Nudge 17 The Lucy Hayward of It All
The Lucy Hayward of It All
Iwas floating on the high of Saturday night for the entirety of the next five days.
No one could tell me anything, and, if they’d tried, I absolutely would not have heard it.
Suddenly work felt manageable – enjoyable, even.
I could block out Pippa’s passive aggression without even trying.
I felt radiant and utterly invincible, existing on a plane of blissful ignorance I’d only heard stories about.
It’s probably why – to the surprise of absolutely everyone – I’ve ended up sitting in the pub after work on Thursday, pressed shoulder to shoulder in a tiny booth with an unbearably chatty Pippa.
I only have myself to blame. I was girlbossing too close to the sun to properly register the emptiness of her invite.
Thursday-night drinks are an Abbingtorn tradition that I decided I needed no part in.
I tried at first when I was new, because I felt like I had to, but I stopped the second it seemed socially permissible.
It tends to be the same sort of crowd – the ‘cool kids’ of the Abbingtorn ecosystem.
Pippa, Gus, the marketing boys, and a couple of girls from the design team.
Occasionally Maxwell goes along too, and, of course, picks up the tab.
I don’t belong to that crowd, nor have I massively wanted to.
That is exactly why Pippa’s eyes widened earlier when she asked, and I immediately said yes.
I regretted it the second it left my mouth.
But it was too late to take it back. Plus, Aiden was watching and I knew it would count against me if I said no.
So, here I am, sitting at the table as they gossip about everything from work drama to their undoubtedly exaggerated sex lives.
The one saving grace? I managed to drag Aiden along with me against his will. He looks just as uncomfortable as I do – more so, perhaps. I saw his eyes practically glaze over from boredom during Pippa’s last sordid tale.
‘Aiden, Maddison, you’ve both been awfully quiet!’ Pippa chirps up as the group chatter comes to a lull. ‘Care to share? Maddison, you’re single single, right?’
She’s holding back a laugh as she delivers the lightly masked insult. She didn’t need to ask; we’ve spoken about this many times. She coined the term ‘single single’ just about me.
‘Single Single’ (Adjective)
1. Entirely single with little to no hope.
2. Not entertaining any talking stages or situationships; completely alone.
3. Maddison Clarke’s perpetual relationship status.
‘Wow, Maddison, you’re, like, single single. I don’t know how that’s even possible nowadays!’
I feel the last of my Saturday night high evaporate from my body.
There’s got to be some way I can get up and leave right this moment without looking like an entire weirdo. A call from a stranded friend, perhaps, or a coronary. Something dire that would necessitate an exit right now.
‘Hey, Pippa, isn’t this your song?’ Aiden asks, voice breaking through the silence as he looks over my head to meet Pippa’s eyes. ‘Why aren’t you up there dancing? In fact, why aren’t you all up there?’
Pippa’s smug face lights up at his comment, but it’s honestly nothing special.
Everything that has ever been in the top forty is ‘Pippa’s song’.
But I bite my tongue, because it has worked unexpected wonders.
Suddenly she’s out of her seat, beckoning everyone to the tiny space in the centre of the pub.
‘Aiden, come and join me!’ She purrs this in a voice at least five semitones higher than her usual register.
She reaches across to grab him, an inch away from hitting my face, but he stares at her hand with an unmoving, remorseful smile.
‘I don’t really dance,’ he says. ‘And Maddy here still needs to finish her drink. Can’t leave her all by herself.’
It’s enough to make Pippa re-register my presence, her smile dropping instantly. She regains composure quickly enough, but I saw the slip and she knows I did. I’d put money on her not even remotely caring.
‘Fine, but I’d better see you out there later!’
Then she saunters off to join the rest. I finally exhale, the sound deep and exceptionally loud, much to the amusement of the only other person in the booth. I may not be able to see his face, but I can feel the judgement radiating off it.
‘You’re staring.’ My eyes are still fixed to my glass. ‘Why?’
If he expects a ‘thank you’ for getting Pippa and co to leave the table, then he will be waiting an awfully long time.
‘No real reason. It’s just, you were awfully quiet when everyone was talking about their relationships.’
‘I didn’t realise there were points for participation.’ I turn my head to him this time, watching his lip curl slightly at my weak attempt at some snark. His eyes darken with curiosity.
‘Nothing to contribute?’ He scans my face.
‘Just didn’t feel like sharing with a bunch of acquaintances.’
