by Sara Barnard
‘Anyway, that’s more than enough from me. Have a great night, everyone.’
My face feels weird. It’s a second before I realize what’s going on, as this is so unexpected. I mean, ridiculously unexpected.
I appear to be crying, FFS. I’m not weeping uncontrollably or anything like that, but a tear has rolled down my cheek with enough wet force to disturb my make-up slightly – enough that I have to sniff and surreptitiously wipe a finger under my eye. Fortunately, none of the group of friends surrounding me seems to notice. They’re all watching Hugo and clapping their hands off; admittedly, he slayed with his speech this evening, so this is not a surprise.
Who would have thought that Hugo Delaney was still capable of making me cry? Not only that, but in a good way. He told his story – our story, I suppose – in a way that was sincere and genuinely touching. When he talked about his charity work and organizing the fundraiser tonight, the passion was coming off him in waves. If I had any money, I’d probably want to donate it all right now. Watching him come off the stage, I can’t believe he’s the same person I met so long ago. We’re both completely different people now.
Tonight, that’s really obvious. Our little group members are all so different, but it works. That’s why we really need Sasha here, to complete the circle.
Seeing the London sights from the deck of a boat that’s bigger than my entire flat is a bit of a pinch-myself moment, I’ve got to admit. I’ve already killed my phone battery sending snaps to Scarlet, Amber and Tempest, laughing at the ones they’ve sent me back – mostly of them doing ironically faux-glamorous poses in our poky little student kitchen while they cook noodles and muck about. Tempest is casually wearing a sparkly jacket, which I considered but dismissed as being ‘too much’, over her pyjamas.
It’s great being here, drinking champagne and eating tiny canapés and wearing my best dress – as well as hanging out with the friends I haven’t seen for ages – but for once it’s not an escape. I’m actually looking forward to going back to my real life. Hugo’s crazy charity party is just a nice little oddity in my ordinary routine of studying, working in the cafe on Saturdays, and living in a room in a weird little flat that I’ve filled with fairy lights and books and vintage postcards of Paris. It makes tonight even nicer, not dreading going back. Feeling like I deserve to be here, and I can just enjoy this evening for what it is.
‘Hugo,’ I say, catching his arm as he heads towards us. ‘Your speech was lovely.’
He looks at me, and then around the nodding group of us, with such pure gratitude and relief, it nearly sets me off blubbing all over again.
‘Do you really think it was OK? I was shitting myself, couldn’t you tell?’
‘You were brilliant, mate,’ Joe says with a wry smile. ‘It’s all that breeding; you’re a natural.’
‘Fuck off.’ Hugo grins.
‘I might even have shed a tear. Just a tiny one, mind. Minuscule.’
‘Better watch those false eyelashes, Velvet,’ Dawson says. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you go and charm your public into getting their platinum cards out, Hugo? You’ve got them all on side; go for it.’
‘Yeah, I guess so. It’s what I’m here for tonight, after all. I’ll feel a lot better when we get this whole Sasha situation sorted out though . . . I’m going to go and see what’s happening with the captain.’
He raises a hand in a mock salute and quickly disappears through the crowd of sparkly dresses and pristine dinner jackets that smell of Tom Ford and twenty-pound notes. Until a sweaty guy with floppy hair and no chin grabs him and practically wrestles him to the ground right in front of us.
‘Hey, hey! What’s the hurry? I’ve barely seen you all evening, Hugo. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?’
He looks like the worst kind of posh cliché imaginable. Like an unflattering photograph of a minor young Royal on a ‘My Drug Hell!’ tabloid front page come to life. He’s literally swigging champagne from the bottle while he staggers about with his bow tie undone and his shirt slightly gaping.
Hugo looks utterly mortified. A long time ago, I might have assumed it was us he was embarrassed about and taken offence. Now I know better. Everyone else looks pretty awkward about the whole situation though.
‘Are you all something to do with the charity, or what? One of those Make-A-Wish things for underprivileged dying people?’
‘Are you for real?’ Kaitlyn shoots back. ‘I mean, seriously?’
