Kitabı oku: «The Roommates»

PRESENT DAY

Chapter 1
Sunday 25 September
Imogen

“You should have gone to a Russell Group university.” Imo’s mother makes her pronouncement after ten minutes of stop-start traffic inside the campus. She’s got her brave face on, pretending to be forthright and normal.

Imo shrinks into the back seat and casts an anxious glance outside, but there’s no change in the faces of the students walking past. They haven’t heard the insult despite the open car windows. Wide-eyed and chatting, they stream on, like Glasto, but without the mud and wellies. It’s been warm all month. Imo was sunbathing in the garden yesterday, trying to suppress her gut-wrenching nervousness about today. So much is riding on it. Her chance to escape the life of grief and guilt that she and her family haunt.

What does her mother mean anyway? What difference does a university league table make to the traffic jam? Has she forgotten the free-for-all to get into Freddie’s uni four years ago? But Imo remembers her mother wasn’t there. Dad and Imo took Freddie. That same day Mum drove Sophia to Nottingham. Imo holds back a sigh; they were ordinary then.

A girl in a bright pink T-shirt steps up to her father’s window. “Welcome to the Abbey.” She hands him a hessian bag with Abbey Student Union printed on the side in the same pink as the T-shirt.

Imo’s belly flutters. It’s happening. She’s become part of the exclusive club of students who call it the Abbey despite it saying University of Abbeythorpe on the website. She leans forward, snatches the bag from her dad and looks inside. Leaflets on the Abbi Bar and Takeaway, the Student Welfare Service, and Avoiding STDs; a freshers’ wristband and a packet of condoms. She quickly clutches the bag on her lap. If her dad had seen inside, he’d have turned the car around, despite being in one-way traffic. And Imo would have understood. Risk weighs differently in this family.

The car park is behind a line of bushes on the right side of the road. They park and debate whether to take the luggage with them. Freddie advises leaving it until they know where Imo’s room is. Imo backs his suggestion; anything to avoid her old Groovy Chick duvet being paraded through reception. Her mum made her bring it, saying that uni tumble driers might damage her new one of the New York skyline. Imo didn’t want that one either. It was a birthday present and she intends to leave everything about that day behind. She’ll never be able to look back on turning eighteen with anything but ache and horror.

A large vehicle chugs into the car park. A boy in a high-vis jacket walks ahead and marshals it lengthways across four parking spaces. It’s an ancient ice-cream van painted sky blue, Cloud’s Coffee in bold purple lettering above the serving hatch. A thickset woman, with hair the same shade of blue as the van, climbs out the driver’s side. She pulls her seat forward and a girl jumps down. Taller and slimmer than the mother, and tidier too; her hair is short and blonde.

“Take this, Phoenix.” A man in the passenger seat passes her a holdall. Imo can see where she gets her looks from. Father and daughter are blessed with cheekbones. Not many people could carry off a name like Phoenix, but this girl can. She exudes athletic star quality.

Imo’s family follows the stream of people towards the main accommodation reception. Sweat seeps into her hoodie but she can’t take it off despite the late summer heat. Even though she got it at the British Heart Foundation shop, it’s a Jack Wills. And first impressions count. She spent two hours on Thursday planning her arrival outfit. Like her mother, she can play at normal.

They pass other students and their parents coming out of the building, clutching white envelopes, presumably containing the keys to their home for the next ten months. On the open day last year, Imo walked into this wood-panelled foyer, giggling with other Year Twelves on a trip from her school. Was that the last time she laughed and meant it? Not the fake chuckle she gives these days when her family play real-life charades. She swallows hard.

The hall echoes with the chatter of dozens of families. More students in pink T-shirts usher them into three lines. Imo’s family stand in the left-hand queue. Imo shifts from foot to foot, unable to stop her legs from wobbling. Wishing her parents weren’t with her. Hoping nobody will recognize them.

She swivels her head to look at the white-washed pillars behind the long reception counter. They’re adorned with posters advertising the Freshers’ Welcome Party. The line moves swiftly and soon Imo is in possession of her envelope, with instructions to turn right out of the building, enter the annexe at the back and take the stairs to the first floor. Scared of heights since Inspector Hare’s visit shook her family rigid – since she saw the broken body and imagined the fall – she’d asked for a ground-floor room when she filled in the accommodation form. At least they haven’t put her at the top of a tower block. It’s been months since she climbed higher than the second storey in any building, even though it’s an irrational fear. Inspector Hare had got it wrong again.

On the steps outside, right in the way of other families coming in and out, her parents stop for another debate about fetching the luggage. A Mini Convertible sweeps into the crisscross box of the no-parking zone in front of them. A high-heeled black sandal steps out of the driver’s side. The sandal strap coils along a slender ankle. When the driver stands up, the strap disappears under the hem of black palazzo trousers. The young woman shakes her head and thick, dark curls cascade over her bare shoulders. She’s wearing a white broderie anglaise blouse. A gypsy top, Imo’s grandma would call it, but there’s nothing rustic about its wearer.

“Mid-blue,” Imo’s dad says. “That’s the colour I’d go for too if I ever got one.”

