Read Me Like a Book

  I swallow. “Miss Murray,” I say quietly.

  He stabs the air with a finger. “That’s it! Said you were a shining star and would be a credit to any course you were in. She says we’d be lucky to have you.”

  He spoke to her this morning? She said that about me? For a moment I’m so thrown I can’t speak.

  The man laughs. “That’s a good thing, by the way. So, anyway, tell me a bit about yourself.”

  I take a breath. What can I tell him?

  “Let’s start with why you want to do this course.”

  OK, I can do this. I looked up the course details earlier, and I really liked what I saw. “Well, the fact that it’s not all about writers who have been dead for hundreds of years appeals to me,” I begin.

  Mr. Anderson throws back his head and laughs. “I like it,” he says. “I like your honesty.”

  “I — I mean, obviously Shakespeare and all of those are great,” I carry on quickly, “but I’m more interested in modern literature. I enjoy reading poems and books and thinking about how they reflect what’s going on in the world around me.”

  He’s looking at me and nodding, and I decide to be brave and take another step.

  “And I, um, I like the fact that you’ve got a module called Literature, Culture, and Identity,” I say, blushing furiously in case he knows why I like the sound of it. “I — I’m interested in that kind of thing.”

  I stop talking and look down.

  A moment later, Mr. Anderson is speaking again. “You’re interesting,” he says.

  I glance up at him and smile. He smiles back. “I think you’re the type of young person we would like in our course. And with your impressive reference as well . . .” He scratches his chin, then nods. “Ah, to hell with it. Let’s do it. You’re in. Now, have you got anything you’d like to ask me?”

  I stare at him. “Er . . . are you offering me a place?”

  “I certainly am.” He laughs. “Is that your only question?”

  My mind is suddenly full of questions, but I seem to have lost the power of speech. “Thank you so much, Mr. Anderson!” I manage in the end.

  “Al,” he says, correcting me. “And you’re welcome.”

  He shuffles some papers on his desk. “If you’d like to see my secretary on your way out, she’ll give you all the necessary documentation. The book lists will be sent out in the next couple of weeks, and I recommend you get started as soon as possible. Once you arrive, there’ll be plenty of other things to distract you from your studies for the first week or two.” He smiles again and holds out his hand. I reach forward and shake it awkwardly. “See you in a month or so, then,” he says.

  “Yeah, great. Wow. Thank you.” I stumble out of his office and pick up the paperwork, then make my way to the cafeteria.

  “I did it,” I say numbly. “They want me.”

  “Yes!” Mum punches the air, then grabs me and pulls me in for a hug. “That’s amazing, Ash! And of course they do. Who wouldn’t?” There’s a hint of sadness lurking behind her eyes as she moves away. “I’ll miss you,” she says.

  “You’ve got Tony.”

  Mum drops her arms and turns away.

  “What’s happened?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Mum?”

  “Oh, Ash, I’m just not sure I’m really ready to get serious about someone.”

  “Serious? Does he want to?”

  She nods. “He’s talking about us moving in together. Not now, but, you know, sometime.”

  “Wow. That’s a bit . . . soon?”

  “Exactly.” She picks at the cuffs of her jacket. “He’s a nice man. A lovely man. It’s not him that’s the problem. It’s me. I just don’t think I can do it. Not yet. I can’t give out something that I haven’t got.”

  “Oh, Mum.” I want to hug her. I don’t know what’s stopping me.

  “Ash,” she says quietly. She’s going to tell me off. What have I done?

  “What?”

  She pauses for ages. She’s looking at me through narrow eyes, examining me.

  “What?”

  Then she smiles. “No, it’s nothing. Just, well done, love.”

  I don’t ask again. I daren’t. It was that look. What was it? What isn’t she saying? Why don’t I want to ask?

  I spend the whole journey home trying to remember when exactly it was that we stopped communicating again.

  “Ash, mail for you.”

  A month ago, those words would have had my heart leaping out of bed before the rest of me. Jumping at the possibility that it might be a letter from her. Not anymore.