OK, this guy is probably truly awful, but I don’t like to be judged on first appearances – it’s happened to me enough times – so perhaps I owe him an attempt at the same courtesy. Plus, more importantly, somebody’s got to do something. There’s a weird tension in the air, and this could all get out of hand quickly.
‘Hi,’ I say, stepping forward and extending a hand. ‘My name’s Velvet. I’m a friend of Hugo’s.’
‘Velvet!’ He roars with laughter like I’ve said something really funny. ‘Now that’s an interesting name. Very interesting. Hold up, now why does that name sound so familiar? Have we met before? I’m sure I’d remember a face as pretty as yours . . .’
‘David, why don’t we go and find the others – get you another drink?’ Hugo suggests desperately, trying to hustle his friend out of my path.
Unlike David, it comes to me in a flash, and I know exactly where I remember his name from. Just for a second, I feel a hot, familiar prickle of shame come over me like a wave of nausea. David is leering at me, and I’m just waiting for the inevitable. The insinuating comment. The casual judgement. The slut shaming, basically.
Just for a second, I’m right back there. Shivering in the middle of Hugo’s mum’s vast and unfriendly bed, running out of the flat with my shoes in my hands, the taste of blood in my mouth—
Then something inside me snaps, and I just decide: No. This isn’t his narrative. It’s mine. I get to choose.
‘No, it’s OK, Hugo,’ I say, my voice coming out so calmly, I surprise myself. ‘David, right? We haven’t actually met, but I think I’ve figured it out. You see, a long time ago, Hugo and I slept together. Immediately afterwards, I accidentally found a message on his phone asking whether he’d won the bet and “pulled the peasant” yet, or fucked the commoner, or whatever – I forget the exact wording. Maybe you remember? The message was from you. It was really unpleasant, and I found it quite upsetting at the time. That’s probably why my name rings a bell. It’s quite an unusual name, I know. Anyway, that was a long time ago. So I hope you know better now.’
I smile serenely while David blusters, tying himself in knots right in front of me.
‘It . . . it was clearly just a joke. Right, Hugo?’
‘That’s what I used to tell myself,’ Hugo says. ‘But it wasn’t that funny, really.’
‘Well, it took a while, but Hugo’s actually a pretty decent human being these days. I mean, it took Joe punching him, and Kaitlyn shouting at him a lot, but he’s all right. He’s one of us. We’ve got to go and get our mate Sasha now, but have a great night, David. Nice to put a face to the name after all these years. Enjoy your champagne.’
I wait until David has staggered off, shaking his head in confusion, and then I can’t control my giggles for a moment longer. I laugh so hard, my eyeliner really does run this time. All over my face, and I don’t care.
I’m not laughing because it’s particularly funny, or laughing at putting David on the spot like that, even though he really did deserve it. I’m laughing because . . . well, who knew it was so easy? To stand up for myself; to not be silenced; to tell my own story how I want to tell it. It’s about power. Hugo realized he needed to start using his for good. I’m only just realizing that I actually have some.
About time too.
‘Velvet,’ Hugo says with a huge grin, ‘you are bloody magnificent.’
‘Yeah, I know. Now, let’s get this crazy boat turned around and find Sasha.’
JOE
Hugo leads the way, ignoring
his posh mates as we troop through the crowd.
I fall into step with Velvet. She looks almost regal – head held high, an expression of tranquil determination on her face.
‘You were incredible just then,’ I say. ‘Truly.’
She really was – strong and self-assured, and serenely badass.
‘Cheers, Joe,’ she says, reaching across and giving my hand a squeeze. ‘That means a lot, especially coming from you.’
There was a time when a hand squeeze from Velvet would have sent me over the edge, and even though it still feels lovely to have her hand in mine, I’m mostly just really happy that she’s my friend and that she’s in such a good place.
The fact is, I’ll probably always be a little bit in love with Velvet Brown. And that’s OK, I think. Once upon a time, loving her was physically painful, but it’s since been replaced by a different version of love – uncomplicated and pure. Occasionally I picture the two of us finally getting together when we’re sixty or something, and this lot rolling their eyes and saying ‘about time’ as if it had been inevitable from the very beginning. I admitted this particular fantasy to Sasha a few months ago, and she hugged me and said, ‘Oh, Joe, you soppy lug.’
