Mum places her hands on Imo’s shoulders and looks her in the eye. “You don’t have to do this. I’m not making you.” Most decisions are impossible for Mum these days, but she was quick to agree that Imo should take up her uni place.
Imo tries to wriggle free, but her grip is firm. “I want to be here.” Would it have been different if she hadn’t already accepted the offer before the world tilted?
Mum lets go. “If there’s anything …” She turns away to rub her eye. “Ring me, day or night. Just ring.”
“Of course.” Imo forces a bright smile.
“And you’ve got your personal alarm?”
“Always.”
“Show me.”
Imo hesitates, but only for a moment, knowing her mother won’t leave until she’s seen the tiny, red-topped canister. Imo retrieves it from her coat pocket and holds it out.
“Keep it with your phone,” her mother says. “You need both at all times.”
She watches until Imo has shoehorned it into a front pocket of her jeans. They hug, her mother holding her tighter than feels comfortable. Then she grasps her wrist.
“And never come home on your own on the train. We’ll come and get you.”
Chapter 3
Phoenix
Three of them are in the kitchen drinking Phoenix’s instant coffee. Her mug has Elexo Engineering Solutions in turquoise lettering on the side – a freebie she picked up from a science and technology careers fair. The peroxide blonde – Amber? – waves her Amnesty International mug in the air. Phoenix isn’t sure whether she means to brandish it, but she moves her hands a lot when she speaks.
The third girl – Phoenix has forgotten her name – sips out of Polish pottery. Expensive. Like the Mini Convertible she swept up in. Phoenix has kicked off her trainers to pad around the kitchen in woolly socks; this girl is in classy sandals.
When are they going to sit down instead of acting like it’s a cocktail party? Phoenix has the urge to move from the cooking area to the easy chairs in the dining end of the kitchen. She shifts her weight and listens to Amber.
“I’m doing Theatre Studies. I’ll probably go into directing and writing.” Amber’s bangles and friendship bracelets cascade down her wrist as she drags a hand through her bleached crop. “We need more women in pivotal roles. Smash through the glass ceiling of the existing patriarchy.”
The rich girl suppresses a yawn. Ignoring Amber, she looks at Phoenix. “Where are you from?”
Phoenix hesitates. She’s worked out her backstory but toys with the truth. These girls are her flatmates. Why pretend? Why: because the rich girl might judge and find her wanting. But before she can decide how much to say, Amber’s off and running with her own answer.
“I’m from Chadcombe in Surrey. My dad works for a top accountancy firm in Town. That’s London Town. We call it Town.”
The rich girl’s face doesn’t move, but Phoenix smiles. Amber must be a Home Counties kid, away from home for the first time. Wholesome, but naïve. Doe eyes in kohl and sweetheart mouth behind purple lipstick. Perhaps she’ll work hard and do her parents proud. Yet Phoenix wonders about her; something desperate in the rapid way she speaks.
Another girl steps into the kitchen.
“Hi, welcome.” Amber turns to greet her. “What’s your name?” She steps forward and hugs her, holding her half-drunk coffee behind the girl’s back.
“Imogen … Imo.” The girl swallows. Despite hunching her shoulders inside her Jack Wills sweatshirt and looking down, she’s striking. Her blonde hair looks natural like Phoenix’s own, but this girl can grow it long. It’s well on the way to her waist and she wears it loose.
Amber steers her in front of the others as if she’s the hostess. “This is Imogen, but we can say Imo. I’m Amber and this is Phoenix, named after the actor.”
Phoenix winces. Why do people always assume that about her name? Phoenix is the mythical bird that rises from the ashes. Fire – that’s why her parents chose it. Almost an obsession. She winces again as she remembers watching one of their obsessions turn deadly.
Imogen holds out her arms for a light hug and Phoenix understands why she wears her hair over her face: her cheeks are raging with acne. She looks anxious and there are dark shadows under her eyes.
“I think I saw you in the car park, getting out of a blue ice-cream van,” Imo says.
Phoenix smiles nervously, wondering how many others noticed it.
“I saw a big van as I drove in,” the rich girl says. “Are your parents caterers?”
