‘Thirty.’
‘Dirty thirty,’ Hayley says, grinning.
Or maybe some version of it. Everyone starts singing, which is surprisingly tuneful and there’s a touch of harmonising at the end as a treat. I see it all, the smiles and the love in their voices, the reflection of my candles in the mirror of the room perfectly illuminating that foursome, still going strong, changing positions so they won’t get cramp. And a shade of my own reflection in that mirror. Lucy Callaghan, she belonged here once.
‘Come on, blow out them candles, girl,’ Tia squeals.
‘Make a wish,’ Darren whispers.
I wish for it all back. That’s what I wish for. All of it. And I close my eyes and blow.
But as the candles go out in a shadow of smoke, we all get distracted by the thud of a pair of pale middle-aged butt cheeks getting pushed and squished against the window. Christ, they’re hairy. They’re squeaking as they move up and down. Squeak, squeak like a mouse. We all burst into hysterics. I certainly did not wish for them.
16
Over from the steps that I’m sitting on, there’s a couple lying on the grass, legs entwined, and I really want to throw my coffee over them. Don’t worry, it’s not hot coffee, it’s iced, and I’m slightly fuming they messed up my order because I asked for vanilla not hazelnut, but iced coffee will do the trick here. It would stain and it might wake up these two numpties from whatever love-misted-googly-eye shite they’re invested in.
I think it’s the way she’s talking to him, the way she’s testing him.Do you think I should cut my hair?she says, hands cupped around her face.No, you look better with long hair, he says sweetly.Are you saying I’d look bad with short hair? No, you’d look beautiful with whatever hair. I can’t believe you said that. I was just being honest. Over-honest. Come here. Give me a hug.She leans away from him. He tries to smooth it over by initiating a kiss. She smiles.
For god’s sake, if you want to cut your hair, cut your hair. Do it for you and no one else and yes, he’s right it wouldn’t suit your round face, you’d look like Angela Merkel, but hair grows so, essentially, it wouldn’t be a biggie. And mate, why did you let her do that? Why did you let her make you feel bad for being honest? Don’t let her manipulate you like that. There is no such thing as over-honest. It’s not even a word. You both deserve my iced coffee in your laps. They both notice me gazing over in their general direction and glare at me. I pretend to drink my coffee and throw a bit of my croissant at a pigeon. The pigeon gives me a look. Come on, mate, back me up. He doesn’t care.
It’s been two whole months since I woke up and I want to say things are better but it’d be a lie. My hair is growing so I now look like a hard-ass Charlize Theron in an action movie, and physically my strength is returning with some reluctant thanks to the torture merchant who is Igor. Hey, Igor. I know a club in Mayfair where you could be paid big bucks for the sort of masochism you dole out. However, my memory is still in nowhere land. Mum continues to panic every time I leave the house in case I wander into a field and forget why I’m there but I venture out nonetheless. I mean, I binge-watch (new lingo) the hell out of this new Netflix thing and I spend a lot of time in pyjamas, don’t get me wrong, but I also meander through life. I get on buses and trains and explore my manor because a lot can change in London in ten years and if this is my life now then I need to imprint it into my new Lucy brain.
As it turns out, the brain needs work, the levels need refilling because, when we talk about old Lucy, it turns out she was also a clever clever bitch. I mean, this isn’t a huge surprise as I grafted at school, I was destined for university, but it turns out I liked university and the experience a lot more than the average person and once my three-year degree was finished, I just kept going back for more. The sisters would argue it was so I could be a perpetual student and drink and sleep my way into oblivion for a lifetime but Dad explained it differently. I understood the sheer unpredictability of showbusiness so everything I did was to put me at some advantage, to fill the CV. So now I have all these bits of paper to my name but, unfortunately, none of the remembered wisdom to back them up so it makes sense to come to old university campuses to see if the knowledge can be infused through my bones. Maybe just being within their walls can make me feel all them super smarts again. It can be a chance to observe all these students and imagine myself as one of them.
