opposite kerb.
At this distance, it’s hard to make out his features, but she sees him lift binoculars to his eyes and focus on her window. Amber bends over the sink, her heart thumping. By the time she looks up again, his car is moving off. She shudders. A pervert? Stalker, after an eyeful of teenage flesh? But if she alerts the others, they might think she’s imagined it. Not as bad as Mum and Jade not believing her, but not the start she wants. Without saying anything, she watches the car drive away.
Phoenix
Phoenix rinses the mugs the others have left in the sink, sensing it’s a sign of things to come. If they’d have lived like she did, they’d wash up as they go. But she can’t imagine posh-girl Tegan clearing up after herself. And Amber? She belted out of the kitchen like she’d seen a ghost. Maybe she can work on Imo. Get her on cleaning duty by Reading Week.
Back in her room she finishes her unpacking, only her posters still to do. The magnolia-painted breeze block walls are speckled with Blu Tack from previous occupants. Pinching together a decent clump, she affixes her favourite poster, smoothing the edges. The intensity of the orange and black image almost heats her fingertips. Magnificent. A long time ago.
She forgot to ask what time the flat party gets going, but it becomes apparent when the floor begins to pulsate. Ivor, below in Flat 7, must be letting rip with his speakers because his mummy isn’t there to tell him to turn it down. Pathetic. She changes her T-shirt and combs her hair.
There’s a knock on her door. It’s Amber, apparently over whatever spooked her in the kitchen. She’s gone for full greasepaint. Industrial quantities of eyeliner, attempting an edgy Amy Winehouse. She’s clutching Malibu purchased from the Costcutter near the student union.
“Is there time for me to get something?” Phoenix asks as they go into the hallway.
“No need.” Tegan comes out of her room, empty-handed. “There’ll be plenty of booze.”
After calling on Imo, they follow the throbbing bass downstairs to the open front door of Flat 7 and squeeze into the crowded hallway. The layout is the same as their flat, so they head to the kitchen. The music is a couple of decibels lower here, and they can hear each other if they shout. Bottles of various alcoholic potions occupy the work surfaces. Amber finds a stack of paper cups and sloshes out four measures of Malibu. After adding a dash of cola, she and Imo knock theirs back. Never a fan of rum, Phoenix pretends to sip hers.
Tegan leaves hers untouched. “Business first.” She heads into the hall.
From the kitchen doorway, Phoenix watches a sandy-haired boy lunge in for a hug. Tegan endures it stiffly and pats his back. It must be Ivor and she’s keeping him sweet. Phoenix’s assessment seems to be confirmed when he nods and lets her move through the guests in the hallway, parting them from their student loans in exchange for her folding jackets. Against the din, she perfects her sales pitch in mime. Still wearing the same clothes as earlier – palazzo pants and white top – she’s the best-dressed student here, even with the additional accessory of a money pouch strapped round her hips.
A few lads drift past Phoenix into the kitchen. She follows and swaps her drink for a can of beer. Amber and Imo still hover over the Malibu. The boys swarm round Imogen like flies on an elephant turd. Hers is tart with a tan look: leopard print mini-skirt, long-sleeved, lacy crop top. Acne hidden under layers of foundation.
Amber moves in, eyeing the boys. She’s more covered up than Imo but not in a good way. Baggy black linen pants, white cotton top, working men’s boots. If Phoenix screws up her eyes it’s rich-girl Tegan’s wardrobe. Screws them up tight.
“Genuine Romany.” Amber knocks back her drink and holds out the seam of her trousers. “Belonged to my grandmother. I’m from an old gypsy family.”
Phoenix chokes on her beer. If Amber’s a Romany, then Tegan’s jackets are handmade in Chelsea.
A box of pizza makes its way between hands. Amber takes a slice, turns it over and sucks it. “I like the sauce, but I’m gluten free.” She passes the rest of the box to Imo and sways in time to a new tune that drills pneumatically out of the speakers in the hall.
A boy that Phoenix recognizes from the Engineering open day takes a couple of four-packs of Strongbow Dark Fruit out of the fridge. He smiles when he sees her. “Come and sit with us. We’ve found somewhere quiet,” he shouts.
She follows him down the hall to the furthest-away bedroom. Two boys and a girl sit on the bed. They hand her a cider and she shuts the door. The walls vibrate but at least they can talk. She and the boy from the open day sit on the floor. The other boys are doing Engineering too and the girl is a chemist.
When the cider runs out, Phoenix says she’ll get more and goes back to the kitchen. The music’s still full blast, banging its rhythm into her throat. There’s no sign of Tegan – probably moved on to another flat party to flog her jackets – but Imo and Amber are there. Imo’s at the sink, no boys buzzing near her now. Phoenix smells the sick as she approaches. Imo’s holding back her hair in one hand and leaning against the basin with the other. There’s a ketchup-coloured streak on her sleeve.
Amber is dancing on the tiny floor with a couple of other girls and Ivor. The host grips his drink while swaying and twisting not quite on the beat. A tall man stands against the fridge, hood up, his eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights. He’s older than the others and a gap has formed between him and the dancers. A postgrad loser, Phoenix thinks. When Ivor overbalances towards him, the man barges past.
“Sorry, mate,” Ivor slurs, and gawps at his beer puddling on the floor.
But the man has gone.
Monday 26 September
Imogen
An explosion in her sleep illuminates one of her what-if nightmares: mouldy walls, a shrivelled body hunched over bent knees, cold floor. Imo thrashes against her sheets, curls foetal, trying not to hear the tortured whimpers in her dream. Fighting for breath. Pressure on her chest, crushing, crushing …
She sits upright in bed, skin clammy, pillow damp. Blood pounding in her trembling limbs. It takes several moments to register she’s awake. Unsteady on her feet, she reaches the bathroom and vomits into the toilet.
She returns to bed, still feeling dreadful, only vaguely aware that someone is walking beside her, holding her arm. Their grip firm.
***
Light burns through her eyelids and her head throbs. The pain gets worse when she flicks open her eyes. Sun streams in through the gap in the curtain where it’s hanging off the rail. Her mother tried to fix it and told Imo to report the fault. She won’t, though; the idea of maintenance people coming into her room ties her in knots.
When she turns over, she sees her arm, still in the lacy top she wore the previous evening. There’s a white, bobbly mark smeared on the sleeve. A flash of recollection: Amber dabbing it with wet loo paper. Imo sniffs the tissue residue and retches. It still stinks of puke.
She
