‘People did help. A few girls in my year looked out for me; it wasn’tall bad. Obviously Hennie helped. She fucking fought my corner, as you can imagine. Nearly started a few fights. She even started a rumour in Year Eleven that I got model scouted, which weirdly got a few people off my back.’
‘You were model scouted?’ he asks, as if he’s interested to hear the story.
‘Oh God, no,’ I scoff. ‘I can’t deny it helped a bit though. Kind of sad when you think about it.’
‘Thanks for telling me,’ he says. ‘I can’t imagine that’s easy to do.’
Strangely enough, he made it easy.
‘Thank you,’ I echo.
He’s still frowning at me. I can’t bear the feeling of it for any longer.
‘It’s really okay, you know. I have great parents and a therapist and a best friend who would burn Firecrest to thegroundif she knew that any of those boys were actually here. Things are good now. I’m lucky.’
It strikes somewhere inside me that I know this last part to be true. I am lucky.
He nods solemnly.
I swat at his arm softly. ‘Stop looking so fuckingsad,’ I say, laughing.
He tries to conceal a grin as he leans his elbows back on the table.
‘Alright. If you’re smiling, I’m smiling.’
I haveno idea how we’ve both finished two drinks without even starting to look for clues, but apparently that’s what we’ve done. With significantly less cognitive functioning, we put our heads together and start pointing out any obvious hiding places. There’s a handful of clear options scattered around, including a worn photo booth, two red telephone boxes and even a mini helter-skelter standing proudly in one corner. We separate to start looking, all determination.
I look briefly insane running my hand around the inside of the tyre swing, and fire an observant couple next to me an apologetic grin. There are no signs of any clues in the photo booth either. After stepping away with nothing, I rejoin Elliot as he stands with his arms crossed looking sceptically around the helter-skelter.
‘Nothing,’ I confirm.
‘My hopes are on the telephone boxes,’ he says, nodding in their direction.
‘Me too,’ I agree.
With hopes high, we approach the pair of telephone boxes to see a girl posing inside one of them with a cocktail, her friend happily snapping photos.
Thankfully, the other one is empty; the door opens with a click as I step inside, and I’m surprised to see that the phone is still fully intact. I hold the receiver to my ear to confirm it doesn’t work in any capacity and indeed, it’s silent.
Elliot stands at the open door next to me, looking puzzled as he takes in the dozens of notes and business cards and sketches that are chaotically pinned to the wall above the phone. My eyes flicker across them, trying to find any phrase or drawing among them that could be relevant.
I lean further inside to allow Elliot better access, and feel his arm brush my shoulder. For whatever reason, I will never get used to the sensation of him touching me.
A pink post-it note catches my attention right next to the phone. A clock that reads five o’clock has been sketched in heavy black pen, with a small crown drawing in the bottom right corner.
‘Hey,’ I say, pointing to the note for Elliot. He snorts with amusement.
‘Not much to go on.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘There must be something else.’
I look up, and I’m drawn to another drawing. ‘Look, up there.’
This post-it is yellow, but it has the same crown scrawled on the bottom right. The sketch on this one depicts, of all things, a lobster.
‘Interesting,’ he says dryly, squinting up at it. ‘Is that a lobster?’
I fight to not scoff with laughter. ‘Yes, Elliot, it’s a lobster,’ I confirm.
