‘Nothing. I haven’t heard a thing from him.’
‘So why?’
Lukas. But I’m not going to admit to that. Lukas is why I let myself dream about Joe. I wasn’t expecting my memory to lead me to Ryan and the thought that he might have hurt Joe.
‘It’s only now occurred to me that something might have happened to him,’ I explain. ‘I need to find out.’
‘But how will going to London help? Why don’t you call the pub his parents worked at and ask them if they’ve heard anything from him?’
It’s as if a brick has landed on my head. Why didn’t I think of that?
‘Or better yet, I could do it,’ Jessie suggests. ‘I could pretend to be an old friend. They might hang up if they realise it’s you.’
All I need now is to get through the next few hours until it’s pub opening time.
‘Hi there, I’m trying to get hold of Joe. I’m a friend of his from Cornwall.’
I chew my fingernails nervously and study Jessie with intent. I can’t hear what the person on the other end of the line is saying.
‘Oh, right. Do you know where he’s gone?’ Pause. ‘So you haven’t heard from him at all?’ Pause. ‘Is Ryan there, by any chance?’
My heart leaps up into my throat. This was a last resort.
‘Oh. Sorry to hear that. Do you mind if I ask what happened?’
Blah blah whatthehellaretheysaying?
‘Damn. When was this?’ Pause. ‘Okay, then, thanks for your help.’
He hangs up and my interrogation begins.
‘What? What did they say?’
‘It was his dad, I think, and he doesn’t know where Joe is and Ryan is back in jail.’
‘No! Why?’
‘Pub brawl, apparently. Back in October. Good news, hey?’
No. No, it’s not good news. I’m still no closer to finding out about Joe. Jessie sees my expression.
‘What are you going to do now?’ he asks.
‘I’m going to go to London.’
‘What about work?’
‘They’ll have to make do without me.’
‘Are you sure, Alice?’
‘Yes. Why are you looking at me like that?’
He averts his gaze. He seems uncomfortable.
‘Tell me,’ I persist.
‘Are you sure about him? About Joe?’
‘What do you mean?’ The bad feeling that had dulled now intensifies.
‘It’s just that . . . Maybe how you felt is not the same as . . .’ His voice trails off. When he sees my expression he hurriedly speaks again. ‘Don’t get angry . . . I’m just saying . . . Him not coming here clearly doesn’t have anything to do with Ryan. Ryan was back in jail in October – that’s not long after Joe left, right? The chances of Ryan finding him in that time . . .’
‘It’s still possible,’ I say, although I don’t really believe it anymore.
‘Mmm, maybe.’
I don’t want him to continue, but he does. Gently, this time.
‘Perhaps he’s moved on, you know?’
‘No,’ I say firmly, and then a lump lodges itself in my throat and my second ‘no’, comes out sounding gargled. My eyes fill with tears and a choked sob comes out of my mouth. Then I’m crying for real. Jessie edges closer and wraps his arms around me. I cry into his shoulder.
I can’t bear to accept it, but Jessie could be right. It’s been almost a year. If Joe cared about me, he would have come for me by now, surely?
September rolls around far too quickly and soon I’m back at college for my second year. I’ve spent the summer punting and reading, mostly Shakespeare and Volume 2 of the ‘small child’ on Parker’s Piece – the large expanse of parkland between the city and my campus – and I feel much more prepared than I did a year ago.
I finally invested in a bicycle, bought with the money that I’ve made from punting, and after a very shaky start, when I almost took out a couple of pedestrians and a bus almost took me out, I am relatively proficient at cycling. It’s certainly going to make my journey to campus quicker, if a bit more precarious.
Jessie found a second student to move in – another girl to balance out his two male students from last year. Her name is Emily and she has medium-length black hair and a nose ring. She wears a lot of dark eye make-up and black clothes, even when it’s hot. She has that in common with Jessie, but otherwise she’s quiet and tends to stay in her room. Sometimes we forget that she’s living with us at all.
