‘Which of these zodiac signs is not represented by an animal that grows horns?’ shouted Lucas. ‘Who knows animals?’
As Sasha stood up holding a cigarette and lighter, Charlie saw his opportunity. He moved away from the Millionaire frenzy – ‘Aries! What the fuck is Aries? A deer?’ – and sidled over to the door.
‘Any chance I could scab a cigarette?’
Sasha considered, unenthusiastic. ‘I suppose I could give you a drag.’
‘They are very bad for you.’
‘Don’t expect any thanks for saving my life.’
Outside, the Mitre’s fairy lights glowed in the late dusk. In the cool air, away from all that group hysteria, Charlie felt a little calmer.
‘Before we start.’ He leaned on the windowsill. ‘Let’s get a few things straight. You’ve been doing . . . eleven hours of revision a day? Well, just so you know, I’ve been doing twelve.’
Sasha lit her fag. ‘I’ve gone twenty-four/seven – not slept since April.’
‘I hope not. I’ve not eaten since March. Had to be hooked up to a drip.’ Charlie sipped his pint. ‘I start tomorrow so I’ve still got a solid twelve hours.’
‘Tomorrow? Shit.’
‘Yeah . . .’ Charlie gave a half-shrug, wondering if Sasha would find his recklessness sexy. ‘However, we seem to have tricked ourselves into talking about revision.’
‘Who started that?’ Sasha passed him the cigarette. ‘How’s your business venture? Bust already?’
‘Oh, it’s taking off,’ he lied seamlessly. ‘In fact, are you looking for a job? Because we’ve got some great opportunities.’
‘As it happens, I’ve got fuck all lined up for the rest of my life, so I guess you could say I’m available.’
‘I’m sure we could find something for a candidate like you. What would you say was your biggest weakness?’
Sasha reclaimed the cigarette and took a drag. ‘Impatience.’
A middle-aged couple came out of the pub, digging around in their pockets. ‘Martin, I definitely had a pound coin somewhere.’
Charlie’s next line didn’t come to him and he was conscious of himself turning inward in the silence. He knew he had to make a move, but he couldn’t just fling himself at her in an awkward pause. Perhaps he could catch her eye? (She was listlessly studying her fingernails.)
By the time Charlie had taken another sip of the pint, his internal monologue had conspired to bind this moment with his entire university experience. He wasn’t going to leave university having kissed four girls and slept with two in three years – he wasn’t going to be that passive loser any more – he just wasn’t.
As the couple clip-clopped down the alley, Sasha stubbed out her cigarette and prepared to go inside.
Seizing the moment, Charlie took a step forward and went straight for the neck. He lunged at her, lips parted, eyelids closing—
‘Ugh.’ Sasha jerked her head sideways, leaning back. ‘Christ!’
‘Um—’
‘Charlie, what are you doing?’ Her flippant mask momentarily slipped, revealing surprise and embarrassment beneath.
‘I . . .’ He hung his head. ‘Sorry.’
The middle-aged woman ran back towards the pub door, handbag flapping round her elbow.
‘It’s all right.’ Sasha gathered herself. ‘Pretend it never happened.’
‘No, I want to explain.’ Charlie stopped her heading back inside. ‘I’ve been having the worst time. I’m all over the place. I keep getting it wrong, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay, Charlie, just forget it.’
‘No, I owe you an explanation. This semester has been disaster on disaster. For one thing, I don’t even have a business. I’m just full of bullshit as usual.’
‘Charlie—’
‘I fucked it up like everything—’
‘Charlie!’
He looked up at her. In spite of it all, a brief, mad hope crossed his mind: that Sasha might kiss him then, moved by his tortured state.
‘If possible,’ said Sasha, ‘this is even worse than being face-attacked. Do yourself a favour and go home.’
‘Okay,’ Charlie nodded hopelessly.
‘Goodnight, Charlie.’ As a cheer went up from the soon-to-be millionaires, Sasha slipped back into the pub.
She wouldn’t tell everyone, Charlie knew; she’d just tell one person and make them promise not to tell anyone else. And somehow, inexorably, it would spread, sweeping through the population – social Black Death.