God, I wish she was here. On the surface, she may not be the most prominent member of our group, but I honestly think she’s the glue that holds the six of us together. Without her, we’re just a bit . . . lopsided. Sasha is the one who remembers everyone’s birthdays and reminds the rest of us; the one who always seems to be awake when I’m upset about Mum and bombarding our WhatsApp group with messages at 3 a.m.; the one who listens and quietly puts our dramas into perspective. She was amazing during the Dawson/Kaitlyn break-up – calm and practical, and never taking sides (at least not publicly). Basically, she’s always there for us. And how do we repay her? By leaving her behind. Whether or not she made it in the first place is irrelevant – we should have checked she was with us before boarding the boat. I should have checked.
I try ringing her back, but it goes straight through to voicemail.
‘Any luck?’ Velvet asks as I hang up.
There’s a tiny black smudge under her left eye where her mascara has run.
‘No. I’ll keep trying though.’
With the more-than-a-little-grumpy captain confirming we have at least another ten minutes until we dock, we all (minus Dawson) help ourselves to another glass of champagne and head for the deck below, where it’s a bit quieter.
It’s a proper stunner of a summer’s evening, the sun glinting off the Thames and making it sparkle. I can’t believe that in less than two months’ time, this big bewildering city is going to be my home.
‘All ready for the big move, Joe?’ Kaitlyn asks, reading my mind the way she so often does with all of us.
She and Dawson are sitting next to each other, a Remy-sized gap between them.
‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘I mean, a lot of the practical stuff is sorted, mostly thanks to Hugo.’
Hugo salutes. He’s arranged for me to rent a room in his great-aunt’s massive townhouse for next to nothing.
‘Don’t mention it, mate. Old Camilla’s well excited about having a “strapping young man” about the place.’
Velvet giggles and reaches across to give my bicep a playful squeeze. I manage to tense it just in time.
‘What about the non-practical stuff?’ Kaitlyn asks.
I screw up my face. ‘I have no idea. Dad keeps trying to reassure me that he’s going to manage fine on his own, but I don’t think that’s going to make it any easier to leave.’
Sitting here now, it’s mad to think that this time last year, I thought I’d be a junior supervisor at Champion Biscuits by now. I assumed Dad was going to be pleased when I told him I’d been accepted on to the training scheme. I was wrong. He went bonkers, getting all red in the face as he banged on about how I needed to ‘stuff responsibility’ and go after my dreams. When I refused, he nicked my phone and rang up Sasha, and before I knew it, I was blasted with phone calls and messages from all five of them, listing all the reasons I shouldn’t go to work at Champion.
It was Dawson who told me about the apprenticeship scheme at the UKB studios in London and helped me fill in the epic application form, taking my clumsy sentences and turning each one into a mini masterpiece. We’d never really spent much time together before, just the two of us, and I was surprised at just how much I liked hanging out with him one-on-one, the last traces of intimidation dating back to our early meetings when he was still etched on my mind as ‘Dawson Sharman: TV Star’ finally falling away.
A couple of weeks ago, during one of Mum’s rare lucid moments, I managed to tell her all about it. She was so chuffed for me, her face lighting up like a Christmas tree as I told her about all the UKB shows I’d be working on. And even though it didn’t last long, and a few minutes later she was back to asking what time her mum was coming to pick her up, I felt like her response was the blessing I needed.
I’m still terrified at the prospect of being so many miles away from my family, but I’ve finally realized there’s a massive difference between the thing you think is the right thing, and the actual right thing.
I try Sasha again. This time she picks up.
I frantically shush the others and put her on speakerphone.
‘Sash?’ I say. ‘Where are you now?’
The five of us lean in to listen, our heads almost touching. I can hear a tannoy announcement in the background.
‘On the train home,’ she replies.
We all respond with a variety of gasps and groans.