  Especially after Saturday.

  Two days ago, Taylor and I met up in town as planned. We mooched round the shops all afternoon, talking and talking the whole time. I don’t even know what we talked about — but we didn’t seem to stop once. We had a pizza in the park for lunch. That was the best bit, as we had to sit quite close together so we could share it without dropping pieces everywhere.

  I was seeing Cat in the evening, so we had to part a bit sooner than I’d have liked. But I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do what I did with Dylan and dump Cat the minute someone new was on the scene.

  We parted with an awkward kiss on the cheek and a promise to meet up again today. We said we’d catch a matinee in town.

  So I’m in my bedroom trying to decide what to wear when Mum calls again. “I’ve made you some toast.”

  I put off the clothing dilemma and head downstairs for some breakfast.

  Mum’s in the kitchen, standing by the sink as she washes her plate and dries her hands. She hands me a postcard showing a picture of a sunny bay with about a million hotels lining a scrap of sand that you could miss if you tripped. I flip the postcard over.

  Hi Ash,

  This is where Luke and I have eloped to!!! I wish! He’s getting on really well with my family, though. He and Dad keep going off for “man to man” talks. (That means it’s serious.) We’re in the third hotel from the end. Can you see the arrow? Having a brilliant trip, but we’ve not had much time on our own together, if you know what I mean (!!).

  Weather’s fantastic. See you when we get back. Hope things are good with you.

  Love,

  Robyn xxxxx

  P.S. Really glad we made up.

  I smile as I put the card down. I’m glad about those two. It was about time Luke gave up on Cat and went for someone who actually wanted his company. And I’m glad that Robyn sent me the card. Glad we’re friends again.

  Mum looks at her watch. “Damn, I’m late. Better go. Don’t forget the plumber.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s coming to fix the washing machine at two. Make sure you’re in.”

  At two? I’m meeting Taylor at one o’clock.

  “Mum, he can’t! I can’t! I’m not in.”

  “Oh, Ash, you promised.”

  “Did I?” Did I?

  “Yesterday. We talked about it.”

  “I didn’t know it was today!”

  “I didn’t realize you had plans.” She looks at me quizzically.

  “I haven’t,” I say quickly, hating the heat in my cheeks that I know is giving me away. “OK, I’ll do it,” I say, more to stop her asking questions than anything else.

  “Right. Thank you.” She grabs her bag. “See you later.”

  I’m sitting in my pajamas staring at Taylor’s number on my phone and wishing I didn’t have to cancel when it rings.

  It’s Cat, calling from work. Her mum’s gotten her a summer job in a new whole-food shop in the precinct. A friend of hers runs it. “Fancy coming in for an herbal tea and a piece of gluten-free carrot cake?” she asks.

  “Sounds delicious,” I say sarcastically. “Anyway, I can’t. I’ve got to stay in for the plumber.”

  “Bummer.”

  I laugh and we arrange to meet up tomorrow. Then I end the call and dial Taylor’s number.

  Hearing her voice makes my insides jitter.
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  “OK, never mind,” she says quickly once I tell her what’s happened. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Yeah, definitely,” I reply.

  “Bye, then,” she says.

  “Right. Bye.” And the line goes dead. I stare at my phone. Shit. She probably thinks I made it up. Oh, I’ve just remembered the plumber’s coming. That’s the kind of thing I’ve been saying to teachers for the past seven years when what I really mean is, Your lessons are boring and I’ve got better things to do with my time. She thinks I’m not interested.

  Unless she’s the one who’s not interested — maybe she wanted an excuse to get out of meeting up anyway.

  Then I think about Saturday. All the hours, all the talking, all the laughing.

  Sod it. I dial again.

  She answers straightaway.

  “Hi, it’s me again.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Of course. Look, if you still want to meet up, why don’t you come over here?”

  I hold my breath in the pause that drags on forever. Or maybe for two seconds. Please say yes.

  “You’re sure?” she asks softly. “I mean, if you don’t want to, it’s —”

  “I’m sure!” I say. “I’m positive!”

