by Beth O'Leary
‘Maybe she’ll try and hitchhike?’ Rodney suggests. ‘Hail someone down?’
‘Maybe,’ I say slowly. ‘Or she might try and walk. I think she’ll assume we came off the motorway as soon as we could, right? How long would it take her to walk from where we dropped her to here? Rodney?’
Rodney busies himself clicking away on his phone.
‘We were driving for, what, a few minutes? It can’t be that long a walk?’
‘An hour,’ Rodney says. ‘It’s an hour’s walk, unless she cuts across the fields, which would save her some time.’
‘An hour’s walk?’ Marcus says, leaning forward to look at the phone over Rodney’s shoulder. ‘Are you sure your phone isn’t broken? All you do is tell us everything takes fucking for ever.’
‘Sorry,’ Rodney says, stretching the phone out for Marcus to look. ‘It’s just . . . what it says . . .’
Marcus rolls his eyes. ‘Well, I’m getting out,’ he says. ‘Deb isn’t the only one who needed a piss. Do you think that place has toilets?’
‘The Budget Travel? Yes, I think it probably does have toilets, Marcus,’ I say.
‘Excellent.’ He climbs out the car, shaking his damp T-shirt with two fingers, unsticking it from his body. ‘Ugh,’ he says, as he slams the door behind him.
‘Thoughts on driving off now?’ I say.
‘Deb, though,’ Dylan says.
‘Yeah. Damn,’ I say, watching Marcus amble his way towards the hotel entrance.
‘I am really sorry about him,’ Dylan says quietly.
Rodney unclicks his seat belt and shifts up into Marcus’s seat so he and Dylan have more room. They each sigh with relief.
‘Yeah, well. Marcus is Marcus,’ I say, still watching him go.
‘Do you two not like him?’ Rodney asks.
‘I don’t like him, no,’ I say flatly.
‘I don’t like him most of the time, either,’ Dylan says.
I glance at him, surprised.
‘He . . . he’s a complicated man. But he’s family, really. I’m holding out hope that one day he’ll turn things around and change. It’s just . . . When do you give up on a person, you know?’
‘When they’re bad for you,’ I say, before I can stop myself. ‘It’s like any relationship, romantic or friendship or family or whatever. If it’s toxic, you should walk away.’
‘I think . . .’ Dylan pauses, choosing his words carefully. ‘I think you step back when it’s toxic, certainly. But I’m not sure I would want to give up. Not if I thought there was good in someone, and that I might be able to help them find that good. Not once I’d recognised how the relationship was hurting me, and hardened myself to that.’
I look at him. I don’t agree with him – I don’t think you can harden yourself against the hurt someone like Marcus inflicts on people. But if I’ve learned anything over the last year or two, it’s that there’s no one way of dealing with pain.
‘Someone should stay here, in case Deb figures out where we’ve gone,’ I say after a moment. ‘But I think the rest of us should split up and go looking for her. If we all take our phones, there’s no harm in that, right?’
‘Marcus should stay here,’ Dylan says immediately. ‘He’ll definitely wander off if we leave him to it, then we’ll have two wedding guests to track down.’
I snort. ‘OK, fine. You tell him, would you? I’m going to go over the fields. I feel like I need to . . . do something.’
Dylan nods. ‘Are you happy to leave Marcus with the car keys?’
I pause for a moment. ‘Umm.’
‘Yeah,’ Dylan says.
‘He’s an adult,’ I say. ‘He wouldn’t drive off without us.’
We all think about it.
‘Maybe you should stay with him,’ I say. ‘Just in case.’
Dylan
The first emergency phone call comes from Rodney, approximately forty minutes after he and Addie have left in search of Deb.
‘Oh, hi? Dylan?’
‘Yes?’ I say patiently, watching Marcus pacing the perimeter of the car park, kicking an empty Coke can as he goes. He’s antsy, which is concerning: if he doesn’t find entertainment soon, he’s going to create some. A line of poetry takes root as the sun beats down on my neck – Heavy-handed heat/Drumbeat, a Coke can skits between his feet . . .
‘Oh, hi, it’s Rodney. Umm? I think I’ve, I think I’ve found something. Was Deb wearing white trainers?’
