Floored

by Sara Barnard

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, pulling myself painfully up off the floor. It hurts, but nothing seems to be broken – not from the fall anyway.

  ‘Velvet, I—’

  I can’t. I just can’t.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I snarl, hating myself before the words even leave my mouth.

  I limp out of there, still carrying my shoes in my hands. I don’t look back.

  Joe has never been punched before. Not like a dead-arm punch in the playground, or when Ivy hits him to get his attention if he’s distracted by something on his phone – he’s had plenty of those – but properly punched. That’s what it feels like when Velvet says it – fuck off – like two swift jabs to his chest.

  Then she’s gone, and he’s left standing there, reeling from the blow. She doesn’t even look back, just pushes through the glass doors and heads out into the night, her sandals in her hand. The shock of it winds him, the air rushing out of his lungs with an audible oof that makes everything skim out of focus for a second. He can’t believe how much it hurts, how much it actually, physically hurts. He’s hot with it, like a fever that comes from nowhere and devours him whole. He can feel himself swaying, his knees so weak he isn’t sure how he’s still standing. He tells himself to give into it. It might be nice, he thinks, to lie on the floor for a while, to press his hot cheek to the marble and trace the black feathered veins with the tip of his finger. But the concierge is watching. Joe is aware of him sitting behind the desk in his neat navy suit, and when he lifts his eyelashes to look at him, the concierge turns his face away, and it feels like he’s been punched again.

  A fresh wave of humiliation burns through him and he’s livid with himself because, despite it all – despite the pain in his chest, and his useless, watery legs; despite the fact that Velvet just told him to fuck off – he still wants to go after her and make sure that she’s all right. He can’t get the image of her splayed across the floor of the lobby out of his head. Even when she was broken, she was beautiful, with her mascara-stained face, rivulets of black leading the way to a bloom of blood the same colour as her lipstick. What was left of it anyway.

  All he can think about is how scared she must be, scared and bruised and alone and running, just running. Where’s she going? There are no trains this late. How’s she going to get back to Bridlington? It’s almost midnight. Panic pinches at him as he imagines her sitting at Manchester Piccadilly by herself with her sandals in her hand. But that’s Joe, isn’t it? Dear, gentle Joe, who’s always more worried about everyone else, who feels their pain so much more keenly than his own.

  Ivy always tells him that he’s too nice.

  It doesn’t occur to him until that moment that it isn’t a compliment.

  After the sharp silence of the lobby, upstairs is shockingly loud. Joe can hear them as soon as the lift opens on the top floor, but it isn’t like when he first arrived, the sound of a champagne bottle popping and Hugo’s booming laugh letting him know which way to go. No, this is different. Hugo’s shouting, and not in his usual, obnoxious way. And not to make himself heard over the Rihanna track that’s so loud, Joe can feel the buzz of it in the floorboards under his feet. He’s really shouting. And Kaitlyn is shouting back.

  Joe walks a little faster as he heads toward the apartment. Now he can hear Dawson as well, and the sound of his raised voice is enough to make him break into a sprint. He’s halfway down the hall when a door swings open and an elderly lady in a pink silk robe appears, a Pomeranian dog under her arm.

  ‘This is a disgrace!’ She points in the direction of Hugo’s flat. ‘That boy is a menace!’

  Joe can’t disagree with that.

  ‘Always has been,’ she goes on, ‘even when he was a child, running up and down the hall like a hellion!’ She turns her finger on Joe. ‘I don’t care who his mother is, I’m telling the residents’ association.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ Joe starts to say, but the door slams firmly in his face.

  He runs the few remaining feet to the apartment. The front door is open, and he follows the sound of voices to find Hugo standing in the middle of the living room wearing nothing but a white towel around his waist. He must have just got out of the shower, Joe deduces from the towel and the fact that he’s dripping on to the glossy walnut floor. Hugo doesn’t notice Joe standing in the doorway; none of them do, as Kaitlyn, Sasha and Dawson circle him, each of them flushed and furious.

  ‘What’s going on, guys?’ Joe frowns, but they don’t hear him as Hugo tells Kaitlyn to chill.

