20
Edinburgh, five years ago. Andie.
It’s freezing outside and my jacket isn’t warm enough. My clothes never seem to be warm enough for Scottish weather: every winter, I almost get hypothermia, and even in the summer I always seem to be shivering.
I pull my jacket tighter and adjust my scarf. I’m on a mission today: I don’t have time to worry about my clothes, or go back and get a warmer jacket. I have a job to do. For Sara. I promised Sara I would do this for her, and I can’t go back on that.
I open the door to the student library and find him sitting in the café, bent over a book. We’ve been coming across each other in lectures in the English course we’re both taking for the better part of a year, and sure, I’ve noticed he’s attractive. But it occurs to me now for the first time how beautiful he is, when he’s not aware he’s being watched; my gaze passes over his perfect cheekbones, his dark, curly hair. His deep blue eyes, which look up from the page and find mine. A knot forms in my stomach. Nerves, but something else, too: the way he’s looking at me feels like it’s piercing my soul somehow. I break eye contact. You’re just here for information, Andie. You can flirt later .
I sit opposite him and he smiles nervously.
‘Thanks so much for meeting me,’ I say, reaching to pull a notebook and pen out of my bag. He nods.
‘Of course, happy to. Though I have to say I found your message very cryptic. The cute girl I sit next to in English lectures emails me, telling me she needs help with something she can’t explain now, and asks me to meet her here? Colour me intrigued.’
I smile, my lips tight, doing the best to ignore the ‘cute’ comment even as my stomach swoops. ‘It was cryptic for a reason.’ I reach down and pull a piece of paper from my bag – an NDA template I found on the internet. It probably isn’t legally binding, but it’s good enough for my purposes. I need to scare him into never mentioning this conversation to anyone. He takes it from me and looks at it, his eyebrows lifting.
‘Andie, what is this about? I thought you just needed notes from our last lecture or something. Now you’re pulling legal documents on me?’ He turns it over, examining it. ‘Is this even a real NDA?’
‘Look, Jack. I can’t tell you more until you sign it, except that you’d be helping me, and someone I care about, a lot. No hard feelings if you want to walk away. But if you’re in, I need to know sooner rather than later. And I need you to sign that document,’ I say, tapping my foot involuntarily under the table. I don’t want to pressurise him, but I’m impatient: I want to get this done. He gives me a long look, then sighs and signs the document. I relax as he hands it back to me: step one, complete.
‘Thanks, Jack. Sorry for all the mystery. I just want to be really careful.’
He nods. ‘Now I’m extremely intrigued. What’s going on?’
I take a deep breath. You rehearsed this. It’s going to be OK . ‘You’re on the swim team, right?’ I ask, levelling my gaze even as my heart starts pounding at the thought of what I’m about to ask of him.
He looks just as confused as ever, but nods.
I steel myself. ‘I’m about to ask you to do something big, which could get you in a lot of trouble with your teammates. All the NDA means is that you can’t talk about this conversation with anyone, not that you have to do what I ask.’
His expression is more serious now, and he’s leaning towards me. Good. This is serious.
‘I need you to spy on them for me. For an article I’m writing for the university newspaper.’
At this the serious expression disappears and he sits back, laughing. ‘Jesus, Andie, you really had me going there. The way you were talking it sounded like you wanted me to drown one of them. What kind of spying are we talking about? Tell me it’s not a tell-all on our locker room conversations. Because, I can give you an exclusive now: all the ones I’m involved in are incredibly boring.’
I don’t join him in his laughter. My stomach twists. None of this feels funny, because it’s not. A great wrong has been done to someone I care about, and I need to fix it.
‘Are you familiar with the website slutsofedinburgh.com?’
This wipes any joy from his face immediately. His expression darkens. ‘That cesspit of a website where low-life morons post paragraphs rating girls’ sexual performance? Unfortunately, yes. I am familiar. It’s fucking disgusting.’ He looks at me, worry crossing his features. ‘You weren’t—’
I cut in, interrupting him. ‘Last week, my friend Sara was posted on there. Pictures of her sleeping that were taken without her consent, and a rating of a one night stand she had with one of your team members. I know it was him, because she told me, even though they conveniently never include the names of the men involved.’
He shifts in his chair, his posture stiffening. ‘Jesus fucking Christ. Who was it, Andie? I’ll—’
I raise my hand. ‘I don’t want or need you to beat anyone up, Jack. I just need you to do a bit of digging and find out who runs the website, who might be involved in it. I want to publish an anonymous exposé in the university newspaper, with the names of every single fucker who has had any hand in it, then have the whole fucking thing taken down. They deserve a taste of their own public shaming.’
