I blink. There’s an unbearable throbbing behind my forehead. The light is harsh. Wince, headache’s getting worse. My whole body is shivering, my teeth are chattering, I can’t do a thing about it.
‘Dad?’ At least, that’s what I try to say, but all that comes out is an unintelligible croak. What’s he doing here? And where even am I? At home?
He says something but I forget what in the same second. My head’s still really buzzing. And I’m tired, so very tired . . . I hear his voice, words likesleepandrest. His hand on my burning brow. Cool fingers, darkness.
I don’t know if I’m dreaming, but Charlie’s saying my name. Repeatedly, urgently. Kind of distraught. What’s wrong, what’s he afraid of? I’m sure it can’t be that bad. He’s holding me and I’m falling, but then he’s kissing Eleanor, with all the rage that’s in his eyes as he looks at me. Valentine’s fist connects with his face. I scream. He needs stopped, but I can’t move. My feet are stuck fast to the cellar floor. Valentine’s spitting on Charlie, who’s down. And it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.You’ve changed, Tori. Charlie’s voice. Disappointed, reproachful. I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. I just wanted something that worked. I didn’t want to smash us up. I’m so hot I think I’ll catch fire.
It’s all right, Tori.There’s a hand on my brow and something cool, wet.It’ll be better soon.
I’m not sure about that.
I’m really not sure about that.
20
TORI
It does get better, but not for five days. Almost a week when I mainly slept, and about which I can remember scarily little. Thursday is the first day when I can keep down a little tea and a mouthful of soup. By Friday, my temperature is finally normal. On Saturday, I have a shower, followed by a lie-down because it’s so exhausting.
Nobody is allowed to visit apart from Mum and Dad, who ask if they should take me home with them. I smile and say no, thank you, and, once my parents have left, I have a secret cry. It’s not like I wouldn’t rather be with them. But Mum was sober and so bloody jittery and nervous I couldn’t bear it.
Emma’s sent me loads of entertaining TikToks and film recommendations, but I spend most of my time asleep anyway. I get a bouquet of flowers and a ‘get well soon’ card from the theatre club, which everyone except Sinclair has signed. It’s a slap in the face, and however much I try to kid myself that he might just have forgotten, I can’t help imagining him at a rehearsal just sitting there and passing the card on without a word. It’s so painful that I have to ignore the WhatsApp he sends me asking how I am, because my pride is hurt. It’s probably just his guilty conscience forcing him to ask after me – he doesn’t really care. But I have nothing to say to the guy anyway. I canonly dimly remember the last week, and nothing at all about the day on which – according to Dr Henderson – I fainted in morning assembly. But the images of the evening before that won’t disappear. Annoyingly. I wish they weren’t so seared on my mind. Charlie kissing Eleanor and making sure I can see. I still don’t know how I feel. Angry, helpless, disappointed. A bit of everything. I really wish I didn’t care. Indifference. That’s one thing I’ll never feel towards Charlie and it’s driving me mad. If only I could never see him again. But at the same time, I spend every waking moment talking silently to myself about everything I have to say to him. What on earth was he thinking? Is he proud of himself? Do I really mean so little to him? Why the hell?
I know I’ll never ask any of those things. Maybe everything’s over between us. Just now, I don’t feel like I could ever look him in the eye and not see everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. The way he kissed me and then pushed me away. Or I pushed him away. We pushed each other away. I don’t know. Everything’s too confusing and it’s making my head ache, but I can’t stop thinking about it. The stupid card’s there on the bedside table, mocking me.
Eleanor signed it and added a tiny heart after her name. If it wasn’t so important to me to be a good feminist, I’d hate her. For her guilty-conscience heart and her lips on Charlie’s. But she didn’t do anything, I tell myself, it was him who kissed her so I force myself to keep hating him. It doesn’t make the whole thing any easier, but Eleanor’s acted perfectly to me from the very start. She helped me when I felt uncomfortable around Val. Almost like she could sense it. It would be so much easier if I could just hate her, but unfortunately, I can’t. All the same, I don’t know how I’m ever going to face her and Charlie, and put a brave face on things in rehearsals. It would probably be better if I gave up my job as assistant director. My work on the scriptwriting team is done, the script’s pretty much settled, and,to be honest, I really don’t give a damn what does or doesn’t happen on that stage in the summer. I’m past caring. I can’t just keep on getting hurt and kidding myself it doesn’t matter. Because it does matter. It matters a lot. Because I’m in love with Charlie. Have been for way too long, and it hurts. I don’t want to lose him, but if there’s no other way, then I’ll have to suck it up because I can’t and won’t go on the way the last few weeks have been.
I’m sure of that the next Monday afternoon, when I’m allowed back to my room because they need my bed in the sick bay for boaking second-formers. I’ve spoken to Ms Barnett and I’m going back to class tomorrow, but I can leave any time if I don’t feel up to it. Considering the mountains of missed schoolwork I’ve got to catch up on, I have to give it a try. At least I missed the French and history tests last week.
Emma doesn’t leave my side on Monday evening, makes us tea and settles down on the edge of my bed to bring me up to date with everything. I was only out of it for a week, but it feels like there’s a whole month of classes and gossip I’ve missed. But when Emma sips awkwardly at her tea, not meeting my eye, I realize there has to be something she’s not telling me.
‘Did Sinclair ever get in touch?’ she asks casually.
I tense. I’d like to say no, but that wouldn’t be true. He did get in touch. ‘Yeah, he texted.’ Emma looks at me. ‘What?’
‘Nothing. I . . . He was pretty worried.’
Oh, was he indeed? Don’t make me laugh. ‘Good to know. He didn’t even sign the drama club card.’
‘Oh.’ Emma hesitates. ‘That’s probably because he’s not in the drama club any more.’
‘What?’ I laugh because I’m sure she’s pulling my leg. But Emma’s expression is serious. I fall silent. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He quit.’
‘Hewhat?’
‘Last Monday. Then he cried his eyes out at Henry’s.’
‘Hold on, hold the bus!’ I raise a hand. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘Tori, no.’ Emma gulps. ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know if he wanted to tell you himself. But, well, I thought you ought to know.’
‘But why?’ I blurt. My mind is racing. Charlie quit the role. ‘So who’s playing Romeo now? There wasn’t an understudy, he can’t just . . .’
Emma shrugs. ‘Gideon reckons Louis will probably step in, but it’s apparently been total mayhem ever since.’
I can imagine. God, he’s dumb. What did he do that for?
