‘I haven’t got a clue. My brain hurts.’
‘Mine too,’ he says.
‘How’s your course going?’
‘It’s only been a week and so far, so good. It’s boring,though. Business studies is a bit meh so far. But I keep thinking of all the money I’ll earn when I’m out of this place. Dad keeps talking about how he knows someone who can get me a job at Goldman Sachs, so I can probably just tread water through the epic levels of boredom for the next three years.’
My mouth drops. ‘Ben, you are quite entitled sometimes.’
He grins, takes it on the chin. ‘Yes, I am. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’
‘I know no one who can get me a job, and I don’t know as much about Dickens as I should. I’m getting quite worried.’
‘Don’t be,’ Ben soothes. ‘It’s only been a week. Give it some time. Read that question out loud again, but this time do it slowly. I’m sure, between us, we can work out what the hell it means.’
I lean over, kiss him. ‘You’re very sweet,’ I tell him honestly.
He smiles, ‘I know.’
He’s kept good on his word that we are categorically not sleeping together, taking it slow. This past week has been torture, especially as we spend a lot of time in each other’s rooms, getting to know each other. There’s a lot of kissing, a lot of touching. I knew he wouldn’t be able to go cold turkey, and neither could I. But, rather excitingly, Ben’s suggested that when we break up for the Christmas holidays we should all go to his house for a weekend. He’s already made it clear that if I say yes, we’re in separate bedrooms.
‘Come on, read it out again,’ he nudges. ‘The quicker we work out this Dickens issue, the quicker we can start drinking.’
‘I can’t drink every day,’ I murmur distractedly, my eyes still on the question. ‘I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Easy,’ Ben says. ‘It’s like breathing.’
‘I thought I’d smash this,’ I tell Liv as we’re sitting in the union bar a week later. I’m working through these nineteenth-century books and as the module is only for one semester, we’ve got plenty of reading material to get through. ‘It’s war poetry next, and Ihatepoetry.’
‘How can you hate poetry?’ Liv asks. ‘I love it.’
‘You do it then,’ I reply, somewhat bitterly, and then move off to serve a customer. At least I’ve mastered pulling pints, so some good has come of me being at uni. ‘After poetry,’ I continue moaning, on my return to her at the bar, ‘it’s Shakespeare.’
Liv makes a face. ‘My commiserations. I hate Shakespeare.’
‘I don’t. But I think by the end of the module I’m going to hate him too.’ I put my head in my hands.
‘It’s only been a few weeks. Don’t do anything silly,’ Liv warns.
My head shoots up. ‘Such as?’
‘I’m not even going to put the suggestion in your head,’ she tells me, avoiding eye contact.
‘I’m not going to drop out,’ I tell her.
‘No, you’re not,’ she agrees. ‘Maybe switch courses first, but don’t drop out.’
‘Maybe,’ I muse. And then I ask Liv how her work is going, and she tells me all about her course and how she’sexcited that she’s going to the Old Bailey on a field trip to watch a trial. And then, when she finishes, we switch subjects. ‘How’s it going with Ollie?’ I love talking about boys and relationships, and gossiping with Liv is fun, like chatting with a sister. Or what I imagine that might be like. Short of gossiping with my mum, this is the next best thing.
‘I thought it was going OK, but now I can sense him pulling back,’ Liv says despondently.
‘Oh no!’ I hope my conversation with Ollie didn’t have anything to do with this change of tack. ‘In what way?’ I ask warily.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe he’s just busy with his course.’
‘Medicineisfull-on,’ I say rather glibly.
‘I guess,’ she replies uncertainly.
