quickly, I can hardly keep up. The boots I’m wearing are high and even though the heels are quite chunky, I fall off them two or three times, hurting my ankle a bit. Every time I do, he rolls his eyes and says, ‘Seriously, Emily, how much have you had to drink?’ And I like it that he’s concerned for me. Even if his concern comes out sounding a little like a condemnation. He’s right. I am drunk. I like it. It’s as if my fingers are candy floss, all malleable and melty, vapid. My fingers, my head, my body.
The neatly mowed grass gives way to longer wilder stuff and then soon a tangle of brambles, twigs, foliage. I’m glad of the boots otherwise my legs would be ripped to bits. Ridley only lets go of my hand when he pushes me up against a tree. The bark scratches my bare shoulders and back, but I don’t care because his tongue is down my throat. He’s kissing me hard and I know what this sort of kissing means. I’m glad. I kiss him back. Just as hard, our teeth bang and our tongues clash as though they’ve forgotten how to move with each other but I don’t stop. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull his head towards me so he can’t stop either. His hands are running up and down my body. It seems neither of us have forgotten how good that is. His kisses make everything else just fall away, as though there is just us up against one of those green screens they use in movie making, our own space to create of it what we will. A moment ago, I could hear the party blaring in the background: the DJ, the fairground rides, shrieking and laughter. Now there is no sound, except our breathing, heavy and fast. Someone has hit the mute button on the world’s remote, there is nothing to see, my eyes are closed, all there is is him. His touch. His warmth. His presence.
After a bit, I know I have to ask. I don’t want to. I want to carry on with his lips on mine, with his hands exploring my body but I have some self-respect and so I break my mouth away from his. He just attaches his to my neck, to my ears, to my arms and face. His breath is warm and perfect. I can smell beer and toffee apples on him. His fingers are edging into the leg on my leotard. Panting, I ask, ‘So, Evie Clarke then?’
He stops kissing for a moment, to face me, and grins. ‘Jealous?’ I am, obviously, but can’t see it would help to admit it.
‘Curious,’ I say. I’m pretty pleased with that retort. I think I sound witty and sophisticated, not quite as anxious and worried as I am. He shrugs. If I didn’t love him so much, I’d say he looked dumb. Or maybe embarrassed. I freeze, understanding this even through the haze of alcohol and lust.
I thought he’d say she was nothing.
He’s not saying she’s nothing.
Which means she is something. The latest thing. But then, he was just a second ago kissing me. I block out the memory of him standing at the door of the school toilets while Megan slapped and kicked me. I try not to think about him taking photos of me with my knickers around my ankles. He starts to look about him, he seems confused. Almost as though he’s suddenly unsure as to how he came to be alone in the woods with me, as though he’s forgotten he was the one who took my hand and practically dragged me here.
‘I’m really drunk,’ I say. I’ve heard people say this, by way of an excuse, when they’ve done something they regret or when they want to do something they know they shouldn’t and are already making excuses even before it’s happened. And sometimes people say it just because it fills a gap in conversation, and they can’t think of what else to say. I’m not sure which of these applies to me. Maybe all of them. The ease between Ridley and I has been hacked apart. He’s nervous and jumpy and can’t look at me. I want him to look at me more than anything in the world, because my costume is cool and I had my make-up done professionally and if ever there was a time for him to want me, it