1
AUGGIE
I wake up with a hangover, cum-crust on my stomach, a naked guy in bed beside me whose name I can’t remember, and the sun shining. Life is good.
The monotonous ring of my phone pierces through my headache. The guy groans and rolls over. I grope for my phone, my stomach sinking as I see the caller ID. It’s Dad. Well, of course, it is. I swear he has spy drones, so he knows exactly when to ring me to ruin my day. Okay, that’s dramatic and implausible. Maybe he has a sixth sense instead. I could ignore him, but that will only make things worse.
“Hi, Dad.”
“You’re not dead.”
“Nice to hear from you too. How are you?”
“I was wondering if something had happened, as you failed to turn up for another lecture this morning.” His voice is dry, with no trace of concern. If anything, it has an underlying note of ‘pissed off’.
“I slept in.” Squinting, I pull my phone away from my ear to check the time. It’s one thirty. Oops. “Wait. How do you know I missed a lecture?”
“After your poor performance last year, I asked the dean to monitor you closely.”
And report back to Dad. Perfect. That’s fucking perfect.
“You know what will happen if you don’t do better this year.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. How could I forget? I’m sure he’s going to remind me anyway in three, two, one—
“I’m not going to carry on supporting you if you’re going to waste your life going to parties and getting drunk. You’ve got until Christmas to turn your grades around. After that, you’re coming home and getting a job.”
“I hear you, Dad.”
“But are you listening?”
That’s debatable.
“I’m cutting your allowance in half,” he says.
“You’re… what?”
“I thought that would get your attention.”
“Does Mum know?”
“She’s out of the country right now.”
“But does she know?”
“Yes. And she supports me in doing anything it takes to get you to stop wasting your life.”
I’m not surprised. I shouldn’t have bothered asking. Mum always sides with Dad. Does she agree with him, or does she think being out of the country more than she’s in it gives her a pass on parenting?
“I believe you have a lecture in one hour,” Dad says. “I suggest you go to it.”
How does he know my schedule? Never mind. He has a hotline with the dean of the university. Of course he knows my schedule. I came to Leeds to escape him, but he’s doing his best to micromanage my life from two hundred miles away. Fuck, I hate him.
“Christmas, August, or you’re coming home.” The line goes dead.
“Bye, Dad,” I hiss before pulling my university schedule up on my phone.
I’m doing a degree in pharmacology—Dad’s choice, not mine—so I have weekly lectures, seminars, tutorials, and lab time. All in all, twenty hours of my life are timetabled every week, and then I’m meant to spend at least that much time again on independent study. Not that I do, which is why I almost failed my first year and why I’m failing my second year.
