by Holly Bourne
“Don’t be proud yet,” I said. “They may have cut me.”
“Well you’d better not have missed a full day of college to get cut.” Dad was half smiling, half meaning it.
“NONSENSE!” Amber appeared in a blur of excitable gingerness. She picked up some full glasses of champagne, holding as many as she could between her fingers, and turned to go back to the living room. “I watched it all. You were uncuttable… Though they may have to bleep out some of your swears.”
Mum pulled away and held me at arm’s length. “Lottie, no! You didn’t swear on national television, did you?”
I gave her my puppy-dog eyes. “Only a few times. It just slipped out.”
Dad was already popping another bottle of champagne – they really did have a stockpile under the sink.
“We didn’t raise you to talk like that, Lottie,” he said, heaving with disapproval.
I stuck my tongue out at them. “Your daughter is on national TV this evening, talking about inspiring positive social change. Do you really have to find the one bad thing to latch onto right now?”
Dad smiled, and I knew I’d got him.
“Help me carry these out to the others.”
Our living room was pretty crowded – every available flat surface covered with Megan, Evie, and some other FemSoc bottoms. Oh, and Will, of course. Who’d been a delight all day, but went all weird and moody and sulky on the train journey home and wasn’t really talking. Him and my dad instantly clicked though – as superior-intellectual types tended to do – and he’d mostly been following him around, asking him lots of questions about academia.
Megan was with Amber, both of their long bodies sprawled out on our dated rag rug. Evie had invited Oli. They sat smushed together on one of our old armchairs, hardly able to keep their hands off each other. Not in a lusty way, more an intense hand-holding and can’t-stop-looking-at-you-like-I-can’t-believe-my-luck way that made me feel a pang inside. A few other members of FemSoc were scattered here and there – plus Jane, who was latching onto me because she didn’t really know the others.
My piece would be beamed around the country at 7.30 p.m.
The next day, I’d appear in two national newspapers…and then maybe more than that if all the others copied the story.
Somehow I had made all this happen.
I dispensed more champagne. It was 7.25. We’d already screamed and whooped when Jordan and Sue had mentioned me in the “coming up” section.
Megan twisted round, beaming. “Mr Packson lost his nut when you guys all didn’t come into college today.”
I tried to hush her with my eyes, but Mum had already heard.
“Oh no, Lottie! You didn’t tell the college you were off?” Megan’s eyes widened with apology but I shook my head in reassurance.
“There wasn’t time,” I said. “Plus, I have practically one hundred per cent attendance. One day off won’t hurt. Especially as I was nice about college in one of my interviews.”
“Still though, Lottie,” Dad butted in, from his place on the superiority sofa with Will. “It isn’t a good time.”
I felt myself flush red. Did we need to do this now? With, like, six of my friends listening in?
“I’m more than aware that it isn’t a good time,” I said slowly, trying to keep my temper. “But this is something I had to do.”
“AHHHH!” We were interrupted by Evie squealing. “Lottie!”
I whipped round to the screen and there, there I was. The whole room erupted into high-pitched squeals even dogs would have had trouble hearing.
Every organ in my body stood to attention and I felt like I was hovering above myself somehow.
“Lottie, it’s you, it’s you!” Amber yelled.
My first thought was, Jeez, that eyeliner flick really is a bit wonky, which wasn’t really the point. I looked a bit dazed, as I waited for them to introduce me. Then Jordan and Sue turned to ask me their first question… Uh-oh…would they cut it? Would they include the bit where I called out Jordan and the age difference?
But when on-screen Lottie opened her mouth to talk, I saw something take over. My face suddenly relaxed, my posture became all confident, I…just…lit up… I mean, I knew exactly what I was about to say, I’d lived it only hours ago, but I still craned forward to see it better.
I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound up myself. But I was electric!
The whole room gasped as I made my first quip about the age gap.
“Lottie, you didn’t,” Mum sighed. “Oh, look at his face! He doesn’t know what to do with you.”
“They kept it in!” Amber sang. “They ruddy kept it in. I love them!”
I could barely hear what was going on, what with the whooping, and everyone piling onto me to hug me and tell me how awesome I was. But Jordan’s mouth was wide open on the screen, looking stunned that I’d gone there, and Sue was pissing herself laughing.
“Shh,” Evie yelled. “We’re missing it.”
We quietened and tried to return our attention to the screen, but it all seemed so odd and was all going so fast. I glugged back my champagne, then reached over to the spare bottle by Dad, pouring myself another glass and glugging back some more.
We were already past their reaction to my age-difference question – Sue laughing and saying, “It’s so true!” – and they were both grinning, loving me. It was obvious now that the hosts loved me, though I couldn’t tell at the time.
Electric Lottie was now telling them about how she got the idea for the project – so electric. So dazzly and electric. Then I mentioned Evie and Amber, our Spinster Club, and all three of us screamed and jumped on each other. Then I brought up FemSoc and EVERYONE screamed again. Finally, they started asking about all my videos, and Electric Lottie started to talk about Will.
It was very clear Electric Lottie liked Will a lot.
