The Manifesto on How to be Interesting

by Holly Bourne

  “Jassmine, are you okay?”

  “Don’t worry, Hugo will be back soon.”

  “You look so pretty tonight.”

  Gemma rolled her eyes at Bree.

  Jassmine smiled, her eyes still closed, then she opened her mouth to talk again…

  “…I’m gonna be sick.”

  “Quick,” Bree yelled, “into the pond.”

  It was too late. Jass vomited – gross, cherry-smelling vom – all over the perfect patio stones.

  Nobody really knew where to look. It was like seeing Her Majesty the Queen blowing chunks all over Buckingham Palace. Bree scooped back the majority of her hair and patted her on the back.

  The puking went on for a while.

  “Jass, you okay?”

  She spat onto the paving stones. “I’m fine, thanks. I’m just going to lie down here for a moment.”

  “No, not in the puke!”

  And hats off to Gemma, she grabbed her away just in time. Jass collapsed on the bench and promptly fell asleep – a big grin on her face.

  Everyone looked round at each other. With Jass unconscious, Bree gave the instructions.

  “Okay. We need to get Jass somewhere warm. Do you reckon you guys could carry her to the chill-out tent?”

  Gemma nodded in agreement.

  “But Jass won’t want anyone to see her like this,” Jessica protested.

  “She also won’t want hypothermia. Will you help walk her?”

  “Okay then.”

  “It’s pitch-black, no one will see. Just put her in a quiet patch until she sobers up.”

  Gemma began tapping Jassmine’s face.

  “Jass, wake up, honey.”

  Jass batted her away with her eyes still closed.

  “Go away. Bad baby.”

  “Jass, do you think you can get up and walk with us to the chill-out room?”

  “I think you’re a poo-poo head.” And then Jass opened her eyes and threw her face back laughing.

  Gemma smiled wryly. “Ladies and gentlemen, she’s back with us.”

  “POO-POO HEAD, POO-POO HEAD!” Jass laughed manically.

  “Bree?”

  “Yeah?”

  “She still looks a bit pasty. Do you mind going into Hugo’s house and finding a medicine cabinet? There must be one in one of the bathrooms. Hopefully there’ll be those diarrhoea sachets in there – you know? The powder you add to water they give dehydrated people? Diro-rite or something? Well, they’re also brilliant at sobering people up. Do you mind having a look?”

  “Not at all. Is she okay, you reckon?”

  “She’s always fine after she’s sick. Bloody Hugo though. She only ever gets like this when he’s not treating her well. I told her not to go back there but she…well, it’s Hugo, isn’t it? Who wouldn’t?”

  Bree couldn’t disagree.

  “Which one’s his house?” she joked.

  Gemma smiled. “Oh, it’s quite hard to find. It’s a very modest little place – shall I draw you a map?”

  Between Gemma and Jessica and Emily, they managed to heave Jass up and did a stagger-sway walk back towards the party.

  Bree walked on ahead, scared she would trip in her massive wedges over a branch or something. It was so dark, but the lights from the party beckoned her towards the big house. As she got nearer, she could tell by the vibe that the party was peaking – peaking into a drunken hedonistic mess. There were couples everywhere, snogging against tents, groping each other with that unabashed lack of insecurity that alcohol gives you. She dodged more than a few puddles of sick. It was hard to get anywhere quickly as everyone she passed seemed desperately pleased to see her, trying to embrace her in a group hug, or pull her towards the music tent to watch “the totally awesome band”. The noise was deafening and disorientating.

  She finally got to Hugo’s house and slid a glass door to one side, closing it behind her. She leaned against it and savoured the quiet for a moment, sighing. She’d felt okay with drunker people around her…but in the quiet warmth of Hugo’s kitchen, she realized she was pretty wasted too. It took a moment or so to calm her thoughts and stop her head spinning. She looked around. It was a very nice kitchen…black everything, with every state-of-the-art mod con the world had invented.

  Right, medicine cabinet.

