It’s just that if it weren’t for him, I’d have never met Orlando Oakham-Goodwin.
A spoilt, selfish, asshole of a man-baby, and the very definition of a pick-me basic bitch. And somehow I’d managed to entangle myself in his life. Or him into mine. Whatever.
I’m out of it now, thank fuck, but not only will I have to put up with Mathias and Owen flaunting their sickeningly perfect love at their wedding, buthe’llbe there—Lando, a.k.a. Slagatha Christie, a.k.a. The Life Ruiner.
In fact, I’m pretty sure Lando’s a groomsman, though Dan won’t outright confirm it because they all know how triggering that one name can be for me.
So maybe it’s a good thing I was never selected to be in the wedding party. At least it’ll limit my interactions with him.
“Come on, boys, stop your gasbagging and get your behinds on that pitch,” Eksteen calls out to Pi and me from the doorway. Looks like we’re the last ones in the locker room as per. “Or do I need to start splitting you two up?”
“I’ve got an idea,” Pi says, nudging me out of his way as he walks towards the pitch.
I raise a brow and follow him.
He stops in the corridor and whispers his next words. “If you want Dan to pick you over Gadget, make sure that for the next few weeks, you’re all he notices.”
I stop beside him, my voice also a whisper. “What do you mean?”
“Be on him like bogeys on a kids’ bedroom wall. Make sure you’re always the one he passes to. Make sure you’re always the one to tackle him. Fuck it, shower next to him, change next to him, hang out with him at the wedding, give him a sneaky tug on the coach to Gloucester. Don’t allow him even a second to think about Gadget. Then in a month’s time when Eksteen says, ‘Right, who are we thinking of?’ your name will be the first off his tongue.”
My mouth opens to respond, but no sound comes out.
“Make him forget Gadget exists.”
“Ooh, that’s diabolical,” I say, though not dismissing the idea entirely.
It toes the line of moral decency, and I like it. It’s not against the rules, and besides, Mathias has such a preternatural advantage over me in every other aspect, why shouldn’t I do everything I can to shoot my shot?
“It is,” Pi agrees. “I know how you feel about pick-me girls, but you might just have to become one. It could be your only . . .” He trails off.
“My only chance,” I finish.
“Well . . . yeah.”
“Cheers, bud.” I slap him on the bicep.
A whistle pierces the air and echoes down the corridor. “Lads, let’s go!” Eksteen screams at us. “This isn’t fucking stitch and bitch. Get your fucking asses out here. Campbell, you’re with Jones. Ellis, line up with Dan.”
Yes!
“Come on, we’re not here to fuck spiders.” Pi sniffs for some reason. “You hear that?”
“What?”
He sniffs again. “That’s the sound of a plan coming together.”
4
Monday 26th April 2027
Lando
Of course Father sends me to the Oakham Exports branch in the middle of dogshit nowhere. Not the sleek glass-fronted riverside building in central Bristol—no, that place is probably for clients only—but the dilapidated industrial estate on the outskirts of Swindon. It’s surrounded by broken concrete, spray-painted tags, weeds that would survive a nuclear war, ground rats and sky rats (seagulls), and what I can only assume are discarded bottles of trucker’s piss.
Coke Zero was never meant to be that colour.
My S3 Sportback looks like a shining metallic target in the car park. My father’s Jag is absent, and the parking space marked with a white plate reading W. OAKHAM is empty.
