by Sara Barnard
‘Thank fuck for that,’ Michela says, getting out of the car. ‘I need a drink ASAP. That service was a proper downer.’
‘Do you reckon they’ve got a tab set up?’ Will asks.
‘Doubt it. Sash’s dad is a right stingy bastard. Only one way to find out though,’ Michela says, cementing my suspicions that she is nowhere near good enough to occupy the status of Sasha’s best friend.
‘That’s my girl,’ Will says, slapping Michela on the bum.
‘What a delightful couple,’ Velvet remarks as we watch them saunter towards the entrance, Will’s hand still splayed across Michela’s right arse cheek.
‘Some might even say enchanting,’ I add.
There’s a beat before we crack up laughing and, just like magic, everything feels OK between us again.
‘You know who he is, don’t you?’ Velvet asks once we’ve stopped giggling.
‘Will?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who?’
‘Billy.’
I frown. ‘Wait, as in Sasha’s ex, Billy? What makes you think that?’
‘The key ring on his car keys,’ she says. ‘It’s got “Billy” on it . . . Plus, Sash totally fluffed his name when she introduced him.’
Did she? I was too busy being pissed off at Michela for the way she was looking at Velvet to pay much attention.
‘Wow,’ I say.
‘I know.’
‘Why didn’t Sasha say anything, do you reckon?’
‘I dunno. Embarrassed, maybe?’
Confused, I follow Velvet through the double doors. I just don’t get it. Sasha is probably one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. So why does she surround herself with so many idiots? I know she doesn’t really have much choice when it comes to her dad, but you actually get to pick your mates and your boyfriends. At least in theory.
Inside, there’s a brightly lit bar and a cold buffet set out on a couple of trestle tables down the centre of the room. At the far end, there’s a small stage with a tatty-looking glitter curtain, barely audible Motown music coming out of the massive speakers on either side. Lots of people from the service are already here, picking at sandwiches and sausage rolls and wedges of soggy-looking quiche. It’s a familiar scene. I lost my last living grandparent in December – Mum’s dad and my granddad. The funeral was awful. Mum got really confused and kept asking what we were doing there, and then got angry and upset every time we tried to explain.
‘Speaking of weird, awkward stuff, what’s happening with you and Ivy these days?’ Velvet asks as we join the queue at the bar. ‘You guys OK?’
I ended up telling the others about the whole Ivy sticking her tongue down my throat thing, and they were pretty great about it. I hadn’t realized how isolating having just one close friend to talk to could be until she became the one person I couldn’t talk to. Suddenly having four (very) different perspectives was kind of awesome – from Sasha’s softly, softly approach, to Kaitlyn’s no-nonsense one, to Dawson’s slightly more irreverent take on the whole thing, I felt about ten times better having spoken to them about it. In the end though, I didn’t get the chance to put any of their advice into action. A few days after the Bridlington trip, Ivy messaged to say she’d been totally hammered and hadn’t meant what she’d said and to just forget about the whole thing.
So I have.
Sort of.
‘We’re cool, I think,’ I say. ‘She’s seeing someone, actually. This guy she met through the home-schooling network she’s part of.’
We even went on a double date a few weeks ago – me and Carly, Ivy and Ross – sitting in a booth at Nando’s, making polite conversation over our chicken and chips. It was OK. I mean, we got through it, but I felt weird all night. Watching Ivy giggle and let Ross feed her frozen yogurt, like she was the only contestant in an ‘I’m more loved up than you’ competition, felt more like looking at a stranger than my best friend.
‘People move on,’ Carly had said afterwards when I tried to explain why I’d been so quiet.
I think she might be right.
‘How about you?’ I ask Velvet. ‘Any romance on the horizon?’
‘Any romance on the horizon?’ Velvet repeats, laughing. ‘You sound like my gran. You’ll be asking me if I’m “courting” next.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, my face flushing.
‘Don’t be sorry. It’s cute. And the answer is no. No romance on the horizon or anywhere else.’
She doesn’t seem bummed out about it though. The opposite, in fact – relaxed and carefree and, I don’t know, just really happy. A million miles away from the Velvet who let Griff grab her tits in front of us all last summer. Light years away from the Velvet who fled crying from Hugo’s party that time.
