Something To Wish For: Sovereign Island Series

By Scott Merry

Matt Rhodes has everything he could ever want as he graduates from university. A steady job at The Fountain Courtyard Hotel and Coffee Shop. A steady girlfriend, Claire, with a love of the colour pink. A steady home under his mum's roof a short walk from work. A steady group of friends with a broad knowledge of sitcoms. A steady hobby playing the ukulele with a loop pedal attached so he can recreate classic rock songs. He has it made. Right? 

 

Graduation weekend highlights some of the cracks in his steady life and as his friends (and girlfriend) set off for pastures new, Matt begins to see how frustratingly stale everything has become.

 

Set in the seaside city of Newbridge on Sovereign Island, this is the story of Matt Rhodes trying to find a purpose in his life when everything that was steady seems to be crumbling around him. 

 

Except the ukulele.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Merry
• Release date: Apr 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215600177

Book preview

SOMETHING TO WISH FOR

SOMETHING TO WISH FOR

SCOTT MERRY

Copyright © 2023 Scott Merry

All rights reserved.

Cover designed by GetCovers

Disclaimer

The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously, unless clearly stated as an event in history. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

This book is dedicated to:

Dawn Handley.

Without you this book would never have made it this far.

Thank you for the chance to dream again.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

AUTHOR’S POST-AMBLE

FREE DOWNLOAD

Grab a free copy of Smile when you sign up

to the author’s VIP mailing list.

Visit: scottmerry.com/signup

What happens when you take five teenagers, a famous depression-busting author, a television talent show, and a coffee shop? Smile. That’s what happens.

This contemporary fiction novel has everything you expect from a Scott Merry novel: mental health, music, and good coffee, tied together with laughter and friendship. Click the link above to grab an electronic version for free!

CHAPTER ONE

A snowy February, mid-2000s

‘Whatever you do, Matthew, never tread on the ice on the top of the pond. It looks like you can stand on it, granted, but underneath there’s a deep hole full of cold water.’

‘But I want to try skating!’

‘I’ll take you to the ice rink if you want to skate, young man. But you listen to your gran. That pond isn’t worth risking your life.’

‘But, Gran! How cool would it be to stand on the pond? It would be like standing on water!’

‘I won’t have it, Matthew. There’s no way to tell how thick that ice is from the top. One step and you could fall through. That’s the end of it.’

‘But, Gran…’

‘Enough! You can play in the garden. You can climb a tree. You can hide in the bushes. But you are not allowed to set foot on that pond. Do I make myself clear?’

I mutter something under my breath about grans being good-for-nothing, stuck up, and stinky.

‘Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear,’ Gran says, brandishing her walking stick under my nose, so close I can smell the rubber on the end of it.

‘Yes, Gran.’

‘Good. Now go and get yourself some fresh air. Better than being stuck indoors all day. And don’t you dare take any of those layers off either – you’ll catch your death if you do!’

I force on my wellies by the back door before proceeding to scuff my feet down the gravel path towards the shed in protest. I hope the grooves in the path will teach Gran a lesson in issuing stupid rules about standing on the stupid pond.

I open the latch on the shed door. This used to be Grandad’s shed – I can remember him cursing at the radio many a time in an afternoon while listening to football matches. The shed hasn’t changed much. Gran has kept it as it was. Even the radio is still there. I try switching it on in the hope Grandad might talk to me through it and tell me that Gran is wrong.

Nothing happens. The radio probably isn’t plugged in.

I huddle on a piece of carpet in the corner to sulk in the gloom, the familiar smell of lawn mower petrol and weed killer stinging my nostrils. Did Grandad ever hide out here because Gran told him that he couldn’t do something? He must have. How anyone could cope with Gran’s stupid rules is beyond me.

I pull my knees into my chest, the burn still raging inside. How could Gran know how frozen the pond was? When was the last time she had been out to test it?

As I begin to shiver with the cold taking its toll, I decide that I have to achieve my aim of standing in the middle of the pond. I will do everything in my power to prove I can do it. My dad is always telling me to believe in myself, that I can do anything I want as long as I believe I can do it.

I will prove Gran wrong. I will stand in the middle of her stupid fancy pond with all the stupid fancy gnomes and ornaments surrounding it that Grandad left to her and wave at her in the kitchen. I will show her that there is nothing to worry about.

