.

  Sasha needn’t have worried – her playlist is perfect summer anthem after summer anthem, and as we weave through the city-centre traffic, windows wound down and music blasting, my worry and confusion about the Ivy situation starts to fade.

  That’s the thing about this lot – we
may not have much in common beyond what happened in that lift, but there’s something comforting about our limited shared history that lets me take a break from my everyday life for a bit. When I’m messaging them, I’m not Joe Lindsay, Uber Swot; or Joe Lindsay, Disappointing Best Friend; or Joe Lindsay, Dutiful Son. I’m just Joe, and I like that.

  ‘You’re a dead good driver, Dawson,’ Sasha says as we join the M62. ‘Did you pass first time?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How many lessons?’

  ‘I dunno. Five, maybe.’

  ‘Five! My cousin had forty-two. And he still failed.’

  ‘I had to learn for some scenes on Dedman High, so I kind of had a head start.’

  Sasha and I exchange a split-second glance. It’s rare Dawson makes any reference to his TV past, at least not in front of the two of us. I hold my breath, wondering if he’ll elaborate, but instead he turns the music up and asks Kaitlyn to unwrap him another Maoam stripe.

  At the service station, I blow the last of my pocket money on a dozen Krispy Kremes. I’m waiting for the others near the fruit machines, when I notice Kaitlyn coming towards me. Even though she gave us the heads-up about it on WhatsApp, it’s still a bit of a shock to see her using a white cane.

  ‘Those smell amazing,’ she says, stopping at my side.

  I notice the streak in her hair is now lavender, and I wonder if she did it herself.

  ‘She’ll love them,’ she adds.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Velvet.’

  ‘They’re for all of us,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘They are,’ I say, thrusting the box of doughnuts under Kaitlyn’s nose. ‘Have one if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ she says, a small smile playing on her lips.

  I check my phone. Nothing from Ivy. I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved.

  ‘How’s your mum doing?’ Kaitlyn asks as I slide my phone back in my pocket.

  I hesitate. Part of me wants to confide in Kaitlyn. She, of all people, knows what it’s like to have your life turned upside down by something you can’t control. The other, much bigger part wants to shove all my stress and worry about Mum, along with the weird Ivy mess, in the locked drawer at the very back of my brain, at least until we get back to Manchester.

  Even though I know it can’t actually be the case, it’s like getting the Alzheimer’s diagnosis sped up Mum’s symptoms. She’s gone from having occasional bad days to going weeks without a single good one, asking the same questions over and over, and getting upset when our answers fail to satisfy her, or she can sense us losing our patience. Poor Dad is in bits.

  I realize Kaitlyn is waiting for me to respond.

  ‘She’s doing OK,’ I say eventually. ‘You know, up and down.’

  Kaitlyn must sense I don’t really want to go into it, because she just gives my arm a sort of pat and asks me to earmark an original glazed for her.

  The Ambassador Hotel is a bit more rundown than it looks on its website. Tatty net curtains hang at the windows, and the sign above the door proclaiming ‘Vacancies’ flashes wearily, half the bulbs either dead or on their last legs.

  Inside, the lobby is dark and narrow, and smells of cooked breakfasts and furniture polish.

  And the perfume Velvet wears.

  And just like that, I’m catapulted back in time to Hugo’s party, to the last time I saw her, milky mascara tears running down her lovely face like a tragic heroine in a black-and-white film.

  And then I clock her, dragging a vacuum cleaner down the hallway towards us, all sun-kissed and freckly and gorgeous and perfect, and my heart is in my mouth, and there’s a full-on butterfly farm in my belly, and I know I’ve spent the last year kidding myself.

  Because I, Joe Lindsay, am as mad about Velvet Brown as ever.

  Shit.

  VELVET

  ‘I don’t really see the point in education. What am I going to do with it – get a job? That’s for mugs . . .’

  I half listen to Griff, distracted from his droning on by my own far-more-pressing concerns. There are so many things for me to be embarrassed about. The fact that Joe, Sasha, Kaitlyn and Dawson Sharman came barrelling into the hotel – all shiny and excited and giggling – while I was pushing Henry Hoover round the brown-patterned carpet and singing along with Heart FM is just one of them. I was really giving it some to ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ as well.

  I tried my hardest to hide the utter horror on my face, but I genuinely could not comprehend how they didn’t realize ‘I can’t afford the train ticket’ actually translated as ‘I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t fancy it, thanks’. It definitely did not mean ‘please turn up at my place unannounced while I’m working’.

