Floored

by Sara Barnard

  ‘Can I have a go?’ Dawson asked a couple of months ago, when I first brought it with me to hang out with him. He clearly thought it was going to be easy (like everyone does), because he closed his eyes, swished the cane wildly in front of him and walked straight into a bench. ‘All right,’ he said, when I doubled over because I was laughing so hard. ‘Pack it in.’

  Everything is just easy with Dawson. And let me just say, thank God we never actually kissed or anything. Thank God he’s gay. Because now we get to be mates for life (we are definitely going to be mates for life) instead of having a flash-in-the-pan probably-disappointing fling, like what happened with Alfie Mull earlier this year. Talk about anticlimax (literally). The whole thing only lasted six weeks, but that was enough, believe me. Imagine if that’s all I’d got with Dawson. Washing-machine kisses and some dodgy sex. Ugh, relationships. Totally overrated.

  ‘Velvet says she’s on her way!’ Joe says, delight in his voice. Joe is such a complete sweetheart. He’s the most puppy-like boy I’ve ever met.

  Still, I’m pleased too. If Velvet is coming back, that means there’s still time for all of us to salvage this day together. We can have the kind of fun we’d planned, back when Joe had first suggested us all meeting up again on our anniversary. That’s what he called it: our anniversary.

  ‘Shotgun the front seat of the car,’ I say.

  SASHA

  Velvet says something about milkshakes, and we all head back the way we came. Like a bunch of insensitive meerkats, we crane our necks to look up in the direction of the pub as we pass.

  ‘He’s not coming.’ Velvet’s voice is strained. Clearing her throat, she adds, ‘Griff’s always struggled with . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Basic human decency,’ Dawson murmurs so that only Kaitlyn next to him, and me, walking close behind, actually hear.

  ‘. . . new people. He gets a bit . . . chippy.’

  The prices on the chalkboard are higher than I was expecting – milkshakes are just melted ice creams without cones – but these ones come with organic whipped cream and drizzles of shiny sauce.

  Joe nods at the menu and asks what I’m having. My hand closes round my purse. I already spent most of my month’s wages on this trip, and there’s nothing much left inside. Maybe someone will offer to pay for mine because I bought all the snacks? (They don’t need to know they came from the pound shop.)

  ‘I – er – I’ve not got the cash,’ I prompt, like a charity case.

  ‘They take cards,’ Kaitlyn says helpfully, waving hers at the machine.

  ‘I don’t have a card,’ I say. And if I did, it’s not like it would have anything on it.

  Kaitlyn doesn’t hear me though – she’s juggling her stick and her purse and the milkshake the person’s trying to hand her.

  You can tell they’re all used to only thinking about themselves, which sounds harsher than I mean it to. Just because that’s how they are, doesn’t mean they haven’t a good reason. Kaitlyn’s going blind (I think . . . although she never uses that word), so I guess that’s taking up a lot of her brain space. And Dawson’s an ex-child star – he’s had to think of himself on a professional level. Velvet, well, maybe I thought she was less self-involved because she seemed so sweet, but then she was totally oblivious to how weird it was bringing Griff with her before . . .

  Joe though – he’s not thinking of himself, is he? All he can think about is Velvet. Which I’m guessing is why he holds the door open long enough for Velvet to get through, but not me.

  Once on the promenade, they fall into pairs ahead of me: Dawson and Kaitlyn; Joe and Velvet. Rather than try and crash in on anyone’s conversation, I get my phone out. There’s a new message on the group chat I’m on with Michela and the girls from college, and about fifty unread messages from Billy Goodart. Putting off reading them, I open up Instagram and scroll through my camera reel. The best is the one I took when we were sitting along the harbour wall, which captures everyone’s profile: Dawson staring at the horizon, the sun making shadows of his jawline; Kaitlyn, with her long hair blowing forward in the breeze; Joe frowning down at the chips in his lap; and Velvet looking across at me, one freckled shoulder peeping out from her top. And at the end, her bloody boyfriend flipping the bird.

