I’d heard her, though. Not as loud as the first day, but still at a volume that usually would have driven me mad. Somehow, it became the comforting soundtrack of Francesca. I came to recognise the songs thumping through the thin wall between us; the bass pulsed in time with my heartbeat. I even found myself humming the melodies as I walked around campus, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
When I knew she was on the other side, I’d pressed my hand to the Blu Tack-stained wall and imagined her, wrapped in her oversized hoodie with knees clutched to her chest, doing the same.
I wished for the courage to knock on her door, to ask if she wanted to hang out or go to the union for a pint of Purple. I rehearsed the conversation in front of my mirror, but I couldn’t even look myself in the eye, let alone her.
I leafed through books in the library, failing to find a big enough distraction. All thoughts led back to Francesca. Jeremy must have sensed the shift in me, as he broached the subject when we met for dinner in the canteen.
“Don’t worry, Trusty.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Ittook me a while to settle in and make friends, too. You’ll be fine by Christmas break; you wait and see.”
Without looking up from my plate, I nodded and prodded a tube of pasta with my fork. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Is that neighbour of yours still causing you grief? I can enquire about getting you moved, if that’d help.”
“No,” I said a bit too quickly. My head snapped up, and I met his startled gaze. “I mean, no, she’s fine.” I tried to reassure him with a flat smile. “You’re right; uni life just takes a bit of getting used to.”
“Well, you know you can always talk to me.” He squeezed my shoulder again, and this time patted my back for good measure.
“Thanks, Jer. I’ll be fine.”
Except I was far from fine. I needed to get a certain gothy brunette out of my mind or the next time I saw her I’d likely implode — or worse, pin her to the wall and snog her senseless, which is what I’d done in the fantasy that had swept me away during my Cognitive Psychology lecture.
Later that evening, I nearly jumped out of my skin as I walked back to my room from the kitchenette and Francesca’s door sprung open. Hot tea splashed over the edge of my mug, and I swore under my breath. Francesca popped her head out, those dark eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi. I was just…” I jutted my chin to my closed dorm door.
“Do you fancy a biscuit with your tea?”
I nudged my glasses up my nose. “I need to do the reading for my seminar tomorrow, so I should probably…”What the hell am I doing? Yes! Say yes, you moron!
“Suit yourself.” Her head popped back inside, and her door clicked to a close. I stood there internally kicking myself until her door opened a crack. Francesca’s hand poked out and shook a tin of Fortnum & Mason biscuits at me.
“They’re chocolate chip,” she said from behind the door.
I laughed, then gulped hard as I allowed myself to be lured inside.Sod Psychobiology.
Behind the closed door, Francesca’s room was much the same as mine — mothy brown curtains and odd carpet stains, but the intoxicating smell was all hers. I exhaled a shaky breath and looked down at my steaming mug.
“Welcome to my humble abode.” Francesca twirled around. She pushed a button on her stereo, which was smaller than I’d imagined given the noise it could blare out. A drum machine ticked out a tight, syncopated rhythm before a breathy vocal joined the track. Francesca clicked her fingers, sashaying over to the bed and bouncing back onto it. She patted the space next to her. “Come. Sit.”
I swallowed and dumbly followed her instruction, clocking the suitcase that sat defiantly at the foot of her bed; ripped denim and faded black T-shirts spewed out and over the floor like a jumble sale for cool people. I wished I were one of those people, but if I wore an outfit like that, I’d look like I’d been mugged.
Francesca opened the tin and pulled out a biscuit before leaning over to dunk it in my tea.
“Oi!” I said, my jaw dropping in mock outrage. She giggled and popped the biscuit into my open mouth. I tried not to spray crumbs as I returned her laughter.
She dunked another biscuit in my tea and bopped her head to the music. The soft motion of her swaying next to me made my heart race, and I tried not to think about the way the bed was moving beneath us. My eyes settled on the poster she’d pinned above her bed, featuring a pale-faced man with unruly hair and heavy eyeliner.
“I love The Cure!” she said, answering my unasked question.
I nodded like one of those stupid parcel-shelf dogs. “I sometimes wish you’d love them a little quieter.”
She smirked and nudged her knee into mine. My gaze dropped to a flash of white flesh, her thigh beneath her ripped jeans.
“Don’t tell me you like The Smiths? Morrissey is an arsehole. You know he deliberately called the band that just to piss off Robert Smith?”
“Who’s Robert Smith?”
