Читать книгу Joanne Sefton Book 2 - Joanne Sefton - Страница 11

Misty’s little room faced east and had thin curtains. Every morning the sun woke her up slowly, and she basked in the joy of no longer sharing a room with a twelve-year-old boy who emitted constant noise whether awake or asleep. Those sleepy, early moments were her one oasis of calm and she treasured them.

The university didn’t believe in easing you in. The work rate was punishing and the speed at which you were expected to grasp things dizzying. Thank God she’d found Alex. Alex was chilled about everything. She always knew how to get an extension or which lecturers would give her a bit more leeway. Not that that helped Misty directly, when she was studying medicine and her friend was studying English, but her calming influence was often enough. And when that didn’t work, she’d just drag Misty out into town and ply her with booze.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in! It’s not locked.’

Alex’s face tilted round the door, her curls falling over her shoulder and her make-up already perfectly applied.

‘I knew it would be you. What are you doing looking so cheerful? And … dressed?’

‘It’s ten past nine, you know.’

‘Shit, it’s not? Mullins will kill me if I miss another lecture.’ Misty scrambled upright, feeling her head thump uncomfortably as she did so.

‘Lectures? Pah. It’s supervisions that count. As long as you’re turning up to those and not talking nonsense, no one cares.’

‘Yeah, maybe in English. Not in medicine. We can’t get by on a thought-provoking interpretation you know; we’ve got to learn that shit. Actual facts – you know? Digestive system – facts about shit, in fact. Today.’

Alex was giggling and picked up a discarded T-shirt from the floor, throwing it at Misty. ‘Go on, far be it from me to keep you away from the shit. Nine o’clock lecture? Well, you might make the last ten minutes. Good luck.’

Misty tossed the T-shirt back across the room and flopped back against her pillows, massaging her forehead. Alex had stepped fully into the room now and was followed by Karen. Misty’s heart sank a little to see her looking, as ever, like a shadow that had gone a little awry. She wore a purple plaid skirt and matching top, which clashed with her coppery hair; Alex had been wearing the brown version the week before. Whereas Alex was bright and playful, despite their heavy night the night before, Karen looked dark-eyed and sulky. Probably, if Misty was honest, much closer to how she herself looked.

‘Anyway, I’ve got something to tell you both,’ announced Alex.

‘Well, make it quick because I really do need to get to my ten o’clock. And I need a coffee.’

‘Ooh. Good plan. We’ll make one. That way you can jump in the shower and then you can bring yourself to crack a smile when I tell you the good news. We’ll see you in ten minutes, okay?’

‘Why don’t we take the coffee back to your room, Alex?’ Karen’s tone was helpful, but she gazed around with her nose wrinkled and Misty felt a flush of anger at Karen for making her feel ashamed about her messy room scattered with stuff that Karen wouldn’t touch with a bargepole. At least Misty had her own taste, she thought hotly, and when she could afford to buy something, she didn’t just copy the latest thing that Alex had got.

‘Yeah, okay,’ agreed Alex. ‘Come and find us as soon as you’re done, Misty. Yeah?’

‘Yep.’

She gave it another couple of minutes before she forced herself out of bed, splashing some water on her face from the little sink the corner. Getting up was painful, but she was intrigued by what Alex’s news could be, and it wasn’t a lie that she needed to get to the ten o’clock lecture.

Ten minutes later she was nestled amongst the cushions of one of Alex’s peacock chairs, damp-haired and clutching a bowl of Weetabix.

‘Have you two had breakfast?’

Alex and Karen exchanged a glance.

‘We’re doing a forty-eight-hour challenge,’ said Karen, failing to keep a boastful tone from her voice.

‘A what challenge?’

‘Forty-eight hours, you can’t have anything other than chewing gum, black coffee or tea and water.’

Misty shrugged. ‘Sounds grim. So, what’s the news then, Alex?’

‘Well, this weekend, my parents are having a party at the house. And you are both invited.’

Alex beamed around at them. Misty caught the quizzical look on Karen’s face and they shared a rare moment of common purpose. Why on earth would Alex want them to go to a party thrown by her parents?

‘Err, thanks,’ said Karen. ‘But we’re meant to be going out with the boys from Selwyn College, remember? They’ve got that Entz thing on, with a proper DJ coming up from London. You wouldn’t want to miss that?’

