Читать книгу The Roommates - Rachel Sargeant, Rachel Sargeant - Страница 18

He’s wearing lilac. The trousers are denim and the tunic is heavy-duty cotton. Not as tall as her, but solid, box-shaped. Bull-necked. He fills the doorway and doesn’t invite her in.

“I thought I’d better come and say hello as we’re flatmates.” Phoenix wishes she’d asked Amber to do the introductions. “I’m Phoenix.” It comes out as an apology. “What’s your name?” She tries putting a won’t-take-no-for-an-answer tone into her question.

It sort of works. He mutters something, growls it really. Riku?

She smiles and tries out the basic Thai she picked up when her family did a season in Bangkok years ago, but he tilts his head to the side in apparent bafflement. She tries hello in Mandarin and Japanese. Nothing. He must be from somewhere she’s never heard of. Depressing, as she thought she knew the world pretty well. From the doorway she sees a small rucksack and a sketchpad. Something familiar hanging on the wall gives her hope for common ground, and she nearly breaks her cover story, but his unsmiling face stops her in time.

“Well, nice to meet you, Riku,” she says backing away. She intended to invite him to the Freshers’ Fair. But even with her best linguistic gymnastics, she doubts she’d make him understand and he’d probably decline anyway.

On the way to her room, she scoops up the post from the doormat. Pizza delivery leaflets, taxi fliers and electoral registration letters for previous occupants. She cleared one heap of junk mail yesterday. No one else bothered and the pile was already spreading along the hallway. Another domestic duty that’s going to fall to her.

In need of a friendly face, she knocks on Imo’s door. Hears movement inside but has to knock again before Imo appears, red-eyed.

“I can’t get onto the intranet and I’ve got a German assignment to do by tomorrow. Why is it always me?” Imo blinks hard, suppressing tears.

“They can’t have set you work in Freshers’ Week. It’s bound to be optional.”

“There’s nothing optional about Dr Wyatt.” She goes back to the bed and picks up her laptop. “I’m going to get kicked off the course in the first week.”

“Do you want me to try?” Phoenix takes the laptop, but no matter which icon she presses, a no server message appears on the screen. “I don’t think it’s your fault. The uni’s system is down.”

“Great,” Imo says, swallowing a sob. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks and chin are a plague of acne.

“Have you eaten?” Phoenix offers her mother’s preferred salve to tearful children. “Come with us to the Freshers’ Fair. You can get free snacks there. The intranet might be up by the time you get back.”

Imo makes a big sigh and wipes her eyes on her sweatshirt cuff. “I’ll come along, but I’m not joining anything.”

They get a shock when they call on Amber. Turquoise kimono and red bobbed wig. Her make-up is a tone lighter than usual and her lipstick matches her hair. Perhaps she’s hoping for a Geisha Girl Society.

Imo whips out her phone. “Let me take a photo.”

“The car’s in the main car park,” Tegan says, coming out of her room and checking her handbag for her keys. She sees Amber’s wig. “You look like an Edam cheese.”

Amber scowls and suggests they walk as the fair is in the other direction and it’s a beautiful afternoon.

“Is your ankle better?” Phoenix asks.

“Fine thanks.” She flexes her foot.

Phoenix smiles. Wasn’t it supposed to be her knee that was hurting?

The walk turns out to be a good idea. Crowds of freshers head the same way. The mood suits the sunny weather.

“Where are you from, Tegan?” Amber asks. She looks at her flatmate while they walk, as if she’s making a supreme effort to listen to the answer. The uncharitable part of Phoenix can’t help thinking it’s an act.

“Cardiff.”

Phoenix has been to Cardiff but doesn’t say. She was christened at Mermaid Quay in the tent by a local vicar. The baptism is supposed to bring the whole family health and happiness. She stiffens as she walks. Tell that to Cloud.

“Where’s your home town?” Amber asks, turning her intense expression on Phoenix.

She shrugs. “Born in Shrewsbury.” The planned two-week stopover stretched to six when Cloud went into labour early en route from Carlisle to Gloucester. “My parents work all over.”

