His words flow over me, wrapping me in a warm blanket. This man really believes in me. Trouble is how do I believe in myself?
I don’t know what makes me confide in him even more. Perhaps it’s the kindness he’s showing, or the belief he seems to have in me. ‘Sometimes I just feel like walking away, to be honest.’ But the second the words leave my mouth, I regret revealing so much. He will think I am a waste of time now, not worth his attention or advice.
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t ever do that, Josie. Don’t be a quitter. At anything.’
‘You’re right. And I probably should stop going out so much. I need to be more focused.’ But I already know the challenge this will bring: it’s not easy to go against the grain of who you are.
‘Well, remember to cut yourself some slack, too,’ Zach says. ‘You need a balance. But you know what? I really believe you can have anything you want if you put your mind to it.’ He stares up at the dark sky. ‘What I’m trying to say is, just never give up.’
Crushing out my cigarette in an ashtray that needs cleaning, I stand up. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time already,’ I say. ‘Enjoy your coffee.’
He reaches out his hand to shake mine and it’s surprisingly warm. ‘Nice chatting to you, Josie Carpenter.’
As I walk back inside, an unfamiliar feeling overcomes me. I can do this. Zach believes in me. He liked my story. I’m going to make a go of this.
When I step inside the café, I turn around and he’s still watching me.
* * *
The flat stinks, as usual, of Alison’s cheap perfume and the cloying vanilla scent of the candles she insists on placing in every room. She never says anything but I’m sure it’s to hide the smell of my cigarettes. Even though I only ever smoke hanging out of my bedroom window, the smell somehow seeps into all the rooms.
Alison and I couldn’t be more different from each other, yet here we are, sharing this poky flat, in each other’s pockets, when both of us know we can’t stand the sight of each other. We can’t even make small talk about our studies as I know nothing about environmental science and she shows no interest in literature or creative writing.
The dopey woman who arranged our flat-share said she was sure we’d have a lot in common. That even though Alison was a third-year student and I was just beginning my first, we were the same age so should get along fabulously. Like that’s all it takes. I hit it off better with my lecturer within minutes – as opposed to the months I’ve lived with Alison – and he said goodbye to his twenties some time ago.
I think Alison and I each expect the other to request an accommodation transfer from the university, but for some reason neither one of us has bothered so far. I would do it, but I don’t need the hassle of uprooting myself again. I can stick it out until summer and then I will definitely not share with her again in my second year.
It’s dark in here, other than the faint orange glow from the street light right outside, so I know she’s not home, but we never tell each other where we’re going.
As I always do when I find myself at home alone, I head to Alison’s room and try the door handle. Just to see. But of course it’s locked, as it always is. I don’t know how she got a lock on her door when I don’t have one, but I think her dad must have done it for her.
Either she doesn’t trust me or she’s got something to hide, but it’s hard to imagine Miss Studious Bookworm has a dead body hidden under her bed. I laugh at the thought. She’s so frail and skinny I doubt she’d have the strength to do anyone any harm. But then again, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. She’s always staring at me, and I have no idea why.
My stomach rumbles so I head to the kitchen to get something to eat. There is nothing in my cupboard but a half-empty bottle of ketchup, not even bread, and the nearest shop is a half-hour walk away, so I ransack Alison’s supplies. Another difference between us: her cupboard is full of food, all of it neatly arranged with all the labels facing forwards.
I grab a can of tomato soup and a couple of slices of bread; I’ve done it before on the odd occasion and she never says anything, so I don’t think she notices. Or she’s too afraid to confront me. Yes, I feel bad, but not too bad – her parents pay her rent every month and send extra money for food so she doesn’t have to pull shifts in a coffee shop to get through her degree.
While I eat my soup I think of my conversation with Zach Hamilton and how he raved about my short story. I replay his words in my head and they fill me up, making me float.
My phone beeps with a text and I scoop it up, smearing the screen with a residue of butter. I wipe it off with a sheet of kitchen roll that’s been left lying on the table, probably by me, earlier. I’m not messy, but Alison’s ridiculous cleanliness drives me crazy, shouts out for me to defy it.
The text is from Anthony, a psychology student I met in a bar last week. Did something happen between us? I remember black hair, golden skin, stubble on his face, as if he was trying to prove he was a grown man, him leaning in to me, whispering something about me being hot, but I’m sure I pushed him away, as I always do.
I read his short message: Wanna meet up tonight?
No How are you? or Hope you’re okay. He may as well just ask me if I’ll screw him.
Sorry, busy. I press send and smile as I imagine the look on his face as he reads my rejection.
Another text comes through, this time from someone I’m actually happy to hear from: Vanessa, another student I met somewhere along the way, asking if I’m up for a night of tequila shots at her place. The thrill of the offer is hard to resist. Vanessa is a good laugh, and she doesn’t judge me or anyone else. I wouldn’t call her a friend, but it’s nice to have superficial acquaintances in the absence of anything else.
I’m still eating when a key turns in the front door and Alison appears in the kitchen doorway, a ridiculously large bag slung over her arm, textbooks poking out. I’m surprised her body can bear the weight of it.
‘Hi,’ she says, her eyes flicking to my bowl of unfinished soup. Her reddish hair, set in pristine waves, glints in the light. She places her bag on the floor.
‘Hi.’ We may dislike each other but there’s no harm in being polite if we’re going to be stuck with each other until summer.
‘I’m surprised you’re home,’ she says, in her passive aggressive way. Why doesn’t she just come right out and say, It’s almost 9 p.m., shouldn’t you be off your skull by now?
I push my bowl aside. ‘Felt like a night in.’
She doesn’t reply, but opens her food cupboard and rummages around, turning back to glance at my bowl. I pray for her to say something this time, to confront me so we can have a huge row that will force one of us to call accommodation services to request an immediate transfer.
But all she does is rearrange her food to cover the gap her can of soup has left.
I almost feel guilty again now. Perhaps I will replace it tomorrow. After all, we can’t help the families we’re born into. Some of us are just dealt a shitty blow, while others, like Alison, have perfect, doting parents. Anyway, she may be weird but she’s never actually done anything to me, apart from her freaky staring. I can live with that; I’ve lived with far worse.
I head to my room and lie on the bed, surprised to find I’m thinking about Zach Hamilton again. Minutes later, I jump up to sit at my desk. Before turning on my laptop, I text Vanessa to let her know I won’t be going out tonight.
I’ve got studying to do.
Chapter Three
Mia
* * *
It’s no exaggeration to say that the walls are closing in on me, sucking out my breath. I stare at the frail young woman sitting opposite me, and in an instant her eyes change from defiant to frightened, as if someone has flicked a switch.
‘What? What did you say?’