by Sara Barnard
We don’t have a phone in the flat, so I knock for Mrs Ageyman next door. She definitely has one. I hear it ringing all the time.
She doesn’t like me using it though, lurks in the doorway as I dial through all my friends’ numbers. Velvet’s goes straight to voicemail again, no answer from Joe, no answer from Kaitlyn, no answer from Dawson. It’s like they’re ignoring me.
Are they ignoring me? But then I catch sight of Mrs Ageyman peering round the doorframe and remind myself that they don’t know I’m the one who’s ringing.
I’m so desperate that I try Hugo. Maybe I try him last just so he’s the one I feel angriest with. There’s something comforting in being cross with Hugo.
‘Those had better not be mobile numbers you’re dialling, young lady.’
I want to shout at her that of course they are, but instead I thank her for letting me use her phone.
There’s no more time. I’ll miss my train if I don’t head off, and I’d rather walk round every single Pizza Express in the whole of Manchester city centre than spend another night with my dad pretending I’m going to live at home next year as well.
I’ve decided: I’m taking the Jordans up on their offer.
It’s only once I’m on the train, gazing longingly at a girl over the aisle who’s tapping a message out on her screen, that it occurs to me maybe I wasn’t lying to Bernice when I told her my phone was stolen.
Funny how the last time I saw my phone was in the same place I last saw my dad.
VELVET
You know in books when they do that really obvious exposition thing, like, ‘I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and . . .’ followed by a long description of the heroine’s big brown eyes and long blonde hair, and how she’s much prettier than she realizes . . . ?
Well, every time I look in the mirror now, that’s how I feel. Like I’m looking at someone else. I haven’t got used to it yet. Whenever I put a T-shirt on, I automatically go to swipe my long hair from the collar, and it’s not there.
But though I say I look like someone else, I’ve actually never felt more like myself. Having my hair cut off might sound like a trivial thing, but it feels like finally getting rid of all the stuff I used to think was important but isn’t. I’m not hiding behind my long straggly hair any more, and that’s given me the confidence to stop hiding altogether. No more thick layers of make-up and fake tan. No more outfits that make me feel silly and incapable.
I’m probably less ‘pretty’ than I have ever been in my life, and yet somehow I feel absolutely fucking awesome. No matter what anyone says.
‘Are you ill?’ Mum asks, looking at me through narrowed eyes. ‘You look like you’ve drowned.’
To be fair, this shouldn’t exactly be news to her; this has been happening gradually for quite some time. It’s just that I don’t see much of her these days. I should probably be offended that she’s so appalled by my face in its natural state, but I’ve been learning not to take these things too personally.
‘Well, surprisingly enough, Mum, no – I have not recently drowned.’
‘It’s that Scarlet’s influence, I suppose,’ Mum goes on, unable to contain a slight tut. ‘Chelsea says you’re inseparable these days. Said she’s a lesbian.’
Chelsea coughs and ostentatiously busies herself with getting mugs out of a cupboard, not looking me in the eye. ‘Did you say you wanted tea or coffee, Jacqui? What about you, Vee?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I say, oh-so politely. ‘It’s not really relevant, but that is all correct information. And I’ll have a cup of tea, thanks, Chels. Bit of milk, no sugar.’
I keep my voice even and clear, looking Chelsea in the eye. It seems funny to think that we were once so close – cousins and best friends. When we were little, people used to mistake us for twins.
‘Yeah, I do remember how you have your tea, Vee.’ She bristles. ‘Surprised you’re not having some sort of decaf-green-tea-matcha-latte something or other these days.’
‘Don’t worry – only after six o’clock . . .’
I can see she doesn’t quite know if I’m joking or not. I only said I’d come round and see her new flat today because I couldn’t keep putting it off forever. I’ve been too busy, but Mum started suggesting that I didn’t want to because ‘it must be hard not to be jealous’. So I said I’d come round with her today – thankfully, I have the excuse that I only have time for a quick cuppa before I have to go and get the train to Manchester.
