‘What about it?’
‘Val, do you think it’s healthy to spend hours working out every day and only eat protein and vegetables?’
‘If you want to play rugby at this level, then yeah,’ he answers coolly.
‘But do you do that because it’s fun or because it stops you feeling anything?’ I’ve hit a sore spot. I’m sure of that when something flickers in Val’s eyes. He wants to pull his hand away but I’m holding it tight.
‘I do it because I have to be the fucking best, OK?’ he hisses, but there’s something resigned in his voice all the same. I’d like to say so many things, but I have the feeling that I’ll only hit resistance if I keep on now. Val’s never let me see him so vulnerable before. He must feel like he’s got his back against the wall, so I shouldn’t press him any further. It takes time to admit that something might not actually be the way you pretend, and I’m not the person who should be spelling that out for Val. He knows it himself, I’m sure.
I pull back a little and feel the way the distance allows Val to relax a wee bit.
‘You can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you?’
His jaw muscles clench but in the end he nods. His eyes glide over my face and he takes a step closer to me. ‘I don’t deserve you, Victoria Belhaven-Wynford,’ he says, before kissing me.
I feel the banisters at my back and the butterflies in my tummy. We pull apart as we hear footsteps downstairs. It’s Will, going to the toilet; I’m sure that’s only an excuse, though, because he looks straight up to the gallery. He doesn’t say anything when he sees me and Val, but he doesn’t disappear into the loo until I nod to him that everything’s OK.
Our parents don’t seem to have noticed anything when we sit down with them a while later. Val and I don’t talk much butthere’s no need. Our stolen glances and feet touching briefly under the table say more than a thousand words.
When my family is ready to leave and Val comes out into the hall with us, he steps to my side. Mum pulls on her coat and Dad holds out his arm to her. Considering how much she drank this evening, she’s looking amazingly sober, and that hurts because it’s not a good sign. Habituation effect, increased tolerance – shit, those are just fancy names for a phenomenon that tells me she’s drinking regularly again.
‘Hey.’ I turn round again as Val pulls me back once I’ve said goodbye to his parents. He glances over to them, but they’re talking to Mum and Dad as they walk down the steps.
‘Thanks,’ Val says, looking at me. ‘For coming and . . . for earlier.’
‘Anytime, you know that.’ I look away – I don’t know why, but it doesn’t feel right to kiss Val goodbye in front of our families. Either he thinks the same or he can read my feelings on my face because he bends down. His lips brush my cheek.
‘See you at school,’ he murmurs, then repeats the process on the other side. ‘I’ll text you.’
‘Do that.’
‘Safe journey home.’
He raises his arm in farewell as I’m finally sitting in the car. We left on good terms, but I can’t help replaying the moment I stepped into Val’s room.
What d’you want?
Don’t make an eejit of yourself.
He apologized. We had a good conversation. Val’s never shown me such a vulnerable side of himself before and that’s progress, which I should be glad of. I lean my head against the car window, my heart pounding anxiously. It doesn’t settle down all the way home.
SINCLAIR
The scriptwriting club meets on Tuesday and Thursday evenings in the old library and it always used to be fun, but since Lowell walked out, the mood’s been deathly. Florence and Quentin seem glad he’s gone; Ho-wing and Amara, who usually agreed with him, are just pissed off with Florence for riling him so much that he quit.
‘OK, we’ll vote on it, or we’ll never get anywhere.’ Florence shuts her eyes and massages the bridge of her nose, then throws back her long, curly hair. ‘Who’s in favour of carrying on with our current version?’
Ho-wing and Amara immediately raise their hands. I feel their expectant eyes on me, but I don’t move.
‘Good.’ Florence nods. ‘And who’s in favour of starting again from scratch and giving the play a chance?’ Quentin and she raise their hands. ‘No abstentions,’ she adds, seeing that I haven’t voted yet.
I sigh. OK, it’s going to be a hell of a lot of work, but my gut tells me that this is the only way the play can live up to our ambitions.
Florence’s face brightens as I raise my hand. Ho-wing and Amara huff.
‘Guys, seriously?’ Ho-wing groans. ‘We’re already halfway done. It’s not as bad as all that.’
‘Yeah, but it isn’t good either. And our reputation’s at stake,’ says Quentin. ‘Last year’s play set the bar really high.’