Imo and her mother share a smile. Only her dad could see a beautiful woman and show more interest in her car.

A sudden prickling feeling tells Imo that she is being watched. It’s a familiar sense, one she has struggled with regularly over the past few months. Freddie has too – even worse for him. She swallows down a knot of fear and forces herself to look at the crowd. Students and parents rush past in the heat, not looking her way. She tells herself that it’s just her imagination. That nobody’s recognized her.

Then she freezes. A tall, hooded man is standing in shadow under a tree on the opposite side of the street and smoking a cigarette. Dressed all in black, too old to be a student but clearly not a parent. But it’s not Imo he’s staring at; he’s watching the beautiful woman’s every move. His eyes follow her as she turns to lock her car. A shiver runs down Imo’s spine.

When the man sees Imo looking, she drops her gaze to her envelope, hands trembling. Wariness of strangers is another product of the last few months, and this one looks like a stalker.

The young woman puts her keys in her handbag and walks past Imo into the reception, leaving a waft of expensive perfume in the air. When Imo looks back across the street, the man isn’t there.

Chapter 2
Imogen

“Smile,” her dad says, as he sticks out his backside to bring Imo into his viewfinder. “Let’s have one for the album.” His turn to play-act normal. But Imo’s face is pale. Her mind still fixed on the man outside, on the way his gaze followed the woman through the crowd. Is that how it happened before?

“Imogen, are you all right?” her mum says, concern in her eyes.

“Fine, still a bit car sick.” Imo smiles weakly and sits down on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. At least her family didn’t see him. She lets the sound of her parents bickering stop her mind from racing.

“Mind where you put your feet, Rob,” Mum squawks, pointing at a pile of clothes on the floor.

“I didn’t touch them.”

“You were about to.”

Imo bares her teeth. It’s like Christmas. Everyone’s got up early and they’re all in one room. Arguing. A tremor passes through her. They won’t next Christmas. Some things are worse than arguing.

The room is small: single bed, desk, slim wardrobe, grey carpet tiles, door to an en suite. Surprisingly modern after the imposing reception hall. When they unlocked the flat, Imo noticed other doors in the long hallway. She shudders at the thought of her flatmates appearing now and recognizing her family.

“Mum, are you nearly ready to go?” she says hopefully.

But her mother is still unpacking and doesn’t reply. With an armful of shampoos and conditioners, Imo goes into the tiny bathroom. The sink – half the size of their basins at home – is fitted close to the loo and there’s no bathroom cabinet.

“I wish we’d had room in the car for a toiletries stand.” Imo calls. “I bet that girl in the big van brought one.”

“And a cornetto maker,” Freddie pipes up.

Dad laughs and Imo walks back into the room. But a shadow falls over her mum’s face and she turns towards the window, arms wrapped around her body.

Pretending not to notice, Dad empties the last cardboard box. “Where do you want your German vocab book?”

“Underneath my pillow.” Imo tries to smile but her heart’s not in it. Her backchat is coming out on autopilot, her hand shaking with nerves. She saw other students on the stairs, making the trek to her floor and beyond. Confident, sharing a joke with each other. Why is it only her that doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing?

Dad joins Mum by the window. “She’s got a gorgeous view of the hills,” he says.

“It’s grass,” Mum says, her normal mood a memory.

“And south facing. This will be a sunny room.”

Imo’s belly flutters again, unnerved for a reason she can’t define.

“Right.” Dad sighs and turns from the window, wearing his bravest face. “I suppose we’d better leave you to it.” He gives her a hug. “Keep in touch. Have a brilliant first term.” He hugs her tighter. “And stay safe.”

Freddie pats her back. “Good luck with the audition, Sis.”

Oh God, she hoped he’d forgotten. He found out from the website that the uni will be putting on Jesus Christ Superstar in December. The auditions are this week.

“You will go, won’t you?”

“I haven’t been to a dance class for a while.” It’s been seven months, as he knows – as they all know. She feels the heat of her family’s attention on her. “I might not have time.”

“Course you will, love,” Dad says. “University isn’t all about work.”

“It’s hardly about work at all.” Freddie grins, but then grows serious. “Promise you’ll audition.”

Dad strokes her arm. “It would do you good.”

Mum stays at the window, rubbing her elbow like she always does when she wants to bail out of a conversation but still listen in. Like she does when Inspector Hare visits. Freddie and Dad keep their well-meaning eyes on Imo and she feels the room closing in.

“Okay, I promise.” It’s worth lying to see the relief on their faces.

She sits back on the bed and watches them line up in the small space by the door. Any second now her world of eighteen and a half years will quit with them. Her throat is hard.

Dad and Freddie give her a goodbye peck and head out into the stairwell. When they’ve gone, Mum sits beside her. “I notice you didn’t bring the lamp Grandma gave you.”

“I forgot.” Another birthday gift she needs to shed. Everything from that day is toxic.

Mum places her hands on Imo’s shoulders and looks her in the eye. “You don’t have to do this. I’m not making you.” Most decisions are impossible for Mum these days, but she was quick to agree that Imo should take up her uni place.

