Chapter 3
3
THE FIRST SUMMER – 2011
When she arrived at the station that first time, nervous and excited, clutching their tickets, the last thing she thought Tom would do was laugh at her. But as soon as their eyes locked, she could see that he was amused by something.
‘What?’ she said, once she was in earshot. She tried to smile, but actually it was a bit insulting, considering how much thought she’d given to her outfit and hair. She’d taken at least half an hour trying to tame her shoulder-length mane into what a magazine had called ‘beachy curls’, and had been relatively happy with the result. She’d spent ages on the kind of make-up designed to look like you weren’t wearing any make-up, and when she’d glanced in the mirror before leaving, had felt about as satisfied as she ever would be about her appearance.
And he was laughing.
‘Nothing,’ he said, tilting his head affectionately. ‘Just wondered how many outfits a girl needs for two nights away.’ He nodded at her wheeled suitcase.
Ah, so it was the suitcase. She felt relieved, then embarrassed. ‘I didn’t know what we’d be doing,’ she said, only to have him laugh again.
‘Oh, I think I’ve got a few ideas,’ he said, drawing her to him. Then it didn’t matter suddenly whether he was laughing at her, teasing her. Because something about his touch made everything else seem irrelevant.
‘It’s not that big,’ she added as she pulled away, only to have him cock an eyebrow.
‘Excuse me?’ he said with mock hurt.
She slapped him lightly on the arm. ‘Tom! The suitcase!’
On the train, she settled into the seat and looked out of the window, conscious of not wanting to seem too excited to be going to a place she’d always dreamt of but so far never made it to. Tom had been to Paris about eight times, he’d told her. Mostly with family. She hadn’t liked to push him on the ‘mostly.’ Probably with other girls too, then. She’d rather not know.
But he was so blasé about it, she was a little embarrassed at her own excitement and tried to keep it under wraps.
Two months together and he was still a bit of a mystery to her – this boy with his posh accent and strange intellectual friends. They’d first met when she’d drunkenly crashed the after-party for some sort of am-dram production by Cambridge students. She’d been wearing a black dress, short. Her friend Libby had been in hotpants. They’d been en route home from Ballare – their favourite nightclub – slightly worse for wear from cheap vodka and erratic dancing, when they’d seen that one of the heavy wooden doors leading into the old stone building had been left slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of light within.
‘Come on!’ Libby had said, grabbing onto her arm as they’d half walked, half stumbled through the gap and into the stone-tiled corridor inside. ‘Let’s see how the other half live.’
While essentially studying in the same city, there had always seemed to be a divide between ‘town and gown’ – the students of Cambridge University, and her more ordinary ex-polytechnic. Students travelled in packs, easily distinguishable somehow by their attire, their conduct, often their accents. Few managed to bridge the strange social divide between the two institutions, and on the rare occasions Sophie had found herself chatting to Cambridge students in a bar or club, she’d always felt a sense of detachment on their part, as if they had no real interest in getting to know her.
Of course, she reasoned, it could just be that she was shy, that she looked for the negative, for reasons not to connect with people when things seemed different.
That night, she’d had no such inhibitions; alcohol-soaked and high from a night of dancing, her legs aching and the back of her shoe rubbing painfully against her foot, she’d clung to Libby as they’d giggled up the corridor and followed the sound of laughter to a small room, in which they’d discovered a group of people decked out in what appeared to be fancy dress.
‘I like your outfit,’ Libby had said to a man close to the door who’d haughtily looked down at her as if insulted, despite donning a strange flouncy shirt, a leather waistcoat, and sporting what looked to be a narrow tail on the back of his trousers.
‘Who are you?’ he’d asked them, top lip curling. ‘This is a private event, you know?’
‘Don’t be a dick, Michael,’ another voice had said; a tall man with an easy smile had appeared, wearing some sort of weird cream tunic and what appeared to be glitter on his cheeks. ‘Is that any way to greet our guests?’
‘Yeah, come on, Michael, the more the merrier, right?’ someone else had said.
Michael had snorted. ‘They’re wasted. And it’s after midnight.’
‘Don’t mind our friend Michael.’ The first man had somehow managed to wrap an arm around both their backs at once, and guide them towards a table covered with scattered beer bottles and what looked like a dubious bowl of punch. ‘He’s had a rough night.’
Libby had laughed and enquired, ‘Why’s he got a tail?’ and had been treated to a single raised eyebrow.
‘He’s Puck!’
‘And you are…?’
‘Demetrius,’ he’d bowed deeply. ‘At your service.’
‘No, you nob. Your real name.’
‘Oh! Tom.’
‘Well, Tom, you might like to know that your tunic’s tucked in your underpants at the back.’
Tom had appeared unfazed, pulling the material down into place. ‘Hazard of the job,’ he’d joked.
‘And this guy is…?’ Libby had pointed at the other man. He was thicker-set, stronger-looking than Tom, but his face was open and friendly.
‘Oh, this is Will.’ Tom had laughed. ‘I’m afraid that Will was not in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he’s just his usual, fashion-challenged self.’
‘Whoops!’ Libby had seemed delighted with her mistake. ‘Thought you might have been Lysander or maybe Bottom?’ She’d given a drunken wink.