  Hugo says it with such disdain that it provokes the opposite reaction.

  ‘Chill?’ she hisses. ‘Chill?’

  Kaitlyn’s never hit anyone in her life, but it’s all she can do not to reach over and slap the smirk clean off Hugo’s stupid, smug face. If he pretended to give even half a shit, maybe she wouldn’t be so mad, but his nonchalance is making her so angry she can feel her whole body throbbing with it.

  ‘What happened, Hugo? What did you do to her?’

  ‘I told you: I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Why was she in such a state then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re lying, Hugo.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You are. You know how I can tell?’ Kaitlyn stops to arch an eyebrow at him. ‘Your lips are moving.’

  ‘Yeah, good one.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Sick burn.’

  He laughs – fucking laughs – and Kaitlyn finds herself grateful that there’s a coffee table between them. He knows that he’s crossed a line (she’ll give him that, at least. Hugo’s an insufferable asshole, but he’s not stupid) because he has the sense to take a step back. Sasha is standing behind him though, so he almost walks into her as he does, and spins around to face her, only to find her looking equally angry. Clearly cornered, he hesitates for a moment before turning back to face Kaitlyn.

  ‘What did you do to her, Hugo?’ she repeats.

  He sighs theatrically. ‘I told you.’ He speaks slowly, like she’s a toddler demanding an ice cream at the park, which makes Kaitlyn’s cheeks sting. ‘When I got out of the shower, she was gone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s just being dramatic.’

  ‘Dramatic about what? You must have done something to make her run off like that?’

  ‘The last time I saw her, Velvet was fine.’ He licks his lips lasciviously. ‘More than fine.’

  ‘Yeah, because it’s normal to run off crying after sex.’

  Hugo scoffs. ‘Like you’ve had sex!’

  Kaitlyn wishes she was holding something so she could throw it at him, but that’s what he wants, for her to lose her temper so he can dismiss her as dramatic as well. She tries a different tactic. And it works, because when she takes her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, Hugo hesitates for the first time.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ he asks, his bare chest noticeably pinker.

  Kaitlyn ignores him, tapping at her phone then holding it to her ear.

  ‘You’re not calling the police, are you?’ His chest is red now. ‘I told you: Velvet’s fine.’

  When Kaitlyn doesn’t reply, just turns her back so he can’t see her smile, he looks concerned.

  Dawson hates that he feels a shiver of pleasure as he watches Hugo squirm, but he’s never seen Hugo look anything other than completely composed, so it’s satisfying to see him sweat. So he can’t help but feel disappointed when Kaitlyn stops pacing and says, ‘Velvet, it’s me. You OK? Call me when you get this.’

  Hugo’s shoulders fall when he realizes that she’s called Velvet, not the police.

  Dawson walks over to Kaitlyn and places a reassuring arm across her shoulder. ‘Keep trying. I’m sure she’ll pick up soon.’

  Hugo rolls his eyes. ‘I don’t understand why you guys are freaking out,’ he says, bravado restored. ‘I’m the one who should be upset. She got what she wanted and ran off. I feel so used.’ With this, he puts a hand to his chest and sighs thea
trically, one eye on Dawson.

  Dawson knows that he’s trying to wind him up, but falls for it anyway, taking a step toward him.

  ‘What did you do?’ He jabs a finger at Hugo’s chest. ‘I know you did something!’

  ‘Ow!’ he whines, rubbing his chest, then chuckles.

  The sound of it makes Dawson’s blood pressure spike, but before he can tell himself not to fall for it again, Hugo gestures at the door to the living room, and Dawson turns to see Joe standing there with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Joseph!’ Hugo says. ‘Will you tell this lot that Velvet is fine.’

  But he doesn’t say anything as Dawson wonders how long he’s been standing there.

  ‘Is she OK?’ Dawson frowns. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Joe finally says.

  Dawson’s frown deepens. ‘Nothing?’

  ‘She just ran off.’

  Joe won’t look at him, and Dawson knows he’s lying, but before he can call him on it, Hugo pipes up, a broad smirk on his face.

  ‘See? I told you – she’s just being dramatic.’

  Dawson isn’t convinced.