We have a big night out in the middle of the month when Sammy, Mike and Chris return to Cambridge after spending the summer with their families in Brighton, Northampton and York, respectively. It’s good to have the old crowd back together again, although we’re having to spend more nights at the Pickerel and fewer at the Anchor because Jessie has been avoiding Blondie. He dumped her and now she’s got another boyfriend, who gives Jessie evils whenever he’s in the vicinity. It doesn’t make for very happy evenings on the river.
I never did go to London.
That day – the day that I told Jessie about Joe – passed by without me going. The next day too. And the next. Eventually my need to go fizzled out. My parents were disgruntled that I didn’t spend part of my holidays at home. They decided to come here for a long weekend, but it was awkward. I took them punting, which they didn’t seem to appreciate, and then I spent the rest of the time trying to convince them that I needed to stay in Cambridge for the summer if I wanted to keep my job.
There’s no denying that I don’t feel as close to them as I once did. I can’t help but feel regretful that my heart was not the only thing that was broken that summer in Dorset: my relationship with my parents suffered too. I know that it must have been difficult for them to witness what happened with Joe – and his family. All they wanted was to protect me, but I just can’t get past the fact that my dad let Joe leave that night, without him even saying goodbye.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wake up fully alert. I stare out at the darkness and I wonder if Joe still loves me. I know that it was real – nobody will convince me otherwise – but maybe time has made him forget. Maybe he has moved on. Maybe Jessie is right.
The more strongly this idea takes hold, the less sad I feel. And then a strange thing happens one day when I’m taking a tour boat full of people down the river.
I’m punting along as usual, regaling them with the history of Queens’ College and the two queens who founded it, when suddenly I feel angry.
Why hasn’t he come? He knows where I am. He knows how to find me. He promised me that he would. I was fucking distraught! I was fucking heartbroken! I need to fucking concentrate.
‘The college was re-founded in 1465 by Elizabeth Woodville, who was the wife of King Henry IV and the mother of the two princes who were later murdered in the Tower of London.’
But, seriously! What a bastard! He took my virginity and buggered off to London! He didn’t even think to check that I was alright.
I drop my pole into the water and furiously press it against the rocky bottom.
I have been crying my effing heart out for a year! A YEAR!
‘Sorry, what?’ I snap at a middle-aged, balding American man who has asked me a question. I try to force my features to relax, because I clearly have quite a glare on me as he’s looking alarmed.
He clears his throat and speaks humbly. ‘You said King Henry IV?’
‘Yes? And?’
‘I’m confused. I thought you said King Henry VI was married to the first queen who founded it.’
‘Margaret of Anjou, yes, that’s right,’ I say impatiently. ‘She founded it in 1448 and was married to King Henry VI.’
I know my history, you idiot. I’ve done this tour enough times.
‘So . . .’ His brow furrows. ‘How can the fourth King Henry come after the sixth King Henry?’
Oh, I see what he’s getting at. Whoops!
‘Sorry, I meant King Edward IV. He was the one who was married to Elizabeth
Woodville.’
‘Aah, yes. I thought so.’ He looks smug.
Bloody Joe. On top of everything else, now he’s making me look like a moron.
Fucking wanker.
I’m still in a foul mood an hour later when I return to the house for lunch. Jessie is doing a tour, so the place is empty. I slam the front door behind me.
‘ARGH!’ I want to tear my hair out I’m so angry. ‘FUCKING BASTARD!’ I scream, storming into the living room and slamming that door too.
A very shocked, very pale-faced Emily looks up at me from the sofa.
‘Oh,’ I say, coming down to earth with a bump. ‘I didn’t know you were in.’
‘Are you okay?’ she practically whispers.
‘Yes. I’m FINE.’
Clearly she doesn’t believe me.