‘The train? Are you still on your way to London?’
‘No, back to Manchester.’
‘Back to Manchester? Why?’ I cry.
‘But we’re docking in five minutes so you can get on,’ Hugo adds.
Velvet swears under her breath. Dawson’s head is in his hands.
‘Look, don’t worry about me,’ Sasha continues. ‘It was my fault I was late.’
Her voice doesn’t match her words though. I know Sasha. We all do. And no matter what she says, she is not OK right now.
‘But there must be something we can do.’ I say. ‘Sash? Sash, are you there?’
The line has gone dead.
‘Ring her back, Joe!’ Kaitlyn yelps.
I lunge for the phone, sending it skidding off the edge of the table and startling poor Remy in the process. By the time Dawson has retrieved it for me, Velvet is leaving a message on Sasha’s voicemail.
She hangs up, holding her phone to her chest.
‘Now what?’ Dawson asks.
The boat is beginning to curve towards the embankment.
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I’m worried though. Something’s up.’
‘Joe’s right,’ Kaitlyn says. ‘She sounded a mess just then.’
‘Then there’s only one thing we can do,’ Velvet says.
We all turn to look at her.
‘Go get her, of course.’
There’s a beat before everyone jumps up and starts talking at once.
‘We can go in my car,’ Dawson offers. ‘We won’t beat the train, but if we bomb it, we might only be an hour or so behind her. If I move some stuff off the back seat, I reckon there should be plenty of room for the four of us plus Remy.’
‘Hang on a second,’ Hugo says. ‘What do you mean, the four of us?’
‘This is your party, mate,’ Dawson says. ‘You can’t exactly abandon it after an hour. There’s over two hundred people here, and every single one of them is probably wondering where the fuck you are right now.’
As if on cue, the noise from the party above suddenly seems to go up a notch.
‘I doubt it,’ Hugo says. ‘They’re all so hammered, I could probably strip naked and hurl myself off the side of the boat and they wouldn’t notice. Besides which, this is a charity do. And what do they say about charity?’
We shake our heads.
‘That it begins at home. A
nd Sasha is fucking family.’
He says this so fiercely that if it wasn’t for the fact we were all worried sick about Sasha, we’d probably piss ourselves laughing for a solid five minutes at least.
‘Translation,’ Hugo continues, puffing out his chest (I half expect him to put his hand on his heart like he’s about to bellow out the national anthem). ‘I’m coming to Manchester.’
‘I think we got that,’ Kaitlyn says quietly, biting her lip to stop herself from smiling.
‘In that case,’ Dawson says, ‘prepare to get cosy, everyone.’
‘Cosy?’ Hugo asks, frowning.
‘I drive a Fiesta,’ Dawson explains. ‘Oh, and Remy here –’ he stoops to stroke Remy’s ears – ‘Remy quite likes to spread out.’
DAWSON
While everyone gathers their stuff, I slip away to call Jas. The South Bank is buzzing on my left, the faint hum of conversation and laughter audible over the dull roar of the boat’s engines. The river reflects the lights from the National Theatre as we cruise upstream, back to Westminster Pier. London: my home now. I love it here.
Two girls wave at the boat, and I wave back as I hit ‘call’.
Jasper answers on the first ring. ‘What happened? Is this Plan B? I can be at Embankment in twenty minutes. I’ll meet you in the Princess of Wales.’
I smile, despite everything. I love him too. ‘We don’t need to do Plan B. I’m fine . . .’
He pauses, reading between the lines. ‘But Kaitlyn isn’t?’
‘No, it’s not Kait. It’s Sasha, actually. She missed the boat and got the train home. Back to Manchester. But it’s more than that . . .’
I think of her messages lately. No gifs. No emojis. No Sashaness. Sasha-lite, as though she can’t or won’t say what’s on her mind.
‘We’re worried about her, Jas. She’s not right.’
She hasn’t sounded right for a while, I realize. I should have read between those lines before now.
‘You’re going to go and get her,’ Jasper says flatly.
‘Yes. We’re just waiting for the boat to dock, then we’re heading up. How did you know?’