  Hugo must see that because he adds, ‘This is how girls get after sex – all emotional. You’d know that if you’d ever slept with one.’

  ‘You’re a pig!’ Sasha says suddenly.

  It’s the first time she’s spoken, and they both turn to look at her.

  ‘All men are pigs, Sasha,’ Hugo tells her, unfazed at the insult. ‘Some of us are Spam.’ He looks pointedly at Joe and winks. ‘And some of us are purebred Ibérico, but we’re all pigs, sweetheart.’

  ‘I’m not your sweetheart.’

  There’s a long moment of silence as Sasha and Hugo stare at each other across the living room. He’s waiting for her to look away first, but she won’t give him the pleasure and holds her head up defiantly.

  Hugo’s eyes light up at the challenge. ‘I’m not saying nothing happened,’ he concedes.

  Sasha’s gaze narrows, suspicious of his sudden sincerity.

  ‘Something obviously happened . . .’ He waits another beat. ‘But it was all above board. Everyone consented.’ He stops and smiles. ‘I mean, you were watching, right?’

  There’s a rush of gasps from the others, and when she hears Dawson say, What? her stomach lurches so suddenly, she’s sure she’s going to puke. Why did she eat those bloody olives?

  ‘I wasn’t watching,’ she says, her cheeks stinging. ‘You walked in on me while I was in the bathroom.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He waves his hand dismissively. ‘You were there. Velvet was fine, wasn’t she?’

  Sasha hesitates.

  She was fine.

  She seemed fine.

  Was she fine?

  She can feel them all staring as they wait for her to respond, but she can’t catch her breath, like she’s just run for the bus. A Drake song starts playing, and it’s so loud she can feel the bass line vibrating in her teeth.

  ‘Can we turn the music off?’ She puts her hands in her hair and pulls. ‘I can’t hear myself think!’

  ‘Where’s my phone?’ Hugo looks around the living room, then walks toward the hall.

  Kaitlyn steps into his path. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To get my phone so I can turn the music off. It’s in the bedroom.’

  ‘No, you stay here where I can see you.’ She nods at Joe. ‘You go.’

  Joe does as he’s told, trying not to look at the tangled sheets as he searches for Hugo’s phone. He checks the bedside table, and his heart leaps up on to his tongue when he sees it: Hugo’s phone and, right next to it, the bottle of his parents’ wedding champagne. He picks it up to find that it’s half empty, a smear of red lipstick around the rim. He wants to lob it across the room, but then Hugo’s phone lights up, and his gaze is drawn down to the screen. There’s a string of messages from someone called David.

  Come on, Delaney, admit defeat

  I knew you couldn’t do it

  Dude, don’t leave me hanging

  You pulled the peasant yet?

  Joe almost drops the phone.

  ‘I think I know what happened to Velvet,’ Joe announces when he walks back into the living room.

  ‘Enlighten us, young Joseph.’

  Hugo’s still parading around in a towel like it’s perfectly normal, and the muscles in Joe’s shoulders tighten at the sight. He wouldn’t even do that in front of Ivy.

  ‘I reckon she saw this.’ Joe holds up the phone. ‘That’s why she was so upset – why she ran off.’

  Hugo clearly has no idea what he’s talking about. ‘Saw what?’

  ‘The message from your friend David.’ Joe reads it aloud: ‘You pulled the peasant yet?’

  Hugo’s smile slips for the first time. He looks genuinely embarrassed, but recovers quickly.

  ‘What?’ He laughs as the others glare at him. ‘It’s a joke. Lighten up.’

  He laughs again, and something in Joe gives way, like a shelf buckling under the weight of too many books. Joe’s never punched anyone. He’s wanted to, many times, but he’s always managed to restrain himself. This time, however, he doesn’t even think about it, just swings, but Hugo steps back, and Joe almost face-plants into the sofa. He manages to stop himself before he does, but Sasha has to help him up.

  Joe’s mortified. He can feel himself blushing from his scalp right down to his toes, and when Hugo laughs and says, ‘Careful. Don’t hurt yourself, Joseph,’ he has to ball his hands into tight fists at his sides to restrain himself.