“Cloud’s Coffee. I remember your parents’ amazing van,” Imo says. She looks at Tegan. “What do your parents do?”

“My mother shops.”

Amber and Imo laugh, but Phoenix isn’t sure Tegan meant it as a joke. Her face doesn’t move.

“And your dad?” Imo asks.

“We’re here.” Tegan ignores the question and jogs up the steps to take the Great Hall door from a boy who’s holding it open.

Last time Phoenix was here, it was kitted out with display boards and smiling lecturers on an open day, eager to hook potential students. They mostly spoke to her parents. Today there’s no one over thirty years old in the room and it’s laid out with brightly decorated stalls and tables. Freshers throng inside the entrance, not knowing where to start.

Taking charge of their group, Amber leads them to the row of stalls on the far left. “It looks like these are political societies,” she says. “We can walk down and back up the other side. No loitering by the Tories.” She glances at Tegan, who narrows her eyes.

Amber strikes up a conversation with a punk girl from a campaigning charity. They look set to put the world to rights for several minutes so the others move on. Imo seems to be hunching her shoulders, looking around surreptitiously.

Amber meets them at the Conservation Volunteers stand and sees Tegan browsing the literature. “You’re not going to join, are you? I can’t imagine you in wellies.”

“Why not,” Tegan says. “Someone’s got to protect nature from land-grabbing scumbags. And I like the idea of hacking down deadwood and pulling up unwanted growth.”

The other girls exchange a glance, wondering what deadwood Tegan has in mind.

As they pass the languages aisle, Phoenix stops to say: “Hello, how are you?” in Bulgarian to a pretty woman in national costume. It’s the limit to what she learnt after their season in Plovdiv, but it earns her a biscuit that tastes like a pretzel. She follows the others to the performing arts area. Imo declares that she’ll have enough on with her coursework and doesn’t sign up for any groups. Phoenix and Tegan leave their names with the Bhangra society and help themselves to onion bhajis.

They can’t drag Amber away from the Drama Society stall even though other people are waiting to speak to the stallholder.

Something prickles along Phoenix’s spine, the sensation that someone’s watching her. She scans the room. A tall figure in a black hoodie stands with a group of students, waiting to sign up for the Film Society. His brooding body language is oddly familiar. It’s the man from Ivor’s kitchen in Flat 7. He’s probably harmless – a mature student, uncomfortable among the kids – but she feels sweat begin to seep through her T-shirt. He glances over at them again and she realizes it must be Imo that’s caught his attention. He’s a man after all.

Imo and Tegan wander on and she catches them up. When she looks back over her shoulder, she can’t see the man. She breathes with relief.

When she inadvertently makes eye contact with the boy on the chess stall, she feels obliged to go over. “I used to play a bit with my uncle,” she tells him. “Quite enjoyed it.”

The boy gives a tight smile. “We have three levels of membership: beginners, recreational and tournament. But to be on the tournament team, you must, must practise.”

“How many hours a week do you play?” Tegan asks, taking his leaflet from Phoenix.

“A minimum of fifteen hours a week.”

“Babe magnet,” Tegan mutters sarcastically as they walk away. When Tegan sees the Society for Deaf Students, she points at Amber who’s finally left the Drama stall. “Get her to practise the sign language she says she learnt in a day.” There’s a smirk on her face as she carries on down the aisle.

But, when Amber reaches Phoenix and Imo, she stops dead. The little colour visible under her pale make-up fades. For a moment her features are frozen and she stares ahead of her, as if she has seen a ghost. Phoenix moves closer, ready to catch her if she faints. Is it a melodrama brought on by being caught out in a lie?

Amber’s shiny eyes dart the length of the stalls and she tugs the fringe of her wig, her chest rising and falling. “I’ll wait outside,” she gasps.

Before Phoenix can reassure her that they don’t really expect her to know British Sign Language, she’s started weaving through the crowds towards the exit.

“Do you think we should go after her?” Imo asks.

Phoenix has had enough of Amber’s crises and wants to see the rest of the fair. “If she chooses to flounce out, that’s up to her.”

