stashed in there. But when we played, only Megan bothered to hunt out a complete and matching kit; Jake and I preferred to rummage and pull together our own mad mix-ups. A fireman’s helmet, a Roman breast plate, a ballerina skirt. We’d roar with laughter as we layered one another up in ever-increasing ludicrousness. A multicoloured wig, neon bangles, angel wings.
He doesn’t look ludicrous tonight. He looks hot. And cool. My insides billow as though someone has just blown life into me. And I know for a fact I’ll take him back in an instant if I can because wanting beats dignity every time when it comes to people you love. But then the rugby lads jostle about a bit and I notice Ridley isn’t alone; besides the lads, there is a girl.
Evie Clarke.
In the moment I relax because it’s not Megan he’s here with, I start to boil with jealousy. I hate Evie with her fake Michael Kors tote. I think of her yanking at my hair, kicking my shins in that nasty loo cubicle. She was not invited. Dad and I deliberately avoided inviting Megan and any of her cronies. What is she doing here? I watch as Ridley casually flings his arm across her shoulder. It could be a gesture between mates. It could be more. I down the vodka I’m holding. I need it. Something to blunt it, blot it up, this haemorrhaging of feelings, this extreme pain. I think, ‘Fuck him I’m rich now,’ then I think, ‘Imagine not wanting me now when I’m this rich. He must really not want me at all,’ and that makes me feel so sad, so pointless.
‘I’m going to get Evie Clarke kicked out,’ I tell Scarlett. I expect her to nod but she doesn’t, she just puts her hand on my arm, tentatively, gently. Since this is the first sign of opposition she’s shown to anything I have suggested since we became friends, her caring gesture is all the more powerful. I want to cry.
‘Let’s go and see some more of this party, hey?’ she suggests lightly.
I try. I try to just enjoy the party. I mean it’s phenomenal, I’ve been so excited working on it with Dad and Sara, it’s all I want to care about, but I can’t stop thinking about Ridley. I am constantly aware of his presence. He is currently the closest he’s been to me for four weeks now, I thought it would be a good thing but it’s torture. Like Mum said it would be. She said boys are pre-programmed to lose focus but that’s not right and I hate her for generalising. My pain is particular and absolute. No one understands. I keep putting my hand on my stomach, cradling the bunch of cells that are threatening to ruin my life. That may make my life brilliant. I don’t know. Scarlett notices. ‘You doing OK? Does your tummy hurt? Do you feel sick?’
‘A bit,’ I admit. She assumes it’s the alcohol. Better that than she has any real idea.
I don’t mean to, but I find myself moving in roughly the same direction as he does as we explore the party. When he goes on the Ferris wheel, I get in the queue; when he’s eating at the pulled pork cabin, I’m just in the next cabin along, picking at candy floss. The loss of the fluency, ease and intimacy between us is catastrophic, incomprehensible. Evie Clarke is where I ought rightfully to be, tucked under his arm, sharing his jokes, his drink, his space. I look at him and I think of the places we did it and I think of the places on my body that he has touched. My insides lurch.
‘You have to stop stalking him,’ groans Scarlett. ‘Let’s go and dance.’ I stare at her, or at least try to. The cocktails taste way better than vodka shots. These are sweet and fruity. They go down pretty easily.
Drink is beautiful and it is my friend because it makes things not matter, not to me. Maybe they matter to the person I was or will be tomorrow, but right now nothing matters. I’m floating.
Drink is awful. I’ve had too much. I’m wedged painfully between desperation and yearning. I pretty much love Scarlett right now because she’s really trying to be a proper best friend, not just a rich person’s best friend, but I’m going to ignore her. ‘I don’t want to dance yet.’ The dancefloor is in the opposite