Anger ripples through me as I almost spit out those last two words. I’ve never seen Sara like this. She’s exhausted, ashamed, hardly leaving her room, worried about attending lectures in case people judge her. How fucking dare they break her spirit like this. I will make them pay.
‘I know we don’t know each other all that well, and this is a big ask,’ I say, forcing the anger aside and focusing my attention back on Jack. ‘No hard feelings if you don’t want to be involved.’
I wait a few moments while he contemplates the prospect, pretending to examine the NDA while my heart pounds in my chest. I’ve already put myself at so much risk, told him so much. After about thirty seconds, the crease in his brow unfolds and resolve crosses his features. My shoulders relax, some of the tension leaving my body. Thank God. I came up with the idea for the article last night, after leaving Sara despondent in her room, and spent hours lying awake, trying to figure out how to get the necessary information. Jack’s face popped into my mind at about 2 a.m., and this plan slowly formed around it. I’ve had little contact with anyone in other sports teams, and certainly not enough to find any of them trustworthy. To be honest, I don’t know Jack that well, either. I’m going mostly on instinct, based on the small talk we’ve exchanged outside lectures and the fights I’ve observed him breaking up on nights out. Still, it was a risk.
‘I’m in,’ he says, reaching across the table to shake my hand. ‘Meet me back here, same time next week. I’ll hopefully have something for you by then.’
I smile, even as another flash of anger surges at the thought of discovering who was responsible for all this. I’m grateful, and glad that I was right about him. And, I have to admit, more than a little turned on by how furious he was about the website. Nothing gets me going more than a feminist. I pick up my bag. ‘Thanks, Jack,’ I say, turning to go. ‘I appreciate it.’
As if he’s read my thoughts, Jack calls to me as I walk away. ‘Hey, Andie?’ I turn back to face him, half way to the café doors. ‘Once we’re done with all this, can I buy you a drink?’
Despite myself, I feel a blush creeping up my neck. I nod, giving myself a moment for my thoughts to unscramble before I speak, but not wanting him to think I’m going to say no. ‘I’d like that,’ I say, and I turn back towards the doors. I could swear I can still feel his eyes on my back as I leave, but when I turn around to check, there’s someone in the way. By the time they’ve passed, his head is back down, his gaze fixed on his book. I tear my eyes away, worried he’ll notice, then push the library door open and step back out into the cold air. I take a deep breath, my lungs prickling with the cold. A spy and a date. Not bad, for a Tuesday afternoon.
When we meet again, a week later, the weight in my stomach feels like a lead block. I remind myself of Sara’s face, lighter than I’d seen it in days, when I told her Jack had agreed to my plan. He’s sitting at the same table, reading a different book with a dragon on the cover, just as breathtakingly beautiful as he was a week ago. He looks up and his eyes find mine, and I can see in them that he has something. He puts his bookmark in his book, folds it closed and smiles at me.
‘Hey, stranger,’ I say, as I sit down, mentally focused on making sure my hands don’t tremble. They’re just some sports boys, not serial killers , I remind myself, but it doesn’t entirely work. I’ve seen how they fight each other outside the union when they’re drunk. They’re all huge, and strong, and vaguely threatening in a way that’s difficult to put your finger on but very obvious when you’re surrounded by crowds of them in a club, and I’m about to take them on head-on. Well, sort of. My name won’t be printed, and I’ve been corresponding with the newspaper editor via an anonymous email address, but I’m putting a huge amount of trust in Jack not to reveal the article was written by me, thus exposing me to the unchecked, drunken rage of the largest and scariest section of the student body. I hope my gut instinct about him is right.
‘I have some names,’ he says, leaning in and sliding a piece of paper across the table. I reach to take it, and my finger grazes his, and it’s like my hand is on fire. I clear my throat and slide the list of the people who run the website towards me, studying it. There are a few names that are no surprise: Dan, the moronic head of the rugby team, who has about three brain cells – he’s definitely not the mastermind behind this, but it checks out that he’s involved: he has a charming habit of spitting at women who reject him when he’s drunk; Connor, who tried to grope my friend Amy a year ago at our annual summer student party, then called her a slag when she stamped on his foot. But then there’s an outlier: Robbie. The captain of the swim team, the golden boy with a different girlfriend every week, who should be leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake but never seems to suffer the consequences. Everybody likes him, even those he’s dated and cast aside for someone new. He’s led Edinburgh to national victory in division 1 university competitions three times. His grades are perfect, his swimming is perfect, his dad donated a new wing to the library we’re sitting in. But despite my initial surprise that he’s on this list, a chill runs through me as I read his name. Something about him has always bothered me, rendering me immune to the charms that everyone else seems so susceptible to: the few times I’ve seen him around, or caught his eye, there’s been a deep twist in my gut, a warning sign. If there is someone running this show, I’d put my money on him: the person no one would ever suspect, shielded by his dad’s deep pockets and his own excellent reputation. Jack’s sheet confirms my suspicion. His name is circled in red.