Imo tries to wriggle free, but her grip is firm. “I want to be here.” Would it have been different if she hadn’t already accepted the offer before the world tilted?

Mum lets go. “If there’s anything …” She turns away to rub her eye. “Ring me, day or night. Just ring.”

“Of course.” Imo forces a bright smile.

“And you’ve got your personal alarm?”

“Always.”

“Show me.”

Imo hesitates, but only for a moment, knowing her mother won’t leave until she’s seen the tiny, red-topped canister. Imo retrieves it from her coat pocket and holds it out.

“Keep it with your phone,” her mother says. “You need both at all times.”

She watches until Imo has shoehorned it into a front pocket of her jeans. They hug, her mother holding her tighter than feels comfortable. Then she grasps her wrist.

“And never come home on your own on the train. We’ll come and get you.”

Chapter 3
Phoenix

Three of them are in the kitchen drinking Phoenix’s instant coffee. Her mug has Elexo Engineering Solutions in turquoise lettering on the side – a freebie she picked up from a science and technology careers fair. The peroxide blonde – Amber? – waves her Amnesty International mug in the air. Phoenix isn’t sure whether she means to brandish it, but she moves her hands a lot when she speaks.

The third girl – Phoenix has forgotten her name – sips out of Polish pottery. Expensive. Like the Mini Convertible she swept up in. Phoenix has kicked off her trainers to pad around the kitchen in woolly socks; this girl is in classy sandals.

When are they going to sit down instead of acting like it’s a cocktail party? Phoenix has the urge to move from the cooking area to the easy chairs in the dining end of the kitchen. She shifts her weight and listens to Amber.

“I’m doing Theatre Studies. I’ll probably go into directing and writing.” Amber’s bangles and friendship bracelets cascade down her wrist as she drags a hand through her bleached crop. “We need more women in pivotal roles. Smash through the glass ceiling of the existing patriarchy.”

The rich girl suppresses a yawn. Ignoring Amber, she looks at Phoenix. “Where are you from?”

Phoenix hesitates. She’s worked out her backstory but toys with the truth. These girls are her flatmates. Why pretend? Why: because the rich girl might judge and find her wanting. But before she can decide how much to say, Amber’s off and running with her own answer.

“I’m from Chadcombe in Surrey. My dad works for a top accountancy firm in Town. That’s London Town. We call it Town.”

The rich girl’s face doesn’t move, but Phoenix smiles. Amber must be a Home Counties kid, away from home for the first time. Wholesome, but naïve. Doe eyes in kohl and sweetheart mouth behind purple lipstick. Perhaps she’ll work hard and do her parents proud. Yet Phoenix wonders about her; something desperate in the rapid way she speaks.

Another girl steps into the kitchen.

“Hi, welcome.” Amber turns to greet her. “What’s your name?” She steps forward and hugs her, holding her half-drunk coffee behind the girl’s back.

“Imogen … Imo.” The girl swallows. Despite hunching her shoulders inside her Jack Wills sweatshirt and looking down, she’s striking. Her blonde hair looks natural like Phoenix’s own, but this girl can grow it long. It’s well on the way to her waist and she wears it loose.

Amber steers her in front of the others as if she’s the hostess. “This is Imogen, but we can say Imo. I’m Amber and this is Phoenix, named after the actor.”

Phoenix winces. Why do people always assume that about her name? Phoenix is the mythical bird that rises from the ashes. Fire – that’s why her parents chose it. Almost an obsession. She winces again as she remembers watching one of their obsessions turn deadly.

Imogen holds out her arms for a light hug and Phoenix understands why she wears her hair over her face: her cheeks are raging with acne. She looks anxious and there are dark shadows under her eyes.

“I think I saw you in the car park, getting out of a blue ice-cream van,” Imo says.

Phoenix smiles nervously, wondering how many others noticed it.

“I saw a big van as I drove in,” the rich girl says. “Are your parents caterers?”

Phoenix hesitates. “That’s right,” she lies.

Amber completes the introductions for Imo. “And this is Tegan. Have I got that right? A Welsh name?”

Tegan – so that’s the rich girl’s name and explains her mellifluous accent – doesn’t step forward but waits for Imo to reach her. Even in her designer sandals, Tegan’s the shortest of the four of them, but there’s something ten-feet-tall about her. Phoenix doesn’t expect to be having many kitchen chats with her after today. Their social circles won’t intersect.

“What are you studying?” Amber asks Imo.

“German and Business.”

“I can’t do languages. Except BSL – British Sign Language – which I learnt in a day.” Amber leans in close to the newcomer. “But I know Epic Theatre. You must have heard about that if you’re doing German.”

“A little …” Imo pauses and gives a weak smile.

Phoenix feels for her. It must be daunting that someone knows more about her subject than she does.

“In Year Twelve, I acted in a Swiss play.” Imo’s hands are clenched by her sides and she sounds nervous. “About an old woman seeking revenge on the man who got her in trouble when they were teenagers. Is that the sort of thing?”

For a moment Amber hesitates, a flicker of something behind her eyes. Then she shrieks, “That’s it. What was the set like?” In her eagerness to talk drama with Imo, she steps in front of Tegan.