I squint against the sunshine. Marcus is doing keepy-uppies now, very poorly.
‘Yeah? Maybe? I can’t really remember.’ I take a swig of water. The kind lady on the Budget Travel desk let me refill our bottles, and said she wouldn’t charge us for parking, in the circumstances. That might have had something to do with Marcus flashing her one of his oh-so-charming smiles, usually guaranteed to get him his way.
‘Because I’m in the river,’ Rodney begins, ‘and I think I’ve found one of Deb’s shoes. Is it possible she may have drowned?’
I spit out the water.
‘What?’
‘Well, in films, when you find someone’s shoe on a riverbank, it’s usually because they’re dead?’
‘Bloody hell, Rodney. Hang on. Are you sure it’s her shoe?’
‘It’s a white trainer,’ Rodney says. ‘Wasn’t she wearing those?’
‘I don’t . . . can you send me a picture? Maybe she just kicked them off and went for a dip to cool off.’
‘Where’s the other shoe, then?’ Rodney asks helpfully.
On her corpse obviously, according to my overactive imagination. No, that’s clearly ridiculous – Rodney is, after all, a completely ridiculous person.
‘Send me a picture of the shoe, maybe. I’m sure it’s fine, Rodney.’
‘OK. Thanks, Dylan! Speak soon!’ He rings off, casual as you like. I blink down at my phone.
‘Any news of our runaway?’ Marcus calls, kicking the Coke can at someone’s four-by-four. I flinch as the can catches the bumper.
‘She didn’t run away, technically,’ I point out. ‘We ran away from her. And no, Rodney’s just being weird, he thinks he’s found her . . . shoe . . .’ I finish, looking down at the photo Rodney has just sent over to me. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’
I hit dial.
‘Hello, Rodney speaking! How can I help?’
‘What? Rodney, it’s Dylan. That shoe. It’s a man’s shoe. Obviously. What size does it say on the bottom?’
There’s a pause.
‘Eleven,’ he says. ‘Oh! Does Deb have very big feet?’
‘No,’ I say, as patiently as I can manage. ‘No, Rodney, she doesn’t.’
‘Great! It’s someone else who must’ve drowned, then,’ Rodney says, sounding cheered. ‘I’ll get out the river, in that case.’
‘You’re . . . in the river? Actually in it?’
Marcus perks up at this and sidles nearer.
‘I’m trawling! For bodies!’
‘You’re . . .’
‘No need now though, if it isn’t Deb.’
Rodney’s absolute conviction that there is a dead body in the river is really throwing me.
‘OK. Thanks, Rodney. Keep at it.’
I pull a face at Marcus as I hang up. He laughs.
‘That man is truly pathetic,’ he says. ‘A wet flannel in human form.’
‘Leave him be,’ I tell him. ‘He doesn’t mean any harm. Would you stop kicking that? You’ll scratch their paintwork.’
‘You’re your father’s son,’ Marcus says, quirking his eyebrow and giving the can another kick. He sees my expression and relents, dribbling the can away again across the car park. It’s so hot we’re both sweating through our T-shirts, and I glance enviously towards the cool, air-conditioned lobby of the Budget Travel Hotel.
‘Come on, let’s sit in there,’ Marcus says, already heading inside. ‘Maggie at reception will be delighted for some company. Maggie, my darling Maggie,’ he coos as we step through the doors. ‘We’re melting.’
‘Oh! You poor loves. Won’t you come in? Sit in the lobby. Can I get you boys a drink?’
Maggie the receptionist has already fluttered off in a cloud of cheap perfume and the clatter of beaded necklaces. Marcus and I sit down on the plastic seats in the carpeted lobby of the hotel, and we stretch our legs out in unison with a groan; given all we’ve done all day is sit down in a car, I feel astonishingly exhausted.
‘How do you do it?’ Marcus asks, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘With Addie?’
‘Do what?’
‘You don’t even seem angry. After what she did to you. I just can’t understand it.’
I press my lips together and watch Maggie flit back and forth in the doorway behind the front desk, carrying various bits and pieces – glasses, ice-cube trays, and, at one point, a bottle of hairspray.