I breathe out, a slow, rattling breath, dread pooling in my stomach the longer I stare at his name. If I was scared before, I’m terrified now. Jack reaches across the table and puts his hand on mine.
‘Have you thought about going to the university, instead?’ he asks. ‘I could go with you, if you like.’
I smile sadly at his kind offer, his trust in an institution that I know deep in my bones will care more about Robbie’s sporting ability than any of the poor women he’s shaming on that website. They’ll brush it all under the rug, give him a glorified slap on the wrist and make sure nothing touches his impeccable record. No, it has to be this way. I have to do this. I give myself an internal shake, sit up straight in my seat and try to radiate confidence.
‘Thanks so much for your help, Jack,’ I say, standing up to go. ‘I’ll take it from here.’
Just as I’m about to walk off, my heart pounding, Jack says ‘Wait, Andie,’ and puts his hand on my arm. A thousand nerve endings spring to life at his touch.
‘Thursday?’ he says, pulling out his phone and handing it to me.
My brain is so full of what I’m about to do that I can’t think straight. I blink at him, not understanding what he’s talking about. He smiles. ‘Our drink,’ he says, and understanding dawns on me.
‘Of course,’ I say, though getting a drink with him is suddenly the furthest thing from my mind. I look down at his phone.
‘Put your number in it?’ he says, his voice gentle. ‘I mean – only if you want – I just thought it might be easier than talking over email…’
He trails off as I nod and wordlessly type my number into his phone, his face flushed slightly pink. I hand it back to him and force a smile so he doesn’t think my hesitance is because of him, when it’s really because I’m fucking terrified of what might happen once this is done.
‘See you then,’ I say, and I turn to walk away. This time, I keep my eyes fixed on where I’m going.
I work until midnight, anger moving through me, speeding my hands across the keys of my laptop. The words come easily, sentences forming like water flowing down a stream. I keep Sara at the forefront of my mind: I am doing this for her. For every woman on that stupid website. For myself, for all the times I’ve felt uncomfortable in a nightclub, their eyes moving over me like I’m a piece of meat.
I start with a powerful opening, laying out studies I’ve painstakingly researched and collated of the misogynistic culture rearing its head in university sports teams across the country, citing similar cases to this one at other universities. They’re not always websites: social media accounts, forums, WhatsApp groups, Facebook groups. You name it, they’ll find a way to shame you in it. I then weave in a few personal accounts from women featured on the website, which proves the hardest section to write. Once Sara’s name went up, a few other victims reached out to her, and some have provided devastating testimony about how ashamed this website made them feel, how small. Sara decided not to contribute, even anonymously – it was all still too raw for her. I totally understood: she’s felt so exposed for the last few weeks. She deserves to feel safe for a while. Despite this, as I write a strange loneliness comes over me, a sadness that she of all people isn’t standing with me. But right now, my feelings aren’t important: the most important thing is getting it out there, making sure that Sara is OK, that she and the other women feel justice has been served. And besides, it doesn’t make any difference: all my sources’ names will be as anonymous as my own, anyway.
At 11:59 p.m. I finish, putting the final touches on the pièce de résistance: the names I have of the main boys involved, ten of them, citing the anonymous source from an unnamed male sports team who provided me with this information. It’s comprehensive: their name, what they study, what sports team they play for. A hit list, if you will. I smile to myself, imagining future women using this as a ‘who not to date’ guide, imagining these men never getting laid again. It’s not as satisfying as having them kicked out of the university, but it’s pretty good.
When I’m done, I’m exhausted, totally hollowed out. I send the article to the newspaper and a text to Sara saying It’s done xx and drag myself to bed, falling asleep almost immediately.
Three days later, the article goes out, and all hell breaks loose. The whole university is buzzing with gossip: who wrote it, and how did they get the information? And – I’m not sure why I didn’t expect this, but somehow I hadn’t thought things through this far – there’s just as much speculation about the anonymous source as there is about the person who wrote the article. Who’s the snake in all this, who broke the most sacred rule of guy code and landed everyone in trouble? And then – amongst the sports teams, and those associated with them – the anger, the insistence that they’ve done nothing wrong. It wasn’t a big deal anyway, right? Just a load of fuss over nothing. A big joke. Don’t know what everyone’s crying about.