‘FUCKING MEN!’ I scream dramatically, unable to help myself. Her eyebrows go up and she presses her lips together as though trying to stop herself from smiling. I collapse on the sofa next to her and cover my face with my hands. There’s movement on the cushions beside me and I almost expect her to be gone by the time I peek out from between my fingers, but she’s still there, regarding me intently. She quickly looks away, and then curiously back at me.
‘They’re all bastards,’ she agrees in a tiny, conspiratorial voice.
I stare at her in surprise and then we both start to giggle.
‘It is weird,’ my new best friend Emily concedes with a frown.
We’ve been to hell and back, Em and I. Now we’re sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and making our way through a packet of malted milks. It’s amazing how much bonding can be done in an hour.
‘I know!’ I exclaim. ‘He knew I was studying English Lit at Anglia Ruskin. All he had to do was ask someone when the lectures were taking place and wait outside the door! You don’t have to be a brainiac to work that out.’
Brainiac. That was the term he used for me.
Fuck that. Don’t go all sentimental on me now.
Emily looks ahead, deep in thought. ‘Maybe he believes you’ve moved on,’ she suggests after a while in her gentle Scottish lilt. ‘Maybe he wanted to get his shit together first and it took him longer than he thought it would. Maybe he still hasn’t got his shit together.’
‘Well, he’d better get it together soon, because if he doesn’t, I might move on.’
I unexpectedly think of Lukas. I violently shake my head to unthink him, but it doesn’t work.
‘Cold compress . . .’
That does it.
I look at Emily to see her looking perplexed at my odd behaviour.
‘Right, your turn,’ I say. ‘Why do you think all men are bastards?’
If she were a clam, she would have knocked herself out with the force of her shutdown.
‘Oh, they just are,’ she replies dismissively.
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this!’
Emily and I jump at the sound of Jessie’s voice. We turn to see him standing at the doorway.
‘I leave you two alone for two minutes and you’re calling me a bastard! Now I remember why I took in male students last year.’
‘We’re not talking about you,’ I say.
‘Oh, so now I’m not even a man? Thanks a lot.’
I smirk at him. I know he’s joking.
‘I’d better get on,’ Emily murmurs, hopping up from the table and quietly leaving the room.
Jessie gives me a weird look. ‘She speaks, then?’
I nod, still quite surprised by this fact myself. He pulls up a chair and delves into the biscuit packet. ‘What did she say?’
‘We were talking about Joe.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah.’
The room is filled with the sound of silent munching (him) and tea-slurping (me).
‘Hang on,’ he says abruptly. ‘You told her about Joe?’
I shrug. ‘Yeah.’
‘You didn’t tell me about Joe for bloody ages!’ he exclaims with indignation. ‘And now a mouse moves into our house and you blurt it all out over the course of one lunch break?’
I try to suppress a giggle. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
He humphs in disgust.
It’s funny how it’s so much easier to talk about Joe now. It hurt intensely just to think about him before, but after verbalising the whole sorry saga to Jessie I feel like I’ve been anaesthetised. Plus, I’m still angry at the wanker. I update Jessie on my current state of mind.
‘I’ve never heard you swear so much in all my life,’ he comments with surprise. ‘Can’t say I think it’s a bad thing,’ he adds.
‘What, the swearing or the fact that I’m angry with the fuckwit?’
‘Both.’
‘Good to hear it.’ We grin at each other.
‘We’ll have to get plastered tonight,’ he decides.
‘Any reason for this?’
‘We need to celebrate.’
‘What are we celebrating?’
‘The fact that you’re well on your way through the seven stages of grief.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yep.’
‘Are there really seven stages of grief?’ I ask curiously.
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘What are they?’
‘Fuck knows, but any excuse to get hammered, right?’
‘What a load of bollocks.’
‘This one says “shock” is the first stage and “denial” is the second.’
‘But that other website said “shock and denial” were both stage one.’
‘But they’re two things.’
‘And it says stage three is “anger” and “bargaining”.’
‘Again, two things. That other website had “anger” down as stage five, and “bargaining” down as stage three. What the hell is “bargaining”, anyway?’