‘This is a lovely little kitchen, Chels,’ Mum’s saying, gesturing around the dark, narrow room that is a bit like walking into a smoker’s lung. ‘Everything you need here.’
They both automatically look over at me, sort of apologetically. They feel so sorry for me, it’s insulting. To be honest, they would be surprised how very, very easy I am finding it not to be jealous of Chelsea. I genuinely hope she’s happy, and I guess she is, living in a flat above Shoe Zone with Jamie King. In the same way that I guess I was happy for a little while, working in the hotel and living with Griff. That seems like another life now.
‘Well, we’re going to get an old sofa off Jamie’s stepmum at the weekend, and the landlady said she was going to replace that lino in the bathroom, and . . .’
I don’t mean to tune out, but it’s really hard not to. I don’t really care about lino, just like I don’t expect them to care about my life. I don’t mind that nobody ever asks me about being back at college, or how it’s going. I know I’d only shrug and tell them it was fine anyway, so it’s not like that would be a thrilling conversation for anyone involved.
They’re not interested in how it was weird going back at first, but then it got better. They don’t want to know about how I love Wuthering Heights, and that discussing books with Scarlet in Costa after our Thursday afternoon English Literature class is actually my new favourite part of the week.
I don’t think they’d be even remotely impressed by my most exciting bit of news: that Mr Hicklin has suggested I should think about applying for university next year. I’m still working part time at the hotel and building up my savings, and it looks like it might not be impossible. Scarlet and I work harder than anyone on our course – people who have been given a second chance tend to do that, I think. The exam results for the end of the first year aren’t out yet, but it looks like we’ll both do well. We’ve even talked about maybe applying together and sharing a flat.
The two of us shouldn’t even be friends really, so it’s funny that she’s ended up being the best friend I’ve ever had. ‘The misfits’, she calls us. I feel ashamed now that I never used to stick up for her at school when Chelsea and the others used to call her a weird goth. That sums up who I used to be at school – I wasn’t the one giving it, but I never had the guts to stand up for anyone, which now I know is pretty much just as bad.
‘Don’t worry; I understand.’ Scarlet had shrugged when I brought it up, just when we were starting to be friends. ‘We all just did what we could to survive in that place. For you it was alcopops and snogging boys whose personality consisted of a haircut and a pair of skinny jeans. For me, it was reading Mary Shelley in the graveyard. Whatever gets you through the night, right?’
So, against the odds, the two misfits are doing OK. Whatever my mum or Chelsea think, I know Scarlet’s been a great influence on me.
‘Thanks for the tea, Chels,’ I say, standing up while they are still mid-conversation about IKEA. ‘I’ve got to get to the station, or I’ll miss my train.’
I zip up my hoody and stop by the door to lace up my DMs (‘lesbian shoes’, my mum calls them). I give them both a quick hug and can see they’re as relieved that I’m leaving as I am.
‘See you later,’ I call out over my shoulder.
When I get out into the fresh air, I actually feel good. The fact that my mum and Chelsea don’t really get it is so trivial to me now. They’re my family, and I love them, but I don’t need their approval.
My phone rings in my pocket while I’m tur
ning off the seafront and into town; I glance at it and quickly hit reject, seeing a number I don’t recognize. That sort of thing instantly makes me nervous. An unknown number never means anything good.
Anyway, if I don’t hurry, I’ll miss my train. I’m cutting it fine already; I’ve got a long wait at Hull and will be getting into Manchester a bit late, as it was the cheapest fare. I’m trying to save every penny I can at the moment, but I don’t want to have to skimp on the dough balls.
I walk through town wondering if all of this will one day soon be a distant memory. The beach, the chip shop, the bus stop, the all-you-can-eat Chinese we used to go to on birthdays, even the big Tesco . . . Maybe when I’ve gone, I’ll miss it. I’m not sure.
When I get to the station and on to the train, I still feel the same thrill I always do just to be getting the hell out of here. I watch the scenery whizz by in a blur, my excitement mounting with every mile.