  “OK then.”

  I want to laugh. “Great. Great! Right, I’ll see you in a bit. Come over at twelve-ish? We can have lunch or something.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I give her directions and we hang up. She’ll be here in three hours!

  How the hell am I going to fill them?

  After spinning around in circles like a cartoon character with one foot nailed to the floor, I pull myself together. By the time I’ve gotten dressed (six changes of mind), brushed my teeth (twice), and tidied my bedroom (why? Who says we’ll be spending any time in there?), there’s only (only? It still feels like too long) half an hour to go. I spend it rearranging cushions in the front room, snatching looks out the window, checking myself in the mirror, and spreading the newspaper out on the kitchen table to look slightly messy but casual, in a bohemian sort of way, if a copy of the Telegraph can do that.

  Quarter to twelve. Taylor’s due in fifteen minutes. In a flash of inspiration, I remember she was reading a book when I first saw her, and I dash upstairs to my room to find a suitably impressive novel. All my A-level texts look too, well, A-levelly.

  I quickly grab one of Mum’s book-group novels — it’s one that I tried to start three times and finally gave up on. I just hope Taylor hasn’t read it and doesn’t want to compare notes.

  Five to twelve, I’m sitting in the front room trying to relax with the book in my hand, staring blankly at a random page.

  The doorbell rings. This is it. I get up and let her in.

  She smiles and I’m not sure whether to hug, kiss, shake her hand, or what. So I shuffle backward and let her into the house.

  “D’you want a cup of tea?” I ask as she follows me into the kitchen.

  “Yeah, great.”

  She stands close to me as the kettle starts to boil. My hands are shaking. I’ll probably spill boiling water all over myself.

  I have a better idea. Before stopping to think about it, I take her hand and lead her into the living room. “Or would you prefer . . .” I open the liquor cabinet, led by a combination of boldness and nerves — if that’s possible. I pull out a bottle. “Wine?”

  She laughs and holds out her hand. It’s shaking as much as mine. “Might be just what’s needed,” she says.

  I grab a couple of glasses and open the wine.

  “Good thing I got the bus,” Taylor says with a smile as I pour her a drink.

  I want to tell her she’s pretty when she smiles. I don’t though. “Have you got a car?” I say instead.

  “Yeah, it’s just a knackered old Micra, but it gets me from A to B.”

  I like the idea of her having her own car.

  I pass her a glass and our hands touch briefly. “D’you want to listen to some music?” I ask.

  “Yeah, great.”

  “The best speakers are upstairs.” I try to keep breathing normally while I wait for her to reply.

  Taylor meets my eyes. “Cool,” she says. Her cheeks have reddened a touch.

  As we climb the stairs to my bedroom, my legs feel like lumps of clay.

  I put my phone in the dock and pick a random playlist. I don’t really care what we listen to. Taylor sits down on my bed, and I refill her glass and sit down next to her. Our hands touch briefly — accidentally? — as I pass her glass to her.

  I watch her hands as she lifts the glass to her lips. Her fingers are slim. Not dainty. Firm and smooth. Her nails are perfect, not bitten down to the quick like mine. Plain, but strong. She’s got a thin gold chain on her wrist.

  “Will your mum notice it’s gone?” She points at the bottle.

  “Probably not. I can always replace it before she goes in there again.”

  Taylor takes a sip of her drink and moves back so she’s leaning against the wall with her legs stretched out in front of her. I turn so I’m sitting cross-legged facing her.

  “So, what have you been up to since I last saw you?” I ask.

  Taylor laughs. “All of two days ago.”

  I smile. “Yeah. All of that long.”

  She smiles back. “Thinking about you,” she says.

  My heart leaps through my throat and out of my mouth and bounces on the ceiling.

  “Yeah, me too,” I mumble. “I mean, thinking about you. Not thinking about me.”

  Taylor laughs again. Then she looks at me and doesn’t say anything. She holds my gaze for . . . a second? A minute? Ages anyway, but nowhere near long enough.

  Then she holds out her wineglass.

  “You want more?”