London was always my city of choice for university. The city is my lifeblood and if I wanted drama, theatre and the arts then that flows through the veins of this place. I went on an open day to Birkbeck with Grace and the grand, historic buildings were slap bang in the middle of swanky Fitzrovia but a stone’s throw from Soho. It felt like a London I wanted to get to know immediately. What would I have been like as a student? I hope I was cool and nothing like this sad case couple in front of me. Maybe I was part of a gang, like the ones sitting over the way. I reckon they are all besties (also new lingo, look how quickly I learn). Or maybe I was the berk lying in the middle of this grassed area, already smoking and reading Proust on his own. Would I have been attracted to the arrogance? I think I’d have liked to have brought him down a peg or two and made fun of his cravat. I sit here with my crap iced coffee, large sunglasses and trainers thinking how I’ve missed all of this and now I’m here like some drunk after the event, trying to recall a time when I lay on this grassy quadrant. Hungover, no doubt.
‘Excuse me, is this the year one philosophy module?’ I ask. A girl turns around to look at me. She seems to have been beamed in from the nineties in wide-leg denim and a tie-dye cropped T-shirt.
‘Yeah,’ she replies, giving me the once-over from tattoos down to trainers. I should have left my iced coffee for her. I know what she’s thinking:How nice! A mature student! They’ve let you in to combat some sort of thirty-something crisis. I’m younger than you. I’m better than you.But yes, with more debt ahead of you and I have the better tits. I don’t say that out loud. Groups of students stand around the lecture theatre waiting to go in and pangs of both pity and sadness dart through me. This feels like it should be me, starting this journey into university and the rest of my life. I bet I was a precocious sod, wasn’t I? I would have strolled in here like I owned the place and put my feet up at the back.
I follow them all into the room and watch as they take their seats, turning off phones and scrambling around with laptops and bits of paper, that whiff of anticipation in the air.I will take notes and then I’ll take on the world with my new biros.The girl I approached before catches my eye to see me not taking anything out of my bag. Yes, us mature bitches just take all that knowledge in without needing to write it down.
‘Morning all. My name is Dr Jill Rigby… welcome to Identity, Mind and Free Will, and a new semester.’
Jill is dressed in wide-leg checked trousers and a black polo neck jumper, with glasses on the top of her head that she reaches up for occasionally to check that they’re still there. She looks up and scans the room as the screen changes above her. When she sees me, she stops and smiles, shaking her head.
‘So, first rules of my lectures, you listen, you write as much as you want, but no technology, no computers, no recording, no mobile phones. If you can’t listen and absorb what I am trying to say then you shouldn’t be here.’
I don’t even have a pen out.
‘What if you’ve done this course before and you’re here for a second round?’ I ask. Everyone looks at each other.Someone asked a question. She didn’t put her hand up first.Don’t ask permission to ask questions. That should be a life rule for you all.
‘Then welcome back,’ she says, looking at me. ‘Just no heckling if you know the answers.’
She studies my eyes. There’s a warmth and familiarity there but her face does not ring any bells bar the fact she looks a little like Rachel Weisz. Are you Rachel Weisz? The thing is, you’re not. You’re Jill and all I know is that I think you helped me realise that I am bisexual.
‘Lucy bloody Callaghan,’ Jill says after the last student has left the room. She comes over and embraces me tightly, a hand tenderly going to the top of my head.
‘Everyone is obsessed by the loss of my hair,’ I say.
‘I was going to say it suited you. Not many people can carry that off.’
‘Why, thank you. The low-maintenance thing is a winner.’
The hum of people behind the lecture theatre door makes her tidy all her sheets and books away from her desk, stuffing them into her bag. It was a successful lecture from what I could tell – the way the students were engrossed and no one seemed to fall asleep. I stayed to listen to how she spoke, how she moved across the room, the tiny ways she’d add inflections at the end of sentences to try and get a low murmur laugh out of the room, the way in which she obviously knew and cared about what she was saying. We were a couple, apparently, for a year when I was at university, and all of it was new, so very new to me at least, so she felt like an important person to meet in the flesh.
‘We can chat outside, it’s sunny. How does that sound?’ she asks. I nod and follow her as we make our way outside the lecture theatre and through the winding corridors of the building, outside into the courtyard I was in before. As we queue for drinks from the outdoor coffee vendor who tainted my last order with hazelnut, she’s quiet with me, I think a little awkward, but not in an Imogen the Fridge way. More that she’s sad, that she doesn’t know what to say.
