Rachel
November 1988
I probably fell in love with Josh the very first time we met.
It was November, the year I turned eighteen, and I was two months into university, studying for a business degree. I’d dithered for too long over applying to live in halls, not wanting to leave my dad, and home – even though the university campus was only a few minutes from our house. The equilibrium we’d worked so hard for felt like a spirit level bubble that had only just come to rest.
By the time Dad had managed to persuade me that moving out would be a positive step – the start of an adventure, not the end of everything good – all the halls places were taken, so I was added to the waiting list. Not long afterwards, a room became free.
We virtually collided in the corridor as I was moving in and he was moving out. He was hauling a suitcase behind him, two bags strapped across his chest, weighing him down.
He was dark and lean, a little taller than me. I took in the faded jeans and Vans, the hint of muscle beneath his T-shirt. The soft creep of stubble across his jawline.
‘How come you’re leaving?’ I said, to be polite more than anything else, though I was also secretly hoping to confirm his departure wasn’t due to black mould, or some kind of beetle infestation.
‘I sort of . . . got a book deal.’
I hesitated, not sure if this was student-speak for something worse than the beetle thing.
He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. As in, I wrote a novel, and a publisher bought it.’ His tone was bashful, but I could see electricity in his eyes.
‘Wow, that’s... Congratulations.’ Oddly, I almost reached out to touch his arm, as if we were old friends.
In the sterile silence of the corridor, I felt his gaze spread through me. Tiny tributaries of heat, reaching into every part of my body.
‘Well,’ he said eventually. ‘It was really nice to meet you...?’
‘Rachel.’
He nodded politely. ‘Josh.’
And then he hobbled away along the corridor, weighed down by his bags, and I felt a pulse of sadness that he was going.
To my left, a door swung open. Someone stuck a hand out, wrist decorated in bangles, chunky rings on all four fingers. A couple were shaped like skulls.
‘I’m Ingrid,’ said the slight figure at the end of the outstretched arm. Barefoot in leggings and an Umbro T-shirt, she had ice-blonde hair, but a warm smile and dancing eyes. I noticed a nose ring, a neat slash of plum lipstick.
I smiled back and shook her hand, introduced myself.
‘Nice, isn’t he?’ she said, nodding in the direction of the boy who had just made my stomach spill with stars. ‘We’re having a party later. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s here. Leave it to me.’
My smile widened. I couldn’t help it. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Are you joking? My middle name’s Cupid.’
Later, at the party in the common room, as I was helping myself to more of the bright red cocktail Ingrid had not only made but invented, Josh appeared at my shoulder.
‘I should have left you a list of things to be wary of. And top of it would be any kind of cocktail concocted by Ingrid.’ He smiled. ‘How’s the room?’
‘Lovely, thanks. Although . . . you left something behind.’
His face fell. ‘What was it?’
I laughed, assuming he was fearing he’d forgotten a pair of dirty boxers, or a porn mag. ‘Just a notebook with some poems in it.’
Josh looked as if he’d have preferred it to have been the porn.
‘I only read half of the first one, I promise. Just because I wasn’t sure if it might be important.’