  I’ve chosen the filter and adjusted the contrast by the time I realize I’m not actually in it – now there’s a metaphor. Only I’m not that emo. Quickly, I find a better one – a group selfie with all of us in it (including Griff) – and post that instead, tagging everyone in it (not including Griff) and adding a hasty caption: Two years on. I wanted to say something about Steven Jeffords, but it seems wrong to put that on Instagram, somehow.

  Another message pops up from Billy. Much as I’d rather throw my phone into the sea than deal with the fallout from a series of increasingly terrible life decisions, it’s time I stopped dodging the issue. I read from the top.

  Can’t we just talk?

  I miss you.

  We were so good together – you don’t want to throw that away.

  Sash? Don’t ignore me. That’s really cruel.

  I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’ve probably not checked your phone.

  How’s Bridlington? Was your friend pleased to see you all?

  Bring me back a stick of rock or something will you ;)

  Please.

  This is too tragic. I don’t fancy him. I never have. But he’s persistent and weirdly loyal. You’d have thought enough time had passed since the disastrous penis-in-the-park incident two years ago to have put him off. Only, he seems to have misinterpreted it as some kind of prophecy that we were destined to do a lot more.

  Sorry, I type. Been too busy to check my phone. Wasn’t trying to be cruel.

  (Like I’d ever try to be cruel.)

  Look. I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep seeing each other. You know what happens.

  (Sex is what happens. Guilt-ridden and disappointing intercourse.)

  Billy’s online and already typing a reply.

  That’s what happens when two people who break up still want to be with each other!!!

  I feel like shouting, ‘TAKE A GODDAMN HINT, GOODART!’ at the phone.

  Billy, you’re a sweetie who can do a lot better than this.

  I’m not sure Billy is a sweetie, but even a morally mediocre young man deserves to date someone who doesn’t brush his arm from round her shoulders. Someone who holds his hand for longer than thirty seconds when he offers it. Someone who doesn’t just put up with all his fawning, but actually likes it. The way Velvet seemed to like Gropey Griff – even when he beeped her boob. My phone buzzes.

  I don’t want better – I want YOU.

  Hang on. Wait. What? I’m not sure I like the implication of that.

  ‘Guys?’ I say. And then louder. ‘Guys!’

  Kaitlyn turns round fast enough that her stick catches Dawson on the ankle, and even Joe’s noticed there’s someone other than Velvet talking.

  ‘Yes, Sasha?’ Dawson says politely, looking up from where he’s bent over, rubbing his ankle. His cat-like green eyes smile up at me through long, dark lashes. If people only ever looked at his eyes, they’d see how gorgeous he still is.

  ‘If you were trying to break up with someone, and they said, “I don’t want better – I want YOU” –’ I hear Kaitlyn hiss through her teeth – ‘How would you take that?’

  ‘Badly.’

  ‘Not very well.’

  ‘Are you the one doing the dumping?’ Velvet looks impressed. ‘By text?’

  Joe’s frowning at the thought of me doing that, and I’m quick to set Velvet straight.

  ‘No! I did it in person. Last night. But he’s not taking the hint.’

  I hold up my phone to show them the screen – only Kaitlyn reaches between Joe and Velvet to take it from me and have a better look. (See . . . blind? Not blind? Is there something in between I don’t fully understand because it’s something I’ve never had to think about? I’
d ask her about all this if she wasn’t so terrifying.)

  ‘Oh my God, he’s digging himself in deeper!’ Kaitlyn usually speaks with a slightly husky voice, but it’s risen an octave in horror as she reads out, ‘I think you’re perfect.’

  Kaitlyn looks me right in the eyes. ‘Damn bloody straight you are.’

  The fierce way she’s looking at me makes me blush, wrong-footing me enough that I don’t immediately snatch the phone back.

  ‘Oh God, he’s sent through another one.’ This time her voice drips with pure sarcasm. ‘I don’t want what everyone else thinks they want . . . Oh please!’

  Everyone starts shouting about how shit poor Billy is, how I’m the one that can do better, and people walking past us along the prom give us dirty looks for being so disruptive. But amidst the noise, Kaitlyn is looking at me again like she knows what I want.

  ‘Do you want me to end him, Sasha?’

  And I shouldn’t. Billy really doesn’t deserve the Valkyrie that is Kaitlyn Thomas.