I’m not going to lie, I couldn’t help but smile when I saw the story about Hugo’s dad splashed over every paper in the newsagents. I’ve never believed in karma particularly, and I’m not usually into revenge, but as I read the article and realized the full extent of Hugo’s dad’s spectacular fall from grace, I was temporarily converted.
We order drinks (including a massive glass of wine for Sasha) and scan the room, eventually locating her in the corner, chatting to a couple of old people who I guess must be friends of her nan’s. Poor Sasha. Her face is all blotchy from crying, and she looks like she hasn’t slept properly in days.
‘We’ll leave you young people to it,’ one of the women volunteers, once Sasha has introduced us.
‘You really don’t have to,’ Velvet says.
But they’re insistent, patting Sasha on the hand before shuffling away.
‘For you,’ Velvet says, pushing the glass of wine into Sasha’s hand.
‘Thanks, but I’d better not,’ Sasha murmurs, putting it down on the table behind her. ‘My dad might see.’
‘But you’re eighteen,’ Velvet points out. ‘And your nan just died.’
‘I know. He’s just a bit funny about things like that sometimes.’
‘Your nan sounds like she was a proper legend,’ I say. ‘I loved the story the officiant told about her false teeth; that was well funny.’
‘Yeah, she was the best,’ Sasha says, tears glistening in her eyes. Her gaze drifts over my right shoulder. ‘Oh God. Not now.’
‘What’s wrong?’ I turn round.
Michela and Will are swaggering towards us carrying two drinks each, Michela shimmying along to Aretha Franklin’s “Respect”.
‘Come on,’ Velvet says, reinserting Sasha’s glass of wine into her hand and pulling her towards the fire exit.
‘Joe, bring crisps,’ she instructs over her shoulder.
I do as I’m told, grabbing three bags from the buffet table and hurrying after them.
Out the back of the club, there’s a scrubby little play area with a couple of broken swings, a slide with dog poo smeared on it, and a plastic playhouse. It’s drizzling a bit, so we crawl inside the playhouse where we sit cross-legged in a little circle on the patchy grass, our knees touching. The girls can just about sit up straight, but I’m too tall and have to hunch over my shoulders to avoid hitting my head on the ceiling.
My phone buzzes. I check it quickly. Carly again.
Blue Steel?!?
I shove it back in my pocket. I swear I told her what I was doing today. She must have forgotten. She can be a bit scatty sometimes.
‘To Elaine,’ Velvet says, raising her glass.
‘To Elaine,’ I echo.
‘To Nan,’ Sasha murmurs softly.
Sasha downs her wine in one big gulp. The second she’s finished, she holds out the empty glass in front of her, blinking at it in surprise almost.
I want to say something to make her feel better, but I’ve been to enough of these things to know it doesn’t work like that – that there are no magic words to make the hurt go away. Instead I open all three bags of crisps and put them in the centre of the circle.
‘Do you believe in heaven?’ Sasha asks, looking up from her glass.
<
br /> ‘Depends what you mean by heaven,’ Velvet says, pushing a pickled onion Monster Munch on to her finger like a wedding ring. ‘Are we talking fluffy clouds and pearly gates?’
‘I suppose so,’ Sasha says. ‘Although I’m not sure Nan would be up for that, thinking about it. She always hated flying, said it freaked her out when she looked out the window and saw nothing but clouds.’
‘Well, maybe,’ Velvet says slowly, ‘you get to pick what your version of heaven looks like. Like, your nan loved gardening, right?’
Sasha nods.
‘So maybe her heaven is full of flowers and plants, and she just gets to potter about all day in the sunshine.’
A big fat tear rolls down Sasha’s face and plops into her wine glass.
‘Shit, sorry – I didn’t mean to make you cry,’ Velvet says, whipping a tissue out of her handbag.
‘No, no, don’t apologize. What you said, it was spot on. I mean, what you described, she’d love that.’
God, Velvet is good at this stuff.
My phone buzzes again. And again a few seconds later.