  I was so shocked to see them, I tripped over and whacked myself in the shin with the vacuum cleaner. Bloody Henry bashed into me with more brute force than I would have thought possible from his smiley cartoon face. Serves me right for refusing to wear the proper chambermaid’s uniform – that’s what Nan would say. Flip-flops and tiny denim shorts are not appropriate clothes for industrial cleaning. The shorts are way too tight for me at the moment as well: not only are they riding up my bum crack, but the waistband is digging in like a medieval torture device. I’m going to have a bruise, right next to the curly ‘G’ on my ankle – the tattoo’s a couple of months old now, but I didn’t follow the aftercare instructions properly, and it’s already a bit patchy and sad-looking.

  ‘Surprise!’ they all chorused.

  ‘Shit,’ was all I could say, while wincing in pain and wishing the nasty threadbare carpet would swallow me whole.

  It’s like they think I’m Cinderella, and they’ve come to rescue me or something. The irony is, I was having a pretty good day until they turned up. I actually really like cleaning, and vacuuming’s my favourite. Sometimes when I’m pushing Henry around or scrubbing bathrooms, I think: Poor the Queen – she probably never gets to do her own cleaning. She doesn’t know what she’s missing; how satisfying it can be.

  I love mundane work, which is a good thing around here. The repetitive actions are like meditation, or hypnosis, taking me outside my own head for once, making life as small – and safe – as possible.

  I had been looking forward to the shower and bacon sandwich I was going to have as soon as I’d finished up, while Griff, no doubt, sat and watched telly in our poky little staff quarters. My days have a pleasing familiarity to them, as they stretch out before me. It’s how I like it.

  I was not expecting to be disrupted like this. Trekking to the seafront, making conversation, picking at chips and feeling sick at the smell of vinegar. I’m stuck wearing the stupid too-short shorts and my baggy work T-shirt because I didn’t have time to get changed before I hustled this lot out of the hotel as quickly as possible. I don’t even have any make-up on; I look proper disgusting. If Joe ever thought I was lovely, he definitely won’t any more.

  Still – somehow – none of this is what I feel the most embarrassed about.

  ‘. . . I mean, education’s sort of like voting, isn’t it?’ Griff goes on. ‘Never going to make any difference.’

  My hand is sweaty, as he won’t let go of it, even while he’s busily eating half my chips. I knew he would insist on coming with me and ‘my friends’ to the beach. I thought about trying to get away with not telling him we were going, but it wouldn’t be worth it. Last weekend, he stormed out and left me at Rikki’s party by myself because he thought I was looking at Alex White ‘in a flirty way’. For the record, I hadn’t even realized Alex was standing there.

  This may partially explain why I am sitting here in a state of quiet panic, worrying that someone might mention Hugo. I really, really do not want to have to explain to Griff who Hugo is. I don’t even want to think about Hugo. He is locked inside a box somewhere in my brain labelled Things I Pretend Never Happened.

  ‘Well, I mean . . . obviously everyone’s different,’ Sasha says
kindly, trying to hide the fact that everyone has gone quiet. ‘Loads of people do well without going to uni.’

  I know I should try to keep the conversation going, as this is all my fault – it’s my boyfriend who’s shut down their nice conversation about what they’re planning to do after their A levels next year. It’s not their fault Griff and I aren’t doing sixth form. Until now, I hadn’t really thought I was missing out – I mostly hated school anyway, and it’s been quite cosy, living with Griff in the hotel. It’s been a few months now, and it still feels like a sleepover rather than my real, actual life.

  ‘So, what are you planning to do, Velvet?’ Joe asks me. ‘I remember you saying you were really into creative writing?’

  How can he still be so nice, after everything? It’s all so awkward. This is why I barely contribute to the WhatsApp group, even the new one that doesn’t include Hugo. I haven’t been able to find the words to talk about what happened last time we saw each other, so I guess I’ll always just feel embarrassed and guilty about telling him to fuck off when he did not remotely deserve it.

  ‘Oh, I . . . dunno.’ I can’t look him in the eye, and I feel myself turning red. ‘I mean, I quite like working in the hotel. It’s fine for now.’

  ‘For now? Face it, we’re not going anywhere!’ Griff laughs, even though nobody else does.

  I’ve found myself cringing at everything he says today, and I hate myself for it. I feel like such a traitor; I should be pleased I’ve finally got a boyfriend who really likes me. I certainly never expected Griffin Collins to want to go out with me – but since we got past what happened between us before, I’ve realized he can actually be really sweet, when he’s not acting like an idiot. It’s nice having a boyfriend. I like having someone to look after, someone to have a laugh with; just someone who I know will be there all the time.