Phoenix hesitates. “That’s right,” she lies.
Amber completes the introductions for Imo. “And this is Tegan. Have I got that right? A Welsh name?”
Tegan – so that’s the rich girl’s name and explains her mellifluous accent – doesn’t step forward but waits for Imo to reach her. Even in her designer sandals, Tegan’s the shortest of the four of them, but there’s something ten-feet-tall about her. Phoenix doesn’t expect to be having many kitchen chats with her after today. Their social circles won’t intersect.
“What are you studying?” Amber asks Imo.
“German and Business.”
“I can’t do languages. Except BSL – British Sign Language – which I learnt in a day.” Amber leans in close to the newcomer. “But I know Epic Theatre. You must have heard about that if you’re doing German.”
“A little …” Imo pauses and gives a weak smile.
Phoenix feels for her. It must be daunting that someone knows more about her subject than she does.
“In Year Twelve, I acted in a Swiss play.” Imo’s hands are clenched by her sides and she sounds nervous. “About an old woman seeking revenge on the man who got her in trouble when they were teenagers. Is that the sort of thing?”
For a moment Amber hesitates, a flicker of something behind her eyes. Then she shrieks, “That’s it. What was the set like?” In her eagerness to talk drama with Imo, she steps in front of Tegan.
“What are you studying, Phoenix?” Tegan asks in a voice loud enough to make Amber move aside.
“Mechanical Engineering.”
“Interesting,” replies Tegan, sounding like she thinks it’s anything but.
Amber runs with the conversation again. “We’ll try to keep the drama talk to a minimum, won’t we, Imo?” She links arms with the girl she’s known for all of five minutes.
Tegan puts her Polish mug on the kitchen top. “I’m into the arts if they make money. Business is my thing.”
“So are you studying Business like me?” Imo asks.
“For the moment,” Tegan replies. “I left school a year ago and I’ve been building my product range since then.” She bends down to the handbag at her feet and takes out a pouch. In a deft movement, she reconfigures it as a bomber jacket and puts it over her shoulders. Her dark hair is stunning against the ice pink. “Ideal to keep the rain off on a night out and it fits in your bag or …” she lays it on the kitchen top, folds in the sleeves and draws the sides together in previously unseen zips “… have it as the handbag itself.”
“You’re selling these?” Amber takes hold of the newly formed holdall.
“Fourteen ninety-nine, because of the craftsmanship. But I’m offering them on campus for ten pounds, two for eighteen.”
Amber pauses for a moment, turns the bag over in her hands. “I’ll get my purse.”
Imo follows her out. Tegan looks at Phoenix expectantly.
Phoenix makes her best poker face. What craftsmanship? These plastic macs are most likely churned out in a Third-World sweatshop. She weighs up her options. Choose your battles. She’s going to be sharing a flat with this girl. Why make it awkward? She pulls a tenner from her jeans pocket.
“Thank you so much,” Tegan says. But the brightness is false. Phoenix knows conceit when she hears it. Tegan’s used to getting what she wants. Phoenix’s dad, Sonny, thinks university is a holding pen between bouts of real life. Tegan the businesswoman might be the kind of stu
dent he’d admire.
“What made you choose the Abbey?” Phoenix asks.
“This was as far away from home as possible on a tank of petrol.” Tegan snorts. “What about you?”
The truth? Her head’s full of designs for show equipment innovations, some worth patenting. Mech Eng is the way she’s going to stay in the world she knows, doing what she’s good at but without the risks. She shrugs. “Same as you, I suppose.”
The other girls come back with their money. Amber’s still holding Imo’s arm. Firm friends already.
“What do you all think of this flat?” Amber asks. “I could do with more wardrobe space.”
Imo and Tegan agree. Again Phoenix stays silent. Until she moved in with Carla and Antonio, her desk converted to her bed.
“So do you think it’s just the four of us in this flat?” Amber points at each of them. “Let’s see if I can remember: Imo doing German and Business, Tegan Business, Phoenix Engineering. And me Theatre Studies.”
“There are five rooms.” Tegan unfolds her demonstration holdall and restores it as a pouch to her handbag. “There must be one more person.”
