by Tom Ellen
‘I know, it sounds weird. It is weird. But he seemed so desperate. He was in such a state. And then he told me that he had been called to see the Provost and that he needed to sort things out or the football team would get disbanded and he would get chucked out.’
‘Good, he should get chucked out.’ Frankie shrugged. ‘That was the whole point of the protest.’
I nodded. ‘I know, I know.’
‘Did you tell him that?’
‘I just said that it was a mess. He asked me to come and see the Provost with him today. As, like, a character witness. Someone who was in the protest but didn’t want him to get chucked out. Who could vouch for him and say he was a decent guy.’ Frankie laughed sharply at that. ‘I told him no, obviously,’ I continued. ‘But he kept asking and he got more and more upset that I wouldn’t do it. Like, he was almost crying. And then the fire alarm went off.’
Frankie and Negin looked at each other. ‘Right.’
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Negin said quietly. I nodded.
‘Honestly . . . I really, really know that last night was a fucked-up mess and that I acted—’
‘Yeah it was,’ Frankie said. ‘But not really because of you.’ She smiled at me, softly. ‘The Abbey thing was awful, Phoebs.’
‘Yeah. It feels like this domino effect of fucking awfulness piling up around me. Like I’m drowning in it. The last thing I need is to go to a ball. I need to go to a mental institution.’
‘There’s no milk,’ Negin groaned.
We trudged downstairs to buy some. Frankie hadn’t bothered to change out of her pyjamas and still had her duvet wrapped round her. We walked into the shop and some people looked at us and exchanged glances. We bought the milk in a slightly tense, exhausted silence. As we walked back we noticed a group of people staring at the noticeboard outside the bar. We slowed down and it took me a second to compute what I was seeing.
It was right in the middle, pinned on top of loads of other sheets. In grainy but all too clear black and white. Asleep, head tilted back on the pillow, hair frizzing in all directions, mouth lolling wide open: a photo of me.
LUKE
I watched Abbey’s train shrink until it was a tiny speck on the horizon. Then I found a bench and just sat there pointlessly for a bit, looking up at the display board and listening to the announcer’s dreary voice echoing around the walls.
It was weird to think that this time tomorrow, I’d be heading home. Seeing mum and dad again. Seeing Reece and everyone. Spending the whole Christmas holiday summing up Freshers’ to various relatives in short, socially acceptable soundbites. ‘Yeah, it was good. Tiring, but really good.’ That’s probably what I’d go with. I mean, how can you actually describe the first term to anyone? How can you possibly express the confusion and awkwardness and freedom and fun and terror and just general batshit mentalness of it all? You can’t. You just have to live through it.
I got up and started trudging slowly back down the platform. For some reason, something Arthur had said last week kept circling round and round in my head. It had been about three in the morning, when we were stoned watching Netflix, and he’d started going on about this philosophy book he was reading. He said the bloke who wrote it, some Russian-sounding guy, had this theory about how human beings aren’t just one single, unified ‘I’ – they are actually billions of separate, tiny ‘I’s, all pulling in different directions to try and get what they want.
At the time, I’d just told him to shut up so I could concentrate on Iron Man 3. But now, after Abbey and Marcus, and Phoebe and Will, and everything else that had happened this term, the whole concept suddenly made sense to me. Walking through this freezing station, I didn’t feel like a proper, unified person; I felt like a swarm of stupid, confused, jealous ‘I’s, all stuffed into the same body.
At least things with Abbey finally felt OK. Or on their way to being OK in the long run. But things with Phoebe . . . Seeing her come down those stairs last night with Will had been grim. Really grim. I hated the idea of them together, but did it actually change the way I felt about her? It was weird; the more I thought about it, the only thing that all my ‘I’s seemed to agree on was Phoebe.
That was when it hit me. Maybe it wasn’t too late for the surprise.
A lot had changed in the last twenty-four hours – Abbey had come to my room, Will had come out of Phoebe’s – but it didn’t really make any difference. The truth was, I’d been acting all week like this whole thing was just about me and Phoebe, when really that was obviously bollocks. It was way more important than that.
