Chapter 22
Elliot walks back from the bar with two more pink drinks in his grasp, graciously handing me one before pulling his phone out of his pocket.
I’ve been scanning the tent for anything that sticks out before we search properly for clues.
I’m about to suggest that we start by the door and work our way around when I’m interrupted by a familiar voice.
‘Nora Hartley? No way. What are you doing at Crest Fest?’ Short blonde curls fly into view and I stare up into a pair of eyes I haven’t seen for years.
‘Oh, God – hi, Lee.’ My voice stutters as he reaches around me to throw an arm across my shoulders in greeting. My body stiffens as I attempt a smile, which comes out looking like more of a wince.
‘Hi mate, I’m Lee,’ he says with a quick wave, flashing a grin in Elliot’s direction. Elliot responds with a dull glare as he silently takes a sip of his pink drink.
‘This is Elliot,’ I prompt with a brief nod in his direction. He barely acknowledges this. He hasn’t been in the best mood since The Conversation.
‘Wow, look at you! How have you been? It’s been a while,’ Lee says brightly.
‘Yeah… I’m uh – I’m okay.’ My voice starts to shake slightly. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, yeah, good. Living in London now with the whole gang together – you know, Reece, Eric and Miles. All that lot.’
A sudden heat erupts in my chest and moves to my throat at the mention of those names. I nod and nervously run a hand across my fringe. To make matters worse, I can feel Elliot’s watchful gaze burning me.
‘Cool,’ I murmur in response, resisting the urge to walk away from him.
Lee falters and nods awkwardly. He quickly tips his beer with a smile and takes a step away from us.
‘It’s nice to see you, Nora. I hope you’re doing okay.’
He walks away with one last nod to us both. Unparalleled anger fizzles inside me at his parting words as I glare at his back. Patronising little fuck.
I slam my drink down on the table with unnecessary force, all too aware that Elliot is still studying me quietly.
His eyebrows shoot up as he takes another sip. ‘I hope that wasn’t another useless ex-boyfriend?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I snap. ‘I went to school with him. He was a… never mind.’ My voice turns softer as some of my fury seems to dissipate a little, quickly replaced with anxiety as I feel Elliot’s knowing eyes on me. I rub my temples, mostly just to hide my face from him.
‘Who was he?’ he asks again, more gently this time.
I shake my head feverishly. ‘Nobody.’
He just looks at me quietly, patiently. I sigh.
‘It comes with a little bit of backstory. I’m afraid we would have to go into The History of Nora.’
He doesn’t flinch. ‘I’ve got time.’
I hesitate. I really hadn’t planned on giving him any details about my miserable teenage experience, and that I had just reunited with one of the people responsible. A nervous knot forms in my stomach at the idea of telling him. What if he doesn’t get it? What if he brushes it off?
Some people make it clear that they don’t understand the effects of bullying.
How can you even measure the impact a bully’s words have on you?
Is it how long I cried for before falling asleep on a particularly bad day?
How many clothes were hidden or thrown away because it displayed a body part that my peers sneered and shouted at?
The number of hours I spent at a mirror plotting how to hide my features?
Trying to edit how I blinked or spoke because the way I naturally did so was entirely ‘wrong’?
And then the hyper-vigilance I developed as a result: always expecting hurtful words from the people that deserved more credit.
Maybe it was how long I hated the parts of my body that were needlessly targeted: my teeth, my hair, my knees, my ears, my eyebrows, my chest? I still occasionally fall into the bad habit of glaring with derision at the body that has been nothing but kind to me.
Everybody gets kind of bullied at some point, I remember one of my flatmates at university saying. She was one of the first people I opened up to about it after leaving school, and to my surprise, she seemed eager to dismiss it.
But I think I know, somehow, that Elliot won’t dismiss it.
‘Honestly, I had a bad time at school. Turns out that when you arrive at secondary school with frizzy ginger hair, freckles, wonky teeth, you’re two foot taller than everybody else and awkward and desperate to get good grades, you’re an easy target for bullies.
I practically came gift-wrapped for them,’ I say with a bitter laugh.
I keep talking, too anxious to check how Elliot is receiving the information.
‘There were a lot of boys in my year who just, I don’t know, took it upon themselves to make my life as miserable as possible.
All the classic stuff. Just humiliating me in whatever way they could think of.