‘It’s complicated,’ I say. ‘Just leave it, Marcus.’
‘She cheated on you.’
I wince. ‘She . . .’
‘You know she did. I showed you the fucking photograph, Dylan.’
‘I know you did,’ I snap, before I can stop myself. ‘And have we talked about why you were there? Why you cared so much what she was up to?’
He goes still. After a long moment his hands shift, and he begins to tug at the thin loop of black leather he wears around his wrist, but he doesn’t lift his gaze towards me.
‘I’ve always had your back,’ he says eventually. His voice is quiet.
‘Yes, well. I think that rather went beyond the call of duty, didn’t it?’
Maggie descends with water glasses.
‘Oh, Maggie, you’re an angel. An angel,’ Marcus says, and it’s like the conversation we’ve just had never happened. I once wrote about that, the way that Marcus’s mood would shift lightning-like. A cloud ripped, gone/and the sun’s back/exposed, raw as joy/until the wind blows.
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the glass of water from Maggie.
She hovers in front of us, all flushed cheeks and sensible shoes, blossoming under Marcus’s gaze. I’m saved from any more flirtation by my phone ringing. I pull it out of the pocket of my shorts: Addie calling.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Don’t freak out. But I’m in A&E.’
THEN
Addie
It’s February 14th – a school day, annoyingly, but Dylan and I have Valentine’s Day plans for the evening. All he’ll say is wear warm socks, which has got me totally intrigued. Deb reckons we’re going on a hike. I hope she’s wrong – I’ve been on my feet all day, and am hoping for the sitting-down sort of romantic.
I get a text from Dylan just as I’m leaving the car park.
Don’t panic, Ads, but I’m in A&E. Getting ready for our date (stringing fairy lights for a picnic at Dell Quay! It was going to be beautiful) and fell off a ladder. Just getting a little head scan to make sure I’ve not got something worse than mild concussion (I’m sure I haven’t!) xxx
I stare at the text. Completely frozen.
‘See you tomorrow, Addie!’ Moira calls as she makes her way to her car, and it takes me way too long to answer her. Stood there in the rain next to my car, I imagine what it would be like to lose Dylan. It is awful. Awful. It would be unsurvivable.
I turn up at the A&E as fast as is legally possible. A bit faster on the stretches of the motorway where I know there aren’t any speed cameras.
Marcus and I get to the doors of the emergency department at the same moment. At first I don’t realise it’s him. I’ve not seen him since France – a weirdly long time not to see your boyfriend’s best mate, but Dylan’s always had an excuse ready for him, and frankly I’ve not minded that he’s clearly avoiding me.
We pause just inside the doors, in front of the reception desk. He turns to me slowly. Like he’s dreading meeting my gaze, maybe. Or savouring it.
He looks just the same. A scribble of dark curls, sharp cheekbones, clever, intense eyes. ‘Addie,’ he says.
‘Hello,’ I say.
A nurse moves past us, his trainers squeaking on the floor. Someone’s talking to the receptionist. We’re still not saying anything. I just don’t know what to say.
Marcus smiles slightly as he takes me in. ‘You’ve changed,’ he says, tilting his head slightly.
‘My hair,’ I say, lifting a hand to touch it. It’s curled today – I wanted to look nice for my date with Dylan.
‘No,’ he says, and he’s looking at me in that way he did in France. Steady and unapologetic. ‘I mean, you’re tougher.’
‘What?’
I’m so over his I-can-read-people thing. He clearly hasn’t changed a bit. He smiles slightly at my irritation but doesn’t answer, just keeps looking at me. I press my cold hand to my cheek to cool it down.
‘You’re here for Dylan?’ I say.
‘Of course. And you?’
‘Obviously.’
We stand for another moment. Marcus’s eyes are still moving over me, assessing.
‘He hasn’t settled,’ I say abruptly.
‘Hmm?’
‘You said he’d settle down. He hasn’t. He still doesn’t know what he wants to do, and . . . he still gets sad, sometimes.’
Dylan thinks I don’t notice. We never talk about it. But I know him well enough to tell when he goes inward and gets lost.
