“We need to talk about our gap year,” he says breathlessly, between kisses, pushing me across the luxurious room, past the doorway to his own en suite and walk-in wardrobe and toward his bed, the back of my calves hitting the mattress as I tumble and land on his pillow. It’s like a scene from a movie where they’rehungryfor each other—and I am definitely as hungry as he is, just also anxious, which is making me feel sortof nauseated, but I don’t let on because right now I’m the main character in this big love scene that’s playing out in Oliver Roche’s lavish Lane Cove bedroom.Just grow up, Evie. It’s fine.
I’ve already planned my gap year with Bree. We’ve been working on the itinerary since Year Eight. Fly to London, do a Jane Austen tour of Bath, attend a live screening ofPride and Prejudiceon picnic blankets at Chatsworth House, where the Pemberley scenes were filmed, then Paris and Prague and Venice and tossing coins into the Trevi Fountain in Rome, wishing for everything we’ve always wanted …
“Travel with me,” Oliver says. He’s been staring into my face while I was running through the trip in my head, and his statement takes me by surprise. I mean, of course he’d imagine we’d travel together. That’s what gap-year couples do. But in every version of the itinerary Bree and I invented, neither of us accounted for a future romantic lead.
“Oliver, can we talk about …”
He kisses me on my neck, and I lose track of the sentence.
“I just, I’d already sort of planned …”
His lips close over my mouth and I can’t say the rest of the words as his hand travels down my neck and across my shoulder, sweeping aside the shoestring strap of my top in a way that thrills me and scares me and makes me forget about Pemberley and picnic screenings and my best friend.
“We don’t have to think about it now,” Oliver whispers. I’m relieved, because I don’t want to argue about anything. That said, given the dangerous route his hand is now traveling, I’m tempted to reraise the topic. Or any topic. And slow this down.
“Oliver, wait …” I try to sit up, but he shifts his weight, and I can’t. So I place my hands on his chest and push him back. “Oliver, stop. Please.”
He does stop. He moves back. I feel really bad, because I know this was the plan. He’d get back from Europe and we’d do this.Look at him!As far as your first time goes, he’s a knock-it-out-of-the-park partner.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I’m close to tears now.
“It’s okay,” he says, flopping back on the bed beside me.
But it’s not okay. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He takes my hand, and I try to stem the tears and prevent myself from becoming even more pathetic in this already mortifying situation.
“Evie, it’s fine. I’ll wait.”
And we lie there in silence, while I play with the forensics pendant around my neck, imagining Oliver is reliving all the times he’s had sex with less-awkward girls, probably wishing he wasn’t stuck with me now, while this gap-year clash looms impossibly in my head. I resolve to be a more courageous and less uptight girlfriend in the future.
Starting tomorrow.
39
Drew
“It doesn’t have to be a whole suit,” Evie says. “Just get pants and a nice shirt.” We must be the only two students at Dom’s and Ag’s worried about our formal budget.
“What’s your dress like?” I ask. I don’t know why—I don’t know anything about dresses or what I’ll do with this information when she gives it to me. The formal committee has gone for a “great couples from literature” theme and fancy dress is optional. Or compulsory in Evie’s case.
“I can’t decide. There’s one that’s pinks and oranges, kind of floaty, but sexy, with tiers, sort of a floaty go-go girl situation, you know? Could be a sixties vibe, if we could think of a flower power couple …”
I am none the wiser.
Formals—fancy dress or otherwise—aren’t my thing. I’m more comfortable in a darkroom or under a dark sky. Definitely behind the camera and not in front of it. And not dressed up. With small talk. I’ve been this close to telling Evie just to go to the formal with Oliver so many times, but something always stops me. I think it’s stubbornness. Right or wrong, there’s something about being invited by Oliver Roche’s girlfriend toher own formal that gives me some kind of kick. So that’s how I find myself in a suit store with Evie on a Friday after school in February, determined to put myself into a social situation I’m going to loathe.
She pushes me into a changing room with a handful of shirts and snaps the curtain closed. “The other dress is this wholePride and Prejudicevibe—Empire waist, soft blue, super-feminine.”
I can see her as Lizzy Bennet, with her hair up, curls framing her face.
“I haven’t worn it since …”
“Since what?”
“Never mind.”
She’s gone uncharacteristically quiet, and I open the curtain, even though the white shirt she handed me is still flapping loose. “Okay, go-go girl. What are you hiding?”
