In Real Life (9 page)

Lauren stuck her fingers between her legs, lifted them to her nose, and smelled the sharp tang of rubber and not washing.

The five other bodies in the room – all men – were snoring softly in their bunks as she padded around the sticky, horrible-smelling room, collecting her things, fastening her bra, pulling up her jeans, and when she squatted to tie her shoelaces, her knees cracked so loudly it made her heart flip.

Down in the lobby there were only a couple of sleepy, stoned backpackers sprawled on beanbags. The music was quieter too. It must be very early in the morning, she guessed, looking around for a clock and not finding one. The girl at the desk – a different girl from the one who checked her in, thank god – didn't look up from her Sophie Kinsella paperback when Lauren left her room key on the counter, then turned and walked, as straight-backed as she could manage, the wheels of her suitcase catching and squeaking, as she went out of the door and down the glittery, sticky steps towards the street.

*   *   *

The man in the internet café let her leave her suitcase behind the counter.

‘Just got here, eh?' he asked, grinning, his face large and round and stubbly.

Lauren nodded.

‘Australian, right?' he said, trying to catch her eye.

‘English,' she mumbled, wishing she was back in England, where no one talked to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary.

She was unable to look him directly in the eye as she placed a warm dollar coin in his palm then took the stub of paper from his other hand. She headed quickly towards the PCs, set out in two long rows at the back of the café, sat down and logged on, feeling a little queasy at how tacky and stiff and dirt-encrusted the keyboard was as she typed in the passcode. The tiredness was almost like mania now. It howled through her like wind in a tunnel.

What are you doing?

Why are you checking your emails?

You need to find another hostel to sleep in. Or a hotel. A cool, dark hotel room. A bed with clean white sheets. Go on. You could check in for one night, just to get some sleep. And then stick to hostels after that. Emily isn't here for another week yet. You could check into hotels, until just before she arrives, and no one would ever know about it
.

She opened Internet Explorer and typed ‘
www.hotmail.com
' into the address bar. Her cutesy, Paul-related password made her cringe whenever she entered it, but she was too tired right now to change it.

As she waited for her inbox to load, she listened to whatever music was playing on the radio in the café; a song she didn't recognise, with soft, dreamy female vocals, and there was a warm, sweet smell of biscuits drifting in the air, too.

Canada
.

You are in Canada now
.

Everything is going to be okay from now on, possibly, in Canada
.

Three new emails, her inbox interrupted.

The first, the newest, was from Paul.

‘Things we still really need to talk about' read the subject line.

Really? Lauren thought. Because as far as she was concerned, there was nothing left to discuss. It was over. It'd been over for weeks. Boo hoo. She opened the email, but couldn't quite bring herself to read through it properly.

She just let her eyes scan over it, immediately able to pick up the general tone: hurt, bitter, possibly drunk. There was tons of it, too. Angry paragraphs spilling down the page. She scrolled through them, feeling so tired, so completely drained, that she might burst into tears.

She clicked delete.

The next email was from her mum.

‘Just a quick note,' it said, ‘to wish you a safe flight! And don't forget, if you need anything I'm only a phone call away! Be safe now and call me once you're all settled! Lots of love, Mum xxx'

She felt too tired to reply to that one either.

The final email of the three was completely unexpected.

It was from Ian, one of Paul's ex-flatmates from university.

What a sweetheart, Lauren thought once she'd finished reading it.

She felt weirdly flattered, too.

And as she thought about Ian, the howl died down a little inside her.

They'd only ever really spoken a handful of times – mostly late at night in the kitchen of the house, at the pub a few times, and once for about an hour at a party – but yeah, she'd always felt like they'd got on well, too, and that whenever they'd talked, they'd
really talked
, whatever that meant.

She tried to remember the last time she saw him. It was just before the break-up. They'd all met in that new fake goth pub that had just opened in the city centre and he'd wanted to tell her and Paul some good news; that he was having a demo recorded with his band, and someone from a record label (was it Sony?) was even
paying
for it. And as he'd told them, shyly fiddling with his sleeve, pulling it down over his knuckles so just the ends of his fingertips poked out, and speaking in his soft, sweet voice, she could feel Paul bristle and stiffen in his stupid, throne-like chair beside her. She could actually feel the jealousy coiling within him; not jealousy about the demo per se (Paul couldn't play a musical instrument) but jealousy simply that
something was going right for someone else
.

The howling started up once more inside her.

A hotel room, just for one night!

Before logging out, though, she clicked reply.

Lauren clicked send, logged out, then wandered groggily towards the man at the counter, with his big, wet, stubbly smile.

As she stumbled out of the café into the hot white light of Monday morning, people bustling past her on the pavement, clutching cups of coffee, she thought: Maybe I should've gone out with Ian instead.

