Someone Else's Life (4 page)

“You need to show my idiot brother just how lucky he is to have you!”

I look away, exhale.
She doesn’t know …

Someone knocks on the door.

“Just a minute!” Melissa calls. “Sweetie, trust me, hiding away up here piling on the pounds is seriously not going to help
anything
.”

She snatches the cookies and I pull my top down over my belly self-consciously.

“Yes, Josh is going to meet college girls—that’s a given. He’s at college.”

I nod miserably, flinching as the knocking turns to a battering.

College girls. Older, more sophisticated,
uncomplicated …

“I said, just a freaking minute!” Melissa hollers, slamming her own fist against the door. “But sweetie, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.” Melissa squeezes me tight. “Because there’s another, much more important, given.” She smiles. “Josh
loves
you. Just the way you are.”

No
, I think, closing my eyes as the hammering continues inside my head.

Just the way I
was …

Chapter Three

My eyes fly open as someone hammers violently against my skull.

Aaah! What? Shit! Oww!

I clutch my head and squint around tentatively, trying to focus.

What is that?

Suddenly, the door bursts open and slams against the wall.

Owwwoohhhhh
—
shit!

“Andy!”
I clutch the duvet against me as my head implodes. “What are you … How …?”

“I knocked. About five times. Your coffee’s getting cold.”

“But—but what are you
doing
here?!”

“I
live
here.” He dumps a pile of stuff in the corner and wrenches the curtains back, harsh daylight burning my eyes as I shrink beneath the duvet. A blue duvet. Andy’s duvet. Andy’s bed.
Shit!
I glance down quickly at my crumpled top and jeans—at least that’s something.

A mug bangs down next to my head.
Ow
.

“Coffee.”

“Um. Thanks,” I mumble, peeking out.

“Thank Mum. She made it.”

“I will.”

He stands there for a moment, tall and shadowy against the bright window. I can’t see his face.

“Listen, Andy, I—” I rasp, then clear my throat. “What am I—I mean, how …?”

“You don’t remember?” he asks incredulously. “You don’t remember last night?”

“I—” I hesitate, then shake my head helplessly.

He looks at me for a moment, then sighs heavily and crouches down next to the bed. He brushes a hair from my face.

“You were very drunk,” he says gently.

I can believe it. I can barely focus, and my whole body aches like hell. Especially my head.

“You don’t remember anything?” he asks, his eyes searching mine. Those eyes. Those blue, blue eyes.

“Did—” I begin, the duvet warm around my body.

“Yes?”

“Did I …?” I look into his eyes. “Did we …?”

The softness in his face disappears. “No,” he says. “We didn’t.”

He stands up briskly and checks his watch.

“Shit—Gran’ll kill me. Look, drink your coffee and I’ll meet you in the car.” He tosses me my mobile. “You’ve had about eight missed calls.”

The phone blinks at me accusingly.
Nana
. I close my eyes, flooded with guilt.

“I told her I’d drop you off on the way.”

I look up. “The way?”

“To church. It’s Christmas Day.” He gestures at the pile of opened presents he brought in—a stack of travel books, a camera, and a large backpack.

“Going on holiday?” I venture.

“No—my gap year—any more questions?” he snaps.

I look up, surprised.
His gap year?

“You’ve got five minutes.”

He slams the door, and my skull splinters.

What happened?

My eyes wander round the room, over the old Arctic Monkeys poster and his beloved Wii, past the basketball laundry-hoop and up his snaking CD collection to the photo montage I’d helped him Blu-Tack round the mirror over his sink. Not much has changed, really. Not in the eighteen months since I was last here.

I pull the duvet over my face, the musky scent of Andy’s aftershave tickling my nose, and suddenly I remember kissing him last night, the smell of his skin, his hair, as he held me close, the taste of his lips so familiar, so
right
against mine. My head spins as I close my eyes, intoxicated.
God, I’ve missed him
. Andy. Andy’s room, Andy’s bed. Snug and warm and comfortable, just as I remember.

Not that we’d ever … we’d never—Not that we hadn’t
wanted
to, just … I didn’t want it to be just some clumsy fumble after school, listening for the front door and scrambling back into my uniform if anyone came home. It had to be special. Perfect. And we’d planned the perfect occasion.