  Hugo doesn’t look scared or even annoyed, just faintly amused, and it provokes another heave of fury. But then Dawson is between them, his hands on Joe’s shoulders as he tells him to calm down. He almost does, but just as he’s about to step back, Hugo smiles at him over Dawson’s shoulder, and Joe furiously swings at him again. He has to reach around Dawson to do so, which gives Hugo enough time to step out of the way, and Joe ends up punching the wall instead.

  There’s a moment of screeching white noise . . . then pain. Pain like he’s never felt before . . . and blood.

  So much blood.

  Hot, bright red blood.

  Joe howls, and Kaitlyn is there, at his side, hand cupping his. He can hear Hugo chuckling, and he wishes he was dead, wishes that the fancy Italian sofa would just open up and swallow him whole. The sound of it immediately makes him think of that morning his mother got out of the house while he was in the shower. When he got downstairs to find the front door open, he panicked and ran out into the street to find a group of lads across the road laughing and pointing at his mother who was waiting by the post box in her dressing gown.

  ‘Where’s the bus?’ she’d asked when he got to her. ‘I’m going to be late for work.’

  Joe just smiled and took her by the elbow, leading her back towards the house.

  ‘Mad ol’ bat,’ one of the boys had said as he did, and the look on his mother’s face when she realized that he was talking about her made Joe’s heart snap clean in two.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m OK,’ he tells Kaitlyn, his chin shivering.

  But she isn’t looking at him, she’s looking down at his shoes, and Joe does as well to find his white Converse spotted with blood.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ He tries to shrug, but even that hurts. ‘I just need some ice.’

  ‘I think it’s broken,’ Kaitlyn says softly.

  Of course it is, Joe thinks.

  At least he can cross ‘Never Punched or Been Punched’ off his bucket list.

  They all go with Joe to the hospital, with the exception of Hugo, who they leave alone in the flat trying to get the blood out of his mother’s Gandia Blasco rug. He’s called the cleaner four times, but it’s 2 a.m., and she’s not answering. So when he hears a knock on the front door, he all but runs, hoping it’s her.

  But it’s not.

  It’s Velvet.

  ‘Oh,’ he says.

  That’s it – just, Oh.

  Not
, What are you doing here?

  Not, Are you OK?

  Not, I’m sorry.

  Just, Oh.

  Velvet didn’t know a word so small could feel so big.

  A couple of hours ago, she would have just barged past him into the flat, but that was before. Before he found the mole on the inside of her thigh with his fingers, before he swept his mouth along her collarbone and said her name like no one else had before, like it was a brand-new word. Now she just wants to run and keep running until she’s as far away from Hugo – the memory of him, the smell of his hair, and the weight of him on top of her – as she can be. But to her surprise, she finds herself able to lift her chin and look at him.

  ‘I forgot my phone,’ she says, her voice sounding much steadier than she feels.

  She waits a beat, for what she doesn’t know, there isn’t anything he can say, is there? But she still wants him to try and holds her breath while she waits for him to say something – anything – to make her heart stop beating so hard, but he just takes a step back.

  ‘I think I left it in the bedroom,’ she says, her voice less steady this time.

  He nods.

  ‘Can I go get it?’

  He nods again.

  Velvet realizes that ‘Oh’ is all he’s going to say, so she mutters a thank you and walks past him into the flat. She holds her breath as she does, half expecting to find the others in the living room, laughing and sipping what’s left of the booze – but they’re not there, and she feels a stab of something. Shame, maybe? Guilt, definitely. But what was she supposed to say? That she’s a gross, common, thick slag who fell for Hugo Delaney’s bullshit?

  Velvet avoids looking at the bed as she walks into the bedroom. The lights are off, which helps, so there’s only the light spilling in from the hall to navigate by. She checks the bedside table, but her phone isn’t there, just the bottle of champagne she and Hugo had shared on the balcony. Her stomach knots at the memory of it, the fizz of it on her tongue, how he kissed her and said she tasted like the first time he’d tasted champagne – a bottle of Veuve Clicquot he’d swiped at his cousin’s wedding and drunk by himself in the garden.