Misty wasn’t part of the drinking society scene – the groups of male and female students that hosted each other at ‘formal halls’ across the colleges – but she had intended to go to the Entz at Selwyn. Karen and Alex had both been invited to go out with the college’s girls’ drinking society – the Valkyries. She knew Karen was desperate to become a full member and pulling out of something like this wasn’t going to help her chances.

But Alex gave a dismissive snort. ‘Well, Octavia Elsmore’s coming to my house, so I hardly think the Valkyries can complain if the society president’s hanging out with us.’

‘Octavia is going to your parents’ party?’ Karen’s mouth was still hanging open even after the words had left it.

Alex just nodded. ‘She had my mum for supervisions in something or other. All my mum’s students adore her. Octavia offered to help me with my history coursework when I was still in sixth form.’

Misty raised her coffee to her lips and a piece of the jigsaw fell into place. She’d always wondered how Alex had got to know people so quickly. They could never walk a hundred yards together without people nodding, waving or stopping to talk to her. But Alex must have known some of these people already. To Misty, Cambridge may as well have been an alien planet she’d been dropped onto from a passing spacecraft. She was as likely to run into someone she knew from before as she was to stroll past Isaac Newton. She flushed a little, feeling gauche not to have realised before.

‘So, what’s so great about your parents’ parties then?’ asked Misty.

‘Music, alcohol, guys … same as any other party. But bigger and better. They don’t do things by halves and they don’t have that student obsession of worrying endlessly about how much it’s all going to cost.’

*

When it came to it, Misty nearly didn’t go. She had a dose of flu, which had left her hot and shivery in bed when the rest of them were at the buttery’s Christmas dinner. Three days later, she was feeling much better but still weak and tired. She’d missed a supervision and had two essays to catch up on whilst everyone else had finished. A hot chocolate in the common room with some rubbish on the telly sounded like a more appealing way to end the day than trekking out to the suburbs for a party.

‘Don’t be pathetic, it’ll cheer you up.’

Karen and Alex had come banging on her door, already doused in LouLou perfume and glittery eye shadow.

They were right – she was being pathetic and feeling sorry for herself. A little bit homesick too if she was honest. But she’d have all the time in the world to lie on the sofa and drink hot chocolate when she went home next week.

‘All right, I’ll get ready.’ She eyed their miniskirts and shivered. ‘I’m wearing my jeans, though.’

‘Fine,’ said Alex. ‘Look what I’ve got.’ There was a flat glass bottle tucked in her jacket. She unscrewed the cap and held it out to Karen to sniff.

‘Eurgh.’ Karen recoiled. ‘Whisky?’

‘Jack Daniel’s. Get the party started. Just don’t wave it about in the cab, yeah?’

Misty ducked behind her wardrobe door to pull on a blouse that might help disguise her as someone who’d vaguely made an effort. Her friends passed the bottle between them as she dragged a brush through her hair and stabbed her mascara brush up and down to try to pick up the last bits from the empty tube.

‘I prefer it with cola,’ Karen was saying, pulling a face.

‘Gets us drunk faster this way and fewer calories,’ replied Alex. ‘Do you want some, Misty? I could put it in this mug, so we don’t catch any of your germs!’

‘You’re so thoughtful. It’s okay. I think if I had some now it might finish me off before we got there.’

‘It’s time we were going anyway,’ said Karen.

‘Just getting my shoes on.’

None of them bothered with coats just to walk across college to the front Lodge where the minicab would be waiting. But even in the quads there was a chill east wind and Misty shivered violently. The three girls clung together, a little knot of festive colour amidst the dun paths and darkened wintry gardens. Alex started a plaintive chorus of ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’ and Karen quickly joined in. Misty, without the benefit of the whisky, was too self-conscious to sing in public.

She was the one, though, who caught the moment in the shutter-click of her memory. Christmas, cold, the headiness of the perfume and the fever she hadn’t quite shaken off. She felt a rush of love for Alex, exuberant enough to even take in Karen, and a sudden certainty that these friendships were true. That they would last and be important.

*

The house was a sprawling old villa on the edge of town, built of grey stone, rather than the typical Cambridge pale gold, which lent it an air of foreboding. Although the outside was austere, warmth and light seeped from the windows, shimmering like tinsel. When the door swung open a cacophony of sound tumbled out and the warm, fuggy air hit Misty like a solid object.

‘Come on,’ said Alex, grinning, ‘let’s go in.’

Misty was startled to be offered a glass of wine by a uniformed waitress in the large, wood-panelled hallway. The room was busy and full of festive welcome; a log fire blazed to the side, a glossy piano was garlanded with greenery, and the scent of pine and candles filled the air.