Clambering to my feet, I open the shed door again with a renewed sense of vigour, my fists now balled in my pockets.

There are no scuff marks in the gravel this time as I stride towards the pond, only the light compressions left by my feet in the frost.

I pause when I reach the flagstones surrounding the pond, a seed of doubt beginning to sprout in my mind. Gran was quite clear about the dangers of the pond. Why would she be so adamant about it if it weren’t true?

Is Gran a liar?

I sidle up to the edge, the toes of my boots overlapping the edge by a couple of millimetres, to stare at the frozen water.

It stares back.

I take a deep breath, the water vapour clouding around me. I can’t see anything moving under the ice. That must mean it’s thick, right? My heart goes out to the fish in that moment; I have no idea if fish can be frozen in water or whether they can even tell if the cold weather is coming.

I prod the ice with a toe.

It doesn’t move.

I crouch down so I can touch the ice with a hand. The cold bites through my gloves but no matter how hard I push, the ice doesn’t budge.

I look around to see if there is anything available I can use to test the surface. There are plenty of ornaments within arm’s reach. I give a fearful look towards the sky in case Grandad is watching. I’m certain he wouldn’t approve. He loved those ornaments as if they were pets.

The sky remains sunny and bright with no sign of changing so I pick the ugliest ornament I can find, a weathered stone animal that once was a dog or a cat – I can’t tell – and drag it across the flagstones. I have no idea how much it weighs in comparison to me but the amount of effort required to move it a few feet leaves me out of breath.

With more vapour clouding my vision from my gasps as I try to return my breathing to normal, I take one final look around. I peer around a conifer, decorated with wispy strands of frost, which has aided my cover while I was testing the ice. Now I can see Gran in the kitchen, her back to me, doing something at the table. Probably chopping and peeling vegetables. Gran loves her cooked dinners. I love them too, to be fair.

I tip the ornament forward on to the ice.

The mournful weathered eyes stare back at me.

The sheet ice remains steadfast.

I hold my breath, expecting the ornament to plunge into the depths of the pond. Pleading it won’t.

I focus on the pond, looking for any cracks or movement, hoping my eyes will pick up on it. I listen as hard as I can but all I can hear is a dog barking in someone else’s garden and the odd car going past on the road outside the house.

I don’t know how long I crouch for at the edge of the pond, watching, waiting. In the end I count to sixty in the hope that is as near to a minute as possible.

I put one whole foot on the ice next to Grandad’s ornament.

Nothing.

I count to thirty before I dare to put my other foot next to the first, nearly losing my balance; sheet ice is slippery. Gran never mentioned that! The lack of friction leads to me losing my footing several times as I inch my way towards my goal. I figure if I can reach the middle I will have a clear view of the kitchen, be able to prove Gran wrong, and have a brilliant story to tell my friends at school after half term of how I proved a grown-up wrong. And not just any grown-up – one of the oldest grown-ups I know!

With pride swelling in my chest as I move ever closer into view of the kitchen window, I hear a noise that sounds like a twig snapping.

I haven’t seen anyone or heard anyone approaching. Must be an animal in the laurel hedge that runs down the border of Gran’s garden, I try to convince myself. My doubts grow as I focus on the shimmering lawn, still thick with a layer of frost. Would a bird be able to crack a twig?

I have to shake that thought off.

I close my eyes for a moment to try and settle my nerves. Opening them again, I look down at my feet. My eyes dart from side to side as I check for any sign the ice is beginning to relent.

Still nothing.

It can’t be this easy. Surely?

My stomach twists with a churn of regret and guilt. And nerves. Definitely some nerves in the mix.

I slip my way to the point in the pond where I can see around the conifer. Although I have made it this far, I’m starting to lose faith in the pond’s ability to hold me up for any length of time. All I’m focused on is being able to see Gran, wave at her, prove to her that frozen ponds are safe after all, and return to the flagstones Grandad painstakingly installed all those years ago before I was born.

Another crack. Behind me. I turn around to see what could have caused it. Unfortunately, I spin too quickly, my feet slip out from underneath me, and I land on the ice with a bone-shuddering thud.

I try to sit up several times before lying there, pain emanating from the hip I’ve landed on. I strain to see if I can hear any more cracks but all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears. I lie down flat on my back, defeated, breath still forming clouds above me as I wait to see if the pain subsides so I can crawl my way back to safety.