My face visibly softened on the screen, and then tried to harden again. But I couldn’t keep it up, and I gooed out again.
“He does film studies at our college,” Electric Lottie said. “And he’s been amazing. You need to keep an eye on that one. And he’s been pretty tolerant considering he’s been hanging around me in a permanent state of anger for two weeks.”
The hosts laughed. “And so he should be!” Sue said, smoothing down an invisible crease in her tight dress. “You’re doing all this for a good cause.”
I was nodding. “I am. He…he… Well, I couldn’t have done it without him.”
Oh no. I was falling for him. Electric, on-TV Lottie and here-on-the-sofa Lottie was falling for him. Bollocks bollocks shitty bollocks.
Could anyone else tell?
I tried to look over without him noticing – suddenly all shy. With a side glance I chanced it, and his eyes met mine. Will was watching me – very carefully, very intensely. Could he tell? It was so obvious. But was that just me?
Electric Lottie had begun talking about something else but Now Lottie still stared at Will. And Will stared back. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I felt vulnerable and freaked out and also just…okay, slap me…mesmerized by how he was looking at me and what I thought it meant. He squinted, just slightly, and tilted his head with a tiny smile – one that asked, What are we doing, Lottie?
Then he turned back to the screen, and the moment was gone.
Dazed, I followed his lead and tried to watch the historical moment of me being on television for the first time in my life. But I wasn’t following any of what I was saying.
Why do I like him? I can’t like him. Does he like me? He can’t like me. We argue too much. He won’t openly use the word “feminist”… What’s wrong with me? Why is my heart ignoring my incredibly-clever-maybe-going-to-Cambridge head? There was a gut pull, deep inside of me. An instinct.
Will is not what he seems.
He is better.
You know he is better.
Loud cheers and applause and everyone jumped onto me, marking the end of my TV debut. Dad and Mum were first in t
here, squeezing me into them.
“You were brilliant. So concise, so likeable. We’re so proud!”
Megan beamed at me, happier than I’d ever seen her. “Lottie, that was awesome! You’re going to have recruited about ten million new FemSoc members.”
Amber had the channel up on her phone. “Oh my God, guys. We’ve had an extra ten thousand hits just since you were on.”
Evie managed to leave Oli’s side and, because there was no room left to hug my body, crawled on her belly and hugged my leg.
“You were awesome! You were already awesome when I watched it the first time. But it plays back even more awesomely.”
Congratulations and cheering and more champagne being popped and Mum and Dad looking like they’d never, never be prouder – though of course they would be if I got into Cambridge – and hugs and songs and all linking arms and whooping them up in the air and where was Will? Where had he gone? Did I need to talk to him?
And, when I eventually broke free, he’d left.
thirty-nine
I woke late. My tongue fuzzy and my head heavy from last night’s champagne.
Ouch. Bollocks. Ouch. I looked at my phone – I had less than half an hour before I needed to be at college for my special Cambridge training session.
Ouch. Bollocks. Ouch.
There was no time to wash my hair, so I scraped it back into a bun and dedicated the rest of my short amount of time to shoving on eyeliner and demolishing a banana. Then I flew out the door, in a whirlwind of bag and sheets of paper and clattering, glad Mum and Dad were already at work so they couldn’t tell me off for being late.
I ran to college – head down, to avoid any new bus posters or other sexist items I really didn’t have the time to object to.
Then I remembered…
I was in the national papers this morning…
Me. My face. My story…
But all I had time for was a quick pause and a moment to think how delightfully mad that was before I had to carry on running again.
Also, my thoughts were filled with other confusing things. I liked Will. Somehow, despite all my resistance. I really liked Will. He’d vanished last night in a way that suggested he’d sensed that I liked him.
And running away from it told me everything I needed to know.
But enough. The bell was ringing and I was still five minutes away from class on the wrong side of campus and HELLO – Cambridge interview. This was everything I was working towards, this was everything I wanted…I think.
I would not let a fit guy in spectacles, and the fact I was now a TV sensation, ruin that.
Everyone whispered as I pushed through other late students in the halls – some familiarish faces yelling, “I saw you on the telly!” and, “You were great!” I smiled but carried on dashing to class, trying to ignore the not-so-nice looks I was also getting. Finally, when I’d run to the point of hardly breathing, sweat all over my face, removing half my winter clothes as the blasting heat from the radiators hit my damp body, I got to the classroom and bashed through the door.
The quietness of the room hit me like several brick walls compared to my inner stressing.
“Welcome, Lottie,” said Mr Packson in a deadpan voice. “You’re late. So you’re not getting into Cambridge.”
He turned to the other four people in the room. Three boys I didn’t know and a girl I vaguely recognized from my economics class. “It goes without saying that, if you turn up late to your interview, you’re not going to make the best of impressions. Leave plenty of time. You and your parents may even want to stay overnight in a hotel beforehand to save worries about traffic on the motorway.”
“Sorry,” I panted. “I overslept.”
“At least come up with a lie, Lottie,” he laughed, gesturing to an empty chair which I fell into gratefully. “And I can’t wait to hear why you weren’t at college yesterday but we can discuss that afterwards.”