“What are you studying, Phoenix?” Tegan asks in a voice loud enough to make Amber move aside.

“Mechanical Engineering.”

“Interesting,” replies Tegan, sounding like she thinks it’s anything but.

Amber runs with the conversation again. “We’ll try to keep the drama talk to a minimum, won’t we, Imo?” She links arms with the girl she’s known for all of five minutes.

Tegan puts her Polish mug on the kitchen top. “I’m into the arts if they make money. Business is my thing.”

“So are you studying Business like me?” Imo asks.

“For the moment,” Tegan replies. “I left school a year ago and I’ve been building my product range since then.” She bends down to the handbag at her feet and takes out a pouch. In a deft movement, she reconfigures it as a bomber jacket and puts it over her shoulders. Her dark hair is stunning against the ice pink. “Ideal to keep the rain off on a night out and it fits in your bag or …” she lays it on the kitchen top, folds in the sleeves and draws the sides together in previously unseen zips “… have it as the handbag itself.”

“You’re selling these?” Amber takes hold of the newly formed holdall.

“Fourteen ninety-nine, because of the craftsmanship. But I’m offering them on campus for ten pounds, two for eighteen.”

Amber pauses for a moment, turns the bag over in her hands. “I’ll get my purse.”

Imo follows her out. Tegan looks at Phoenix expectantly.

Phoenix makes her best poker face. What craftsmanship? These plastic macs are most likely churned out in a Third-World sweatshop. She weighs up her options. Choose your battles. She’s going to be sharing a flat with this girl. Why make it awkward? She pulls a tenner from her jeans pocket.

“Thank you so much,” Tegan says. But the brightness is false. Phoenix knows conceit when she hears it. Tegan’s used to getting what she wants. Phoenix’s dad, Sonny, thinks university is a holding pen between bouts of real life. Tegan the businesswoman might be the kind of student he’d admire.

“What made you choose the Abbey?” Phoenix asks.

“This was as far away from home as possible on a tank of petrol.” Tegan snorts. “What about you?”

The truth? Her head’s full of designs for show equipment innovations, some worth patenting. Mech Eng is the way she’s going to stay in the world she knows, doing what she’s good at but without the risks. She shrugs. “Same as you, I suppose.”

The other girls come back with their money. Amber’s still holding Imo’s arm. Firm friends already.

“What do you all think of this flat?” Amber asks. “I could do with more wardrobe space.”

Imo and Tegan agree. Again Phoenix stays silent. Until she moved in with Carla and Antonio, her desk converted to her bed.

“So do you think it’s just the four of us in this flat?” Amber points at each of them. “Let’s see if I can remember: Imo doing German and Business, Tegan Business, Phoenix Engineering. And me Theatre Studies.”

“There are five rooms.” Tegan unfolds her demonstration holdall and restores it as a pouch to her handbag. “There must be one more person.”

“I wonder if they’ll get here in time for pre-s,” Amber says.

Phoenix gives her a puzzled frown. If Preez is part of the university registration process, she’s never heard of it.

“Preez?” Imo asks, beating her to the question.

“Don’t you know? Everyone knows that.” Amber laughs, clutching her chest theatrically as if it’s the funniest thing she’s heard. She straightens up when she sees their blank expressions. “Pre-s means pre-drinks. You go to someone’s flat to get tanked before you go out. There are some amazing clubs around here, but drinks in clubs are so expensive. Pre-s are at Ivor’s tonight, downstairs in Flat 7.”

“Which clubs?” Tegan jumps in. She pauses to admire the confusion on Amber’s face. “If it’s pre-drinks in Flat 7, where are you going afterwards?”

“Umm … Not tonight,” Amber bites her lip. “I’m staying here.”

“Well aren’t you the raver. Off the rails already,” Tegan jokes.

But Amber looks away, a flash of anxiety crossing her face.

Amber

As the others continue to chat about themselves, Amber moves to the kitchen window to conceal the heat in her face. She gnaws her thumbnail. Despite putting on what she thought was a full-on performance, one of her new flatmates has found her out, seen through her. Why did posh-girl Tegan embarrass her, even after she bought one of her stupid jackets?

What about the others? Phoenix is a bit of an unknown – could go either way. Hopefully she won’t throw her lot in with Tegan. Two mean girls. It’d be a long year and she might not be able to keep up the pretence. Imo seems nice. Reminds Amber of Verity, kind but dopey. In Vee’s case, it was the weed, in Imo’s it looks natural. She’s not that dumb, though. Amber nearly lost it when she talked about the play, but thinks she hid it well.

Amber thinks about the other girl she met when they were queuing for keys at reception – Lauren – and wishes she was sharing with her. That could be a real friendship. Amber swallows, blinks away a dangerous thought and concentrates on safer ground. They’re both doing Theatre Studies – even though Lauren is joint honours with another subject – and, like Amber, she has a unique sense of style. She hopes they’ll be put in the same drama workshop group.

Behind her, Tegan’s voice is strident as she recounts her five-year business plan. What to do about her? Try harder to fit in? After everything that happened at home – the way Mum and Jade ended up despising her – Amber must become a different version of herself. A better one. Still a liar, but lies are her only currency. They’ll just be better lies.

