towards the main accommodation reception. Sweat seeps into her hoodie but she can’t take it off despite the late summer heat. Even though she got it at the British Heart Foundation shop, it’s a Jack Wills. And first impressions count. She spent two hours on Thursday planning her arrival outfit. Like her mother, she can play at normal.
They pass other students and their parents coming out of the building, clutching white envelopes, presumably containing the keys to their home for the next ten months. On the open day last year, Imo walked into this wood-panelled foyer, giggling with other Year Twelves on a trip from her school. Was that the last time she laughed and meant it? Not the fake chuckle she gives these days when her family play real-life charades. She swallows hard.
The hall echoes with the chatter of dozens of families. More students in pink T-shirts usher them into three lines. Imo’s family stand in the left-hand queue. Imo shifts from foot to foot, unable to stop her legs from wobbling. Wishing her parents weren’t with her. Hoping nobody will recognize them.
She swivels her head to look at the white-washed pillars behind the long reception counter. They’re adorned with posters advertising the Freshers’ Welcome Party. The line moves swiftly and soon Imo is in possession of her envelope, with instructions to turn right out of the building, enter the annexe at the back and take the stairs to the first floor. Scared of heights since Inspector Hare’s visit shook her family rigid – since she saw the broken body and imagined the fall – she’d asked for a ground-floor room when she filled in the accommodation form. At least they haven’t put her at the top of a tower block. It’s been months since she climbed higher than the second storey in any building, even though it’s an irrational fear. Inspector Hare had got it wrong again.
On the steps outside, right in the way of other families coming in and out, her parents stop for another debate about fetching the luggage. A Mini Convertible sweeps into the crisscross box of the no-parking zone in front of them. A high-heeled black sandal steps out of the driver’s side. The sandal strap coils along a slender ankle. When the driver stands up, the strap disappears under the hem of black palazzo trousers. The young woman shakes her head and thick, dark curls cascade over her bare shoulders. She’s wearing a white broderie anglaise blouse. A gypsy top, Imo’s grandma would call it, but there’s nothing rustic about its wearer.
“Mid-blue,” Imo’s dad says. “That’s the colour I’d go for too if I ever got one.”
Imo and her mother share a smile. Only her dad could see a beautiful woman and show more interest in her car.
A sudden prickling feeling tells Imo that she is being watched. It’s a familiar sense, one she has struggled with regularly over the past few months. Freddie has too – even worse for him. She swallows down a knot of fear and forces herself to look at the crowd. Students and parents rush past in the heat, not looking her way. She tells herself that it’s just her imagination. That nobody’s recognized her.
Then she freezes. A tall, hooded man is standing in shadow under a tree on the opposite side of the street and smoking a cigarette. Dressed all in black, too old to be a student but clearly not a parent. But it’s not Imo he’s staring at; he’s watching the beautiful woman’s every move. His eyes follow her as she turns to lock her car. A shiver runs down Imo’s spine.
When the man sees Imo looking, she drops her gaze to her envelope, hands trembling. Wariness of strangers is another product of the last few months, and this one looks like a stalker.
The young woman puts her keys in her handbag and walks past Imo into the reception, leaving a waft of expensive perfume in the air. When Imo looks back across the street, the man isn’t there.
Imogen
“Smile,” her dad says, as he sticks out his backside to bring Imo into his viewfinder. “Let’s have one for the album.” His turn to play-act normal. But Imo’s face is pale. Her mind still fixed on the man outside, on the way his gaze followed the woman through the crowd. Is that how it happened before?
“Imogen, are you all right?” her mum says, concern in her eyes.
“Fine, still a bit car sick.” Imo smiles weakly and sits down on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. At least her family didn’t see him. She lets the sound of her parents bickering stop her mind from racing.
“Mind where you put your feet, Rob,” Mum squawks, pointing at a pile of clothes on the floor.
“I didn’t touch them.”
“You were about to.”
Imo bares her teeth. It’s like Christmas. Everyone’s got up early and they’re all in one room. Arguing. A tremor passes through her. They won’t next Christmas. Some things are worse than arguing.
The room is small: single bed, desk, slim wardrobe, grey carpet tiles, door to an en suite. Surprisingly modern after the imposing reception hall. When they unlocked the flat, Imo noticed other doors in the long hallway. She shudders at the thought of her flatmates appearing now and recognizing her family.
“Mum, are you nearly ready to go?” she says hopefully.
But her mother is still unpacking and doesn’t reply. With an armful of shampoos and conditioners, Imo goes into the tiny bathroom. The sink – half the size of their basins at home – is fitted close to the loo and there’s no bathroom cabinet.
“I wish we’d had room in the car for a toiletries stand.” Imo calls. “I bet that girl in the big van brought one.”
“And a cornetto maker,” Freddie pipes up.
Dad laughs and Imo walks back into the room. But a shadow falls over her mum’s face and she turns towards the window, arms wrapped around her body.
Pretending not to notice, Dad empties the last cardboard box. “Where do you want your German vocab book?”
“Underneath my pillow.” Imo tries to smile but her heart’s not in it. Her backchat is coming out on autopilot, her hand shaking with nerves. She saw other students on the stairs, making the trek to her floor and beyond. Confident, sharing a joke with each other. Why is it only her that doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing?
Dad joins Mum by the window. “She’s got a gorgeous view of the hills,” he says.
“It’s grass,” Mum says, her normal mood a memory.
“And south facing. This will be a sunny room.”
Imo’s belly flutters again, unnerved for a reason she can’t define.
“Right.” Dad sighs and turns from the window, wearing his bravest face. “I suppose we’d better leave you to it.” He gives her a hug. “Keep in touch. Have a brilliant first term.” He hugs her tighter. “And stay safe.”
Freddie pats her back. “Good luck with the audition, Sis.”
Oh God, she hoped he’d forgotten. He found out from the website that the uni will be putting on Jesus Christ Superstar in December. The auditions are this week.
“You will go, won’t you?”
“I haven’t been to a dance