“I wonder if they’ll get here in time for pre-s,” Amber says.
Phoenix gives her a puzzled frown. If Preez is part of the university registration process, she’s never heard of it.
“Preez?” Imo asks, beating her to the question.
“Don’t you know? Everyone knows that.” Amber laughs, clutching her chest theatrically as if it’s the funniest thing she’s heard. She straightens up when she sees their blank expressions. “Pre-s means pre-drinks. You go to someone’s flat to get tanked before you go out. There are some amazing clubs around here, but drinks in clubs are so expensive. Pre-s are at Ivor’s tonight, downstairs in Flat 7.”
“Which clubs?” Tegan jumps in. She pauses to admire the confusion on Amber’s face. “If it’s pre-drinks in Flat 7, where are you going afterwards?”
“Umm … Not tonight,” Amber bites her lip. “I’m staying here.”
“Well aren’t you the raver. Off the rails already,” Tegan jokes.
But Amber looks away, a flash of anxiety crossing her face.
Amber
As the others continue to chat about themselves, Amber moves to the kitchen window to conceal the heat in her face. She gnaws her thumbnail. Despite putting on what she thought was a full-on performance, one of her new flatmates has found her out, seen through her. Why did posh-girl Tegan embarrass her, even after she bought one of her stupid jackets?
What about the others? Phoenix is a bit of an unknown – could go either way. Hopefully she won’t throw her lot in with Tegan. Two mean girls. It’d be a long year and she might not be able to keep up the pretence. Imo seems nice. Reminds Amber of Verity, kind but dopey. In Vee’s case, it was the weed, in Imo’s it looks natural. She’s not that dumb, though. Amber nearly lost it when she talked about the play, but thinks she hid it well.
Amber thinks about the other girl she met when they were queuing for keys at reception – Lauren – and wishes she was sharing with her. That could be a real friendship. Amber swallows, blinks away a dangerous thought and concentrates on safer ground. They’re both doing Theatre Studies – even though Lauren is joint honours with another subject – and, like Amber, she has a unique sense of style. She hopes they’ll be put in the same drama workshop group.
Behind her, Tegan’s voice is strident as she recounts her five-year business plan. What to do about her? Try harder to fit in? After everything that happened at home – the way Mum and Jade ended up despising her – Amber must become a different version of herself. A better one. Still a liar, but lies are her only currency. They’ll just be better lies.
Her belly clamps as her thoughts stray again. She grips the side of the sink and feels the heat drain from her face. Whenever she thinks of that time too much, her belly relives it. People might call it her mind playing tricks, but if they’d done what she had, they’d feel it too. Guilt and punishment, all in her gut.
Using her hand as a scoop, she takes a drink from the cold tap. When the ache subsides, she gazes out of the window, giving herself time to look calm before turning to her flatmates. By craning her neck she can see the end of the main campus road and watches a few vehicles cruise by. A black car turns into their avenue and crawls past, the driver peering up at the hall of residence. Something about him makes her pause. He must turn around out of eyeshot, because he reappears and parks on the opposite kerb.
At this distance, it’s hard to make out his features, but she sees him lift binoculars to his eyes and focus on her window. Amber bends over the sink, her heart thumping. By the time she looks up again, his car is moving off. She shudders. A pervert? Stalker, after an eyeful of teenage flesh? But if she alerts the others, they might think she’s imagined it. Not as bad as Mum and Jade not believing her, but not the start she wants. Without saying anything, she watches the car drive away.
Chapter 4
Phoenix
Phoenix rinses the mugs the others have left in the sink, sensing it’s a sign of things to come. If they’d have lived like she did, they’d wash up as they go. But she can’t imagine posh-girl Tegan clearing up after herself. And Amber? She belted out of the kitchen like she’d seen a ghost. Maybe she can work on Imo. Get her on cleaning duty by Reading Week.
Back in her room she finishes her unpacking, only her posters still to do. The magnolia-painted breeze block walls are speckled with Blu Tack from previous occupants. Pinching together a decent clump, she affixes her favourite poster, smoothing the edges. The intensity of the orange and black image almost heats her fingertips. Magnificent. A long time ago.
