Going Solo

by Zoe Sugg

  I let out a big sigh of relief.

  Amara raises an eyebrow at me. “You don’t want to talk to him?”

  “No . . . yes, I do . . . just not right now, though,” I say. “But, what’s he even doing here?”

  If he’s here then Megan must have invited him. After her promise that she would keep quiet about it, she decided to just go ahead and invite him to a party where hundreds of people would see him and start talking about him again. Sure enough, just as I expected, all the girls who were surrounding him are now on their phones. They exchange a flurry of whispers—This is going straight on my Snapchat! Was that really Noah Flynn?—which echo off the walls of the barn.

  Kira nudges me in the ribs. Before I can ask what the matter is, I see Megan sauntering towards us, looking gorgeous in a tight-fitting, iridescent cat costume. She even manages to make whiskers look good: a snub of black paint on her nose complements her chestnut hair, which is falling in large, bouncy curls over her shoulders.

  “You look great, Megan,” we chorus.

  “You guys look positively wicked!” Megan says. She leans forward and gives us air kisses—“I don’t want to get lipstick all over me!” she squeals.

  I can’t bring myself to return the kisses. “Megan, what is Noah doing here?” I say.

  Megan pouts. “Oh, you’ve seen him already? I wanted it to be a surprise. I kind of want to be there when you guys make up.”

  “When we make up? What do you think this is, some kind of intervention party?”

  Megan finally catches my tone and she frowns. “Why are you mad? I thought you’d be happy.”

  “I remember asking you specifically to keep quiet about him being back!”

  Megan rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Penny. This is my party and I can invite whoever I want. Noah didn’t have to come if he didn’t want to, then no one would know he was back in the world of the living, if that’s how he preferred it. Don’t blame me. Just use this as an opportunity. Anyway, I’m going to enjoy my party. You do what you want.”

  She flounces off, as seriously as anyone can while wearing a cat tail. I sigh and turn to Kira. “She’s kind of right, isn’t she? I mean, if Noah wanted to keep hidden away, he wouldn’t have come to some cheesy party.”

  “Yeah, but Megan could have given you a heads-up.”

  I smile weakly. “Look, you don’t have to hang round with me. I have some people to talk to and it’s . . . well, it’s not going to be fun.” Callum, then Noah, then an apology to Megan . . . No, I’m not really looking forward to having any of those conversations.

  “Are you sure?” Amara asks.

  “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll find you guys again later.”

  “Remember,” Kira adds, “ ‘SISTERRSSSS’!”

  “I got it!” And I watch them as they walk away, then wrap my arms across my tummy, remembering just how much I hate parties like this.

  Despite the chill in the air outside, inside it feels too warm—the mass of bodies moving and writhing under the heavy spotlights, the fog machines, the air thick with spray cologne, cheap perfume, and sweat. I hope it doesn’t take too long to find Callum.

  I take a deep breath, then I begin to do a circuit of the room. Knowing that I have an escape route makes it feel easier, and the task at hand takes the focus away from my anxiety. I can do this.

  I hurry round the perimeter of the throng, but there’s no sign of Callum. I spot Megan’s cat tail weaving through the crowd, and I catch sight of Kira and Amara a couple of times, but thankfully I don’t see Noah. I wonder what kind of costume Callum has chosen.

  There’s a staircase leading up from the edge of the room to a mezzanine level, where the bar is set up. I climb the stairs, hoping I’ll have a better view from higher up, but as soon as I come to the top I don’t need to look any longer. There’s Callum, standing round the punch bowl with a few of his mates, pouring gold-coloured spirits out of a couple of flasks and into the punch. They’re all dressed as vampires, which seems kind of appropriate. A drop of blood oozes from the corner of Callum’s mouth as he laughs.

  His eyes start to widen in surprise as he takes me in—although at first it’s obvious he’s not completely sure it’s me. “Penny?” he asks, after gawping at me for a couple of seconds.

  “Hey, Callum,” I say.