‘Kitchen,’ said Alex, pushing past the people standing around. Misty tried to guess who they were but there was such a mix of ages, of styles of dress, it was impossible to generalise.

There was definitely a younger vibe in the kitchen. Octavia was there and Karen, evidently half-thrilled and half-relieved, rushed over to speak to the popular older girl. Four young men, presumably students, were leaning against the kitchen table and drinking wine from plastic glasses. They were all in black tie, although three of them had lost their bow ties, and two clutched musical instruments.

‘That’s him,’ Alex hissed nodding towards them.

‘Who?’

‘Andrew Dyer. He plays the saxophone.’

Misty focused in on the boy she was gesturing towards. He was half a head shorter than the others, but undeniably good-looking.

‘And you like him?’

Alex rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘I’d die for him. He’s a second year. How can you have missed him at college? He’s the most gorgeous boy we’ve got.’ She made a determined move towards the band members, pulling Misty along by her wrist.

‘Hi.’

The boys nodded and grunted hellos back at Alex.

‘So, you’re playing tonight then?’

One of the others looked down at the trumpet in his hand. ‘Um, looks like it. Professor Penrith will be here in a minute, demanding we get onto the next set. She’ll want her paid monkeys to be dancing.’

A third boy nudged the one who was speaking and nodded towards Alex. ‘Shut up, you idiot. She’s …’

‘It’s all right. I know my mum’s a slave driver. And I also know where they keep the good booze.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m Alex Penrith. And this is Misty Jardine. She’s a first year at St Barts too, although she’s a medic, so you’ve probably never seen her.’

‘Misty, that’s an unusual name.’ The trumpeter was talking, and smirking. Misty sighed inwardly, cursing her mum and Johnny Mathis once again. But he let the point go and the boys introduced themselves properly. Alex produced some proper glasses and a bottle of Spanish brandy from one of the many kitchen cupboards.

‘I can’t believe she gave you plastic glasses,’ she teased, ‘it’s like you’re at the kids’ table. All the adults out there have got the real ones.’

Octavia sailed over at that moment, bringing Karen and a couple of girls Misty didn’t recognise with her.

‘Alex, darling, amazing party. Do you know there are two members of the Royal Shakespeare Company here? And apparently a cabinet minister. Can’t remember which one, granted, but then they’re not very memorable, are they?’

One of the band boys put his arm around Octavia’s shoulders, pulling her towards him. Another began to whisper to Karen. Misty caught something about going into the garden, but Andrew shook his head.

‘We’re on again in five minutes. You’re not going anywhere, Eastley.’

As the boys collected themselves, Alex sloshed brandy and cola into glasses for the three of them and Octavia.

‘No point in taking it easy when you’re all staying the night anyway. Let’s get wasted and shag some tottie,’ Alex said, raising her glass.

Misty snorted her cola out through her nose, partly at the idea, but mostly at the word ‘tottie’.

‘In your parents’ house?’ said Karen, incredulously, having managed to hold it together enough to express the thought that was once again on the same lines as Misty’s.

‘You don’t know my parents,’ replied Alex, darkly, before decisively knocking back her own drink.

*

A few hours later – she was vague on exactly how many hours as she was on much else – Misty was sitting on the stairs, leaning against the wood panelling and looking through the railings at the comings and goings in the hall below. She felt like the little girl from The Sound of Music, except very drunk and slightly nauseous.

The quartet had long since finished their official set, and Andrew was conspicuously absent, as was Alex. The pianist hadn’t got so lucky, or else preferred his music to the other pleasures on offer. He continued to jam with himself, his fingers chasing his scatting voice as he filled the hall with sound. Misty listened, watching groups and couples leave in the stream of taxis that pulled up outside. The crowds were thinning; it was much quieter. A fat, bearded man slept in a wingback armchair, his hairy stomach protruding from his shirt. The door opened once more and Misty shivered in the chill blast of outside air.

‘I hope you’ve had a good evening?’

The question came from behind her, in a deep, calm voice that sounded much less drunk than most people now seemed to be.

‘What? Oh, hi, I didn’t notice you coming down the stairs.’

‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

The man dropped down with graceful ease and sat next to her on the step. She guessed he was about the same age as the snoring man in the chair below – mid-forties, perhaps – but they couldn’t have been more different. This man was slim and elegant, his hair was styled in the slick, dark waves of a Fifties leading man and there was a musky scent to him that made her want to fill her lungs. The deep inhalation turned into a yawn.