I move through it, my face so hot I feel sure people must see the responsibility written all over it: I might as well have written ‘IT WAS ME’ in sharpie on my forehead for how conspicuous I feel. Underneath my fear for myself, though, there’s a deeper fear for Jack. He’s the one at real risk here, the ‘snake’. I hadn’t really seen it at the time, probably because I didn’t want to, but he put a lot more on the line than I did.
But though I’m more terrified now than before, though I had hoped I would feel better after the article went out and I do not, I know that I did the right thing. I know because Sara is back, shiny and happy and buoyant. She’s left her bed, and showered, and she’s attending lectures again. It was worth it, for that. For her. My best friend, my person. I’d do anything for her.
I sit through my lectures in a daze, barely registering any of the information because I’m on such high alert, trying to catch snippets of people talking about what happened, their judgements for or against the article (so far, the split is roughly 50% those fuckers deserved it and 50% that was an unnecessary piece of public shaming, and the author should be ashamed of herself – because of course it was a woman, who else would be whining about this?). When I get to my renaissance poetry lecture, though, my heart starts beating faster. Jack is also taking this course, as one of his core modules alongside his history degree. It’s where we met, where I first spotted him. Where I decided that if anyone was the person to help me with this, it was him. Will he be there, or is he lying low? Has he realised the position I’ve put him in? Has he heard what people are saying about him and decided he hates me?
I don’t have to wait long for an answer: he’s sitting at his usual desk, doodling idly in his notebook as if it’s a normal day. There are two takeaway coffee cups in front of him, and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. I eye them in surprise, and he looks up at me, his face lighting up when he spots me. For the first time since this morning, when the article was published, my thoughts slow down and I start to relax. Jack’s here, and he understands, and I’m not alone in this.
I walk towards the desk, feeling lighter than I have in days, and he pulls out my chair for me. I sit, moving the crisps out of the way briefly so I can put down my books. He notices, and smiles. ‘Thought you might want some sustenance,’ he says, quietly so only I can hear. ‘Big day and all.’
Though his words should put me back on high alert, worried someone might hear them and put two and two together, I’m so touched by his gesture I almost cry.
‘Thank you,’ I say, as I take a few sips of strong coffee. ‘These are my favourite. How did you know?’ I whisper, gesturing to the crisps. He shrugs and taps the side of his nose. I think back to the last few months of lectures; the number of times I’ve had a packet of this exact brand of crisps in my bag, on the desk. I hadn’t realised he’d been paying so much attention. A rush of affection for him appears at the thought.
The coffee hits my veins, giving me a welcome hit. This is probably going to be fine , I think. Sara is happy, and Jack seems fine, and my name isn’t anywhere anyone could find it. This will all die down in a few days, and I’ll be able to go back to my normal life knowing justice has been properly served and I’ve done right by my friend. But something deep in my gut is telling me this isn’t over yet.
When is it coming down? he writes on a note to me, half way through the lecture. He’s referring to the website, to the second part of my plan: having the computer science student I’ve befriended take it down. I look around, still on high alert, then write back Tomorrow .
He nods and smiles conspiratorially, and yet again a rush of calm moves through me.
As we’re packing up after class and I head towards the door, prepared to go back to my room, Jack appears at my side.
‘So, where would you like to go?’ he asks, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. I blink at him, uncomprehending.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten again,’ he laughs. ‘Our drink, Andie?’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Sorry. A little distracted today.’
‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘If I weren’t so aware of my own devastating good looks, I might take it personally.’ He gestures out the door like some old-timey gentleman, and despite myself I burst out laughing. I like this boy. I’ve not liked a boy in a long while. It feels good, a delightful contrast to the worry I’ve been carrying around for the last few days. Perhaps I can take the weight of the world off my shoulders for one evening and have some fun.
Three hours and several drinks later, Jack and I are making out. Hard. I’m not sure who kissed who first, but somehow on our way to the bar for another round I end up pushed up against the cold stone wall of the student bar, kissing his face off. And I can’t lie, I’m enjoying it. A lot.
‘Do you want to go back to mine?’ he says as we come up for air, his voice low and deep in my ear. A chill runs up my spine, the good kind. Rooted in place, I nod.