  She walked down a long cream corridor, cautiously opening doors and hoping she wouldn’t find anyone behind them. She wasn’t sure where Hugo’s parents were, but he’d been pretty insistent that his house was out of bounds during the party. Perhaps they were holed up in their bedroom somewhere? Watching nervously from behind the curtains and wincing whenever they heard a smash. If that was the case, she didn’t want to be the one who disturbed them. But room after room was empty. She found a gym, a sitting room, a dining room with a chandelier and enough seats for the UN summit, and at least five spare bedrooms. It didn’t take long to find a bathroom with a hopeful-looking cupboard. She found the Diro-rite amongst the usual paracetamol and antidepressants. She grabbed two sachets and was about to make her way back into the party when she spotted an unexplored room, the door ajar. Through the gap she could see a sleazy poster.

  It had to be Hugo’s bedroom.

  She knew she needed to get back. That Jassmine needed looking after. The kind, sensible side of her brain told her to take the sachets, give them to Jass, and help cover up her drunkenness like a good popular citizen. But the bitter side of her reminded her that Hugo was the next big rule to tick off on her manifesto list. That he was a key part of this social experiment. And that any scrap of information about him would help her piece together the weird puzzle of who he really was.

  Plus what girl on earth didn’t want to have a prod around Hugo’s bedroom? Or Francesco’s bedroom? Or ’s bedroom?

  So she widened the door and walked in.

  It was blue, obviously. What teenage boy’s bedroom wasn’t blue? With a king-sized bed and smart chequered duvet cover. It smelled of Hugo’s aftershave, with an underlying hint of boy-smell. She was disappointed to see Hugo’s choice in posters was as clichéd as his choice of girlfriend.

  Generic uninspired poster no. 1: Reservoir Dogs. I.e. I have watched one decent macho film and am therefore cool, deep and amazing.

  Generic uninspired poster no. 2: That black-and-white shot of two girls in their underwear lying on a bed, tonguing each other. I.e. I fancy women, WOMEN, get it?

  Generic uninspired poster no. 3: A shot of Jonny Wilkinson and co. winning the Rugby World Cup in 2003. I.e. I AM rugby.

  She blew her fringe up and browsed his bookshelf. Usually the highlight in anyone’s bedroom. Hugo’s was, again, disappointing. Only GCSE set texts, a few toilet books that were obviously unwanted Christmas presents and a Guinness Book of World Records left over from childhood.

  Bree’s eyes made her way to the top of his bookcase where there were a few framed photos. One of his family, all smiling on a luxury yacht. And one of Hugo holding up the inter-school cup the rugby team had won last year. She picked up the frame and traced the outline of his face. It was annoying how fit he was…

  “Having a good peek, are you?”

  Bree dropped the photo. It fell onto the carpet with a thud. “Hugo! I…umm…”

  He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a smile on his face. He was rosy-cheeked and his hair was a bit sweaty. “I always knew I would get you into my bedroom eventually but I thought you’d make it a bit harder for me.”

  Still stunned, she said, “I was just, er, looking for this…” She held up the medicine packet.

  “Diro-rite? You got the squits, Bree?” He wrinkled his nose.

  Bree looked at the packet and made the connection. “NO! God, no, it’s not for me. It’s for Jassmine.”

  He screwed up his face. “Jassy has the squits?”

  Bree fought the urge to say yes out of spitefulness. “No. She’s just a bit, er, sick, that’s all. Gemma said drinking one of
these will help.”

  He walked in. With every step, Bree’s heartbeat thumped harder.

  “Is she wasted?”

  Bree rocked her hand from side to side and Hugo rolled his eyes in reply.

  “Has she been sick?”

  “A bit, yeah.”

  “Ahhh, she’ll be fine then. She’s always fine after she’s vommed.”

  He walked past her to his desk and fiddled about on his laptop for a bit. Bree, unsure what to do, picked up the fallen photo and put it back on the shelf.

  “Anyway…I’d better go…see how Jass is.”

  Music came out of Hugo’s speakers.

  “I’m not letting you go that easily.”