‘You should see who it is, Joe,’ Sasha says, dabbing at her face with the tissue. ‘It might be important. Your mum or something.’
‘OK. Thanks,’ I say, getting my phone out.
Both messages are from Carly.
BLUE STEEL???????
Are you ignoring me?
I know I should just reply and remind her where I am, or send one of the stupid photos I took earlier, but for some reason I switch off the vibrate function and return the phone to my pocket instead. I don’t know why. But then I don’t know why I do a lot of stuff these days.
‘Everything OK?’ Velvet asks.
‘Yeah, fine,’ I say, patting my pocket. ‘All good.’
DAWSON
Hugo Delaney. In Ibiza. God hates me.
I should have kept running. The plan was to have a run, shower, and enjoy my last night in Ibiza. I’m not proud of it, but for a moment I seriously considered pretending I hadn’t seen him and just legging it. If our situations were reversed, he’d do exactly that.
Actually, if our situation was reversed, he’d be live-streaming it.
I’ve seen a lot of people off their boxes on drugs in the last three weeks, but I think Hugo might be in the worst state of any of them. His pupils are huge, and he’s covered in sweat – not clean, exercise sweat, but rancid club sweat; I can smell him from two feet away. He stinks of sweat and dried booze, the front of his shirt a homage to Jackson Pollock, made from vomit, blood and sand. His hair is plastered to his head, and someone’s taken a swing at him, one eye swollen shut, a cut near his eyebrow. I almost didn’t recognize him. If it hadn’t been for the press coverage because of his dad, I probably wouldn’t have.
I realize I’m feeling something that’s way too close to pity, and remind myself that he’s a git. Not that I need to, because he looks up at me, and for a second he looks like himself, his lips curving into a sneer, his gaze sharpening in his one good eye, and I brace myself for whatever horrible thing he’s going to say.
Hugo starts to cry.
‘Shit,’ I say aloud. Now I can’t leave him.
I look at him and sigh. Then, holding my breath, I try to lift him.
‘Get the fuck off me,’ he spits between sobs, trying to push me away. ‘I don’t need your fucking help.’
‘You were literally just whimpering “Help”, Hugo,’ I sigh, hauling him up and waiting to see if he can stand on his own.
‘I didn’t mean you,’ he mutters.
‘What have you taken?’
He shrugs, and then staggers. I put my hands on his shoulders, steadying him again.
‘Drink this.’ I hand him my water bottle and he looks at it, then at me. ‘It’s water, Hugo. Drink it.’ I unclip my phone from my armband and stare at it. Should I call Dad? Kait? An ambulance – no, they’ll involve the police, and the cops here are not friendly to drugged-up tourists.
He flips the lid and takes a sip, then a gulp, and then he’s glugging it down like he’s dying of thirst.
‘Steady.’ I try to take it from him, but he upends it over his head, and then, to my absolute horror, he howls like a wolf, hauls his arm back, and throws my water bottle maybe thirty feet up the beach. A hen party sat at the bar cheers.
‘Hugo, what the hell?’ I stare at him.
‘Oh relax, I’ll buy you a new one,’ he says.
‘What are you even doing here?’ I ask.
‘Boys’ holiday.’ His voice is sharp and slurred all at once.
‘Where are the boys?’
‘Fucking wankers. WANKERS,’ he bellows.
Someone shouts it back.
‘Do you know where you’re staying?’
He ignores me, gazing off into the distance, tilting his head from left to right.
‘Hugo? Do you know where you’re staying? Where’s your phone?’
He stares at me for a solid ten seconds, then pats his pockets and shakes his head, before throwing his arms wide in the universal sign for I don’t know.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Now what?
‘Stay there,’ I tell him, walking a few paces away and pulling up Kait’s number. So much for our secret getaway . . .
‘Hey!’ She sounds bright when she answers. ‘Are you almost back?’
‘Listen, we’ve got a problem.’
‘What is it? Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. But . . . Hugo’s here, and he’s not fine. In fact, he’s off his tits on something . . . Kait?’ I say when she doesn’t reply.
‘Hugo? As in Hugo Delaney? Hugo is here? In Ibiza?’