Summoning whatever reserves I have left, I gingerly roll over on to my knees, noticing how the patch of ice where I have been lying looks darker than the rest of the pond. I put one foot on the ice again, hoping that Gran happens to look out of the window at that exact moment so I can wave at her and put this behind me.

As I clamber to my feet, I glance at the ornament I tested the ice with earlier. I’m relieved to see it is still there. Although is it sitting lower than it did when I first pushed it on to the ice?

Holding my painful hip, I twist myself towards the kitchen window. Gran’s lilac cardigan is still visible as she is now sitting at the table reading the local newspaper, her back to the window so she isn’t blinded by the sun streaming in.

My hopes of shouting to catch her attention are slim as Gran will probably have BBC One blaring from the little television she has on the worktop.

Aware of the cold nibbling at my nose and the throbbing pain in my hip that I’m certain will be a lovely purple colour, I try to keep my balance while silently pleading for Gran to turn around and wave at me.

Come on, Gran. Aren’t you curious as to what I’m doing outside?

Wincing with the pain, I consider whether lying on the ice will help dull the ache. The sunlight dims for a moment as a stray cloud hovers in place. That brief respite from the glare makes Gran stand up and rinse her cup in the sink. Or maybe it’s a coincidence. Either way, she isn’t now squinting into the sun. I can use that to my advantage.

I wave both my hands as if I’m trying to fly, regretting letting go of my side as I do so. In the moment that Gran looks up and peers out of the window, I spot something move out of the corner of my eye.

Continuing to jump around as best I can with a damaged hip, I glance down at where the ornament should have been.

It isn’t there. Replacing it is an ornament-sized hole in the ice.

I look back up at the kitchen window. Gran is shielding her eyes and appears to be looking straight at me. I resume flapping like a panicked chicken; Gran has complained recently that her hearing isn’t what it used to be but she still insists her eyesight is as good as it has ever been. I’m relying on her not being a liar now.

At last, Gran seems to realise I’m trying to attract her attention. She disappears from view for a few seconds, reappearing at the back door. Her face is more wrinkled than normal, contorted in… fury?

‘MATTHEW!’ she roars, her voice echoing off the houses, setting the dog off again.

‘Gran! I did it!’ I call back, shortly followed by another of the twig-snapping noises.

Gran is shouting something at me while she waves her stick in my direction but I can’t make it out over the dog yapping.

‘What?’ I shout back.

‘Get off the pond!’ I eventually hear during a brief interlude in dog barks.

‘I will!’ I call, sliding one foot toward the flagstones.

The spot where my foot has been resting has turned dark, I notice, as lots of little cracks appear all around me.

‘Quick! Hurry!’ I hear Gran call before a strange noise groans all around me and the ground gives way beneath my feet.

‘Gran!’ I yell. ‘Help me!’

CHAPTER TWO

Eleven years later

‘Matty! You’re here! I’m so glad you made it.’

‘Hey, Meels. Happy birthday!’ I reply, handing over a hastily scribbled card and a corner-shop bottle of reasonably priced white wine while clutching a box of beer bottles. ‘Sorry I’m late. There’s a new chess club that is suddenly really popular and the coffee shop went mental. I had to stay and help out.’

She looks at me doubtfully, as if questioning a delay could occur anywhere caused by people playing chess.

She’s right to be doubtful. Don’t get me wrong, it was busy with the chess group, but I had made it so far before I remembered I should arrive bearing some form of socially acceptable gift. That’s what you’re taught as a child when you’re off to a birthday party. Except I didn’t have a responsible adult handing me a pre-wrapped gift this time. That seems to stop when you reach a certain age. Even if I am still living at home with my mum.

‘Thanks,’ Amelia replies, taking the wine from me, a glint of disapproval in the way she examines the label. ‘You coming in?’

‘Yeah, standing on a doorstep clutching beer in the student quarter is asking for trouble,’ I say as the blinds twitch in the front window of 30 Lupin Avenue.

Amelia notices my glance at next door. ‘Well, if they weren’t such stuck up berks that argue over where exactly the wheelie bin sits on bin collection day then they’d be inside enjoying one of your special-offer corner-shop beers. So one of them has a car. Get over it.’

