Chapter Nine
Ben doesn’t just have a swimming pool. He practically has a leisure centre in his back garden, or in the grounds, as his mum insists on calling the twelve acres surrounding the house.
Ollie and I exchange a Jesus Christ! glance when Ben gives us the tour, his rather nervy mum hovering in the background to re-explain every room that Ben explained once already.
His house is in the Wiltshire countryside, low-ceilinged and timber-beamed – I think Tudor.
It was built back when being small, height-wise, was the norm unless you were Henry the Eighth, so ceiling heights were of little concern.
I’m doing my best not to bump my head and every time I have to duck to get through a doorway, I hear Ollie behind me trying not to laugh.
Ollie has to duck too – we all do. But it’s obviously funnier when I have to do it, due to my height.
The house sprawls and sprawls and little table lamps are on in every room, glowing comfortingly.
It’s really cosy, homely, which is surprising, given the house is so vast. A log fire is roaring away in the lounge, or drawing room, as Ben’s mum calls it.
It’s the kind of home anyone would be ecstatic to return to at the end of a long working day. It’s welcoming. I feel welcomed.
My room is pretty and pale, simple but gorgeous, in a pastel-pink kind of way, a soft rug placed under the king-sized bed and an en suite with copious Jo Malone toiletries.
I’ve got my eye on the bath oil and the rolltop bath and hope there’s time for a soak.
The toiletries are full-sized and brand-new.
Ben’s mum has gone to quite some trouble to welcome his new friends to their home for the weekend.
Ben’s room is opposite mine, and on the tour I note that it has leaving pictures from his ‘Upper Sixth’, as he calls it. I think he means Year Thirteen. In one photo Ben’s in a navy-blue uniform.
‘You look sweet,’ I say.
‘I look young, even though it was only taken in July,’ he replies over my shoulder.
He rests his head on me for a moment and I enjoy the feeling, his closeness to me.
His mum is still in the room, and I never asked Ben what he told his parents about me – about who I was to him.
It occurred to me, as his dad picked us up from the train station and we were all introduced, that perhaps I’m just someone Ben lives with.
But his quick kiss on my cheek says everything that he isn’t saying, or hasn’t said.
‘A little drinky?’ Ben’s mum asks once we’ve completed the tour and have dumped our bags in our bedrooms.
As we stand in a pretty cream Shaker-style kitchen, Liv and I take the bar stools and Ben’s mum quizzes us about our courses, how we’re finding living in London (although it’s the dingy outskirts) and about everything we’ve been doing.
She reminisces about her university days and it sounds like an idyllic other time, full of dances and balls, tuxedos and gowns.
It’s a far cry from the kind of grubby nights out we’re having.
We listen to her talk, and every now and again I dart a glance at Ben.
Does he feel he’s missing out on all of this glamour by choosing an ex-polytechnic over an established, ancient university?
‘I met Ben’s father at Oxford,’ Chrissie, Ben’s mother, divulges as if it’s a huge secret. She’s all glossy highlighted hair and sensible-length skirt, and she pushes glasses of champagne in our direction and makes a toast to university days.
Ben looks grim at the mention of Oxford, his expression firmly set, and he downs his champagne in one go.
‘A proper drink now, I think,’ David, Ben’s dad, suggests, discarding his near-empty champagne flute on the worktop.
It’s immediately rushed towards the sink by Chrissie, who I sense might be a bit neurotic.
We’re invited through to the drawing room, and Ollie and Ben pep up as whiskies are poured from a crystal bottle on the sideboard.
David throws another log on the fire, settles into a plump armchair, and Ollie takes Ben’s empty flute from his hand.
I notice Ollie necking his champagne quickly, keeping up with proceedings as a second drink enters the equation.
I wonder if he feels a little out of place in this sort of elegant, affluent home, although if his dad is a hotshot lawyer, then I assume he’s loaded too.
But Ollie looks slightly awkward here. I feel it too, but I’m almost determined not to show it.
Despite the neurosis, there’s something faintly judgemental about Chrissie, or perhaps she just does resting bitch-face really well, as I catch her features lift into a too-fast not-quite-there smile when our eyes connect.
David, however, looks very at home entertaining, regaling his son and Ollie with his own university stories, all three leaning conspiratorially forward and talking in hushed tones, peppered with loud laughter.
Chrissie asks Liv about her family, where they’re from and what they do, and Liv’s cut-glass accent, I think, ticks a lot of Chrissie’s conversational boxes – her wants and requirements for someone associated with her only son.
Liv’s father does something high up in the army, and her mother is something even higher in the NHS. Liv starts chatting amiably about socialist values and I hear David stop talking as he overhears. Then his wife, without any hint of humour asks, ‘Are you socialists?’
I spit champagne, and Chrissie forgets her slightly rude question and hastily hands me a tissue from a marble tissue-box holder.
After a dinner of Thai takeaway, Chrissie and David leave us to it and Ben suggests we take a trip down the road to the pub.
‘Did you hear my mum ask if you’re a socialist?’ Ben laughs loudly as we settle into the prettiest little pub, with a thatched roof and yet another fire going strong. It’s full of locals with dogs, wooden floors and craft ales.