Leaving his pint on the windowsill, Charlie walked away.
Making her way back from Oscar’s, Ellie felt so alert and perceptive, she wished she could take her exam there and then. They had celebrated her imminent Final with a whisky on the roof of the boat. Now, Ellie intended to root out all of her Epistemology essays and notes, lay them over the living-room floor and meditate on them until dawn. Does knowledge exist? Ellie turned her thoughts into a continuity announcement. Tune in at five a.m. to find out.
As she rounded onto her street, an ambulance passed by, lights flashing. After a few steps, she realised the person must have come from their block – the front door was open and a middle-aged man hung around in the doorway staring after the ambulance as though he had nothing better to do. At the bottom of the path, she recognised Steve from the Shackle.
‘Steve.’ She hurrried towards him. ‘What are you doing here? Are you all right?’
‘Ellie, there you are.’ He looked anxious, fingers rubbing busily against one another. ‘Rosie’s had a turn.’
‘Shit, what’s wrong?’
‘She collapsed. Out cold on the floor. I couldn’t get much of a pulse.’
‘Oh my God.’ Ellie looked down the street. ‘Do you know where they went?’
‘St Edmund’s, they said. They asked if I wanted to go but I thought I’d better wait for you or your fella. The thing is, your door’s going to need some attention.’
‘My door?’
‘The door to your flat. I had to break in, you see. Because Rosie was unconscious.’
‘God, okay.’ Ellie felt in her pockets. ‘I mean . . . Steve, would you mind staying a bit longer while I get a cab to the hospital?’
‘No, no.’
‘You can sleep on the sofa if you want.’
Only after Ellie called a cab (Steve insisted on maintaining his doorstep position while she waited) did she think to ask. ‘So Rose collapsed here. Not at the Shackle?’
‘Yup,’ nodded Steve, jowls shaking.
‘And you found her?’
‘I did. Got a hell of a shock.’
‘Why was it you happened to be coming round?’
‘Well . . .’ With slow cunning, Steve’s face fell into a blank, clueless expression. His hand jangled loose change in his pocket.
Did she leave her phone or purse? was on the tip of Ellie’s tongue, but something told her to hold back. She looked carefully at Steve’s reddening cheeks. For a fleeting second he met her eye, before flicking back to the path.
‘What?’
‘Pff.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t know why I’m getting the third degree. Just as well I was here. You’re supposed to be her mate.’ A leaden weight settled in Ellie’s stomach. ‘That’s your cab now.’ Avoiding her gaze, Steve ushered Ellie down the path. ‘Have you got cash?’
Ellie got in without reply, gripping the door handle for stability. ‘St Edmund’s, please.’
‘Everything okay?’ the driver asked, as they lurched away.
‘Um . . .’ Ellie caught the woman’s eye in the mirror. ‘I really don’t know.’
Charlie couldn’t prevent himself from taking a slightly longer route home in order to pass by Sara’s house. It was perverse, he knew (she wasn’t even there), but he felt compelled to revisit the scene of his most heinous mistakes. Perhaps it would offer some insight into where he had gone wrong.
As he slowed to a reflective pace, Charlie was shocked to see Sara struggling with her broken bedro
om window. It was as though he had dreamt her, brought her into being – except that he was furious at her existence.
‘Sara!’ he shouted.
On seeing him, she forced the window down (making an unhealthy splintering noise) and disappeared.
‘Sara!’ He marched over to the window. ‘I know you’re there!’
He picked up a few pieces of gravel and threw them at the glass. ‘Why did you lie?’ Charlie headed up the path and rang the bell. ‘Sara!’ He hammered at the door. ‘I want to talk to you. I just want to talk. I’m sorry, okay? I’m really, truly sorry.’
Just as he was about to ring the bell again, Fergus opened the door. ‘Charlie.’
‘Let me see Sara. I know she’s home. In spite of your little conspiracy.’
‘I’m asking you politely to leave.’
‘What are you guys anyway? Bodyguards? Just let me see her.’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘We went out for almost two years, for Christ’s sake. What do you think I’m going to do to her?’
‘Don’t make me chuck you out.’