‘You’re tired.’ There was a note of concern in his voice. ‘Do you want me to call you a taxi? Where are you getting back to?’

‘Oh, I’m not. I’m staying here. I came with Alex Penrith. You know? She lives here …’

He nodded. ‘I know.’

The pianist was enjoying himself, letting rip on a clutch of high notes and that made conversation momentarily impossible. The man turned away, rifling through his jacket pocket. Misty took the opportunity to stare, noting the plush velvet collar against the pale skin of his neck.

‘Here,’ he said, turning back suddenly. ‘Want one?’

They were cocktail cigars, dinky and covetable. She’d never been tempted to smoke before, but she took one of these, wondering if her lack of experience would be obvious.

‘Are you the cabinet minister, then?’ she asked, emboldened by the alcohol. ‘Apparently there’s one here, but they all look the same to me on the news.’

‘The vegetables, eh?’ He laughed. ‘No, he left quite early. Sorry to disappoint. I’m just a second-rate academic. But then I always preferred parties to work anyway.’ He raised his cigar in a mock toast.

‘You work at the university then?’

‘Only when I really can’t avoid it. But, yes, they’ve not managed to get rid of me yet.’

‘I’m sure you’re not anything like what you’re making out. Is that how you know the Penriths, through work?’

‘Oh, darling, you’re exquisite.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Eric Penrith. Delighted to meet you.’

She blushed beetroot up to her hairline and stammered some response, but he just shushed her embarrassment away.

‘Now, clearly my daughter isn’t being much of a hostess, and you look ready to drop. Let’s work out where she’s put your stuff and I’ll find you somewhere to sleep.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If you can’t sleep in daylight, you’d better take your chance now.’

Feeling even more tired, she got to her feet and followed him into the labyrinth of upstairs rooms, the sound of the piano fading behind them.

A few minutes later, after a couple of false starts, he had located both her belongings and an unoccupied room – a cramped attic with a single bed neatly made up.

‘Servants’ quarters, I’m afraid, we’ll do better next time. Look, I don’t expect anyone to bother you up here, but there’s a latch on the door so use it, okay? Some people down there are rather blitzed. Better safe than sorry.’

She nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘Well, if I don’t see you tomorrow it was nice to meet you. Hopefully we’ll meet again. And merry Christmas!’

*

It was a merry Christmas, she supposed. At least it was the same as it always was, and it had never previously struck her as lacking in merriness. She enjoyed long mornings in bed, crispy winter walks with Mack, and her mother’s home cooking in which pastry featured strongly. In a day or two she felt fully recovered from her flu and she spent the week or so before Christmas knocking around with her little brother, Martin, or old school friends, and making inroads into the reading lists for next term.

There was a feeling of restlessness, though, that she carried with her as she sipped half-pints of snakebite and fended off teasing about Cambridge. It carried on through Christmas morning when they tucked into their fry-up and she dutifully opened and praised the presents she’d been bought without really noticing them. It carried on through lunch with Granny Mavis who was deaf and batty, as well as Auntie Cathy, Uncle Derek and the three young cousins all squeezed into the steam-filled kitchen. It was there as she watched her dad heckle the Queen’s speech and as they played gin rummy and as she drank a glass of advocaat with Granny Mavis and watched the creamy liquid coat the fine hairs of the old lady’s moustache.

She imagined Christmas at the Penrith house. Exotic food, jazz, unctuous expensive cheese and cocktail cigars. When she was here, it seemed like a fairy tale or a film set, something she’d dreamt up. But that wasn’t true; she might have got the details wrong in her daydreams, but the Penriths’ Christmas was just as real as her dad sitting in front of the telly, mechanically lifting KP nuts into his gob. She tried to shake herself out of it, but she fell into the same reverie over and over again.

The thing was, it wasn’t just the house and the party that had entranced her. Eric Penrith. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing his handsome, laughing face. She couldn’t lie in bed without thinking about what it would feel like to have him lie next to her. A stupid schoolgirl-type crush – she didn’t need anyone else to tell her that – but it didn’t make it any easier to cope with. On Christmas night she drifted off to the sound of her brother’s snoring and the Christmas number one leaking tinnily from the wireless. Pet Shop Boys. ‘You Were Always on My Mind’.

Eric Penrith. She was desperate to get back to college in the hope she would see him. But she was equally desperate never to see him again.