Her belly clamps as her thoughts stray again. She grips the side of the sink and feels the heat drain from her face. Whenever she thinks of that time too much, her belly relives it. People might call it her mind playing tricks, but if they’d done what she had, they’d feel it too. Guilt and punishment, all in her gut.

Using her hand as a scoop, she takes a drink from the cold tap. When the ache subsides, she gazes out of the window, giving herself time to look calm before turning to her flatmates. By craning her neck she can see the end of the main campus road and watches a few vehicles cruise by. A black car turns into their avenue and crawls past, the driver peering up at the hall of residence. Something about him makes her pause. He must turn around out of eyeshot, because he reappears and parks on the opposite kerb.

At this distance, it’s hard to make out his features, but she sees him lift binoculars to his eyes and focus on her window. Amber bends over the sink, her heart thumping. By the time she looks up again, his car is moving off. She shudders. A pervert? Stalker, after an eyeful of teenage flesh? But if she alerts the others, they might think she’s imagined it. Not as bad as Mum and Jade not believing her, but not the start she wants. Without saying anything, she watches the car drive away.

Chapter 4
Phoenix

Phoenix rinses the mugs the others have left in the sink, sensing it’s a sign of things to come. If they’d have lived like she did, they’d wash up as they go. But she can’t imagine posh-girl Tegan clearing up after herself. And Amber? She belted out of the kitchen like she’d seen a ghost. Maybe she can work on Imo. Get her on cleaning duty by Reading Week.

Back in her room she finishes her unpacking, only her posters still to do. The magnolia-painted breeze block walls are speckled with Blu Tack from previous occupants. Pinching together a decent clump, she affixes her favourite poster, smoothing the edges. The intensity of the orange and black image almost heats her fingertips. Magnificent. A long time ago.

She forgot to ask what time the flat party gets going, but it becomes apparent when the floor begins to pulsate. Ivor, below in Flat 7, must be letting rip with his speakers because his mummy isn’t there to tell him to turn it down. Pathetic. She changes her T-shirt and combs her hair.

There’s a knock on her door. It’s Amber, apparently over whatever spooked her in the kitchen. She’s gone for full greasepaint. Industrial quantities of eyeliner, attempting an edgy Amy Winehouse. She’s clutching Malibu purchased from the Costcutter near the student union.

“Is there time for me to get something?” Phoenix asks as they go into the hallway.

“No need.” Tegan comes out of her room, empty-handed. “There’ll be plenty of booze.”

After calling on Imo, they follow the throbbing bass downstairs to the open front door of Flat 7 and squeeze into the crowded hallway. The layout is the same as their flat, so they head to the kitchen. The music is a couple of decibels lower here, and they can hear each other if they shout. Bottles of various alcoholic potions occupy the work surfaces. Amber finds a stack of paper cups and sloshes out four measures of Malibu. After adding a dash of cola, she and Imo knock theirs back. Never a fan of rum, Phoenix pretends to sip hers.

Tegan leaves hers untouched. “Business first.” She heads into the hall.

From the kitchen doorway, Phoenix watches a sandy-haired boy lunge in for a hug. Tegan endures it stiffly and pats his back. It must be Ivor and she’s keeping him sweet. Phoenix’s assessment seems to be confirmed when he nods and lets her move through the guests in the hallway, parting them from their student loans in exchange for her folding jackets. Against the din, she perfects her sales pitch in mime. Still wearing the same clothes as earlier – palazzo pants and white top – she’s the best-dressed student here, even with the additional accessory of a money pouch strapped round her hips.

A few lads drift past Phoenix into the kitchen. She follows and swaps her drink for a can of beer. Amber and Imo still hover over the Malibu. The boys swarm round Imogen like flies on an elephant turd. Hers is tart with a tan look: leopard print mini-skirt, long-sleeved, lacy crop top. Acne hidden under layers of foundation.

Amber moves in, eyeing the boys. She’s more covered up than Imo but not in a good way. Baggy black linen pants, white cotton top, working men’s boots. If Phoenix screws up her eyes it’s rich-girl Tegan’s wardrobe. Screws them up tight.

“Genuine Romany.” Amber knocks back her drink and holds out the seam of her trousers. “Belonged to my grandmother. I’m from an old gypsy family.”

Phoenix chokes on her beer. If Amber’s a Romany, then Tegan’s jackets are handmade in Chelsea.

A box of pizza makes its way between hands. Amber takes a slice, turns it over and sucks it. “I like the sauce, but I’m gluten free.” She passes the rest of the box to Imo and sways in time to a new tune that drills pneumatically out of the speakers in the hall.

A boy that Phoenix recognizes from the Engineering open day takes a couple of four-packs of Strongbow Dark Fruit out of the fridge. He smiles when he sees her. “Come and sit with us. We’ve found somewhere quiet,” he shouts.

She follows him down the hall to the furthest-away bedroom. Two boys and a girl sit on the bed. They hand her a cider and she shuts the door. The walls vibrate but at least they can talk. She and the boy from the open day sit on the floor. The other boys are doing Engineering too and the girl is a chemist.

