than twenty. Is that down to having a gap year? Imo thought rich kids got wrapped in cotton wool and knew nothing of the real world. Where does Tegan get her streetwise cynicism?
Amber’s more on her wavelength. She forgot to ask if she’ll be auditioning on Thursday. Maybe if she can get Amber to go, she’ll go too.
It could be her usual fatigue, but for some reason she feels calm. A difficult day is over and she’s made a friend in Amber. Now she welcomes rest.
Sometime later, in her dream, she registers Amber sitting on her bed.
“You will come to get me, won’t you?” Amber whispers.
Imo stumbles through her slumbering mind. Get her for what? She says she will, then the dream fades.
Wednesday 28 September
Imogen
When the alarm doesn’t go off, it’s a miracle Imo manages to wake at all. Half an hour late and touch and go whether she’ll make the German seminar. Her hoodie and jeans are by the bed. Yesterday’s knickers will do, save on the handwashing.
She goes to the bathroom. After she pees, she washes her hands, pushes a flannel under her armpits and makes a monumental effort to brush her teeth. She doesn’t plan on talking to anyone today; it’s almost pointless caring about fresh breath.
Suddenly, remembering her dream about Amber, a prickle of doubt crosses her shoulders and she shivers. But there’s no time to call on her flatmate, even though she hasn’t seen her since the Freshers’ Fair. She tells herself the dream meant nothing. Thinks again about her usual cellar nightmare. A what-if that even Inspector Hare doesn’t like to mention.
After swigging from the cup by her bed, she leaves the flat and heads to the modern languages block. It’s a sunny day – seaside bright and warm, maybe twenty degrees. More people are about than she’d hoped. In pairs and groups, confident, smiling, fitting in. Dr Wyatt’s not the only evil academic who calls lectures in Freshers’ Week. She sinks further into her hoodie and remembers she hasn’t combed her hair. Who cares?
She tries to run but has to stop, coughing harshly. Out of her eye corner, she sees a man standing across the road at the end of the pathway. The memory of the tall man smoking under the tree on arrivals day makes her sprint-walk past a group of boys. Her eyes fix on the ground – dark tarmac, bare earth at the side. A gardener must have dug up the beds overnight. They were full of marigolds yesterday. University policy? Root out those about to fade? How long until they come for her?
The seminar room on the first floor has seating for twenty and she takes a seat round the horseshoe of desks. The chairs soon fill up and the crow girl from yesterday’s lecture is forced to sit next to her. Is that a smile? No, she’s sniffing. She can beggar off if she thinks Imo smells. Should have got here earlier and selected another seat.
Dr Wyatt comes in and launches into her bullet-fast German. Imo surprises herself by getting the gist.
“Let’s have someone we didn’t hear from yesterday.” Dr Wyatt’s eyes settle on Imo.
Her acne glows inside her hoodie and she desperately scrolls on her phone screen, looking for her notes, such as they are.
“Stand up,” Wyatt says in German. “You don’t need your phone.”
From every angle of the room, eyes are on Imo. The lump in her throat is concrete. David gives her a thumbs-up. She takes a breath and launches into German.
***
“That was enlightening, wouldn’t you say?” Dr Wyatt paces inside the horseshoe of desks at the end of the seminar, the flat soles of her boots slapping the floor. “Some of you did the reading I set, most of you didn’t. But, I have to say, one or two of you went the extra mile.” She looks at Imo. “Keep it up.”
Imo is ten feet tall. As good as anyone. She’s got her brother Freddie to thank for his throwaway comment. Do what you do best. Maybe he’s right about the audition too.
“Fancy a coffee?” the crow girl asks as they leave. “There’s a Starbucks downstairs.”
Imo’s cough starts hacking again, but she’s too surprised to decline. She follows the girl’s black cape to the ground-floor café.
They buy refreshments and perch on bar stools in the window. It’s not Imo’s preferred location – people walking past outside can see her – but it’s doable; none of them know her family, know their story. As a kid she hated her common surname, now she’s grateful for being Smith. At least she can remain anonymous despite everything that’s been on TV.
The girl’s name is Lauren. She tears apart her chocolate cookie. “Where did you get that stuff from? When the intranet came on last night, I read all the articles in the links Dr Wyatt gave us. Took me hours on Google Translate, but I don’t remember half of what you said. Are you German?”
The tiny flame that’s flickered inside Imo since the seminar glows brighter. “Do you really want to know?” She leans forward, the compliment having made her talkative. “I messaged all the German guys I’ve matched with on Tinder and asked their opinion. Then I learnt what they said by heart.”
Lauren chokes on her biscuit. “How many guys was that?”
“I changed my Tinder Bio to: ‘I’m looking for a guy who loves post-war German politics’. To be honest, not many knew what I was on about. Viktor and Markus were useful, though. They were strongly opinionated in different ways.” She coughs again. It wrecks her chest.
The drink warms her. She can do normal things after all. Coffee with another student. Like everyone else. Even draw on the flirty Imogen from before to help her out with coursework. Sometimes. It’s not like she’s trying to be that person again.
Lauren puts down her cup. “What have you tried on your skin? I’ve gone through the over-the-counter potions. I wanted to go hard core but I couldn’t while I was …” She pauses and goes red. Imo notices her hand has started to shake. “I mean … when my mum wouldn’t let me. She can’t stop me now I’m here. Have you tried it?”
Imo wonders what Lauren almost let slip. She shakes her head. So it’s got round to her acne. It’s all anyone sees when they look at her. She glances at Lauren’s face. Spots round her nose and chin. No big deal. Imo’s had months of inflamed pustules on her cheeks, a face she hates and getting worse.
Lauren stares at her, waiting for an answer. Imo has no wish to prolong the conversation. What’s the point? She’s not going to be friends with this girl. Too much effort. Amber’s the only person she’s met at Abbeythorpe with whom she feels remotely comfortable. Amber does all the talking and has even more neuroses than she does. She thinks of the bangle lying abandoned on the tarmac, of the look of terror in Amber’s eyes as she left the fair, and wants to check she’s okay. She decides to call in at the canteen in case she’s gone there.
“I said I’d meet a friend for lunch,” she says and finishes her coffee.
Lauren looks at her phone. “A bit late, isn’t it?”
Imo
