That’s enough. She doesn’t even have her insults right. I whirl on her, anger bubbling under my skin. “What exactly are you talking about, Jasmine?”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen with smug glee. “You really haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
“About Tasha.” My blood rapidly cools, forming ice in my veins.
“What about her?”
“She was attacked.” She spits the words out almost joyfully, her eyes sparkling with vindictive pleasure.
Nonononono.She’s lying, she has to be.
“Last night on her way home. She’s in a coma, the doctors don’t know if she’ll survive another night.” Jasmine steps close and I wince as she pushes sharp fingers into my shoulder. “That’s two girls who’ve been nice to you ending up hurt or dead,” she hisses, spit flecking in my face. “I won’t be making the same mistake.”
I stand there, numb, as she turns on her heel and walks away.
I spend lunch in the toilets. Despite my prime eavesdropping position, the end cubicle, I don’t get any actual details on how Tasha is doing. I’m too nervous to ask anyone, and people avoided me all morning. Jasmine has done a good job of spreading her poison.
Poor Tasha, I wish I could visit her or something. I wonder if I can find out which hospital she’s at. Maybe Derek could help.
I finally emerge from the cubicle when it falls quiet outside and I creak the door open, praying everyone will already be in the afternoon class. I debate signing myself out sick but decide to just skip it and visit my museum placement a little earlier instead. I’m not really meant to be there until tomorrow, but I need a change of scenery and hopefully no one will even notice I’m gone. On my way out, I double-check the list. I’m the only student going to the museum, which is good. Two days a week away from the accusatory glances and Jasmine’s nasty comments will be a welcome relief.
I map the route on my phone and see that the museum is a good few stops away on the Tube – either that or a forty-minute walk. I hesitate. I haven’t tackled the Underground yet and if I’m honest, its mess of swirling coloured lines terrifies me. The walk seems decent though and, grateful I donned my Nikes this morning, I plug my earphones in and walk.
I let myself be distracted by the sights so I’m in my own little world when the riverbank sneaks up on me. The Millennium Bridge rises out of the Thames, its narrow expanse rammed with tourists.
I wander to the middle, wondering if I’m imagining the bounce of the bridge, and angle my phone so I can snap Tower Bridge. I send the picture to my sister.
It’s a warm, balmy day and I turn my face up to the sun, letting the horror of the last couple of days drift away. I pause, trying to get my bearings, and spot the Shard glittering in the distance, a tall, fierce building that punctures the skyline. The museum is somewhere off in that direction, tucked down a side street from what I could gather on its website. I peel myself away, my eyes lingering on Shakespeare’s Globe as I pass it by. Wow. A sign shows there are groundling tickets on sale for a fiver, and I decide to make sure I come back this way later.
I’m really here. This is the city I always imagined visiting one day, the place I saved all that money for. And now I’m here. I can hardly believe it.
The area hums with energy. I pass bars and restaurants, crowds of people spilling out on to the pavements and perching on the riverbank walls.
I stop to check the route and see that Meghan has replied to the Tower Bridge snap.
When can I come?! Miss you xo
I tap one back, telling her to work on Mammy and Daddy to let her come over for a week at the end of my course. Wishful thinking on my part, I know, but she was gutted when I left.
The crowds disappear swiftly once I venture into the streets behind Southbank. It’s a bit more industrial here and I can see the history etched into the walls. I walk past old red-brick buildings that once housed mills and factories. I follow the map beneath an old railway arch and down a cobbled street, before the robotic voice abruptly announces my arrival. Sure enough, two frosted glass doors, emblazoned with the museum logo, slide open and a cool, welcome blast of air-conditioning greets me. I descend the stairs beyond them.
“Welcome to the Victorian Street Museum,” a middle-aged man in a topcoat and tails booms from behind the counter in front of me. “How may I assist in your visit today?”
“Oh, hi. I’m here for my drama school placement.”
He hikes up a pair of bushy salt and pepper brows and consults the wrought iron clock on the brick wall.
“Ah, yes, you’re early my dear! By a whole day, in fact. You must be keen! It’s young Natasha, isn’t it?”
My heart sinks. So we should have been placed together, after all.
“No, sorry.” I stumble over the words, tongue thick in my throat. “I’m Niamh.”
He consults something on the computer and his mouth gives an almost imperceptible twitch. “My mistake. I was told not to expect you.”
“Oh. No, it’s Tasha who won’t be here.”