After my GCSE exams, the school arranged a prom, a great formal farewell before we headed out into the big wide world: some of us going straight into jobs or apprenticeships; some, like me, destined for a glorious six-week summer holiday—six whole wonderful weeks that Andy and I were going to spend discovering Europe with our Eurail passes—before I finally joined him at Maybridge Sixth Form College to knuckle down to my A levels for two years before heading on to uni.

That’s what got me through my exams, to tell the truth. All those long dismal hours of revision, the arguments with Mum over anything and everything, just knowing I could look forward to this amazing adventure, to the prom the night before—a magical evening when I’d wear my ball gown and dance with Andy, and then … well, his parents were away for the weekend …

And it was everything I could have wished for. Gone were the desks that regimented the exams, and instead a lazy disco ball sent glittery stars spinning round the school hall as we swayed to the band, our secret lighting us from inside and sparkling in our eyes.

We left early.

Andy’s house was dark and empty as we tiptoed upstairs in the moonlight, my senses on overdrive, aware of every touch, every sound, my heart beating madly as we stepped into his bedroom. Suddenly he flicked a switch, and I gasped as a hundred tiny fairy-lights flickered to life, twinkling over the mirror, looping around the window, and circling his bed, which was scattered with rose petals. It was beautiful. Perfect.

He turned to me, his eyes sparkling, and kissed me, a long, lingering kiss that sent shivers down my spine and my head spinning into orbit as we fell onto the bed. I kissed him harder, enjoying the weight of his body on mine as his fingers slid down my back, my waist, my hip, and finally I gasped as they slipped inside my knickers, smooth and warm and so, so gentle.

He began to tug them down, down … but suddenly I grabbed his hand, stopping him.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped, struggling for breath, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” He smiled, kissing me. “Shh, don’t be.” He brushed a hair from my forehead, his eyes deep in mine. “You call the shots. Okay?”

I nodded, and we struggled up into a sitting position. I pulled my dress back down and hugged my knees, my cheeks blazing.

What now?

Andy leapt up. “Some chocolates, Mademoiselle?” he asked in a French accent, grabbing a pretty box from his bedside table and presenting it with a flourish. “Decadently dark, dreamily creamy, finest Belgian chocolates, fresh from the expert chocolatiers of, um, Tesco’s.”

“Magnifique,” I giggled, watching him as he tore off the wrapping, his cheeks glowing in the soft light, his blond hair deliciously ruffled next to his crumpled shirt. He was so gorgeous, so sexy, so Andy.

“Voilà!” he announced, opening the box. “Now, would Mademoiselle care for a truffle delight? A caramel sensation? Or perhaps that most controversial of delicacies, a strawberry creme?”

A tiny, puzzled smile flickered over his face as I took the whole box from his hands and pushed it aside.

“You’re wonderful,” I told him.

He smiled. “You too.”

Then I kissed him, deep and meaningfully, my fingers traveling down to his shirt buttons.

“Rosie.” Andy broke away suddenly, his eyes searching mine. “Rose, you don’t have to—”

I placed a finger over his lips, and smiled.

“I want to.”

I climbed onto his lap and kissed him again, undoing one button after another, tugging the shirt free from his warm, smooth, firm body, lifting my arms as he pulled my dress up over my head and dropped it in a lilac pool on the floor, shivering as his fingers trailed gently down my bare back. Finally, his eyes found mine.

“You are so, so beautiful,” he told me, kissing me. “I love you.” He stroked my face. “But are you sure—”

I kissed him in answer, placing his hand on my breast, then reaching for his buckle. He didn’t need telling twice. He pulled me to him, the warmth of his skin against mine making me shiver uncontrollably, his kisses hot and breathy as I pulled him ever closer, wanting him so desperately. His hands were everywhere—my hair, my back, my breasts, my legs—then suddenly, he stopped.

“Did you hear that?”

“No,” I panted, pulling him closer.

He kissed me, then stopped again. “Listen.”

There was a faint humming sound from my bag. My mobile.

“Ignore it,” I whispered, my fingers tangling in his hair. “They’ll leave a message.”

“But it’s the middle of the night—it could be important—”

The ringing stopped.

“See?” I smiled. “Can’t have been that important.”

“I suppose not.” Andy grinned, rolling me underneath him as I shrieked happily. “Now, where were we?” His mouth found mine.

Suddenly the humming started again.

Andy looked at me.

“Okay,” I groaned, fumbling for my phone.

It glowed green in the darkness:
Bex
.

“Typical.” I grinned, flicking it off. “Wanting a progress report, no doubt.”

