I try not to shrink, instead transferring my attention over her shoulder. She’s dragging a guy behind her, a tall boy with blond hair and a small, nice smile. He leans around her and shakes Joshua’s hand, then peers curiously at me.
‘Hey guys,’ Joshua says casually. He looks at me. ‘These are my friends, Sam and Camilla. Sam, Camilla, this is my … friend. From school.’ He pauses, and something in the pause makes me inexplicably nervous. ‘This is Sophia,’ he finishes.
I’m not sure of the catalyst for the events that follow. There are too many people in my vicinity, and all of them seem to suddenly engage in a series of rapid, senseless actions.
The girl in the red dress – Camilla – snaps her eyes to me. For a brief moment she stares, agape. Then she lunges forward, as if she’s going to hug me, but stops at the last moment. She gives me another huge smile and an enthusiastic wave instead. ‘Hey! Ah, welcome! It’s really nice to meet you, Sophia.’
The blond guy behind her – Sam – and Joshua seem to be engaging in some obtuse, silent communication above my head, mainly consisting of eyebrow quirks. Then Camilla turns to Sam, her eyes widening, then narrowing, before flicking to somewhere over his shoulder. He clears his throat.
‘Ah, yeah. I’ll be over there,’ Sam says, before bolting in the direction of the bar.
I turn my back on them so only Joshua fills my view. ‘Have you been saying stuff about me?’
Joshua’s cheeks turn crimson. ‘Um. I may have mentioned you. Once or twice. It’s nothing more ominous than that, I promise.’
‘Bollocks,’ Camilla mutters.
My whole body tenses, but when I turn around, it’s not us that she is looking at.
Sam is at the bar, next to a short guy who appears to be wearing one of those curly novelty clown wigs. Sam leans down, gesturing frantically as he talks in the short guy’s ear.
Camilla shoots Joshua a look. His face seems, I think, pained yet resigned. Sam and the other guy walk back towards us.
The short guy stops in front of me. ‘Hello,’ he says solemnly. ‘My name is Adrian. I’ve heard nothing about you at all. Can I ask, what is your name?’
Behind him, Sam clears his throat. And I could swear he surreptitiously pokes curly-haired guy in the back of the head with an elbow.
‘Hey, man,’ Joshua says, shaking the guy’s hand. ‘How’s it going, Adrian?’
Adrian’s eyes are zeroed in on me, his round face alive with a thousand expressions. He’s standing way inside the zone of my personal space, and I can’t tell if he has been dancing or running, but he is also sweating profusely.
Then I notice the picture on his T-shirt.
I point at it. ‘Doctor Who?’
He beams, a wide smile that makes him sort of cute-ish. ‘Hell yeah,’ he says, stepping even closer. ‘Did you watch the last behind-the-scenes special? Man, did you wanna give Moffat a slap in the nads, too?’
I let out a small chuckle, even as I move backwards. ‘Um, okay – yes, and, well, maybe, a few times.’
Adrian looks like he’s about to explode, but then Sam grabs him by the neck of his T-shirt and hauls him away.
‘Sorry. He’s not housebroken. We’re trying, but it’s like wrangling a puppy with ADHD.’
Camilla jabs Sam in the ribs. ‘Don’t be mean. We’re just all really excited to meet you, Sophia,’ she says.
Three smiling faces stare at me with various levels of intensity. And I am struck with a sudden blinding insight into the possible fate of Grigori Perelman. Perhaps it was simply this – one ill-advised foray into the world, one Smirnoff-soaked Steklov Institute bash, one excruciatingly awkward, inept exchange with other humans, that broke his peculiar brain.
Fact: Three perfectly nice, normal-ish people are waiting for me to speak, and the prospect of retiring to a Russian hovel with the cockroaches seems increasingly appealing.
I back up a few paces, having rapidly reached the end of my small-talk reserves, only to discover that Joshua has disappeared. I cast my eyes around frantically and see him moving hurriedly back through the crowd.
He is carrying two plastic cups, and hands one to me as he reaches my side. ‘Just Sprite,’ he says. ‘I assumed you wouldn’t want booze, although maybe that was a crappy assumption. I mean, I don’t drink, but I’m not judgey, and there’s plenty of other stuff if you want, beer or –’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, taking a long sip as Joshua’s friends drift into their own huddle. I use the lemonade and conversational reprieve to attempt to pull myself together. ‘I’m not sure either of us wants to see the effect alcohol has on me. Have you seen that YouTube clip of Mr Grayson? I’m assuming I would be something like that. But with less splitting the crotch of my pants, hopefully.’
He gapes at me. ‘Ms Reyhart! Was that a joke at your own expense?’ He grins. ‘I don’t see you being a sloppy drunk. Or a crying drunk. Oh, clearly you stopped watching that vid way too soon,’ he says with a laugh at my no-doubt quizzical expression. ‘Just wait till he drops his kebab.’
The music changes to something that sounds like it was made in an atomic testing ground, rendering further conversation impossible. Joshua and I lean against the back of a couch and watch the melee in strangely companionable silence. For the first time all night, I feel the sharp tension in my shoulders begin to ebb.
Joshua drifts into conversation with his friend Sam. His eyes keep floating back to me, so I do my best to give him a reassuring smile. But then I am bailed up by Camilla, who lands beside me in a pouf of red skirt and looks at me expectantly.
I fidget with the zip on my jacket. It’s hot in here, and sweat is starting to pool at the base of my spine. I slip the coat off, but immediately regret it. I feel exposed, uninteresting and pedestrian in my plain dress. I hug the jacket to my chest and hope that Camilla will take pity on me and find someone else to talk to.
‘So. Joshua said they’ve made you take Drama? Man, that must be all kinds of sucky.’
I blink at her suspiciously. ‘No-one forced me. But it’s not my favourite thing in the world, no.’
Camilla doesn’t seem fazed by my abruptness. She sips her beer. ‘I’ve tried it,’ she says, her plummy accent carrying over the noise. ‘People kept telling me the only cure for stage fright was to just get up and do it. As if fear can be cast out, like Merrin casting the demon –’ She giggles. ‘Sorry. My boyfriend’s bad influence. But yeah, I made myself do this play – I was Molly the orphan in Annie, Marylebone Primary’s end-of-year extravaganza.’ She shudders. ‘Seriously, all it did was guarantee that stage lights now give me PTSD. And proved that the best use for an Annie wig is as an improvised puke bucket.’
I take a moment to evaluate this person, who seems a thousand miles away from introverted. ‘So what you’re saying is, you should have just stayed in your comfort zone?’ I say cautiously.