Finally getting off the train at Manchester Piccadilly, I can feel the energy of the big city fizzing in my brain, and I suddenly can’t wait for my real life to start. To do all the things I’m supposed to do. I mean, I have no idea what, exactly. Something.
Walking through the streets, I’m feeling a heady mixture of being both powerful and totally anonymous. Like I’m part of something big, but still making my own way in the world. I can’t wait to see everyone. It’s going to be brilliant. I’m just in the mood to chat about everything while simultaneously stuffing my face with dough balls, maybe get a little bit tipsy on a couple of glasses of wine.
I’m even kind of looking forward to seeing Hugo after so long. I mean, I’m sure it’ll be a bit weird and awkward, but I think I can handle it. He sounds like a different person now, and I know I certainly am. It’s like we were kids back then. It feels like looking back on another person, another life.
When I get to the restaurant, I can see people silhouetted in the window, chatting and laughing, drinking glasses of wine and eating pizzas with names I don’t quite know how to pronounce. This is the life I want for myself. Walking into the restaurant to meet my friends makes me feel cosmopolitan and glamorous. It beats the all-you-can-eat Chinese, hands down.
‘Can I help you?’ a waiter asks as I walk inside.
Even a year or two ago, I’d have felt self-conscious: like an imposter; like I didn’t belong; not good enough.
‘I think my friends are already here . . .’ I say, looking him directly in the eye. ‘Thanks very much.’
I’m fully expecting to be the last to arrive, as I walk through the restaurant, keeping my eye out for a big, jolly table of friendly faces.
‘Velvet!’
The voice calling me doesn’t sound that pleased about it. In fact, if I had to think up a word to describe how that person enunciated my name, I’d say grim.
I look up, and it’s Dawson, waving at me, more of a grimace than a smile in greeting. Kaitlyn is sitting next to him, yet somehow managing to maintain a distance of a million miles between them. I have literally never seen them look so . . . unconnected. And I’ve only ever seen them together when they weren’t officially ‘together’. I thought at least Joe might look pleased to see me, but he looks like the world is weighing so heavily on his shoulders, he can’t register my presence. He literally can’t see me.
And then I see Hugo. It’s a second before I look him in the eye because I’m so distracted by the beads around his neck. I can see instantly it’s not just the beads that make the difference. Everything about him is different. Obviously that bone structure is pretty unarguable – let’s face it, he’s as good-looking as he ever was, the handsome bastard – but it doesn’t make my heart beat faster or my breath catch in my throat any more.
I’ve been saying it was so long ago that I don’t even care any more, but a little part of me was still worried about what seeing him after all this time might do to me. Unexpectedly, he looks so apprehensive, I almost want to give him a hug. We smile at each other tentatively.
And then I spot the empty chair. I’m late enough that I presumed I’d be last, making my apologies while everyone else was already stuck into the drinks and dough balls. But no Sasha.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I have a bad feeling. It’s an unknown number again, but this time I answer instantly.
‘Sasha, is that you – are you OK?’
When Sasha gets there, she’s out of breath and dizzy with panic. The Pizza Express is exactly where Velvet said it would be – by the uni, opposite the bank. But there are university campuses all over Manchester – what if she’s at the wrong one?
She lingers on the pavement, looking for them through the window, but all she can see is a group of women who’ve taken up one side of the restaurant for what looks like a hen party, judging by the L-plates and penis balloons. Sasha automatically reaches into her pocket for her phone so she can call Velvet, then remembers that she doesn’t have it. Her frustration swiftly gives way to something sharper as she asks herself again if her father could really have taken her phone. The thought needles her as she sucks in a breath and heads inside.
As soon as she opens the door, she’s confronted by a huddle of people waiting to be seated. She can’t see past them, and when she tries, a man in a Blur T-shirt steps to the side, blocking her view. He gives her a look that says, Don’t even think about it, but before she can explain that she’s not pushing in, she hears Velvet – ‘Excuse me’ – and her face flushes with relief. The bloke makes no effort to move though, and a moment later, Velvet’s hand is on the sleeve of Sasha’s denim jacket. She tugs her out of the queue, then stops to look back at him over her shoulder with a sweet smile. ‘Enjoy your Sloppy Giuseppe, mate.’