Emily leans forward and reads from the computer screen. ‘You may try to bargain with the powers-that-be for a way out of your despair. For example, “I will never eat chocolate again if you just bring him back”.’
‘Fuck that.’
Emily, Jessie and I are huddled around my laptop. A few days have passed since I told Emily about Joe. I’m still angry, and I’m still swearing a lot.
‘I think this really only applies to people who have actually lost someone,’ Emily says, scrolling down. ‘As in, the person they’ve lost has died.’
‘Are you trivialising my seven stages?’ I demand to know. ‘Because I’ve got a right to feel –’ I peer closely at my laptop screen – ‘guilty, just like anyone else.’
Jessie screws up his nose. ‘What have you got to feel guilty about?’
My brow furrows. ‘Good point.’ I peer in closely. ‘Depressed, then.’
‘Agh, no, you don’t want to do depression!’ Emily exclaims. ‘God, no, that’s no fun at all.’
‘You say it like you know?’
‘You don’t have to have had depression to understand that it’s not a barrel of laughs,’ she says. I’m not sure I buy it, but she clearly doesn’t want to elaborate.
‘Fuck it,’ I decide. ‘I’m sticking with anger.’
‘Good job.’ Jessie pushes out his chair and stands up, stretching his arms over his head so his T-shirt rides up over his navel. Emily quickly averts her gaze. I don’t blame you, chick. Hang on, has her face turned red? No way!
‘I like this one.’ Emily recovers and reads from the computer screen. ‘The seventh stage on this website is the return to the willingness to love.’
‘You old softie,’ Jessie says, ruffling her hair.
‘Get off!’ She bats him away.
I watch closely and, yes, there it is: the blush.
It’s Jessie’s fault that we got onto this. He keeps mentioning the seven stages of grief when we’re out and about, but we never remember to look it up by the time we get home. Tonight, though, Emily is insistent that we clear things up once and for all. Unfortunately, though, we’re now more confuse
d than ever.
‘Is confusion a stage?’ I ask.
‘I’m going to bed,’ Jessie interrupts. ‘Night, night, China. Night, Emily.’
‘I’m too drunk to sleep,’ Emily admits once he’s gone.
‘Me too. Let’s crack open the malted milks.’
‘Lukas!’
A few days later I’m walking past Trinity on my way into town to do some shopping in the mid-season sales. I peer into the vast courtyard and see him walking through Great Gate with his head down.
He glances over his shoulder. ‘Oh, hi.’ He waves back at me as he heads towards an old wooden door in the building opposite.
‘How are you?’ I ask with an enormous smile as he turns to face me.
‘Good.’ He nods curtly, glancing left and right. ‘Are you well?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I look down with confusion at his feet. They seem to be backing away from me. ‘How was your summer?’ I ask.
‘Fine.’ He points over his shoulder. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush, sorry.’
And then his feet take him inside the door and out of sight.
That was a bit rude . . . I think with a frown, then: Fucking bastard!
I can’t believe I acted so happy to see him! I can’t believe it wasn’t an act! I was happy to see him. I’m as angry at myself as I am at him. More angry, even.
I’m still fuming early that evening when I’m taking my third and final tour of the day. Lo and behold, there he is on the grassy bank of Trinity’s south paddock.
‘Alice!’ he calls with a smile, standing up. He has a book in his hand.
I nod unhappily in his direction and return my attention to my passengers. Like I’m going to give him any of my time when he was so impolite this morning. And I didn’t even manage to buy anything decent at the shops – what a waste of a half-day off. ‘Trinity is the wealthiest Cambridge college . . .’ Through gritted teeth I tell my boat full of tourists the usual spiel. ‘It has been said by some that it is possible to walk all the way to Oxford on land owned by Trinity.’
I glance over at Lukas and notice a smile playing around his lips.
What’s so funny? I remain stony-faced and continue with my tour, not looking back once.