“Well, we’d better give you something to tell her, then,” Andy growled, nibbling at my neck and making me giggle.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of the house phone made us both jump.

“What the …” Andy frowned, checking his watch. “It’s one o’clock in the morning!”

“Ignore it,” I pleaded, kissing his ear. “No one’s here.”

He kissed me absently, still listening to the phone. “I’d better go.”

“Andy …” Another kiss.

“I’ll be right back, I
promise
.” He smiled, gently disentangling himself from my arms. “Okay?”

I pouted, and he kissed my lips. “Okay?”

“Okay.” I smiled. “But hurry!”

The ringing stopped, and I lay there, listening, but couldn’t hear anything. I picked up Andy’s shirt, which was still warm, still filled with that same delicious Andy smell, and pulled it on, draping myself seductively on the bed just as he returned.

“Well?” I purred. “What do you think …?”

Andy handed me the phone. “It’s for you.”

“For
me
?”

“Bex.” He rolled his eyes.

“No. Way. She rang your
house
?” I scrambled up from the bed to take the handset. “Bex, this’d better be good …”

“Rosie—finally! I called your mobile five times!”

“Sorry, I didn’t hear it—I was busy …” I grinned at Andy. “What’s so important?”

“It’s your mum,” Bex said. “She’s here.”

“Shit!” I sighed crossly. “Does she want me to come home? Well, tough, I’m sixteen years old, and I’ll do what I—”

“No, Rosie,” Bex interrupted, her voice urgent. “She’s had an accident.”

I jump at the sound of Andy’s car horn. Shit. I wrench the covers off and jump out of bed—too quickly. The room spins, and I grab on to the sink for support, shutting my eyes and praying not to throw up. I wait for a second.

Nothing. Gingerly, I open an eye and am greeted by a sullen, ashen-faced reflection. I stare.

Gone is the rosy-cheeked schoolgirl who last looked in this mirror. The girl with all the friends and the amazing boyfriend, the girl looking forward to a carefree summer of traveling—to the rest of her life. She disappeared eighteen months ago.

My eyes flick to the photos surrounding the mirror, searching for her, but though dozens of smiling faces beam back at me, there’s no one I know. I stare at them. Gone are the photos we’d tacked up of our school friends, our dates, our memories—replaced with strangers: out clubbing, on holidays, in the park—Andy grinning and laughing with people I’ve never even met, having the time of his life.
Having
a life.
Going traveling
, I remember, my heart sinking.

But not with me
.

My chest aches. Suddenly he feels a million miles away. I was wrong. Things
have
changed.
We’ve
changed. Everything changed that night. The last night I was here.

But he kissed me last night
, I remind myself desperately—
that must mean something?

My eyes dart frantically over the photos, desperate to find a picture of me, of us—a party, a date—
something
—some sign that he’s thought about me in all this time, that he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him. Suddenly my heart stops, my eyes frozen on a picture of Andy, his arms wrapped tightly around a girl, grinning at the camera as she kisses him tenderly.

A pretty
blond
girl.

I pluck the photo from the wall, my fingers trembling as I stare at their interlocked fingers, their matching UEFA football shirts, the stadium behind them where the Euro championships were held two summers ago …

Something hits me in the chest. Hard.

Two summers ago
. Just after we broke up.
The summer we were going to go traveling
.

The summer he went without me …

I can’t breathe. My chest tightens as all the pain of his leaving floods back—the burning insecurity that I wasn’t good enough, that I’d never been good enough, that he’d finally got tired of waiting for me to be ready—or worse, that now he’d seen me naked he didn’t want me after all.

“You don’t want me.”
My voice echoes suddenly in my ears, my cheeks blazing as I remember him pushing me away last night, my lips stinging with rejection.
“You never did.”

I run the tap, splashing the gushing water on my burning face, tears stinging my eyes as all my hopes of us getting back together dissolve to nothing.

So that
is
what happened.
That’s
why he was so keen to stop when the phone rang that night,
that’s
why he went traveling without me. He’d gone off me. Gone off in search of someone new.
And he found her …

I wrench my eyes open, searching the photos for more pictures of her, of other girls, other girlfriends—
How many have there been?
I scour the snaps—parties, people, places—then, suddenly, a familiar face grins out, and instantly the rest of last night comes rushing painfully back.
Kyle
 … the party … kissing Andy … kissing Kyle … Kyle sneering … his mocking impression of Mum …

A jolt like electricity hits me without warning.