I looked up at the display board again and dithered for a few seconds, wondering whether this actually was or was not a good idea. Stood here, in what was quite literally the cold light of day, it could very easily be considered a bad idea.
But, no. It had seemed like a good idea last week, when Ed had told me about Jamila. And it had seemed like a good idea every day since, as I sat in the library with Phoebe, and thought about what it would mean to her.
So, it still felt like a good idea now. Or, at least, I had to make it a good idea.
PHOEBE
The door was bright red with an over-the-top eagle doorknocker in the centre.
It didn’t match the front garden, which was full of dead plants and a few black bin bags. There wasn’t a doorbell. I lifted the eagle’s wings and knocked. The knocks sounded much clearer and more sure of themselves than I did. I could hear footsteps padding towards the door and felt a shudder of nerves.
‘Wait a second, I can’t find the keys.’ It was Will’s voice. I looked at the gate. I could still run away.
A key turned in the lock and it opened. Will was wearing brushed cotton pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt with Michelangelo eating pizza that had a speech bubble that said ‘I’m a party dude’. And he was wearing glasses. He just stood there.
‘I didn’t know you wore glasses.’ I don’t know how I thought I would start it. But not like that. Not in a small talk, I’ve-just-bumped-into-you-at-the-optician’s sort of way.
‘Yeah, only for watching TV and . . . stuff.’
There was a silence. I looked down at the floor, which was still covered in takeaway leaflets and unopened letters.
‘Josh isn’t . . .’ He ruffled his hair. For a second I thought he was trying to suppress a yawn.
‘I wanted to talk to you, actually.’ My voice didn’t shake. I was impressed by how level it sounded.
He looked behind him. Hoping for someone to come and save him, maybe.
‘Come in.’ He extended his arm, welcoming me. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Yeah. OK. Thanks.’ Accepting tea felt like I was coming in peace. I was supposed to be confronting him, and he was ruining it with his boarding school manners.
He shut the front door behind me, and our mutual uneasiness made the seconds slow down.
I cleared a patch on the sofa and thought about the last time I’d sat here. I listened to him put the kettle on. He popped his head round the door. ‘We haven’t got any milk. Or tea bags. Do you want hot squash? Or Josh has got some Fanta?’
‘Fanta would be great, thanks.’
I had to say something as soon as he came back in or I would just end up having a polite glass of Fanta and leaving, like a surreal interlude to this whole fucked-up thing.
He handed me a dirty-looking glass and I took a sip. It was completely flat, like drinking sugared water. I wondered what Will’s family home looked like. Some massive country estate with welly-boot scrapers and an Aga and a dog named after a Greek philosopher. I wondered if his dad really did hate him, and if he even remembered telling me that.
He had left the kitchen door open. I could see right through to his bedroom. To the bed with its burgundy duvet cover and still bare mattress. I almost made a joke about him still not having put a sheet on. How sick am I?
If I let any more small talk happen, I wouldn’t do it. I stared into the Fanta, took a deep breath and then lo
oked straight at him. ‘Why did you put that picture up on the noticeboard?’ My voice was louder and angrier than I had expected.
His face tightened for a second, then relaxed. ‘Phoebe, I didn’t,’ he said, slowly. ‘The boys on the team reckon it was Taylor. I mean, you did . . .’
He left it there. But I didn’t. It was so ridiculous I actually laughed. He was like a little kid.
‘Will, I know it was you. You were angry when you left. You called me a bitch.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘At least admit it. This is a joke. What’s the point when we were both there? Luke Taylor might be a complete twat in many, many respects, but I know for a fact that he wouldn’t . . .’
I couldn’t think of the words to make him understand. Were there even words that could describe all this?
‘He wouldn’t do something to deliberately make someone . . . To humiliate someone on purpose.’