When the cider runs out, Phoenix says she’ll get more and goes back to the kitchen. The music’s still full blast, banging its rhythm into her throat. There’s no sign of Tegan – probably moved on to another flat party to flog her jackets – but Imo and Amber are there. Imo’s at the sink, no boys buzzing near her now. Phoenix smells the sick as she approaches. Imo’s holding back her hair in one hand and leaning against the basin with the other. There’s a ketchup-coloured streak on her sleeve.

Amber is dancing on the tiny floor with a couple of other girls and Ivor. The host grips his drink while swaying and twisting not quite on the beat. A tall man stands against the fridge, hood up, his eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights. He’s older than the others and a gap has formed between him and the dancers. A postgrad loser, Phoenix thinks. When Ivor overbalances towards him, the man barges past.

“Sorry, mate,” Ivor slurs, and gawps at his beer puddling on the floor.

But the man has gone.

Chapter 5
Monday 26 September
Imogen

An explosion in her sleep illuminates one of her what-if nightmares: mouldy walls, a shrivelled body hunched over bent knees, cold floor. Imo thrashes against her sheets, curls foetal, trying not to hear the tortured whimpers in her dream. Fighting for breath. Pressure on her chest, crushing, crushing …

She sits upright in bed, skin clammy, pillow damp. Blood pounding in her trembling limbs. It takes several moments to register she’s awake. Unsteady on her feet, she reaches the bathroom and vomits into the toilet.

She returns to bed, still feeling dreadful, only vaguely aware that someone is walking beside her, holding her arm. Their grip firm.

***

Light burns through her eyelids and her head throbs. The pain gets worse when she flicks open her eyes. Sun streams in through the gap in the curtain where it’s hanging off the rail. Her mother tried to fix it and told Imo to report the fault. She won’t, though; the idea of maintenance people coming into her room ties her in knots.

When she turns over, she sees her arm, still in the lacy top she wore the previous evening. There’s a white, bobbly mark smeared on the sleeve. A flash of recollection: Amber dabbing it with wet loo paper. Imo sniffs the tissue residue and retches. It still stinks of puke.

She recalls handing her room key to Phoenix when she couldn’t get it in the lock. Phoenix led her in and laid her on the bed. A plastic bowl appeared from somewhere.

Imo checks the floor. The bowl’s still there, mercifully empty. But the motion of leaning over makes her guts squirm and she coughs bile into it. A long slither of creamy saliva hangs from her mouth and she rubs her face on the pillow.

Never again.

But it was a good night. Normal. The Imo from before. She pads her hand over her bedside locker and finds her phone. Yep, five friend requests, all from boys. As she deletes them, there’s a flutter of panic in her chest. What if she bumps into them on campus? It’s not like Tinder where she can flirt and forget – thirty-two Super Likes and no intention of meeting any of them. These requests are from boys nearby. They mustn’t find out her Facebook profile is empty. She unfriended everyone except her sister, Sophia.

Still she did all right last night, didn’t she? Talked, cracked jokes, faked the odd laugh? Another wave of nausea rolls through her gullet and she spits more bile into the bowl. A flashback: she puked in the night. After a nightmare. She can’t remember the dream now but it was probably the recurring one about the cellar. The slime-covered walls, the shape on the floor with its bone-thin limbs. She shivers despite the sweaty cocoon of her duvet.

Amber must have cleaned the bowl. No, Phoenix took her to the loo. That’s right, isn’t it? Both have short blonde hair, but Amber’s has a temporary look that doesn’t quite work with her skin tone, and Phoenix stands a good few inches taller. Yes, Phoenix sorted out her puking. Then sometime later Amber told Phoenix she’d take over.

Amber: “Imo and I are good friends.”

Phoenix: “You’ve just met.”

Amber: “In this life, maybe.”

Imo can’t remember Phoenix’s reply. After she’d gone, Amber kept talking.

“I never sleep well … It’s not just Dad; I can’t see Leo.” Sitting on the end of Imo’s bed. “What if …?” Pacing the room. “I should be there …” Tugging the curtain that won’t shut. “Why can’t I put things right …?”

Imo sits up. Everything rocks. She’s never had a head fug like this before. So bad her memories of Amber’s words must be hallucinations. Her own disturbing dreams have got bound up with the drunken ramblings of her new flatmate. It must be the booze. If she stays sober, it won’t happen again. A price worth paying. University is supposed to be a new start, without the nightmares.

She peels off her top and supposes it will have to go in the bin as she doesn’t know how to work the washing machines. A mild panic hits her: when did she take her skirt off? Hopes to hell she wasn’t so drunk she did a striptease.

The phone pings with another text from her mum. How many is that? Since February, she’s averaged ten a day, but now that Imo’s away from home, her mother has upped her anxious bombardment. She doesn’t read it. If she thinks of home, she’ll buckle.

Mercifully, the skirt is a dead leopard on the floor in front of the loo. Her throat craves water. Head swimming, she turns on the taps, but the cold water runs tepid. She can’t drink it like that.