IAN

2014

I
s three floors enough of a drop to kill you, I wonder as I dangle myself out a bit further over the banister. I look down into the shadowy darkness at the centre of the stairwell. At ground level are three locked bikes and an abandoned, shelfless bookcase, which is what I would land on, I guess, if I just let myself fall over the edge.

I relax my grip and the thick wooden banister digs into my stomach.

And then a new feeling churns in there, too; a sudden, worrying, puke-or-shit-myself feeling, and I pull myself away from the edge and pick up my shopping bags and hurry back into the flat.

*   *   *

After I've puked up most of the Babybels, I go and lie down very still on top of the covers and plead with my stomach not to do it again.

I lift
Ways to Happiness
to my face.

I look at the back cover, at Dr Jennifer McVirtue's photo. She's a blonde-haired American lady with kindly-looking wrinkles around her eyes and a fluffy white cat on her lap.

I turn to page one, Introduction.

You've probably picked up this book because something in your life is not quite the way you would like it to be
.

In the living room, I hear the TV click off and then the sound of Carol and Martin walking slowly down the hall towards the bedroom next to mine.

Maybe you don't even know what's wrong, only that SOMETHING BIG needs to change
.

‘We'll have to be quiet,' Carol whispers.

‘Don't worry, babe,' Martin says at full volume.

Well, do not fear, for in this book I will equip you with all the tools you will ever need to find – and maintain – the pathways that will lead you towards a tranquil garden of happiness within your own life
.

Carol's bedroom door opens then closes.

I flick forward through the book, trying not to listen to Carol asking Martin to unzip her dress or to Martin grunting his reply, and I try not to think about my queasy, churning stomach. I scan through the book, but I can't seem to locate the exact sentence or paragraph in
Ways to Happiness
where Jennifer McVirtue (PhD)
explains in clear, concrete terms
exactly what you have to do to feel better
.

The words begin to swim around the page, so I close the book and drop it on the floor.

I'm never going to meet someone.

I'm never going to have sex again.

I'm never going to stop feeling sick.

When did I even last
have
sex?

I count backwards.

Was it two years ago? Three?

Nope.

It was four years ago, with an angry girl I met at a house party in Forest Fields.

And when it was over, I apologised and she got up almost immediately and just before she pulled her jeans on I saw the condom stuck to her bum cheek and didn't even say anything.

Just then, as if on cue, I hear Carol and Martin begin to shag.

This is a new low.

I am having the worst time out of anyone in the world, ever.

PAUL

2014

O
n the bench outside the brick and glass structure of the New Writing Centre, Paul smokes one of his remaining Marlboro Lights, assuring himself that once the packet's finished he'll go straight back to nicotine gum. Sarah doesn't ever need to know. He'll wash his hands and clean his teeth and have a shower before she gets home this evening.

Each time Paul allows his mind to wander in the direction of Alison Whistler, he feels a small twinge in his stomach.

What will happen next?

Will she mention their chat?

He drags on his cigarette. Tongues the lump. Drags on his cigarette. Tongues the lump.

At about five to one, people from class start drifting past him into the building. ‘Hi,' he says as each one passes. No Alison, though. He drops the cigarette onto the tarmac, grinds it out with his shoe, looks at the time on his phone. Three minutes to go. He takes another cigarette from the pack and lights it.

At one minute past, Paul heads up the stairs and into the seminar room. They're all there, waiting, everyone except her.

He walks around to his table at the front, drapes his blazer on the back of his chair, and looks across at the one empty seat where Alison Whistler should be sitting. What if she's reported him? What if she was trying to trap him into behaving inappropriately? What if she was chatting to him in front of a whole crowd of students, all piled into her bedroom, gathered round the laptop screen, laughing and telling her what to say? What if she's writing an article about pervy lecturers for the student paper?

What if everyone in class knows?

‘Okay, everyone,' Paul says, feeling the words catch in his throat. ‘I thought we'd do things a little differently today and just go straight into Craig's story. How does that sound? And then if we have time at the end, maybe do a few writing exercises. Alright?'

The class look up blankly from their horseshoe of desks.

He glances at dowdy, moody Rachel. She knows. Of course she knows. They're friends, they probably tell each other everything.

Just then, the door opens and Alison Whistler strolls into the room.

‘Sorry I'm late,' she says. ‘I spilled my coffee.'

Paul can't speak.

He feels himself blushing, and his mouth losing all its moisture.

‘Right, okay . . .' he mumbles.

Alison takes her seat at the far side of the room like nothing is out of the ordinary. She pulls out her plastic document wallet, her notebook, her biros, her phone.

‘Okay,' Paul says again, composing himself as much as he's able. ‘Craig's story . . . “Guardian of the Tombs”. Did we all print it out and read it through, yeah?'