  ‘I mean . . . you don’t have to end him, but if you could write a reply that ends the relationship, that would help?’ I smile, heart fluttering a bit at sharing so much of myself with everyone.

  ‘You’re too nice, Sasha,’ mutters Kaitlyn as she drafts a reply on my phone. ‘That’s your problem.’

  HUGO

  Christ, I’m so bloody BORED.

  I shouldn’t be. I should be BUZZING. I mean, I’m on beer four, there’s at least three hot bikinied girls in my line of vision, this playlist David’s made is actually pretty sweet (not that I’ll tell him), and, most importantly, I’m not at home. But – ugh. It’s just . . . so . . . so . . .

  ‘Hugo, will you do my back?’ Cat saunters over, smiling because she knows I’m going to say yes. You can’t really say no, can you? Especially when she smiles like that.

  She sits down on the edge of my sunlounger and makes my feet wet as the water drips off her perfect body.

  ‘If I must.’

  She hands me the bottle, and I spray her back and rub it in, my hand deliberately slipping under the straps of her bikini.

  ‘Honestly, Hugo,’ she pretends to complain.

  What does it mean about me as a human that I’m rolling my eyes, but also really want to have sex with her at the same time?

  I mean, that’s not good, is it?

  Summer is too long. Days are too long. Life is so boring. Everything and everyone in my life is exactly the same. The girls are almost impossible to tell apart. They all have the same long hair blow-dried in the same perfect way. They all have the same perfectly sculpted arses shown off in their identikit designer bikinis. Their eyebrows are all perfectly plucked, their voices all have the same plummy nothingness to them, and they’re all so pretty in that groomed way. That prettiness you’re never sure is real, because anyone can be pretty, really, if they have enough money and a personal trainer and expensive this and that, and . . . God, I am so bored. I am so fucking bored, I can’t even tell you.

  ‘Done!’ I smack my hands on Cat’s back to announce my finishing. ‘You’re all set.’

  I’m not sure why, but I find myself pushing her gently off my sunlounger. She giggles and readjusts her bikini strap and pretends not to mind, even though she does.

  ‘I’m getting a beer,’ I announce.

  I pad my way around the pool into David’s kitchen and open his fridge to ferret around for a drink. It’s been restocked by the maid in the past hour, and I grab a plate full of fruit too. I should totally eat some vitamin C; I’ve been caning it so hard since exams finished. David’s parents have been gone five days, leaving their country house free, and it’s been one non-stop party. The weather is perfect – it’s hotter here than where Mum’s staying in the South of France. My tan is looking pretty great, hiding the week’s worth of excess from showing on my face. It’s chill, and everyone’s up for it, and I could get Cat tonight at the click of my fingers if I wanted to, and I’m flying out tomorrow to join Mum, and – on paper – everything is pretty damn amazing, isn’t it?

  But Christ, I’m BORED, and I don’t know why.

  I find myself pulling up a stool to the breakfast bar, setting my fruit plate down and drinking my beer alone for a moment. The throb of bass music thumps dimly through the triple-glazed patio doors but, other than that, it’s quiet. I pick up a piece of freshly cut pineapple and wash it down with a mouthful of beer. I pull my phone out of the pocket of my swimming trunks and find myself scrolling through everyone’s updates. The same basic faces of the same basic people stare back at me. Cat’s just posted a photo of her posing next to the pool – her head thrown back, her tits thrust outwards, her toes pointed to make her legs look longer. Hashtag tanning. I roll my eyes again. I mean, I guess I’m still going to have sex with her, but I’m kind of bored by the inevitability of it.

  I know I’m going to type her name in before I do it.

  There’s a moment of kidding myself that I won’t, but I’ve already typed in V and E and L. Her profile comes up quickly, because I’ve been checking up on her more than I care to admit.

  Look, it’s not like I care. Last year’s pathetic night in Manchester was probably one of the funniest things that’s ever happened to me. I managed to get so much material out of it with everyone. ‘God, I mean, you think poor people hate us, but they, like, REALLY hate us. I’m surprised I made it out of there alive.’ Those losers being so BRAVE and RIGHTEOUS standing up to me was the most hilarious part . . . I hadn’t done anything wrong. Just slept with a girl who was also totally up for it. They think I’m the snob, but they were the ones jumping to conclusions. They’re the prejudiced ones, not me.