Jack’s room is small and surprisingly neat. A row of books lines his top shelf: Dickens, Atwood, Austen. And then a few I don’t recognise, but which look like fantasy books: they have dragons curling along the spines. He notices my gaze and looks embarrassed.
‘I, uh, have a bit of a thing for dragon books,’ he says. I smile.
‘Come on, Carlson, I thought your embarrassment threshold was higher than that.’
He smiles and visibly relaxes, then reaches up to brush my hair out of my face. His touch feels amazing: I’ve never felt so alive to the sensation of someone else’s skin on mine.
‘Do you think I did the right thing?’ I ask, feeling unexpectedly vulnerable in this moment. Jack is, in some ways, the only one who understands how I’m feeling right now. He’s put himself on the line too. He’s also the target of the university witch hunt. We’re in this together, and even through my guilt I can’t deny I am secretly pleased about it. It feels good not to be alone.
He is quiet for a moment, then smiles at me, his face lighting up with warmth. ‘Andie,’ he says, tracing a hand down the side of my face. ‘I know you did the right thing.’
And then he kisses me again, and all thoughts of today, of the article, totally disappear. All I feel is the sensation of his hand on my waist, his lips on mine. I drink him in, deepening the kiss and undoing the buttons of his shirt. Jack Carlson, the unexpected silver lining.
The next morning, I wake to find Jack has already gone. There’s a note on the pillow next to me that reads Early swim practice, sorry. Drinks again this week? I rush to pull my clothes on, smiling to myself as I leave his room in halls – I have an early lecture to catch, and it’s on the topic I’m researching for my dissertation, so I can’t miss it. I rush across campus, not caring that I’m wearing my clothes from the night before, the thrill of it still rushing through my mind. I enter the lecture hall, which is already full, surprisingly so for a Friday morning, and settle into my seat, pulling out my laptop and furiously typing notes as the lecturer begins. This professor lectures at 1.5 speed, so blink and you could miss the idea that the entire hour-long lecture hinges on.
I’m so focused on my typing, I initially don’t notice the whispering. But as the lecture goes on, it grows louder, and when I look up from my laptop I find the people in the next row not-so-conspicuously looking over their shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of me. I’d been in such a rush this morning, and so distracted by Jack, that I’d totally forgotten about the events of yesterday, but now, as more and more people turn to look at me, barely disguising it at this point because most of the other people in the lecture theatre are doing it anyway, they hit me like a freight train. They know it was me. Somehow, they know. And that means I am well and truly fucked.
I text Sara: SOS . Her reply comes swiftly. My room. Now. Damage control.
I get up and pack away my things, leaving the lecture hall as quickly and quietly as I can, ignoring the glare of Mrs 1.5-speed as I pass her.
I try to steady my breath as I make my way across campus, suddenly and irrationally afraid that Robbie might jump out from behind any university building. It will be OK. It will be OK. It will be OK. I repeat to myself, a mantra circling round and round again in my mind as I rush to Sara’s room.
When I enter, I find her in bed, her laptop out, plushies around her. I lean over to look at the screen. It’s on a post to slutsofedinburgh.com which went up at 8:30 a.m. today, outing me as the article’s author. A picture of my face, absurdly pulled from my LinkedIn profile, stares back at me, along with some choice words like ‘super slut’ and ‘bitch’. If it weren’t for the nausea swirling in my stomach, I would be rolling my eyes. I slump onto the bed and Sara hands me a plushie: her favourite penguin, Percy. I squeeze him to me.
‘This is bad,’ I say.
She shuts her laptop, and looks at me.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ she says, and somehow, coming from her rather than me, it feels like it has more of a shot at being true. Her gaze meets mine, and the solidity of her friendship shines through. Sara is my safe place to land. As long as she is by my side, we will find a way to get through this. Besides, that stupid fucking website is not long for this world: my computer science friend Angela is going to take it down today.
‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ Sara says, getting up out of bed and heading to her wardrobe. She begins rifling through her dresses, pulling a few out and discarding them on her floor. She keeps rifling until she finds the one she’s looking for: a tight, blue, glittery number. Her favourite dress, her lucky dress. The one she wears when she’s looking to get laid, or needs good grades, or just wants to have an especially good day. She throws it at me, and it lands in my lap.
‘Tonight, you are going to put that on, and we are going to go out, and get drunk, and act like everything is fine, because it is.’
‘But—’ I protest, her blasé energy freaking me out.
‘Fuck ’em, Andie,’ she says, placing a hand on her hip. ‘They didn’t deserve my wallowing and they certainly don’t deserve you hiding indoors until this blows over. Fuck that, fuck what they did, fuck what they might say. Fuck ’em.’