  And, before she knew what was happening, he was in front of her – right up in her face.

  “Hugo, what are you doing?”

  She’d never been this close to him before; she could smell the alcohol on his breath. It wasn’t gross, more overpoweringly sweet.

  He took a step closer. “Nothing.”

  Another step.

  “Sexual harassment is illegal, you know?” Her heart started to beat so fast it hurt. She swore his eyes had special powers – and those eyelashes…

  He touched her cheek softly and her face automatically leaned into it.

  “The thing about harassment, Bree, is that it’s only harassment if it’s unwanted.”

  She carefully removed his hand. “And what makes you think I want you to touch me?”

  He answered her by kissing her. Full on. With no build-up or introduction or anything. It was an aggressive kiss; his tongue conquered her mouth and he tasted how he smelled – sickly sweet. It was like sipping honey.

  Bree kissed him back for a bit – she didn’t mean to…well, she did – but managed to stop herself after a second or so. “What are you doing?”

  He grinned mischievously, grabbed her arse and pulled her into him. “What do you think I’m doing?”

  He kissed her again. It annoyingly felt so nice that it took another few seconds before she found the willpower to stop again.

  “Hugo. You can’t just go around kissing people.”

  “Why not?”

  “What about your girlfriend?”

  He actually looked confused for a moment, before realization dawned. “What? Jassmine?”

  “Yes – Jassmine. Girlfriend. Remember?”

  He dismissed the objection. “Well, aren’t you supposed to be her mate?”

  “I’ve not been kissing you back.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You want to.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  She sighed. This was what was supposed to happen. She knew she’d played him just right. The trouble was, maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was Jassmine being a surprisingly good friend earlier, or maybe it was because that good friend needed looking after, or maybe it was because she was supposed to extract vital blog material about Hugo’s character before any of this happened, but it was all suddenly going too fast and she was scared stiff. She felt guilty, and also a bit…aroused.

  “Hugo, just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I automatically want you.”

  “Doesn’t it?” And he burst out laughing.

  “You’re so full of it.”

  “And you’re so fit.” He put his mouth on hers again and it was so hard to resist this time. Fit. An actual boy had just called her “fit”. The word turned her brain to candyfloss. Yes, that shouldn’t matter. And yes she wanted her thoughts and feelings to be recognized, and they were OBVIOUSLY more important than how she looked…

  And yet…no one, not one person had ever called her fit before. Or pretty. Or attractive. Or that, ever-so-rare but gorgeous word…beautiful. They were adjectives reserved for other people. Other girls. Until tonight.

  She felt herself being pushed backwards onto Hugo’s bed. She sank into the Egyptian cotton with her eyes closed and got lost in the sense of being kissed by someone. Someone who really knew how to kiss a girl. She could feel the weight of Hugo on her, pinning her down, his hands sliding up and down her waist. He let out a small grunt, and his hand slid down her leg, and then back up again, but back up under her skirt.

  Her eyes flickered open. Her scars – he’d find them, feel them.

  “Wait.”

  He didn’t stop. Just made another guttural sound as his hand climbed higher.

  “Hugo, wait.”

  He broke off and looked down at her, annoyed. “What?”

  “What’s your favourite book?”

  He looked even more pissed off. “Huh?”

  “Book. As in reading. What’s your favourite one?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “I dunno. The Kama Sutra?”

  She sighed again. “Are you actually thick? Or do you just pretend to be to fit in with all the rugby players?”

  “I’m horny.”

  He pushed her back down again. His hand went straight to where it had been before. Bree gasped. He hadn’t noticed her thighs, and his hand had already bypassed right by them. Upwards…

  “You like that, do you?”

  She couldn’t tell if she was turned on or terrified. Her heart now felt like a hummingbird was crashing inside her chest and she couldn’t really breathe properly. This was the plan, right? So why did it feel like it was going so wrong?

  Hugo got more aggressive. His tongue was so invasive there wasn’t much space for her own tongue. She was trying not to gag. His hands grabbed random parts of her flesh and squeezed them so hard it hurt. Was this what foreplay was like? And if so, was this what sex would be like? Was she going to have it? She needed something – a look, a gentle caress, a small whisper – to reassure her that she wasn’t just meat, that he did like her.