I can picture her face as she says it, and it makes me smile. ‘The one and only. I was on the way back, and there he was, collapsed on the beach by Savannah. He’s a mess, Kait. Doesn’t have his phone, doesn’t know where his mates are . . .’
‘No. I know what you’re going to say, and no. Don’t do it.’
‘Kait . . .’
Again she falls silent.
‘It’s our last night, Dawson.’
‘I know. But . . .’ I turn around and look at Hugo, still standing exactly where I left him, staring at the ocean, fingers of his left hand pressed to his wrist. Taking his pulse, I realize. Behind us, the strip is lit up, people shouting and screeching, music pumping. As I watch, a guy runs down the strip, stops, pulls down his shorts and moons at a group of women sitting under white shades. Somewhere else I hear glass smash, and more whoops. It’s chaos. Bad enough trying to navigate it sober, but on drugs . . .
Something really bad might happen to him, and it’d be on me.
‘I’m going to call Trish and ask her to pick us up,’ I say. ‘I can’t leave him, Kait. We’ll just put him to bed and pretend he’s not there.’
‘If it was the other way around, he wouldn’t be a hero for you.’
‘I know. But it isn’t. See you soon.’
I hang up, and then send a kiss, counting the seconds until she sends one back. Eleven. Moderately pissed off, but still willing to salvage the night. Good times.
Then I call my stepmum, giving her the basics, and ask her to pick us up from the bottom of Carrer de Lepant. It’s a two-minute walk – even Hugo should be able to manage that. She doesn’t ask questions, just says she’ll be there in ten minutes. I like Trish; she’s great, really easy-going. Although it does make me wonder what on earth Dad saw in my mum. She and Trish are polar opposites.
When I look back again at Hugo, he’s gone.
I see him weaving his way along the strip and sprint after him.
‘Let’s go and sit down, shall we?’ I say, steering him back around.
‘I’m not a fucking child,’ he says, somewhat losing the high ground as he trips over his feet and lands face first on the floor.
As he sits up, I realize we’re being watched. Not in a look-at-those-classic-British-lads-on-holiday way. But properly watched. Two girls, maybe my age, m
aybe a bit older. Watching me.
As soon as I make eye contact, they grin and come over.
‘Are you Dawson Sharman?’ the taller one asks in a broad Scottish accent, smiling at me.
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ Hugo says, leaning forward and burying his head in his hands.
I ignore him. ‘I am, yeah.’
‘Oh my God, we used to love Dedman High!’ The second girl’s face lights up. ‘You were my first crush! Are you still acting?’
‘No, I’m not. I’ve just finished a year at college, actually.’
‘Really?’ the Scottish girl peers at me. ‘What were you studying?’
‘Creative writing. Screenwriting,’ I tell her. I couldn’t quite quit showbiz. It’s what I know.
‘Like, for films? Are you going to write your own stuff then?’ the other girl asks, as she curls a lock of brown hair around her finger.
‘That’s the plan,’ I say breezily. Actually, I’ve got an interview with Jasper Montagu-Khan when I get home. By some miracle, my lecturer is his godfather, and he put my name forward for a job as his assistant. The pay is essentially peanuts, but I’d get to work directly with Jasper. Me and Kait are obsessed with his last Netflix series. We binged the whole thing in a day, and I’ve watched all of them at least three times since. He’s a genius, and he’s only four years older than me.
‘Can we get a selfie?’ the Scottish girl asks, and I say yes, offering to take it because my arms are the longest. We all squash in, and I take a few shots.
‘Is that your boyfriend?’ the brown-haired girl asks, looking curiously at Hugo, who is taking his pulse again, right wrist, then left, then back to right.
‘God, no. Just a . . . Someone I know. My dad lives here. He runs Beer and Loathing over on Calo Gracia beach. I’m visiting him.’
The tall girl is peering at Hugo. ‘Was he in Dedman too? I know him from somewhere . . .’
Hugo looks at them then, and even in his messed-up state, he manages to do a quick appraising sweep, and settles on the brunette as the prettiest one. I can tell from the way he leers at her.