‘You could tell him what you want him to do, you know. That’s what he’s trying to figure out, really,’ Marcus says.
I glance towards reception. The person at the desk is nearly finished, you can tell by their body language.
‘He’s figuring out what he wants,’ I say.
Marcus smiles slightly. ‘No, he’s not,’ he says, and his tone’s almost mocking. ‘That’s not how Dylan works. He needs to be led.’
‘Nobody needs to be led,’ I say sharply, as I turn to make my way to the desk. ‘And he’s perfectly capable of finding his own way.’
‘I thought he’d soften you,’ Marcus says as we reach the desk. ‘But you’re all spiky now. I like it, it suits you.’
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the receptionist, still trying to cool my cheeks with my cold hands. ‘Can I go in to see my boyfriend? He’s in the waiting room.’
‘Miss? Miss? Miss? Miss? Miss?’
Ugh. I really wish Tyson Grey had an off button. My hangover is horrendous and Year Eights are not what I need right now.
It’s been a week since I saw Marcus in A&E – Dylan was fine, no concussion – and there Marcus was again last night, at Cherry’s birthday drinks. I guess he’s decided he can bear to be in a room with me now. It was weird and loaded and awkward between us and I drank too much and now my head hurts. Dylan kept asking if I was OK and I didn’t know what to say. No, I’m not OK, I really don’t like your best friend.
This morning Marcus posted a video on his Instagram stories of us all dancing together. Me, Grace, Cherry, Luke, Javier, Marcus, Dylan, and Connie and Marta, the Oxford girls from the villa. Marcus and I end up side by side and we’re moving perfectly in sync while the rest of them have missed the beat completely, just drunkenly staggering. Over the video he’s written Dancing on the rooftop under the stars.
I’ve watched it five times and it’s only eleven o’clock. When I go to the loo in morning break I find myself opening it again, trying to understand it. I can’t help feeling like it’s about that night in France, but what’s it supposed to mean? Now my head aches and I’m confused. Tyson Grey is like a bloody mechanical drill, Miss Miss Miss-ing at me.
I spin around as the classroom door opens. My first thought is that Tyson’s walked out because I’ve been ignoring him. Once, when the mood too
k him and I was helping another student with their writing, he climbed out the window. But it’s not Tyson – Etienne’s just walked in.
He gives me a quick smile and scans the classroom. Everyone straightens up a little. Despite his age, Etienne’s a pretty old-school head teacher. Technically the assistant head is responsible for behaviour, but Etienne is the one everyone gets dragged to see if they need a bollocking. Even the toughest kids hate being told to go to his office. It’s the trump card in my back pocket and I’ve totally overused it. Etienne definitely thinks so too. This term I’m determined to do my own bollockings.
I continue the lesson. My voice has gone a bit squeaky, though by now I should be used to other teachers in the classroom – I’m always getting observed, it’s part of the training.
‘Tyson!’ Etienne barks suddenly.
I jump, then try to style it out, stepping smoothly to reach for something from my desk. Crap. I was supposed to notice whatever Etienne just noticed.
‘With me. Bring that.’ Etienne points at a piece of paper on Tyson’s desk. ‘Miss Gilbert, Tyson will be with me for the rest of the lesson.’
‘Of course,’ I say, trying to look stern. ‘Thank you.’
Thank you? Is that a bit pathetic? Oh well, too late now. Etienne walks behind Tyson, shooting me a weary look as he pulls the door closed behind them.
I head off in search of Tyson as soon as the lesson’s done and I’ve turfed the rest of the class out for their lunch break. He’s just walking out of the head teacher’s office when I get there. Etienne’s stood in the doorway, watching him go. He catches sight of me.
‘There you are, Tyson, now’s your opportunity,’ he calls.
‘Sorry, Miss Gilbert,’ Tyson mumbles in the general direction of my shoes.
‘Thank you, Tyson,’ I say. Then, when he’s moved by, I mouth at Etienne: ‘What did he do?’
Etienne gestures me into his office and closes the door.
‘Ah, you may want to brace yourself for this one,’ he says. He has the faintest French accent – I can hear it in that ah, but then it’s gone. ‘Tyson was indulging his artistic side.’