  Twats.

  And yet, here they are. Staring out of my phone in a cheesy group selfie that Velvet has regrammed.

  I knew they’d do something like this today – knew it. So damn predictable. I bet the little saddos have been counting down to it all year. Wanting to inject some drama and meaning into their pathetic lives.

  She looks pretty.

  But sad . . .

  I mean, she’s smiling, but I’m around a lot of fake people a lot of the goddamned time, and I know a fake smile when I see one.

  I snort at myself. I shake my head and down the rest of my beer. I burp triumphantly, enjoying how it echoes around this stainless-steel-filled kitchen. Then I beat my bare chest and laugh at myself and think, you know what, maybe shagging Cat isn’t so boring after all. At least it will keep me busy.

  And I need to keep busy at the moment. What with everything.

  OK. So here’s where we’re at. Try to keep up. Kaitlyn used to have a thing for Dawson, but Dawson likes boys, so now they’re just mates, which is great, but Dawson thinks that maybe he likes girls as well, which is utterly inconvenient and a massive head fuck for Kaitlyn, who is actually enjoying being friends. Meanwhile, Billy likes Sasha, Ivy likes Joe, but Joe likes Velvet, as does Hugo. Not that he’d admit it, and she’d never say that she likes him either, because she’s with Griff – and no one likes Griff.

  It’s all very complicated.

  But that’s what happens when you throw a group of teenagers together like that: things tend to get complicated. Don’t they have more important things to worry about? After all, Kaitlyn is slowly going blind, Velvet is pregnant, and Joe is losing his mother a tiny piece at a time – each time she forgets how many sugars he takes in his tea, or asks him if his team won their game, even though he hasn’t played football since he was ten. Soon she’ll forget him altogether, and he’ll become that nice boy that opens the curtains in the morning and cuts up her pork chop.

  Perhaps that’s why. Perhaps all the who-fancies-whom nonsense is a distraction; a way of finding something – or someone – in the miserable mess of their lives to make it feel like they aren’t being kicked repeatedly in the heart. Isn’t that all any of us want? To find someone who says, ‘I get that, and I get you, and everything is going to be OK.’ Perhaps the anniversary thing was a dist
raction as well. After all, it’s a strange event to celebrate – a stranger dying in a lift. But it’s what brought them together, and marking it somehow kept them together when their lives were pulling them in very different directions.

  Not that Velvet had wanted to celebrate it, of course. All she’d been able to think about was the baby and what she was going to do, so she’d completely forgotten about it. She didn’t think the others would be bothered, but she’d underestimated how much she meant to them. (Even Hugo, who wasn’t there himself, still felt the need to check that she was OK.)

  And that’s another thing she’d never say out loud: how much she needed to see them. She didn’t realize it until they were all there in front of her, each of them genuinely pleased to see her in a way no one ever had been before. She could feel the love burning off them, right through their clothes; could suddenly see the gaping hole they’d left in her life after she’d run off that night at Hugo’s party. Since then, she’d filled it with hoovering and bacon sandwiches and Griff – but as soon as she saw them again, she felt that itch, that excruciating, unreachable itch, that made her world extend further than a bag of chips on the beach.

  They all felt it, that itch – the realization that there’s more to life than this. That you can be with people that you want to be with. Not people that you have to be with through circumstance or mere geography – family, teachers, colleagues – but people who are willing to make room for you in their lives when they don’t have to.

  That’s not something Hugo had given much thought to, but when your thought process revolves around yourself, it’s impossible to consider anyone else. It must be hard to have sympathy for Mr Delaney. He doesn’t make it easy, does he? But think of him at that party, by himself in the kitchen, looking at the photo of the others on his phone. It’s a terrible thing to be surrounded by people and still feel alone. If you asked him, he’d say that he wasn’t unhappy, simply weary of seeing the same people and doing the same things, day in, day out. When you have the space – and the finances – to do whatever you please, it’s easy to grow restless, especially when you have no idea what you actually want.