He ruffled his hair again and laughed awkwardly, shifting his weight from leg to leg. ‘OK, I hold my hands up.’ And then he actually, literally, held his hands up, like he was saying he’d eaten the last Quality Street at Christmas. ‘I am a massive wanker. And I was really wrecked. I just thought you could maybe do me that one little favour, which would basically mean I wouldn’t get kicked out of uni. But, obviously, that was too much of a hassle . . .’
‘Are you being serious? Will, the whole thing is completely disgusting. It’s rank. Becky left university. A girl left because she felt so bad about it.’ I didn’t shout. I just let the words fall plainly between us.
He sighed. ‘Yeah, but come on, Phoebe. Like, she probably had issues anyway. If that is gonna make you leave uni, then . . . Come on. That is just ridiculous.’ He snorted slightly. ‘I mean, the photos thing . . . It was just supposed to be a laugh between us lot. And now, honestly, people are acting like it was some gross, creepy, terrible thing.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Because it is.’
He took his glasses off and started cleaning them on his T-shirt. ‘Just so you know, I didn’t start that stuff. Like, god, that was actually nothing to do with me. Just cos I’m the captain, people are making out like I invented the whole thing.’
‘You still took my picture. And then you printed it out and put it on the noticeboard . . .’ He didn’t say anything. He looked out of the window. I wondered if he was thinking about that night. The night we didn’t have sex.
He picked up his phone and looked at it. Like he was bored. ‘Look, I’m probably gonna get kicked out for it anyway. Like I say, I hold my hands up. I am a bad person.’
But I knew from the way he said it that he didn’t really believe it. That he thought saying sorry made everything better. That he actually thought he was a great person underneath it all.
‘I don’t know why Josh was ever friends with you,’ I said quietly. ‘I don’t know why anyone is friends with you.’
He laughed again, nervously. ‘Me neither, what a douche. Phoebs, I hope things are OK between us now anyway, like, thanks for coming to clear the air.’
‘It’s not clear.’ I thought about telling him about my own appointment with the Provost, but I didn’t. I got up. ‘I just wanted to see what you would say.’
Neither of us knew how we were supposed to say goodbye. I should have marched out and slammed the door behind me but I just picked up my bag and then fumbled about checking if I had everything. Then I made a kind of awkward face and walked to the door. He politely followed me, his autopilot charm kicking in. The unopened mail scrunched underneath my boots. I put my hand on the lock to open it.
‘See you at the ball,’ he said, quite brightly, really.
I half turned back at him. ‘Honestly, you just don’t get it. And even being chucked out of uni won’t make you get it. I’m going to tell the Provost that you actually spent time finding that picture, and printing it out, and taking it to the board, and finding pins so you could put it there so that people would wake up and laugh at me. But nobody did. Everybody just thought you were gross and said, “I hope he gets chucked out”. Honestly, I really hope you do.’
I didn’t walk out feeling any kind of triumph. I didn’t feel any better about it all. Just a tiny bit better about myself.
Later, as we all wandered over to Central Hall, I sort of wished I hadn’t worn Flora’s dress. She had lent it to me before everything had happened, when everything we owned was still joint. As we were getting ready, I’d sent her a picture of me wearing it and written that I missed her. She still hadn’t messaged back.
The dress wasn’t even a dress, really. It was a nightie from the 1930s. It was ivory silk and had initials embroidered on the front that said EWR. We had spent ages wondering what names they stood for.
‘I can’t even talk to you normally,’ Frankie said to Negin, as we headed up the walkway. ‘You’re so different in evening wear.’
Negin looked like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She was wearing a plain black dress with a high neckline. With the dress and her bob and her small diamond earrings, she made everyone else look like they had tried too hard.
Frankie was in plain red silk, and Liberty was wearing a white floor-length dress with a slit. She had stepped up her usual glitter game to include a single, hand-painted-by-Negin silver glitter snowflake on her shoulder.