I look down at the dress, still not sure I’m onboard with whatever this epiphany Sara’s had is. I run my hand across its fabric and find my thoughts dialling back to Jack last night, how he pulled my dress over my head in one movement, how he looked at my body like it was the first time he’d ever seen anyone naked, how he couldn’t look away – fascinated by every curve, every crevice. A suspicion creeps into my mind that I desperately don’t want to be true. It can’t have been him, can it? He couldn’t be that cold, to tell me I’d done the right thing, have sex with me then sell me out. Maybe someone at the newspaper found out it was me, somehow, and leaked my name? I thought I’d covered my tracks, but I suppose they could have traced my IP address if they really wanted to know. It could also have been Angela, I suppose – but my gut tells me it wasn’t, considering how delighted she was that I asked for her help taking the website down. Confusion rattles through my brain, and I emerge from it to the warmth of Sara’s hand on my shoulder.
‘Andie, say it with me,’ she says, her eyes fixed firmly on mine. Her steady, unwavering, trustworthy gaze. I sit up straighter, emboldened by her presence. ‘Fuck them,’ I say with her, my voice small and timid.
‘Louder,’ she says. ‘Like you mean it.’
‘Fuck them,’ I almost shout, all the rage that’s been building through the last week tumbling out of me. A resolve dawns on me as I say the words, and slowly but surely I start to believe them. Sara’s right: they don’t deserve to take today from me, or any day, for that fact. I have done the right thing, I have taken away some of their power. And I still have that – the knowledge that I was in the right. In fact, their anger, their retaliation is evidence that my plan worked, that I’ve rattled them: I put myself on the line, and it has paid off. I can handle a post outing me – their words are just that: words. It’s not like I’ve ever cared what many people beyond Sara think of me, anyway. For the first time in the two weeks since the post went up about Sara, I feel like I can breathe again. And that’s a feeling they can’t take away from me.
A few hours later, Sara and I walk arm in arm towards the student union. I’m pretty much shaking with nerves, but I’ve had a couple of drinks already to take the edge off. I approach the bar and my phone pings. I’ve had it on silent all day, shut in the drawer of Sara’s bedroom, unable to bring myself to look at it in case anyone was texting me about the article. Now as I pull it out of my pocket and unlock it, the screen lights up with notifications. Several missed calls, and a text from Jack: Can we talk? It’s urgent . I frown at the screen, my stomach twisting. I’m not sure how I feel about this whole situation yet. I don’t know if I can trust him. My heart is telling me that it couldn’t have been him, that he was being truthful when he told me he thought I was doing the right thing. But there’s something, some small, scared doubt in the back of my mind saying that I don’t know him that well. I put my phone back in my pocket and decide that, at least for this evening, I won’t think about it any further. Tonight is for celebrating, for showing them they haven’t won.
For the next few hours I drift around the bar, the drunken haze growing stronger the more I consume. Many of them aren’t bought by me: though I’m still getting the occasional death stare from a member of the rugby team, or one of their girlfriends, more often people are grabbing me as I pass them and pulling me into hugs, telling me they or their friend or their now-girlfriend was featured on that stupid website, and that I’ve done the entire university a favour. It’s buoying me up, this feeling: the small flame inside me, it grows stronger with every person that thanks me. Sara is glued to my side the entire time, her skin a comforting presence against mine, a grounding force. I begin, little by little, to allow myself to feel proud.
As I’m twirling on the dance floor, feeling lighter than I’ve felt in a long time, Sara stops dead beside me. When I look at her, smiling, to ask her what’s wrong, I find her staring at her phone with a horrified expression on her face. The smile drops off mine, and my stomach feels as if it’s falling from a great height. Whatever she’s looking at, I know it’s going to burst this new, wonderful bubble I’ve found myself in. As much as I don’t want to read it, my eyes are drawn to the screen: she’s on the website again, slutsofedinburgh.com.
I relax slightly – she’s probably just reading more comments on the post they put up about me this morning. But I’m drunk, and I don’t care, because it won’t be up for much longer. Angela emailed me earlier to say that the code is slightly more complex than she anticipated, but that the website will definitely be gone by midnight tonight. It will all disappear: the post outing me as the article’s author, the post about Sara, all the horrible posts that came before it. I feel lighter even at the prospect. But then I focus on the screen properly, and see that she’s not looking at the post from this morning, or the one about her. My name is there again, at the top of the page. But this time it’s next to a review of my sexual performance.