His laughter had stopped and he’d got his very best angry face out of the cupboard. Uh-oh. He was mad. Quick, Lottie, throw him.
I looked right at him. “I was on the television,” I said. “I bunked off because I was invited to go on television.” Then I beamed at him, and he grinned back quickly, despite himself, before fixing me with another glare. The others stared or glared at me. I couldn’t figure out which. I took my water bottle out and sucked on it hard while Mr Packson brought the attention back to him.
“Right” – he clapped his hands – “the interview process. Now, you’ve probably heard rumours about how hard it is. And sorry, folks, but those rumours are true. That’s why we’re here…”
Half an hour later and my brain was melting as I tried to keep all the new information in. Mr Packson had done a lecture, then made us practise our questions and answers on each other, and now he was giving us his final top tips.
It was going to be hard.
I’d always known it was going to be hard, but I’d just sort of assumed it would be fine, that I’d be able to handle it. I mean, I always got top marks.
But, as Mr Packson kept pointing out, we’d be up against all the other brightest students from all the other schools in the country. Essentially, at Cambridge I wouldn’t be bright. I’d be average.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that…
I couldn’t not get in. I couldn’t, Mum and Dad would go nuts. And it was what I wanted, wasn’t it? It was what we’d always had planned. I’d worked so hard, and yes, I’d let things slide these past two weeks or so, but I was well over halfway through this project now. And it would all be finished by the time I had to put on my best posh weird suit thing Mum had bought especially and go charm my way in.
The girl, who I’d learned was called Agatha, put her hand up. “So you’re saying that some of them may ask us questions that they KNOW we don’t know the answers to, like, deliberately?”
Mr Packson nodded. “Yes, to try and throw you. To see how you’re able to think analytically, even without all the facts.”
I put my hand up.
“Yes, Lottie?”
“That’s not very nice of them.”
I could see him struggle not to smile again. “This isn’t about being nice, Lottie. This is about getting into one of the most prestigious academic institutions in the world.”
“No excuse for bad manners.”
He put his hands to the pressure points at the side of his eyes.
“What are we going to do with you?” I beamed harder and he carried on. “They will, potentially, ask you very obscure questions on things you’re unlikely to know about. Last year, a student of ours wanting to read English Literature got asked about Sigmund Freud’s early works, which is obviously a totally different subject. Your correct response to these questions?” He clapped his hands. “Be honest. Say very simply, ‘I don’t know’ first. Cover yourself, don’t try and blag it, that’s what they’re looking out for. Then try and answer the question based on lateral thinking. They’re not always expecting you to have the answers, they just want to see what skills you have to figure things out. So this student said, ‘I don’t know’, but then went on to hazard a pretty good guess based on the small amount she did know about Freud.”
I put my hand up again.
“Yes, Lottie?” he asked wearily.
“So they deliberately ask us questions they know we don’t know, to try and get us to admit to them we don’t know the answer?”
“Umm…yes.”
I pulled a face. “What bell-ends.”
The other four looked at me like I’d just blasphemed. Even Mr Packson looked like he’d had enough.
“Lottie, let’s have a chat at the end of this session, shall we?”
After a few more practice rounds, everyone else collected up their stuff and left. The bell hadn’t rung yet, we’d finished about ten minutes early. My mouth was still dry from a slight hangover and I’d already downed all my water. By the look of Mr Packson’s face though, I wasn’t going to be all
owed to go refill my bottle any time soon.
“Take a seat, Lottie.” He pulled a chair up to his desk.
I slumped down and fixed him with my best look. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I got all the calls from the media on Sunday, I didn’t have time to ring the office…” I trailed off when he put his hand up.
“We’ll get to that later. Let’s just start with how today’s session went.” He rustled some papers, then put them down and fixed me with a very steady stare.
“What about it?”
“It’s your attitude, Lottie. Umm…well…are you sure you want to get into Cambridge?”
I found myself nodding before I’d even let the question sink in, such was my instinct to say yes.
“Of course I do! Why?”
It was everything – it opened the doors. The doors I needed to smash through – to get to the places, the places where you were in a position to change things…
“It’s just – well – these places. Cambridge…Oxford… They’re very well-established…establishments, I guess, for want of a better word. They’re incredible places to study, don’t get me wrong, but there can be some people there with a snobby attitude…and I guess I’m worried. Well, Lottie, come on…” He was smiling. “You’re not very good at sucking up when you need to, are you?”
I stayed quiet for a moment, so I could digest what he’d said.
“You think I won’t get in?”
He didn’t say “yes” straight away, and my heart picked up its pace. No no no no. I had to get in, I had to, I had to. It was the plan. It had been ingrained in me for so long that I didn’t even know what the alternative was.
“Well, you know your grades are excellent. Your extracurricular activities…they won’t be put off by FemSoc, I don’t think… As long as you don’t rant at them in the interview. And you’ve obviously won all those prizes…”
I blushed. Not many people knew that. But when I was at my old posh school I’d been entered into all sorts of competitions – essay-writing ones, maths ones… I always won… I had the trophies stashed somewhere in my room in a box… I just didn’t like telling anybody, in case they thought I was full of it.