Belittling me, cutting my hair behind me in class, insulting me, coming up with hundreds of nicknames.
Getting everyone else to call me them. God, when I was in Year Seven they followed me to the bus station and threw rocks at me.
’ Running my hands through my hair to try to clear the memory, I look up to Elliot to see his blue eyes dark with fury.
‘Wait, are you talking about him? That guy threw rocks at you?’ His expression is murderous, and his voice is unusually unsteady in its deep rasp.
‘No, no. He wasn’t one of those ones.’
He still looks utterly incensed with anger, with a deep furious line perfectly carved between his eyebrows. I gently pat his hand that is now clenched into a tight fist.
‘It’s okay, I escaped unscathed. At the ripe age of twenty-two, I don’t have to worry about schoolboys throwing shit at me anymore… it’s a good place to be.’
I try to inject my voice with humour with little success. He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks again in a low murmur.
‘I’m so sorry that happened to you.’
Despite myself, there’s an immediate lump in my throat. I try to find my voice but there aren’t any words anyway.
‘Probably a good thing I didn’t know who he was,’ he mutters.
‘What?’ I ask, scanning his darkened features.
He seems to shake himself before turning back to face me, his eyes softer. ‘Are you sure you’re alright? Bumping into someone like that, is it not… upsetting for you?’
I consider the question. ‘It would have a while ago. I’ve put in a lot of work to try to not let stuff like that affect me anymore. People like him aren’t worth getting upset over now.’
His still gaze rests on me. I start to feel nervous, even self-conscious under his scrutiny.
‘I’m really sorry you were treated that way. You didn’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that.’
I can feel my skin itch, like I’m having an allergic reaction to his obvious pity. I try to shrug it off this time. ‘It’s really fine.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ he says firmly. He’s talking quickly, like he can’t get his words out fast enough. ‘Nobody should have to deal with that. I actually can’t believe no one stepped in to help.’
‘People did help. A few girls in my year looked out for me; it wasn’t all bad. Obviously Hennie helped. She fucking fought my corner, as you can imagine. Nearly started a few fights. She even started a rumour in Year Eleven that I got model scouted, which weirdly got a few people off my back.’
‘You were model scouted?’ he asks, as if he’s interested to hear the story.
‘Oh God, no,’ I scoff. ‘I can’t deny it helped a bit though. Kind of sad when you think about it.’
‘Thanks for telling me,’ he says. ‘I can’t imagine that’s easy to do.’
Strangely enough, he made it easy.
‘Thank you,’ I echo.
He’s still frowning at me. I can’t bear the feeling of it for any longer.
‘It’s really okay, you know. I have great parents and a therapist and a best friend who would burn Firecrest to the ground if she knew that any of those boys were actually here. Things are good now. I’m lucky.’
It strikes somewhere inside me that I know this last part to be true. I am lucky.
He nods solemnly.
I swat at his arm softly. ‘Stop looking so fucking sad,’ I say, laughing.
He tries to conceal a grin as he leans his elbows back on the table.
‘Alright. If you’re smiling, I’m smiling.’
I have no idea how we’ve both finished two drinks without even starting to look for clues, but apparently that’s what we’ve done.
With significantly less cognitive functioning, we put our heads together and start pointing out any obvious hiding places.
There’s a handful of clear options scattered around, including a worn photo booth, two red telephone boxes and even a mini helter-skelter standing proudly in one corner.
We separate to start looking, all determination.
I look briefly insane running my hand around the inside of the tyre swing, and fire an observant couple next to me an apologetic grin.
There are no signs of any clues in the photo booth either.
After stepping away with nothing, I rejoin Elliot as he stands with his arms crossed looking sceptically around the helter-skelter.
‘Nothing,’ I confirm.
‘My hopes are on the telephone boxes,’ he says, nodding in their direction.
‘Me too,’ I agree.
With hopes high, we approach the pair of telephone boxes to see a girl posing inside one of them with a cocktail, her friend happily snapping photos.
Thankfully, the other one is empty; the door opens with a click as I step inside, and I’m surprised to see that the phone is still fully intact. I hold the receiver to my ear to confirm it doesn’t work in any capacity and indeed, it’s silent.
Elliot stands at the open door next to me, looking puzzled as he takes in the dozens of notes and business cards and sketches that are chaotically pinned to the wall above the phone. My eyes flicker across them, trying to find any phrase or drawing among them that could be relevant.