All of the noise around me dies down to the hum of my blood pounding in my ears as I read the post, refusing to believe it’s there even as my brain processes the information. Every cell in my body wants to believe that Jack can’t have written this, that he can’t be responsible. But then I see something that makes my heart lurch. It’s a small detail, a reference to a freckle on the back of my neck that gives me extra points, apparently. The memory of him touching that freckle gently, telling me how much he liked it, flashes through my mind.
I feel like I’m going to throw up. Ignoring Sara’s concerned questions and the crowd around me, I stumble to the back of the bar, heading for the doors. As I’m about push them open, I catch someone’s eye across the room: piercing, blue, looking right at me. Full of remorse and regret. Jack.
I tear my gaze away and stumble out into the car park, taking deep breaths of cold air. I don’t have a jacket, but this time I don’t feel the cold at all. I should’ve known I was alone in this, that he never would’ve actually helped me, let alone wanted me for anything more than just one night. I should know by now that the sports boys all only want one thing. I should never have trusted him. I make my way to the shadows, find a cold, damp bench to sit on and lean forwards, pressing my weight into my hands against my knees, my breath coming in gulps now. I’ve never had a panic attack, but if I had, I imagine this is what it would feel like. Adrenaline surges through me, and it feels like my heart is about to burst out of my chest, it’s beating so hard.
I hear footsteps behind me, and my first thought is that it’s Sara, but the tread is too heavy, too careful to be Sara’s drunken gait, especially in her heels. It must be Jack. I whip around, ready to tell him exactly where to go, and find myself face to face with Robbie. A chill runs down my spine. The golden boy does not look so golden right now: the hard, impenetrable edge I’ve seen glimpses of in his eyes is now all over him. The way he’s looking at me makes my blood run cold: he’s furious, his steel gaze fixed on me, unmoving, with a quiet anger burning beneath it. I open my mouth to say something, or scream, or tell him to fuck off – whatever my plan was, it doesn’t matter. As he reaches out to grip my arm, firm and threatening, my voice dies in my throat. He leans in, his breath on my face.
‘You’re vile, you know that?’ he whispers, his words laced with venom, his voice level and low. I am paralysed by fear, my senses centred around the grip his hand has on my arm. It suddenly hits me how stupid I’ve been: I should have stayed closer to the union, in the light, closer to the other people out here. ‘Just a stupid little whore who thinks she can ruin my life.’ He leans in further, and I can feel his breath on my cheek. I want to flinch away, but I can’t make myself move. ‘I’ve got news for you, Andie. The university don’t give a shit about the website. They know how much I’m worth. How much more I’m worth than you. If you were trying to get me sent down, your little plan has failed.’
‘That wasn’t my—’ my voice falters as his grip tightens.
‘You, on the other hand – you could very easily be dealt with. My father practically owns this university.’
My breath catches in my throat.
‘Fix the damage you’ve done, or you can say goodbye to your degree, or to any chance of ever getting into another university. My father knows someone on practically every board. You’ll be well and truly fucked.’
He looks at me for a long moment in stony silence, assessing my levels of fear, whether he’s done enough.
‘I suggest you retract that article, leave our website alone, and fade back into the background where you belong.’
A stone sinks in my stomach at his words.
‘I can’t,’ I start, but he takes another step forwards. I feel frozen in place.
‘You can’t?’ he says, a trace of amusement in his tone. ‘Can’t is an interesting word. I find many people can find the will to do things if you just give them a little … nudge.’
At this point, without warning, he pushes me, the palms of his hands hitting my shoulders with full force. I stumble backwards, shocked: it’s all I can do to stay standing.
‘I—’ I start, but I find myself out of words. I am all fear – seeping like a cold stream through my veins and erasing all rational thought – that he’ll hurt me, now. That he’ll make good on his threat to have me kicked out of university, which at first sounded ridiculous but which now, in this moment, his unflinching eyes boring into mine, gives me pause. I’ve seen his dad before, at university conferences. Stony and terrifying, and the university seems to be at his beck and call. I’m not sure whether Robbie is bluffing or not. But I’m equally sure I don’t want to find out.
My heart sinks as I realise the reality of the situation I’m in. I am filled with dread about breaking my promise to Sara, losing everything I’ve worked on for these last two weeks, but I also can’t lose my degree, my chance at making my dad proud. He was so happy when I told him I got into Edinburgh, his alma mater. I picture his face: smiling, pulling out the cupboard champagne he was keeping for a special occasion.
