Beth
Beth
Three hours before
They sit around a large oval table in the pub, discussing the play, but despite all the compliments being thrown her way, Beth finds her mind wandering. Trying to work out whether Nick turning up at the rehearsal was just him being friendly, or whether it meant something more.
It’s so powerful. The magnetism between them. Their connection. It all feels so horribly inevitable somehow.
She feels sick. He has a girlfriend.
‘So the guy from your flat?’ Justin says, noticing her across the table. ‘What’s his story?’
She swallows. She’s not an idiot. She can see where this is going.
‘No story,’ she says. ‘He’s doing Economics. Never had any exposure to the theatre before, that’s all.’
Justin sucks air through his teeth.
‘Smart then.’
‘Yep.’
‘God, I feel sorry for him. Destined for a life spent fiddling with numbers on spreadsheets.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be just fine.’
Justin looks wounded.
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Each to their own. I’d just rather do something meaningful with my life. You know?’
She doesn’t respond to that.
‘And you’re not… dating him?’
She looks Justin squarely in the eyes. Tries to see to the heart of him. Could she do it? No, even if she wanted to, there’s nothing there. Not on her part.
‘Not… yet,’ she says, feeling a slight thrill at the thought of throwing the idea into the universe, letting it decide.
Justin sniffs.
‘Well,’ he says, his voice low. ‘I hope he realises… hope he will realise… anyone would be lucky to have you, Beth. Really. I mean that.’
He puts an arm around her shoulder. His denim jacket is heavy and thick and smells slightly of damp.
‘’Scuse me, I need the loo,’ she says eventually, shaking him off.
She gets up and walks away from the table without looking back. Screw this. She wanted to believe he was different but the truth is that Justin is just like all the other theatre idiots who believe themselves to be special and untouchable, but who basically have a huge vacuum where their soul is meant to be.
Narcissists.
She stares at her reflection in the rusty mirror. Her eyes look bloodshot, and she realises with alarm that she’s fighting the urge to cry.
He’s dating Anna. They can’t do this.
But it’s no use. She can try to be sensible. She can try to do the right thing. To stay away. To protect the harmony in their claustrophobic shared household by trying not to give in. But it won’t work.
She’s been doomed since the second she got in that car with him, and he played her ‘Romeo & Juliet’, and he let her sleep while he drove her all that way, and he held her afterwards when she told him her grandad had died and he still didn’t try anything.
But it will end in tears. If not hers, then Anna’s.
She sees it all unfurling ahead of her: a life that will begin and end with this boy. This stupid, frustrating boy who somehow, without her even noticing, has buried himself deep within her, and from whom she will never be able to separate herself completely, no matter how long she lives, or how hard she tries, or how many Justins put their arms around her and tell her she’s special.
‘I’m off,’ she announces to the tableful of people still chattering away in their corner of the pub.
Only Justin looks up.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘So soon? We were going to get a curry after.’
‘I’ve got a headache,’ she says, shortly. It’s not a lie. ‘I’m a bit exhausted after the reading. But I’ll see you at the workshop tomorrow.’
Justin stands up, pushing his chair back. For a panicked second, she worries he’s going to offer to walk her home. But instead, he takes her by the arm and gently leads her away from the table.
‘I’m sorry if I overstepped the mark, before,’ he says. She can tell that he’s genuine. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you… or say the wrong thing. And I get it. Just friends.’
She takes a deep breath. On one level, she feels sorry for him. On another, he’s an irritant, a fly flapping around her that she wants to swat away.
‘You didn’t do anything,’ she says, trying to sound firm. ‘I’m honestly just really tired.’
He looks relieved.
‘Of course. You were so good.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow Justin,’ she says. ‘Have a great night.’
She turns away from him before he has the chance to say anymore, before she has the chance to wave goodbye to the others. They won’t notice though. Hopefully.
It’s a freezing night as she marches through campus back to the Asylum. She stares up at the ominous building from the car park, the rectangles of light blazing from each window. It looks like a prison, full of tiny little cells. At one end, the huge water tower balances vertiginously above it.
She pauses for a few seconds, counting the windows on the top floor, trying to place which is hers, and which is Nick’s.
Hers is dark, but there’s a light shining behind the curtains in his room. He’s in, then.
She smiles to herself, at fate’s mercy, and she strides towards the entrance door.
Just as she does so, something sparks at the corner of her eye. She looks up, but can’t tell what it was. A firework perhaps? Bonfire Night was just a few days ago.
She shrugs and swipes her key card.
*
There’s something behind the door to her room, making it difficult to open.
It’ll be another flyer for a club night, or yet more passive aggressive information from the housing officer on how to use the tumble dryers properly.
But it’s not.
She kneels down and peers through the gap.
It’s a large square of cardboard.
A record.
She pushes it away with her fingers, so that she can open the door. Once inside, she crouches down to pick it up.
Dire Straits
Romeo & Juliet
She turns it over. There’s a post-it stuck to the underside.
Whenever I hear this now, I think of you. You’re a reverse ear-worm!
Will you go for a walk with me?
N x
Her heart trips. She knows then: he feels it too.
The cardboard slip is battered and old. She peers inside at the black vinyl record, sliding it out and letting it spin around her finger.
Of course, she doesn’t have a record player. Even her parents got rid of their old turntable a while ago.
But still, she can hear the song. Remembers that second of wonder as they drove down and listened to it together in his car. The thrill of the memory, grounded by the feel of the cardboard beneath her fingertips. It was real .
She pushes the record back into its sleeve. She swallows. Then she glances at the clock. It’s gone midnight.
Will you go for a walk with me?
She looks at her reflection in the mirror, decides it’s good enough and then, tucking the record under her arm, leaves her room and knocks on his door.