  She shakes her head. “No, can you put it on the side for me?”

  I take the glass, and this time there’s no accidental brushing of fingers. This time it’s definitely intentional. She touches the back of my hand, briefly closes her hand around mine, and then passes me her glass. I put it on the side, and mine too. I’ve only had a few glugs, but it’s made me woozy already. Something has anyway.

  “It’s gone straight to my head,” I say.

  “Lie down, you’ll feel better,” she tells me. “Here. Use my legs as a pillow if you like.”

  I do what she says, and I’m floating just above the bed. I don’t know if it’s having half a glass of wine for my lunch, or if it’s nerves and excitement. Or maybe it’s her fingers stroking my hair, so gently I’ve got to hold my breath to feel them.

  I feel as if I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life. Now that it’s here, part of me wants to run away from it, another part wants it all to happen now, and yet another part wants to make the anticipation last as long as possible — just stay in this place, lying here like this, with Taylor running her hands through my hair, cool tunes in the background, and something always about to take place but never quite happening.

  “Are you nervous?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. Yeah, a bit. Are you?”

  “A bit. What are you nervous about?”

  “The same as you.”

  “D’you want me to stop?” She moves her hand away.

  “No.” I reach out and take hold of her hand. It feels smooth and lovely. I place it back on my head and leave mine just above hers, resting on her leg.

  “Has this ever happened for you before?” she asks.

  I grimace. “Is it obvious?”

  “What?”

  “That no. No, it hasn’t. What about you?”

  “No, me neither.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised.

  “Why? What did you think?”

  “You just seem so . . . confident.”

  She laughs. “If you knew how I’m feeling inside at the moment, you wouldn’t say that.”

  I sit up, suddenly scared. “Look, you sure you don’t want some more wine, or something to eat or
—”

  “I think I know what I want.” Taylor looks me in the eyes, and I feel myself dissolve. Then she leans forward, and before I have time to say or think another word, she’s kissing me. And I’m kissing her too.

  It starts almost in slow motion. Her lips, soft on mine, little light kisses, tiptoeing. Then she opens her mouth slightly, kissing me with more force. I keep thinking how perfectly our mouths fit together. Her lips are so gentle, her tongue drawing me in. I’m losing myself in her.

  I stop and catch my breath. “Look, shall we . . . lie down?”

  She doesn’t answer, just lies down on the bed and reaches out for me.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then, shall I?” I ask, smiling down at her and wondering how I can feel so comfortable with someone I’ve only met a couple of times. She doesn’t feel like a stranger, though. She feels more familiar than anyone I’ve ever known.

  She smiles back at me, pulls me down beside her. She’s lying on her back, and I’m propped up on one elbow next to her.

  I lean forward and close my eyes as our mouths meet again — and within moments the mood shifts gear. Before I know it, we’re so wrapped up in each other, I can hardly tell what’s me and what’s her. I just know that nothing in my whole life has ever felt so right. Lips on lips. Hands reaching for skin. Tops thrown on the floor. Our bodies pressed together. So easy, so new, and so familiar all at the same time.

  I break off to look at her.

  “Don’t stare, you’re embarrassing me.” She pulls me toward her, and I stop thinking about anything after that. All I care about is this moment, right now with her, and I don’t want it to stop, ever.

  And then a small noise downstairs changes everything.

  I freeze in terror.

  A key turning. The front door opening. My mum’s voice.

  “Ash!”

  “Oh, my God!” I leap up from the bed and start looking for my top. It’s lying in a heap on the floor with my bra screwed up inside it.

  Cat and I once went to this posh gym with a Jacuzzi and sauna and everything. Her mum had been given some free passes. The Jacuzzi worked on a timer: three minutes on, three minutes off. While it was bubbling, you couldn’t see anything under the water, and Cat decided we were going to play dares. I had to take my swimsuit off and put it back on again before the bubbles stopped. I got it off in about half a minute. Easy, I thought. But it got tangled up when I was trying to put it back on. I couldn’t find where to put my legs. I kept putting them through the armholes.