She forgot to ask what time the flat party gets going, but it becomes apparent when the floor begins to pulsate. Ivor, below in Flat 7, must be letting rip with his speakers because his mummy isn’t there to tell him to turn it down. Pathetic. She changes her T-shirt and combs her hair.
There’s a knock on her door. It’s Amber, apparently over whatever spooked her in the kitchen. She’s gone for full greasepaint. Industrial quantities of eyeliner, attempting an edgy Amy Winehouse. She’s clutching Malibu purchased from the Costcutter near the student union.
“Is there time for me to get something?” Phoenix asks as they go into the hallway.
“No need.” Tegan comes out of her room, empty-handed. “There’ll be plenty of booze.”
After calling on Imo, they follow the throbbing bass downstairs to the open front door of Flat 7 and squeeze into the crowded hallway. The layout is the same as their flat, so they head to the kitchen. The music is a couple of decibels lower here, and they can hear each other if they shout. Bottles of various alcoholic potions occupy the work surfaces. Amber finds a stack of paper cups and sloshes out four measures of Malibu. After adding a dash of cola, she and Imo knock theirs back. Never a fan of rum, Phoenix pretends to sip hers.
Tegan leaves hers untouched. “Business first.” She heads into the hall.
From the kitchen doorway, Phoenix watches a sandy-haired boy lunge in for a hug. Tegan endures it stiffly and pats his back. It must be Ivor and she’s keeping him sweet. Phoenix’s assessment seems to be confirmed when he nods and lets her move through the guests in the hallway, parting them from their student loans in exchange for her folding jackets. Against the din, she perfects her sales pitch in mime. Still wearing the same clothes as earlier – palazzo pants and white top – she’s the best-dressed student here, even with the additional accessory of a money pouch strapped round her hips.
A few lads drift past Phoenix into the kitchen. She follows and swaps her drink for a can of beer. Amber and Imo still hover over the Malibu. The boys swarm round Imogen like flies on an elephant turd. Hers is tart with a tan look: leopard print mini-skirt, long-sleeved, lacy crop top. Acne hidden under layers of foundation.
Amber moves in, eyeing the boys. She’s more covered up than Imo but not in a good way. Baggy black linen pants, white cotton top, w
orking men’s boots. If Phoenix screws up her eyes it’s rich-girl Tegan’s wardrobe. Screws them up tight.
“Genuine Romany.” Amber knocks back her drink and holds out the seam of her trousers. “Belonged to my grandmother. I’m from an old gypsy family.”
Phoenix chokes on her beer. If Amber’s a Romany, then Tegan’s jackets are handmade in Chelsea.
A box of pizza makes its way between hands. Amber takes a slice, turns it over and sucks it. “I like the sauce, but I’m gluten free.” She passes the rest of the box to Imo and sways in time to a new tune that drills pneumatically out of the speakers in the hall.
A boy that Phoenix recognizes from the Engineering open day takes a couple of four-packs of Strongbow Dark Fruit out of the fridge. He smiles when he sees her. “Come and sit with us. We’ve found somewhere quiet,” he shouts.
She follows him down the hall to the furthest-away bedroom. Two boys and a girl sit on the bed. They hand her a cider and she shuts the door. The walls vibrate but at least they can talk. She and the boy from the open day sit on the floor. The other boys are doing Engineering too and the girl is a chemist.
When the cider runs out, Phoenix says she’ll get more and goes back to the kitchen. The music’s still full blast, banging its rhythm into her throat. There’s no sign of Tegan – probably moved on to another flat party to flog her jackets – but Imo and Amber are there. Imo’s at the sink, no boys buzzing near her now. Phoenix smells the sick as she approaches. Imo’s holding back her hair in one hand and leaning against the basin with the other. There’s a ketchup-coloured streak on her sleeve.
Amber is dancing on the tiny floor with a couple of other girls and Ivor. The host grips his drink while swaying and twisting not quite on the beat. A tall man stands against the fridge, hood up, his eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights. He’s older than the others and a gap has formed between him and the dancers. A postgrad loser, Phoenix thinks. When Ivor overbalances towards him, the man barges past.
The Roommates Page 2