  “You look . . .” I can see he’s struggling to think of something complimentary to say, but the words never come. I knew that my choice of costume, not going along with the “cute-kitty-in-a-tight-catsuit” thing, would put me in the minority, but I didn’t think Callum would be fazed.

  “Did you want to talk?” I ask.

  “Oh-oooh,” his friends chant at once, wiggling their fingers in our direction.

  I scowl at them, but Callum just laughs again. “Yeah. Do you want some punch first?”

  I shake my head, so he shrugs and follows me to the railing overlooking the floor below. A string of little light-up orange pumpkins is wrapped round the rail, not quite the fairy lights I love, but atmospheric all the same. I know that by staring at them I’m just distracting myself from the conversation I need to have. I look up into Callum’s eyes, and it’s him who takes a deep breath first.

  “Penny, when I found out you were coming to the party, I knew I had to speak to you one more time.” He reaches out and takes my hand, long pointed nails and all. “Look, so Jane’s wedding didn’t quite turn out like I planned but I meant it when I said I enjoyed spending time with you, and that I’d like to do more of it. Plus, I think you’re an insanely talented photographer and I bet I can learn a lot from you. That and you’re incredibly beautiful . . .”—he looks at my smeary black eye makeup and back-combed blonde wig—“most of the time.”

  Despite myself, and my resolutions, I feel my cheeks go pink. Even Noah wasn’t this complimentary about me.

  “So I know I’ll only kick myself if I don’t try one more time. Do you think we can hang out again?” he asks.

  “Callum . . . I think I just want to be on my own for a while.” I’m not sure if he hears me, because he’s focused on something over my shoulder.

  “Oh no, not this again,” he mutters, and he snaps his hand out of mine, his eyes narrowing.

  “What?” I spin round. There, at the top of the stairs, is ghost-Noah. How is it possible for someone in a ghost costume to look so jaw-droppingly hot and effortless? How does he make being a ghost so smoulderingly beautiful?

  “Noah, please,” I say, “I just want to have a conversation with Callum.” But it’s like I’m not even there. Noah has his eyes fixed on Callum, and they’re squaring up to each other.

  I hate it.

  Callum, feeling more confident now as his friends move in for support, draws up to his full height—a few inches taller than Noah. “Look, dude, why don’t you leave Penny alone for a while rather than stalking her like some creepy ex?”

  “ ‘Stalking her’?” Noah snaps back, almost laughing.

  I look frantically between them, my head switching back and forth like I’m watching a match at Wimbledon. And I’m not the only one. All around, phones are pointed at us, recording every moment. The last thing Noah—or I—need is for this to go online and be the next viral hit. I come to my senses.

  “Both of you, stop it!” I shout, but suddenly the floor starts to sway, and I feel a wave of heat wash up through my body. My palms are slick with sweat, and I know this isn’t an attack I’ll be able to dismiss with a few deep breaths.

  “Penny—” Noah recognizes the signs, and he takes a big step towards me. Callum doesn’t know me as well, but he grips my arm and tries to put himself between me and Noah.

  “Leave me alone,” I manage to choke out, as I push past both of them and lurch towards the stairs. The crowd parts to let me through, phones still tilted in my direction.

  Thankfully, at the top of the stairs, I see Kira’s familiar face. Even under her fake nose, I can tell she looks pale with worry. “I heard the names ‘Noah’ and ‘Callum�
�� and came rushing up . . .”

  “Sisters . . . sisters . . . SISTERS  !” I repeat, between breaths.

  Kira’s lips set themselves into a thin line and she grabs my hand. “Let’s go.”

  I’m so thankful to her: she takes charge immediately and whisks me down the stairs and out of the barn. I go with her, breathlessly, blindly, stumbling along. She talks constantly, and her stream of chatter is soothing.

  “I made sure I found out all the routes to the exits as we were walking in. I know that sounds lame, but I really care about you, Penny, and I like to think of these things in case you need me. I always know the fastest way to leave.”

  I don’t reply, but I squeeze her hand and my heart goes all warm and fuzzy. I don’t think I could talk even if I wanted to. My head is whirring with questions. Why was Noah there? What did he want? Why did Megan invite him? And most of all: Why do boys think they can fight over someone like she’s some kind of trophy? He didn’t seem like the Noah I knew at all.