The spaceship building looked amazing. Totally different from the safety briefing day. All the chairs had been folded down into the floor to make a giant wooden dance floor, and the walls were covered in tinsel and fairy lights and holly. A massive Christmas tree loomed right at the back of the hall, throwing its shadow over the DJ stage. I tried to pick out Luke among the swarms of tux-wearing boys, but I couldn’t see him.
We waited patiently in the line to have our photo taken. An arch of silver and white balloons had been put up specially for the occasion.
‘I want to take my shoes off already,’ Frankie groaned. ‘And eat. I wish I had brought those Mini Cheddars with me.’
‘Come on then,’ the photographer shouted, and we all crammed in under the arch. I adjusted the fake-fur shrug thing Liberty had lent me, and smiled as brightly as I could into the lens.
‘Any couples come into the middle,’ the photographer said.
‘No couples here, mate,’ Connor bellowed. ‘Single and ready to mingle: D Block middle floor.’
‘Have you seen Ed?’ Negin whispered to Frankie.
She shook her head. ‘Do you think if I had seen him I would have just kept that information to myself?’
The photographer walked along the line manually adjusting our poses before saying: ‘OK, best Christmas smiles.’
‘Last day of ter—’ Connor’s yell cut out suddenly. He burst out of the formation and sprinted across the hall. Our eyes all followed him and found Becky at the entrance.
She was standing in a long blue dress, smiling. And standing next to her was Luke.
LUKE
Connor was charging madly towards us and my first thought was: He’s going to punch me. He is literally going to punch me in the face.
But he didn’t. He just picked Becky up and carried her victoriously back to her screaming corridor, who swallowed her in a wild scrum of hugs and kisses and war whoops.
I just stood there, by myself, watching it all happen and feeling simultaneously really pleased and slightly awkward. All week I’d had this picture in my head of me turning up to Phoebe’s birthday dinner with Becky in tow, and the two of us being given this hero’s welcome. Obviously that plan had completely gone to shit over the past twenty-four hours, but still . . . At least something good had come out of it.
Phoebe broke away from the Becky bundle, and looked over at me. She was wearing this long, white dress, and it brushed the hall floor gently as she crossed to me. I couldn’t read the look on her face. But, then, I never really can.
All she said was: ‘How did you find her?’
‘This girl on Ed’s corridor, Jamila, u
sed to go to school with her,’ I said. ‘She gave me her address.’
Her eyes widened a little bit. ‘What, you actually went and physically got her?’
I nodded. ‘She only lives, like, an hour away.’
‘That . . .’ She fiddled with the weird fur scarf thing she was wearing. It was like she was trying to find the right words hidden somewhere inside it. ‘That was an amazing thing to do,’ she said, finally. ‘You have a weird ability, Luke Taylor, to be the hero and the villain at the same time. Like, concurrently.’
‘Right . . .’ I shoved my hands into the pockets of my dad’s too-big tuxedo jacket. ‘Is that a compliment, or . . .?’
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. ‘No, it’s definitely not a compliment. But it’s still impressive. It’s like, just when we are all going to sentence you to death for doing something terrible and unforgivable, you go and do some miraculous thing that saves you at the eleventh hour. I mean . . . how did you convince her to come back?’
I shrugged. ‘To be honest, I think she was already convinced. She said she’d told her boyfriend about the photos and everything, but they’d made up and they were back together now. So I think she would’ve come back next term anyway. All I did was convince her to come back for tonight.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Just that I was so sorry about everything that happened, and that no one, literally no one, had fucked up this first term more than me. But I was still coming back. I told her we should both look at it like first term didn’t happen. Like, next term we were starting again from scratch.’
We looked over at Becky, who was still being joyously manhandled by Frankie, Negin and the rest of them. She caught my eye for a second – or maybe it was Phoebe’s eye – but whoever’s it was, she looked happy. Definitely the happiest I had ever seen her.
I turned back to Phoebe. ‘This is gonna sound weird, but can we go outside for one second? I’ve got to give you something.’
‘That sounds ominous . . .’
‘Please, just one sec.’