  “Hugo?” She tried to get the words out but was muffled by his large exploring tongue. He groaned again, sounding more and more like an animal. She felt a tickle between her legs and realized he had expertly slid down her knickers. She lurched up and broke free from his mouth.

  “Hugo?” she said louder.

  The look on his face was uber-mad now. She didn’t know what to do. She’d lost control somehow.

  “What?!”

  She was almost too ashamed to ask the question. It shouldn’t matter anyway; she wasn’t doing this for love. But she had to hear the answer. The tiny part of Bree left that had self-respect, that didn’t want to sacrifice everything to the cause, needed to hear it.

  “Do you like me?”

  It sounded stupid the moment she said it. So dumb. So needy.

  Hugo grinned. “Of course I like you.”

  She looked down at the chequered duvet. “Yeah, but what do you like about me?”

  His face softened. Finally – a streak of humanity. He made his eyes wide and nudged her face with his head. “I dunno, but you’re just amazing. You’re not like any other girl I’ve met before.”

  The words floated down to her belly button where they melted like throat lozenges.

  “Really?” She hated the way her voice sounded.

  “Really.”

  He kissed her again and she kissed him back for all she was worth, running her hands up into his hair. Hugo pushed her back down and showered her face and neck with more kisses.

  And that was where the romance ended.

  chapter thirty

  Afterwards Hugo went into the en suite to “have a piss”. Bree lay there, pulling her dress down, and listened to him peeing. It went on for a long time.

  Had he needed that the whole time they were…you know? It would explain why it hadn’t taken very long.

  Thank God.

  The trickling stopped and Hugo emerged from the bathroom. “You good to go back to the party?”

  Her head jerked back in shock. “What? Now?”

  He walked over to his computer and turned off the music.

  “Er, yeah. It’s my eighteenth, remember? I appr
eciate the present and all” – he said it in such a leery way that she flinched – “but I need to get back out there. Plus, Jass will be wondering where we are.” He tapped his nose like they’d just shared a hilarious secret. A secret that didn’t involve the blood in Bree’s knickers, the aching between her legs, and the ballooning shame and disappointment in her stomach.

  “I just thought we could…you could…”

  “What?”

  Let me lay my head in your lap while you stroke my hair and tell me all your feelings? Tell me how special I am…how special that was? Acknowledge the fact you’ve just ejaculated inside me and how big a deal that is? Say you love me…that you’ve always loved me? Reassure me that it won’t always hurt, that we’ll take it slower next time, and you’ll light candles, and whisper in my ear how beautiful I am throughout so I feel like a human? ANYTHING OTHER THAN THIS.

  A lump caught in her throat. “I dunno. Forget it.”

  Hugo stretched his hands out behind his back. “Cool. See you out there. Feel free to use my bathroom to clean up.”

  He left.

  He left. Just like that.

  chapter thirty-one

  Bree tidied herself up.

  Her exterior was spic and span after a quick mopping session in the bathroom, but her interior screamed and writhed in confused, mangled pain.

  The cold air hit her the moment she stepped back out into Party Central. She stepped over a couple lying horizontally on the patio, their lips almost surgically attached.

  They’re going to get piles of the entire body, she thought to herself. And felt proud of herself for making a joke.

  The music tent had become been-there-done-that in the short time she’d been away and everyone was crammed into the dance tent. She peered in. Glow paint had been distributed and neon teenagers jumped together as a heaving singular organism. She didn’t know the song at all, but apparently everyone was very excited by the singers taking their brains to another dimension. She caught a glimpse of Hugo. He was dead central in the hedonistic mass, jumping up and down with his finger pointing in the air, his head thrown back in ecstasy. Everyone had their arms around him. She felt sick. The strobe lights made it worse. She couldn’t make out Jassmine or any of the others in the flickering, jarring blue light, so continued to the chill-out tent.