Later, when he went back over it in his head, Charlie replied, ‘Out of where, you prick? I’m already outside. That’s the problem.’ At the time, having made the instant calculation that Fergus probably could chuck him out, he chose instead to look deeply offended.
Fergus sighed. ‘You’re disturbing us all. We’ve got exams. And she’s told you she doesn’t want to see you.’
‘It’s so obvious, all this.’
Fergus didn’t deign to ask.
‘All this protective friend crap. Sara!’ he shouted past Fergus. ‘I’m sorry!’
Fergus slammed the door.
Charlie sat down on the step. ‘I’ll wait here! Sara, I’ll wait all night if I have to!’
He hugged his knees, righteous anger burning in his chest.
About half an hour passed in this manner. Occasionally, Meredith came to the front window to check if he was still there. He was.
Charlie’s anger cooled to keen, humiliated dejection. He wondered what he was doing but couldn’t bring himself to leave. If he left, it would all become real. Tomorrow would arrive and this would be a thing that had actually happened – another notch on his bedpost of despair – and on top of it all, he’d have an exam to sit.
The thing that sent Charlie over the edge was the premonition that Berlusconi wasn’t going to turn up in this year’s Contemporary Italian Politics paper. Suddenly, he knew unquestionably that it was going to be one of those joker papers, especially designed to ruin anyone who had thought, ‘But Berlusconi is contemporary Italian politics’ and failed to come equipped with a Plan B. He wouldn’t be able to answer a single question. He would have to sit in silent agony for the minimum period of forty-five minutes and then take a walk of shame out of the hall, as everybody else cracked their knuckles and planned their second brilliant answer on the lesser-known aspects of the Italian judiciary.
‘You can’t keep away, can you?’ Penny had scuttled up the path and was suddenly squatting beside him on the doorstep.
If anything could make this situation worse, Charlie thought, it was Penny. ‘I’m waiting to see Sara.’
‘But it was so painful last time,’ said Penny, as though she and Sara were now so close, they shared one body.
Charlie sighed irritably.
‘It must be hard for you, too,’ she intuited. ‘Losing her. I bet it’s terrible.’
He wished she would go away and stop probing him for emotional fodder.
Just as he was about to tell her to go inside, Penny rolled up her sleeve and shoved a thin, raised scar under his eyes. ‘I did this when me and Freddie split up,’ she confided sadly.
‘That’s horrible.’ Charlie winced. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘I hardly ever do now,’ she reassured him.
Traumatised by this insight, Charlie hugged his knees tighter.
‘So what’s the matter? Apart from the obvious?’
Charlie shrugged dismally.
‘Is it Meredith?’ she suggested sympathetically.
‘What?’ He was baffled.
‘I always sensed something between you.’
‘What?’ He didn’t know where to go from here.
‘Maybe it’s subconscious. You might not be aware of it. It wouldn’t be that surprising if she fancied you.’
‘I think it would be very surprising.’
‘People often fancy their close friends’ boyfriends. Besides,’ she cajoled, ‘you must know you’re attractive.’
Charlie hated himself for feeling comforted. ‘I don’t feel it,’ he deflected half-heartedly.
‘Aw. You’re just having a low day.’
‘No, everything’s gone wrong,’ Charlie corrected her. ‘It’s not one day, it’s my whole life. I’ve failed and I haven’t even begun yet.’
‘When I feel down, I get an HIV test.’
Charlie’s bewilderment was quickly overtaken by depression. ‘I haven’t even slept with enough people to make an HIV test worthwhile.’
‘Get one. I’ve only slept with one person but they can’t refuse. They have to give you it if you ask. Honestly it’ll cheer you up.’
‘I wish I could go home.’ Charlie laid his cheek on his knees. ‘I could sleep for a month.’
He felt her hand stroking his hair, but was too despondent to prevent her.
‘I’ve cocked it up,’ he murmured.
An arm curled round his shoulders; Penny clung to his side, koala-like. ‘Ssshhh,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all right.’
‘I only have myself to blame.’
‘Ssssh . . .’
Rose was in and out of consciousness, lying on top of the bed sheets in a curtained compartment. Further blue curtains stretched in every direction, opening and closing like an intricate puzzle. The ward might have stretched into infinity.