I counter his stare, taking a swig from my drink as our pupils wrestle for the upper hand. He’s judging just how far he can push and I’m wondering just how far I’d really let him. Eventually it’s him who breaks, glancing down at his glass for a breather before looking back at me.
‘So, there is a special someone.’
‘Not quite.’
‘Not quite?’
Not at all.
He keeps prodding. ‘There’s a story at least.’
‘Everyone has stories. Ask what you really want to ask,’ I say, jabbing the paper straw so hard against the glass that it rips.
For a moment, he seems taken aback by my dare; he thought I’d retreat instantly. Admittedly, without two drinks in my system I probably would have. But the gin is burning its way through my body and infusing everything it touches with unbridled confidence.
‘Did you ever date anyone at Winterdown?’ he asks, vaguely changing the subject.
I shake my head.
‘Surprising,’ he says.
‘Why?’
‘Well, you were . . .’ He drops it. ‘Dating someone right now?’
‘Nope.’
‘How many exes?’ he asks.
‘One.’
‘One?’ His eyes grow wide.
I shrug. ‘Well, yeah, kind of.’
It’s enough to make me shrivel inside myself again.
‘It’s not uncommon. In fact, it’s probably more common than socials let on. Between the limited good options and desirability politics, I don’t get how so many people bounce from long-term thing to long-term thing. I’ve only been with one person I’d consider an ex, and even that is generous.’
My mini rant pours out my mouth before I’ve even realised that I’ve started, but he doesn’t mock me or let out a single laugh. Instead, he listens quietly and carefully, eyes still affixed to my own.
‘Why is it generous?’ he asks. ‘What happened?’
His eyes trace the crease of my brow as he patiently and delicately awaits whatever answer I feel comfortable enough to give him.
‘It was more an arrangement of convenience and it just fizzled out, I guess,’ I say.
‘He was this guy at uni and I’d never really dated.
Honestly, I don’t even know if I really liked him.
A part of me genuinely liked that he liked me, but a bigger part just wanted to get the virginity thing out the way. ’
‘Tick off another milestone.’ The way he says it is earnest, like he truly understands.
‘Exactly.’ I smile back. It’s weak, but he accepts it. ‘What about you? Any girls in the picture?’
‘None that I care about,’ he answers, shrugging callously.
‘Charming,’ I remark, as he flashes a teasing smile.
It sparkles more than it should and makes my stomach turn inside out, reminding me of our current proximity.
We’re still sat knee to knee, squashed in the corner of the empty booth as if everyone else was still squeezed there with us.
I can feel our legs brush against each other, see his back pressed to the wall, but I have no desire to spread out and he hasn’t asked me to.
‘I’m kidding. Honestly, I’m not really into all that right now. When things ended with Luce, I realised it’s kinda stupid to get that attached to one person,’ he says.
‘Luce?’ I ask tentatively.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him mention any name outside of a work context and it somehow hits harder hearing that it’s a girl.
I don’t want to prod too hard – I’m worried that if I do, he’ll close right back up again.
But I want to know who Luce is. I have a strong, presumably gin-fuelled desire to know more about him.
‘Lucy Hayward – she went to school with us. We got together in our teens; I thought everybody knew that.’
Her name comes with a weight that pulls my jaw to the floor and crushes my chest in the process. Lucy Hayward. Lucy Hayward, who caused me so much pain and, worse, picked her nose throughout primary school.
‘She’d stopped eating her own snot by then,’ he says, apparently reading my mind.
‘Sorry, it’s just . . . You were dating her?’ I ask.
Years of interactions flash before my eyes, dating all the way back to when we were eight.
There was the petition she started to ban my ‘stinky lunch foods’ and the times she would scrunch my hair and tell everyone it felt like a scrubbing sponge.
I thought I was free of her when she didn’t stay on at Winterdown to do her A levels, but she was always there, at every party, making me the butt of every joke until eventually I stopped going anywhere she might be.
I went to university convinced that I would be a stronger, more evolved version of the person that I was before.
A resolve that almost broke when I moved into my room and found out that I was to be neighbours with none other than Lucy Hayward.
Her eyes narrowed in on me the second she saw me, resemblant of a predator clocking its prey, but that environment was different and so she took a different approach.
‘Maddison!’ she exclaimed, her forced smile publicly distracting from the snarl in her voice. ‘You got in here? Wow. So impressive for you.’
Things went from bad to worse after that. I should have switched halls there and then. Maybe even universities.