  When we get to the car, I climb into the passenger seat while Kira turns the cold air on high. She strokes my hair as I try to get my breathing under control. “You’re safe, you’re OK, nothing’s going to happen to you,” she whispers.

  I wish I could believe her.

  It feels like we sit that way for ages, but in reality it’s only a few minutes. When I feel my heartbeat is back down to normal and my breathing less shallow, I lift my head. “Thanks, Kira,” I say. “When did you learn how to do that?”

  She shrugs. “We may have googled help someone having a panic attack a few times. We wanted to know what to do if you were ever in that situation again.”

  My eyes go wide. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have such amazing friends. “Thank you,” I say, and it hardly seems enough.

  Amara jogs up to the car and climbs in. “Shall we go home? This party’s kind of lame anyway.”

  I’ve never been so happy to have such solid, caring friends. As we drive away I try not to think about what just happened and put all my efforts into concentrating on my recovery.

  One thing at a time, Penny, I tell myself. One thing at a time.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  In the light of day, with the last of the makeup rubbed (and scrubbed, and buffed, then scrubbed some more) off my face, I know I need to confront the situation. Before I can change my mind, I open my phone and press Noah’s number.

  He picks up within a few rings. “Penny?”

  “Noah. I’m sorry I ran off last night.”

  “No, I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you were in the middle of another conversation or I would have never interrupted you. Turns out my timing is terrible.”

  “You could say that,” I say with a small laugh.

  “Listen, do you have any time today so we can talk in person?” he says.

  “Um . . . sure. Are you staying at the Grand with Sadie Lee and Bella?” The Grand Hotel is right on the seafront in Brighton, and has become their home from home.

  “No,” he replies, “but I’ll text you the address. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. I’ll see you soon,” and he rings off.

  I walk back into the kitchen, where Mum is busy washing dishes. “Is everything OK, darling?” she asks.

  “Noah wants to meet up. I think I’m going to go out for a bit—unless you need me for anything?” I bite my lip.

  She walks round the worktop to give me a big hug. “You’ll be fine. Be strong, my brave, my precious Penelope.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” She hasn’t called me that since I was a little girl, and it makes me smile.

  I double-check the address that Noah’s sent me. Like the hotel, I know it’s on the seafront, but I don’t recognize it—maybe there’s a new cafe there that he wants to meet in. I frown. I kind of want to be somewhere much more private, especially after last night. Just as I expected it would, the internet lit up with footage of Noah and Callum arguing over me. NOAH FLYNN: BACK AND UNLUCKY IN LOVE read the headlines.

  I start walking down the hill towards the sea, pulling my jacket collar up tightly round my neck against the cold wind biting at my skin. Last night, the calendar flipped from October to November, and instantly the weather has changed too. I think back to the summer, and how I wished it would last forever.

  But nothing lasts forever.

  Not even someone’s forever girl.

  When I reach the seafront, I stop and stare at the roiling sea. It looks so different now than it did back then: under the sunless sky and huge clouds the sea is grey and cold. The once colourful beach huts look muted, like there’s a sepia filter across my eyes. I’m used to Brighton being bright and sunny—but even this wintry version has its own kind of beauty. Something more solemn.

  According to my phone, I’ve reached the address that Noah gave me. But there’s no cafe here—there’s not even a little shop. We’re far down the coast from the Pier and the bandstand, and there’s nothing but rows of Victorian houses, most of them now converted into flats.

  I’m about to text Noah when he messages me.

  Buzz flat 5

  I look up, arching my neck to see if I can see him at one of the windows, but there’s no sign of him. I shrug and stare at the line of buzzers. Next to number 5 there’s a neat card that says F. JONES. I press the button anyway, and a few seconds later the door clicks open. The lobby is beautiful, with a big wrought-iron chandelier hanging in the centre, and my footsteps echo on the marble floor. There’s a board with notices and flyers pinned all over it, and little bunches of mail tucked into cubbyholes like birds in a dovecote.