‘Libby!’ Sophie had admonished. Will was wearing a white shirt, blue jeans. Nothing out of the ordinary.
‘Ah, she speaks!’ Tom had said, making her blush. Then turning to Libby, he’d remarked, ‘She’s quiet, your friend.’
Libby had shrugged. ‘Yeah. Only cos she can’t get a word past me.’
Sophie had felt her face get hot.
‘Don’t worry about Tom,’ Will had then said conspiratorially at her side. ‘It’s actually a compliment. He’s flirting.’
She’d looked at him incredulously. ‘ That’s flirting?’
‘He has a pretty high success rate, believe it or not.’
It had been a strange evening of too much red wine, a combination of welcoming banter and borderline flirtation from some of the boys, and haughty disdain from others. At some point, someone had brought out an ancient karaoke mic, inserted a DVD into a small TV in the corner, and soon they were laughing, dancing and cringing to the sounds of outdated nineties hits being belted out by posh boys with mediocre vocal skills.
A few of them had started to dance, a couple more girls had found their way into the party and soon the tiny room was hot, sweaty, filled with a fug of forbidden cigarettes and alcohol. Libby had started dancing with Michael who’d mellowed after a couple more whiskies, and Sophie had found herself sitting alone, sipping dubious punch on a beanbag that had seen better days.
‘Sure you don’t want to dance?’ Will had asked her, sitting down heavily on the edge of the beanbag.
She’d shaken her head, embarrassed. She’d barely touched her drink and had started to sober up, could feel the ghost of a headache throb at her temples. Earlier, a drunken lad had sat next to her and begun talking about quantum mechanics enthusiastically, and she’d found herself nodding along without understanding a word. This was not the kind of party she was used to.
Just when she had been considering how to get Libby’s attention and suggest they got out of there, a plastic cup had been thrust at her. ‘Come on,’ a voice had said. ‘Have a bit of wine. That punch is toxic.’
She’d taken the cup and looked up, seeing Tom, a wide smile stretched across his glittery face. ‘Thanks.’
He’d put out a hand and she’d instinctively put hers out to meet it, then before she knew what was happening, she had been pulled to her feet and into Tom’s arms, rocking away to some half-forgotten hit by the Spice Girls. She’d looked back at Will guiltily as she was tugged away.
Close up, she could smell the clean scent of Tom’s aftershave, the slightly musty cotton of his costume, a touch of cigarette smoke. She’d never been a big fan of dancing, but here in this private and crowded space, the most they could do was rock a little to whatever song came on next. She’d caught Libby’s eye across the room and her friend had given her an enthusiastic thumbs up. She had shaken her head emphatically. No. She had not pulled.
The party had passed in a blur of music and drunkenness until one by one, people had drifted off to their rooms or back to the street. Eventually, close to three in the morning, it had been just Sophie, Tom, Will and Libby.
‘Well, thanks for letting us crash your party,’ Sophie had said.
‘Hang on. You crashed our party?’ Tom had said in mock surprise.
‘Ha ha. Very funny.’ Libby had given him a gentle smack on the arm.
Sophie had clambered to her feet. ‘We’d better go. It’s like 3a.m.’
‘OK, see you!’ Tom had waved tiredly without moving from his position on the sofa.
‘Can I get you a taxi?’ Will had offered.
‘No, it’s fine,’ Sophie had said. ‘We’re not far. Come on, Libby.’
‘Can’t we sleep here?’ Libby had whined. This was typical Libby – the first few drinks of an evening seemed to energise her, but she’d hit a wall on drink six or seven and simply want to lie down and go to sleep. Sophie had come down one morning to find her out cold on the kitchen floor, propping her head on a tea towel and completely oblivious to the rest of their housemates tiptoeing around her and brewing coffee before morning lectures.
‘Lib, no!’ Sophie had said, grabbing her friend’s arm. ‘They might get into trouble, you know we’re not meant to be here. Come on.’
Reluctantly, Libby had acquiesced.
‘Taxi?’ Will had offered again, following as they half stumbled towards the door. ‘Honestly, my treat.’
‘We’re good,’ Sophie had said, ‘thanks though.’
‘See, they’re fine!’ Tom had exclaimed, appearing behind his friend and throwing his arms wide. ‘They can take care of themselves, mate.’
But Will had persisted, until eventually Sophie had allowed him to walk to the taxi rank just outside with her – both of them now supporting Libby – and hand the driver a twenty-pound note on her behalf. Taxis were something she shared with friends now and then on an emergency-only basis (if one of them broke a heel, or was ill) and although she hated the fact she’d let him pay, she really didn’t have enough to cover the fare home.
At least she’d probably never see him again.
Tom had come out at the last minute, looking at Will, confused, before waving at them enthusiastically.
‘Bye, Will! Bye, Lysander!’ Sophie had joked out of the window as he waved them off.
Tom had looked at his legs protruding from his tunic as if just realising that he was now on a street at 3a.m. wearing what was effectively an ill-fitting dress, and he had made a face before giving her a brief wave and trotting back across the road towards the wooden door.
‘He was nice,’ she’d said to Libby who was leaning heavily against her shoulder.
But Libby was asleep.