To Ellie, Rose’s treatment looked a lot like chaos. Someone had put her on a drip; someone had mentioned her liver; someone had told them to wait for someone else who would do something, a test perhaps. That was an hour ago. Ellie wondered whether she should ask. What was the right way to behave in hospital? Was it like Argos, where you thought they’d forgotten you until finally your number was called? Or was it like those other times in Argos when they’d actually forgotten you?
Ellie sat on the plastic chair beside Rose, gaze switching from her gaunt, bloodless face to the crack in the curtains, and back to her face. When did Rose slip from tediously skinny to this frightening, skeletal state, and how had Ellie failed to notice? Piecing together the last few months, Ellie realised that Rose hadn’t been at uni at all – had she dropped out altogether then?
And Steve. Surely that was all in his mind – he’d been cracking on to Rose at work, chasing her, bothering her perhaps. But if it wasn’t . . . (Ellie peeked down the corridor – stocky blue and green figures apparated and disapparated at random.) Had Rose truly been that lonely? Had Ellie left Rose so completely in the lurch she’d turned to Cheating Regular Steve for comfort?
Ellie buried her head in her lap. Guilt overpowered her. She was the worst friend, the most selfish bitch that had ever lived. It was incredible how solipsistic she’d been, unaware of anything but her own internal roundabout. Ellie wanted to drop to the floor, sink right through it; if somebody had produced a cat-o’-nine-tails, she’d have thanked them.
‘Who’s that?’ Rose interrupted Ellie’s crying.
‘Me.’ Ellie sat up, quickly wiping her face. ‘How are you? How are you feeling?’
‘Fine,’ she tutted. ‘Can we go?’
‘You’re not fine. I’ve called your mum.’
‘What did you do that for?’ Rose demanded irritably.
‘’Cause you’re ill, Rose.’
Rose frowned deeply and turned her face away.
‘I should’ve realised sooner. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t know what you’re crying about,’ Rose muttered thickl
y.
‘I should’ve been looking out for you. I’ve been a shit friend.’
‘I’m fine. You’re the mental case.’
Rose closed her eyes for a few minutes. Ellie thought she’d gone back to sleep until, without moving, she murmured, ‘Can we go home soon?’
‘I don’t know, Rose,’ said Ellie gently. ‘You’ll have to rest and see people and get better. You’ll probably go home-home. To your mum’s.’
Rose’s face twisted. She spoke into the pillow. ‘She’s fat. And she wants to make me fat.’
Ellie had never heard Rose express a view like this, never heard her say words like ‘fat’, ‘thin’, or ‘diet’. They were too crude to convey what Rose was doing; they made it sound so practical.
Ellie put an awkward hand on her upper arm. ‘That kind of thought is trying to kill you, do you get that?’
Why hadn’t they ever spoken before? Ellie could have tried harder, forced Rose to open up to her. Instead she’d taken the polite, easy path; she’d weaved around Rose’s taboos until that perverse, winding circuit was the only possible route.
‘Shut up, you turd bucket,’ whispered Rose.
All right, Ellie thought, that was why. But she should have done it anyway.
The next time Rose fell asleep, Ellie checked her phone – it was half past two in the morning. Theories of Epistemology began in six and a half hours. She shouldn’t go, Ellie decided instantly. She had practically killed Rose through neglect: she needed to stay right here and make up for it. Who cared if she failed her degree? It wasn’t important. Frankly she deserved it.
As she stared at the crack in the curtain, Ellie imagined explaining this to her mum. ‘I couldn’t go,’ she’d say, regretfully. ‘We were stuck in the hospital and I needed to stay with Rose.’ It sounded good, but Ellie had a feeling that her mum would not be pleased. So be it: her duty was clear.
What if Rose’s mum arrived before the morning? (The thought of Pam sent Ellie into a wriggling dance of shame. Ellie could have phoned her during Easter, just to check in, told her Rose wasn’t her best, invited her to visit . . .) In that circumstance, Ellie felt her presence might not be necessary. Would it be feasible to miss the exam then? After only two hours’ sleep, it was barely worth doing it at all.
Confidence Page 26