‘OK,’ I say, nodding, even as something breaks apart irreparably inside me. Every fibre of my being is telling me this is all wrong, so wrong, that this is exactly the opposite of the justice I was trying to deliver. But I can’t risk losing everything. If I’d realised how much was really on the line, I don’t know if I’d have done it in the first place. Shame floods through me at the thought that I’m putting myself above what’s right. But the survival instinct is too strong. I can feel myself retreating inwards, curling away from the parts of me that care about anything other than getting out of this situation.
Satisfied that he’s made his point, he releases his grip. He turns away, and for a moment I think it’s over, that he’s going to leave me alone, but he’s just checking no one is watching before what he does next. He lifts his hand, and before I can even register what’s happening, I feel it hit the side of my face. The pain is delayed a moment, then lands all at once, mingled with shock which pierces me to my core. Somehow, even when he was threatening me, even when he shoved me, some part of my brain was still relying on my gender for my safety. I didn’t think he’d actually hit a woman, but of course that was naive of me. I put my hand up to my face, red raw and stinging where his palm connected, and close my eyes, waiting for whatever’s coming next. But nothing comes. I open my eyes, a tear rolling down the side of my face, to find him spitting at my feet.
‘Poor, helpless, pathetic Andie,’ he says, leaning closer again. I flinch, bile moving up my throat, fighting every instinct to run. I will not run. I will not give him that satisfaction. And then it comes: the moment I’ve been anticipating since the start of this interaction. Pure, deep hatred enters his expression, everything else falling away. In this moment, I am suddenly and horribly aware of the physical difference between us. If he wanted to hurt me, really hurt me, he could. And no one would know. ‘You stupid whore,’ he spits, his voice low. ‘If you even so much as look at me the wrong way, I will make really fucking sure you learn never to open that stupid mouth of yours again.’ He leans in, his eyes boring into mine, and I feel his breath on my face. My hand shakes involuntarily, the fear building now. ‘I will fuck you up, not just your university career. Do you understand me?’
There’s a strange relief at his words – the certainty I wanted, a confirmation of the danger I’m in, of the calibre of the person I’m dealing with. It’s comforting, for a moment. Then, immediately, fear spikes, freezing me in place. I find I no longer know how to move. His threat is real: I know it, as much as I feel the sting on my face. And, in this moment, I’m terrified. I manage a slow, shaky nod and he spits at my feet again, then turns and walks away. I stand, numb and frozen in place, for God knows how long. You’re OK, I try to tell myself, but the voice is overwhelmed by the fear that drowns everything else out. I was terrified this would happen, terrified that by crossing them I’d end up hurt. I ignored my instincts, sure that they were unwarranted. Relying on a stupid, naive view of the world – a sense that if I did the right thing everything would work out OK. I can see now just how stupid that was. Shame starts to pool in my stomach – for putting myself in this situation in the first place. For not staying invisible, safe, where I belonged. For thinking I could fix something that’s clearly so ingrained the likes of me weren’t going to do anything about it. And now I’m hurt, and terrified, and I have nothing to show for it. And I have to tell Sara – Oh God. After what feels like forever, I look up to find Jack walking towards me. Pain rips through me. No . Not now, not him .
‘Andie, are you OK?’ he says, his voice panicked. ‘I just saw Robbie—’
‘I’m fine, Jack,’ I say, my voice robotic. I just need to say enough that he’ll leave me alone and I can get inside, and find Sara, and go back to my room. ‘I don’t want to talk to you right now, OK? I need to find Sara.’
‘But—’
‘Please, Jack. I don’t want to hear it.’
‘If you’ll just let me explain—’
‘Leave me the fuck alone.’ The words burst out of me, all of the feelings I’ve been suppressing for the last few weeks laced into them. ‘Clearly, I misjudged you. You’re just as bad as the rest of them.’
He stops, frozen in place, words deserting him as he processes the weight of my accusations.
‘Is that really what you think of me, Andie?’
No , says some small voice, deep down. The part that remembers how gently he touched my face before he kissed me. The conviction in his voice when he told me I was doing the right thing. Somewhere inside me, I know there must be an explanation for this, but that part of me is drowned out by a vast, overwhelming anger that’s spreading through my body. I don’t want to hear how or why it happened. I just want somewhere to put this feeling before it consumes me completely. ‘Yes, it is.’ I say, my tone final, and I watch his face crumple. Something twists inside me, then hardens into a firm resolve. This feels right, like I’m putting up a wall between us, between myself and the rest of the world. Somewhere I’ll be safe. I close my eyes to block out his pained expression, willing my voice to stay firm, and deliver the last words I’ll ever say to him. ‘I never want to see you again.’
When I open my eyes a few moments later, he is gone.