“I know but …” Imo tails off.

Tegan comes back to them. “What’s he looking at?” she says through gritted teeth. Phoenix follows her gaze. Across the room by a staircase, Riku, their new flatmate, is staring at the exit.

“He must have the hots for Amber. She went out that way,” Imo suggests.

They watch as Riku, still looking at a group of girls by the main door, goes up the stairs to the balcony.

“Creep,” Tegan mutters. Then she plumps her hair, making it look even thicker. “I’m off to find the sports societies.”

Before Phoenix can follow, she once again realizes someone is watching. Turning around quickly, she sees a girl with striking blue eyes looking at them. She feels herself blush.

“She’s got sweets. Come on,” Imo says, noticing the girl and apparently forgetting her concern for Amber.

When the girl presses wristbands and lollies into their hands, Phoenix’s wristband slips to the floor. She sees the inscription as she bends down to pick it up: Abbey LGBTQ. Her face on fire, she stands up and finds that Imo has moved on.

“I’ve got to … my friend’s over there,” Phoenix tells the girl, not catching her headlamp eyes. She hurries away.

Imo is near the Parents’ Group stall, the last one in the aisle. A dark-haired woman – at early thirties, probably the oldest person in the room bar the creepy man in the hoodie – is talking to a young couple in front of her desk. A little girl with a curly mop of auburn hair sits under it, engrossed in a sticker book.

“We can advise on antenatal classes and, thinking ahead, there’s a crèche for when the little one is six months old,” one woman says.

The man nods and puts an arm across his pregnant partner’s shoulder.

“Do come along to our barbecue on Saturday. Let me get you a leaflet.” As the older woman reaches behind her, the little girl clamps her arms round her legs. The woman scoops her up and presses a leaflet into the pregnant woman’s hands. “You’re about to take the most magical and precious journey of your life.”

Phoenix smirks at Imo. The woman sounds like one of those middle-class earth mothers they interview on Radio 4 when someone’s been banned from breastfeeding in a Jacuzzi.

“Don’t think this stall’s for me,” Imo whispers, turning away. “I have enough trouble looking after myself. I’d never cope with a kid as well.”

The final aisle is given over to sports societies. Two guys, muscling through their T-shirts, home in on Imo’s pert backside. Tegan’s at the far end, sauntering towards them. She flicks her hair, obviously loving her own slice of attention.

After Phoenix has signed up for archery and Tegan’s taken a leaflet for tennis, they work their way to the exit through the crowds of freshers still arriving. Phoenix wonders which ailment Amber will greet them with when they find her outside.

The steps and forecourt in front of the Great Hall are busy with students, but Amber isn’t one of them.

“She could have waited,” Tegan says, setting off for the flat.

“Hang on,” Imo calls. “Let’s check round the back. There might be benches.”

Tegan follows Imo and Phoenix. “Doubt Amber will be on one. Bound to be allergic to wood.”

There’s only a small car park on the far side of the Great Hall. With her phone to her ear, Imo spends ages walking back and forth and peering in car windows. When she seems satisfied Amber hasn’t taken refuge there, she strides back to the forecourt. Phoenix and Tegan rush to keep up.

Shaking her head, Imo puts her phone away. “She’s switched off her mobile.”

“Don’t sound so worried,” Tegan says. “We don’t need sniffer dogs just yet.”

Imo wheels round, eyes narrow. “Don’t joke about something like that,” she snarls.

Tegan backs away.

“They have search dogs for a reason.” Imo’s voice is tight and preachy. “Some families rely on them …”

“Okay, I get it,” Tegan says, still moving backwards. “Lighten up.” Her sandal catches something on the tarmac that makes a metallic jingle.

“What’s that?” Imo asks, squatting by Tegan’s feet, her sudden anger apparently forgotten. “A bangle.” She holds up a silver bracelet. “Amber’s, for sure. I remember her wearing it.”

“Come on, Imogen. How can you tell?” Tegan says.

Imo shrugs and pockets the bangle. “I’ll keep it until we see her.” Her voice tails off and she looks nervously around the crowd. Her hands clench into fists.