She sends a new text: Loving it here. I’ll call later. In some ways it would be easier if Mum phoned her, but, by some unmentioned pact, they agreed months ago that Mum would only ring if there was a sighting. Or worse.

Phoenix

Phoenix is in the kitchen, making a coffee.

“Want one?” she asks when Imo creeps in looking like death in a dressing gown.

Imo shakes her head, takes a mug off the draining board and fills it with tap water. When she leans against the sink, Phoenix is pretty sure it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Not surprising after the skinful she sank and brought up again. Does Imo remember her bad dream? Phoenix hopes not. She remembers listening to Imo’s moans. How Imo thrashed under the covers, twisting and yelling. She’d wanted to stay with her, but Amber insisted on doing her shift. Hopefully Imo’s also forgotten Amber’s creepy words of comfort. Phoenix shivers as she remembers the desperate look in Amber’s eyes. God knows what else she said after Phoenix left.

She moves a hot-water bottle off an easy chair in the dining area and suggests Imo sits down. The vinyl upholstery makes a fut sound when Imo lands.

“What’s that?” She points to the drink on the coffee table, flinching at the smell.

“Hangover remedy,” Phoenix explains. “Amber left it there for me. Tastes like candle wax.” She’s never tasted candle wax, but she knows it would be like this.

“Where is Amber?” Imo yawns.

“Must have gone back to bed, said her leg was hurting.”

When Phoenix got up, she’d been surprised to find Amber stretched across a chair and the coffee table, hugging a hot-water bottle. When she saw Phoenix, she pressed it against her knee. Phoenix offered to make an ice pack for her leg, but Amber declined.

Imo leans over to the table and sniffs the waxy drink. “Have you even got a hangover? I didn’t see you drinking.”

“Cider. My mouth’s like a Portaloo.”

Imo holds her head. “I’m going to lie down.”

“Haven’t you got a library induction session?” Phoenix asks. She passed Tegan on her way out, looking fine in designer jeans and another broderie anglaise top. “Tegan mentioned a library talk for Business students.”

“I’m totally dead.” Imo puts down her cup and lurches out of the kitchen.

Chapter 6
Tegan

Tegan’s app directs her from her parking space in front of the geography tower to the university library. It looks like a giant greenhouse, several storeys of tinted glass. She makes small talk with other Business students who are waiting for the doors to open. It’s an investment; no time to pitch to them now, but her saleswoman’s instinct tells her to schmooze.

Amber, one of her three blonde flatmates, walks past with a group of weird-looking students – duffle coats, combats, tie-dyed scarves that look as if they’ve been in an autopsy. Tegan waves. It might pay to be neighbourly. But Amber looks away, ignoring her. Bloody cheek. Tegan catches the tail end of a story she’s telling the gaggle around her.

“… Cumberbatch is great to work with.”

Tegan looks at the ground and shakes her head.

After a few minutes, a man in an un-ironed shirt, with a beard to match, appears inside the library entrance and releases the glass doors. He holds up his hands. “If you’re expecting an induction, it’s in Lecture Room 2.”

“Are you sure, mate – library induction?” one of the boys asks.

But the man goes back indoors. No one knows where the lecture room is and they drift off in different directions. Tegan and a few others search but find only Lecture Room 1 in the Business Studies block, with no sign of another lecture theatre.

“Stuff it,” Tegan mutters and returns to her car. She’s not that bothered anyway about using the library. When her business takes off, she’ll pay someone to do her research. She opens the roof of the car and gazes up at the geography tower. All the parking spaces are designated disabled but hers is the only car here. Where to now? The first Business Studies lecture isn’t until tomorrow. There’s time for a drive around the town centre to see if any of the independent shops will stock her jackets.

Her fists clench as a thought makes her shiver. She’ll show him. People make it big in business all the time through hard graft and a good idea. She’ll be a success without her father’s tainted help.

Something glints at a third-floor window. The glare from the sun is too bright for her to see what it is. Maybe someone’s looking out, and so what if they are? They’re hardly going to slap her with a parking fine from up there.

Light glimmers again. It’s bloody binoculars. Some doddery old perv of a geography professor is spying on the campus, gawping at fresher totty from his ivory tower. Her fingers form a V. She points them at the window, making clear she’s eyeballed him. The figure steps out of sight but is too fleet of foot for an ancient academic. Tegan grows cold and notices that her hands are shaking on the steering wheel.

Suddenly her passenger door opens and Amber gets in, disturbing the air with cheap, fruity scent. “Take me to the flat.”

“Try asking nicely before you scare the crap out of me.” Tegan’s heart races, thoughts of the watcher still rattling.

Tears streak Amber’s face and clumps of mascara look set to dive off her lashes. “Social anxiety,” she gasps. “Sometimes crowds get too much for me and my leg’s hurting.” She pants, rhythmically, as if she’s going to hyperventilate.

“That must make it hard during a show.” Tegan’s heartbeat has calmed, and settled on sarcasm.

The panting stops and Amber stares at her. “Show?”

“On stage, with you being a drama student. Acting all the time.” Acting right now, if Tegan’s any judge.

Amber breathes out. “I’m more of a director, behind the scenes. I have to keep my anxieties under control.”