‘She asked as if the word is so dirty. I thought she was joking!’ Liv guffaws, sipping her drink.
‘No. Deadly serious. Are you, though?’ Ben asks.
‘I just want everyone to be equal.’
‘Equally poor?’ Ben asks. ‘Everyone at the bottom together?’
‘OK, enough of this,’ Ollie cuts in immediately. ‘I don’t think we should go down this road.’
‘What road?’ Ben asks and my eyes swivel between the three of them.
‘Politics,’ Ollie says. ‘It’s a grown-up subject that leads to some very ungrown-up-like responses.’
‘We’re old enough to vote now,’ I tell him. ‘Shouldn’t we talk about it?’
‘No,’ Ollie replies strongly. ‘We’ll argue, as I suspect none of us will vote the same way and, believe it or not, we’ve got a good thing going here, the four of us. Don’t ruin it. Next subject.’
‘Ollie!’ Liv says admiringly. And then pushes, quietly, ‘You want to be a doctor. You know how much the NHS is struggling. I assume you and I see eye-to-eye on things like this.’
Ollie’s quiet. I sort of want to hear what he has to say. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘And if we don’t … what then?’
‘You’ll have to tell me at some point,’ Liv continues. ‘We can hardly be a long-term thing if we don’t see eye-to-eye on the fundamentals.’
Ollie shifts in his seat, lifts his pint to his mouth and drinks. He puts it down, glances at Ben – I assume to instruct his only wingman to save him. Ben does nothing of the kind, but I notice his pint is already at the halfway mark.
I do a double-take. ‘How do you drink so fast?’ I ask, mainly to shut this conversation down, as Ollie is right: it’s going nowhere good.
‘Always have. Funny, isn’t it, when you turn eighteen people say, “Old enough to drink, old enough to vote.” I’ve been drinking since I was fifteen.’
‘So have I,’ I reply. ‘I mean, a sip of wine with dinner or whatever.’
‘I was doing that at thirteen,’ Ben reveals. ‘Proper drinking pints from fifteen.’
‘What?’ Ollie asks. ‘Pints at fifteen? How? Where?’
‘Here,’ Ben says. ‘At home. Friends’ houses. Parents not always aware, you know. I’m pretty hardened to it now,’ he laughs. ‘Takes quite a lot to get me drunk. That’s the only downside.’
‘You’re an expensive date then,’ Liv says, laughing, sort of missing the point, I think. ‘I’m a cheap date. Get drunk way too fast.’
‘Ben,’ I admonish, ‘that’s kind of crazy.’
‘You do drink quite a lot,’ Ollie says, not at all in his usual diplomatic style. He leans forward, narrows his eyes. ‘How much do you drink?’
‘Want it in units, Doc?’ Ben asks, attempting a laugh, but it’s hollow. It’s his turn to shift in his seat, and he scratches at his hand. Something he was so proud of has been shot down by two of us. Liv isn’t quite there yet, ironically because I suspect she’s a bit drunk, slow on the uptake.
‘You drink every day,’ I point out thoughtfully. I had noticed this, but up until now I wasn’t really paying close enough attention.
‘Yeah?’ Ben says, defending his choice. ‘Beers in the flat, or after a lecture in the union bar with you.’
‘Or both,’ Liv comments chirpily. ‘Wine too. I’ve noticed those Cabernet Sauvignon bottles in the recycling.’
‘I don’t drink a whole bottle by myself. I share it around. And … some of them are yours,’ Ben says, somewhat desperately.
‘I don’t drink red,’ Liv replies simply.
Ollie looks concerned. ‘Ben, you drink a few beers and a few glasses of red wine every single day?’
‘I’m a student,’ he says, his voice rising defensively. ‘Isn’t it in our DNA to drink for three solid years?’
‘According to you, you’ve already been drinking for three solid years,’ Ollie fires back.
‘So?’ Ben asks, reaching for his pint and then, thinking better of it, he withdraws his hand. ‘You’re starting to piss me off.’
We all go silent. I’m watching Ben and so is Ollie. Liv’s holding her glass in front of her body as if it’s a shield. She’s studying it intently.
Ben gets up silently and suddenly, his chair toppling back before he catches it quickly, rights it and walks away in the direction of the loos.
I don’t think anyone knows quite what to say.
I don’t know what to say. Ben isn’t my boyfriend.
But I thought we were heading there. And I think I’m OK with that.
I think I want it. And he does too. He’s been vocal about that.
We’ve been doing this strange dance for a couple of months, so we’re definitely something.
And it doesn’t look as if it’s stopping anytime soon – nor do I want it to.
Should I do something about this? What can I do?
I’m not his mum. And is it a problem? Does Ben have a problem?
With alcohol? At age eighteen? It’s only wine and beer.
That’s OK, right? It’s not like he’s necking a bottle of spirits every night.
Either way, it’s been flagged, so I need to keep an eye on it, I guess.
And if Ben needs help, wants help … then I’m here.
I look at Ollie. His brow is furrowed and he glances back at me with the same helpless expression I think I’m displaying. It’s as if we’re having a wordless conversation.
Liv looks between the two of us and leans forward, whispering, ‘I think it would have been safer to talk about politics.’