  I get another message:

  Take the elevator up to floor 3

  I frown. The lift? That’s when I see it, and gulp. It’s one of those old-fashioned lifts, with a gate that you have to slide open and closed. It’s small, only big enough for one or two people—cosy, some would say. It looks much older than me—probably older than Mum and Dad—and the thought of going in doesn’t thrill me. Still, my curiosity is piqued. I step into the lift, press the button for the third floor, close my eyes and hope for the best.

  The lift rattles ominously, but the ride up is mercifully short. I still rip open the gate when it stops, almost tearing a fingernail in the process. But the sight I’m greeted with is enough to make me gasp in a different way. The lift opens directly into an apartment—no front door or anything to push through. But before I can take a proper look around, my nostrils flare. There’s a distinct smell of burning in the flat.

  “Sorry!” Noah’s head peeks round the corner. His hands are wrapped in floral oven gloves and they’re holding a cake tin with a scorched sponge inside. “I attempted to make a cake, but . . . I don’t think I inherited any of G-ma’s baking skills. Go chill on the couch while I . . . toss this.”

  Chill? My feet feel rooted to the floor in front of the lift. Every surface of the hall is covered in Noah’s things. He must have opened a window to get rid of the burning smell, because a breeze picks up in the apartment and the scent of the sea snaps me out of my paralysis. It also swirls a sheet of paper towards my feet. I bend down to pick it up: it’s a piece of sheet music, with Noah’s characteristic scrawl all over the page. Snippets of lyrics, some crossed out and rewritten, lie underneath the dancing notes of a melody. I place it safely back on the little entrance table it fell from, weighing it down with a set of keys.

  I take my first steps into the flat properly and round a corner and my jaw drops at how spacious it is. The kitchen (where Noah is unceremoniously dumping the burnt cake into the rubbish bin) is open plan into the living and dining area, and two giant bay windows—with cute window seats that just beg to be curled up in with a good book—offer what seems like an infinite view over the sea.

  Apart from the view, everything is distinctly . . . Noah. It’s a Noah Flynn haven. I count at least four different musical instruments as I look around. Where a dining table should be, there’s a piano, and several gui
tars are propped up against the back of the L-shaped sofa. Even the sofa is distinctly Noah, with its beaten-up chocolate brown leather, a dark grey throw with bright yellow accents carelessly tossed over one of the cushions. Huge pieces of art hang all over the walls—some photos of iconic rock musicians like Robert Plant and Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin, others just huge canvases of riotous colour. Noah’s slim MacBook, covered in band stickers, sits on the low table and there are mountains of empty paper coffee cups on almost every flat surface.

  This place looks lived in, even though Noah’s only been here a few days. I wonder who the place really belongs to, and whether they know that Noah has completely taken over and made the space his own. The more I look, the more I can only see Noah. Over the fireplace (which doesn’t look as if it is ever used) there are even propped-up photos of Sadie Lee and Bella.

  My heart twinges as I spot a Polaroid of us. My arms are wrapped round him on Brighton beach, our grins wide as we goof around for the camera. His fingers are on top of mine, holding me close. The good times.

  “OK, so I suck at baking, but I can at least pour a drink. Want something?” he asks.

  My throat is parched and I need something to do with my hands, so I nod. “Water’s good, please.”

  “One water, coming up.”

  When he returns, I take the glass from his hand, I gulp down half of it at once. When I can finally speak again, I look up into Noah’s gorgeous dark eyes. “Noah, this place is amazing. Who owns it?”

  Noah smiles. “I do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “Nope. This is mine.”

  My mind races. “But . . . what . . . how can that be? Who’s ‘F. Jones’ then?”

  “Oh, that,” Noah frowns. “I haven’t gotten around to changing the door sign yet, and besides, it’s good for privacy. But F. Jones is Fenella Jones, my new manager in the UK. When I dropped out of the tour, we had a long chat about what I really wanted. She said she had a bolthole down in Brighton that she wanted to sell and it seemed like the right thing for me to do. Plus the view is . . . pretty cool.”