Tegan starts the engine. Cumberbatch my eye.

As she pulls away she glances up at the tower once more. And catches a glimpse of a tall shadow at the window. A face stares down at her. And her hands shake again.

Chapter 7
Amber

The fragrance in the car is subtle but expensive. Half like its wearer – Tegan’s definitely on the pricey side but there’s nothing subtle about her silent disapproval. The more Amber sees of her, the more she resembles her sister, Jade. Not only her dark hair and freckles, but also her stance. Straight back, manicured nails on the steering wheel, hard eyes.

No doubt the last thing Tegan wants is Amber occupying her passenger seat, but Amber had no choice. Couldn’t walk another step after the shock she’s just had. It was only the trick of the light, but she had turned and fled, barged people out of her way, panic rising in her throat, stomach crippling in pain.

Why doesn’t she just tell Tegan a version of the truth instead of faking the stuff with her knee? She told Imo when they were drunk – sort of told her – so why not Tegan? Or Phoenix? She seems okay so far, better than expected. Not a deep thinker, into engineering and … Amber leans on the window as she scrolls her memory. What else does Phoenix do? Something sporty if her physique is anything to go by.

Amber bites the inside of her cheek. Maybe she should ask her flatmates questions and listen to the answers, instead of masking her secrets with babble. Instead of play-acting the part of an intellectual liberal so others will feel too intimidated to enquire about her background. A stupid role to pick as she only scraped into this university with a plea of extenuating circumstances. All lies. There were reasons for her poor A level results, but not the ones she gave.

Taking a deep breath, she continues with the disguise she’s been perfecting since she arrived. “Shall we go to the canteen?” she asks enthusiastically. “We can have a proper chat.”

“What, now?” Tegan glances at the clock on her dashboard.

“Early lunch. Please, I’d like to.”

Silence and Amber thinks she sounded too pleading. That’s always been her downfall. Begging gets you nowhere. On her knees, clinging, sobbing, screeching …

“If you’re paying,” Tegan says. She pulls into the kerb and reverses up a side road. They turn around and park in the loading bay behind the kitchens.

“Shouldn’t you …?” Amber starts, but changes her mind. She hates it when people run her life; she won’t tell Tegan where to park.

The canteen queue moves slowly. Students everywhere. Remembering who she thought she saw, her belly tugs, as if she’s being pummelled from the inside, and she keeps glancing over her shoulder. Suddenly she’s back there, in the moment. In the hours. Hurting. As a substitute for doubling over, she rubs her knee. Channels her ache into her leg. No one must see the truth. She straightens up, ignoring the funny look Tegan gives her.

As they wait, most people gaze at the TV monitors around the walls with Lady Gaga videos on repeat. Tegan uses the time to check her sales figures on her phone.

“It’s like Hogwarts.” Amber scans the busy dining hall. Tables the length of railway lines. “Where are we going to sit?”

“With Slytherin,” Tegan sneers.

After they’ve loaded their plates and poured a couple of coffees, Tegan leads the way to the clean end of a table beyond a group of older students gathered round a tablet. Postgrads probably.

Amber makes another attempt at conversation. “Are you going to the Freshers’ Fair? I’d like to join the drama club, if they have one, and maybe take up a new hobby of some kind. University is a chance for new beginnings.”

Tegan rolls her eyes. “Next you’ll be saying we’re on a journey.”

“Sorry.” Amber blushes into her salad and chips.

Tegan sighs. “I suppose I could look for a business enterprise group.”

Amber can’t think how to reply and feels uncomfortable again. Nothing in common with this girl. She shivers. Nothing in common with anyone. Her gullet heaves at the memory of what she did.

She puts down her fork and tells another lie. “I can’t eat this. I’m allergic to tomatoes. It’s the alpha solanine.”

Tegan rolls her eyes again. “Is alpha whatsit not present in upside-down pizza then?” She waits for Amber to look at her. “Remember the party in Flat 7? You tucked in good and proper.”

Amber hunches her shoulders and returns to picking tomato slices out of her salad. Found out again.

“By the way,” she says eventually, in another try at faking it. “I forgot to mention they’ve moved into the last room in our flat.”

“They?” Tegan asks. “Is it a couple?”

Amber shakes her head, puts on her persona. “One individual. I designate all humans as they; gender is a social construct.”

“Okay,” Tegan says slowly. “For those of us who are less enlightened, can you give me a clue which bits of they’s anatomy dangle?”

Amber struggles to keep a straight face. “The less enlightened would call them male.”

“A guy?” Tegan says, laughing.

“I think he, they, is from Thailand,” Amber says between chuckles.

Tegan’s laughter freezes. “Thailand?” Her knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of the table.

“They don’t speak English so I couldn’t find out their name. Don’t suppose you speak any Thai?”

“No.”

The force of the word silences Amber. The good-humoured conversation has evaporated as inexplicably as it materialized. She burns her mouth as she hurries to finish her drink.

“Thanks for the lift.” She stands up and heads out of the hall. Trying to befriend Tegan was a mistake. Imo is a better friend – and Lauren, the girl she bumped into on arrivals day. That’s a friendship Amber hopes to cultivate.