Sasha has no idea what a Sloppy Giuseppe is but he looks so pissed off that the pair of them dissolve into giggles as they walk away. If her father was there, he’d say that she was being childish, and perhaps she is. But it’s so nice to laugh; it makes her feel soft and warm and loose, the muscles in her shoulders unclasping and opening up like flowers stretching towards the sun. So if that’s childish, Sasha doesn’t care, because only Velvet and the others make her feel like that: like whatever is happening to her – uni, work, her father – she can handle it.
It doesn’t make much sense – she never sees them, and her only real contact with them is on WhatsApp – but in that moment, as she follows Velvet through the busy restaurant, she realizes that she’d follow her anywhere. Sasha trusts them. That’s why they’ve kept in touch since that day in the lift – even Hugo – because this awful thing happened, and they survived, and she feels safe when she’s with them.
Velvet looks back at her and smiles as if she knows what she’s thinking, and with that, the stress of the day is forgotten. Sasha feels lighter, as though her feet aren’t quite touching the ground as they walk through the restaurant, Velvet’s hand fisted in the sleeve of Sasha’s denim jacket. It’s heaving, every table taken. Velvet’s gushing about something, tossing a smile back at her every now and then when they stop to let a waiter pass, but Sasha can’t hear what she’s saying over the clatter of cutlery and chatter from the surrounding tables. The restaurant is a TARDIS, the modest entrance giving way to a vast space across two floors, which explains why she couldn’t see them from the outside, and when Velvet stops at a table in the corner, they all look so different that Sasha asks herself if she would have recognized them even if she had seen them. The thought makes her so flustered, it takes her a second or two to respond to the chorus of Hey!s that greet her when Velvet thumbs at her and says, ‘Look who I found!’
‘Hey,’ Sasha says finally, trying not to stare as she thinks back to the last time she saw them. It’s been a year. No, actually, it’s been two. Her nan’s funeral doesn’t count, does it? Hugo, Kaitlyn and Dawson were in Ibiza. Then she remembers that Hugo wasn’t with them the year before when they surprised Velvet and showed up at the hotel, so it’s been three years since they were together like this. Three years. Three years since
she’d been in the same room with these people – these friends – she thought of so often. She doesn’t know how that can be. There are people she sees every day who take up less space in her life, yet these guys have somehow become the centre of it.
They speak so often that Sasha hadn’t noticed their physical absence, but as she looks around the table, she suddenly feels every minute of the time they’ve been apart. She’s seen them, of course, in selfies and on FaceTime, but it’s not the same as having them right there in front of her. They each look so different, so grown up. Joe fills his white shirt. It looks like his own, not like he’s wearing one that he borrowed from his father, like he did that day in the lift. He sits up straight in his chair, his shoulders back and his chin up, any trace of the awkwardness that once made his fingers fidget and his knee bounce gone.
It’s Dawson’s knee that’s bouncing this time, his usually cool demeanour has given way to something that is making him chew on his bottom lip. If his smile is tight when he waves and says hello, then Kaitlyn’s is tighter. Actually, it’s sharp – the sort of smile you’d cut your mouth on if you tried to kiss her. At the other end of the table is Hugo. As soon as their eyes meet, his hand goes to his neck, fingers fussing over the rosary beads he’s wearing. Yes, rosary beads. As if tonight isn’t enough of a head fuck as it is, Hugo Delaney is wearing rosary beads.
Finally, there’s Velvet. She’s the only one who looks younger, her eyes bright and her face pink with excitement. She’s also the only one who looks remotely pleased to be there, the rest of them stealing glances at the door when they think no one is paying attention. Even Sasha, who hasn’t sat down yet, can’t help but look back the way she came as she feels the atmosphere weighing heavy on the table. Something’s wrong. She feels another punch of panic as she asks herself if it’s something she’s done. Is it because she’s late? Or because she’s been calling them all day, bothering them about where to meet?