Busted. She knows. She always knows. I should know that she knows everything by now. It’s been two years since I first met Amelia, affectionately known as Meels, and it took about an hour to work out she’s forthrightly right about everything.

‘They still being awkward?’ I ask politely, hoping to steer her towards the hatred of the neighbours and away from my shopping habits. 

‘That’s not strong enough a word, Matty. They need to stop worrying about the exact position of every single bin in the postcode so that it won’t go near their precious pink bubble with an obnoxiously noisy exhaust on those ridiculous thin tyres. I’m fairly confident that they must have legs because they manage to leave the house and walk to their car. Why they can’t use those same legs to shift a bin, which is also on wheels I might add, is beyond me. I don’t put a wardrobe or a filing cabinet or even a sodding bedside cabinet out there every week. It’s a wheelie bin. The clue is in the name. It’s not that difficult to move.’

I try to keep a straight face at the fact the last sentence was said several notches louder than the previous ones in the conversation. Even so, the blinds in the next house along remain steadfast. Amelia Stevens isn’t the sort of girl to back down when she knows she’s within her rights and one of the girls next door had chosen to throw down the gauntlet one morning last October. The result? A long-standing, passive-aggressive feud. I’m sure next door have made similar comments on their birthdays when greeting guests.

Once I’ve stepped over the threshold to 28 Lupin Avenue, I head straight for the lounge where I can hear the voices of my coursemates arguing about the best episodes of Friends.

A chorus of my name greets me along with various jibes about what the time is, what names I should give the current time, and where I’ve been. My beers join an open box of the same make on the coffee table. I serve myself one, pleased to find the bottles are cold. Well, chilled. Cooler than room temperature. I should put mine in the fridge.

‘You must have been to the corner shop as well, eh?’ Dave Cook remarks as I take a seat next to him on the sofa nearest the door. Poor Dave is usually a lone wolf until I show up. He comes across as being a little creepy, not understanding of social conventions, and Amelia has often mooted Dave might be on the spectrum. Not the colour spectrum, mind. Dave likes cream, grey and beige. Amelia bought him a baby blue t-shirt for Christmas last year. She was politely asked to return it. Or buy a grey version, I can’t remember how that one ended. Quite what happened to him in his childhood to cause this aversion to respectable, age-appropriate colours, we’ve often speculated over once Dave has gone to bed at some reasonable hour. Routine, apparently.

He’s the same age as me. Honest. Same year of school. Completely different upbringing. I swear Dave is in all of our lives to make us feel better than someone. Whether he knows that or not, I can’t tell. But he still hangs out with us and looks rather cheerful doing it.

‘Great minds,’ I reply, trying not to be too mean by reaching out to tap Dave’s beer with my own. ‘What have I missed?’

‘Not much. Alex has regaled us all with stories of his sexual prowess since lectures finished. Ella has looked moody cute about it all. Amelia has flitted about like the mother hen she must have eaten at some point, telling us to not drop crisps and to sit up straight. Me – well, I’ve been sat here watching. Drinking beer.’

I shake my head softly. ‘You’re one of a kind, mate. Only you could enjoy sitting in a room full of people, have nothing to contribute, drink beer, and be happy doing it.’

Dave raises his bottle. ‘It’s a gift.’

‘How did you describe Ella again? Moody cute? Never heard that one before.’

‘I mean look at her. She looks like she’s off to a goth’s funeral. But with cleavage.’

I have to lean forward to check Ella Wade out. I can’t fault Dave’s description of her. Ella wears black. Pretty much black and nothing else. There’s occasionally a hint of navy but that depends on the light, I reckon. She’s a quiet girl, doesn’t contribute all that much to our conversations, but she has a ruthless streak which occasionally flares up in random episodes of flirtatious rage. Normally the rage is directed at Dave or Al. With me, it’s more flirtatious. I think. It’s difficult to tell. I’m usually second guessing myself around her.

Alex swears she’s a witch. I’ve never seen her with a broomstick or a pointy hat. But between Dave, Al, and I, we all agree there is something alluring about her. Mysteriously so.

Normally she’s bedecked in metal-band-she’s-just-seen-on-tour t-shirts, hotpants or microskirts, and sinister-looking fishnet stockings that look like rope dyed with tar, strong enough to actually catch fish. Maybe even a small dolphin. Tonight, she’s in a black top that’s looks like Edward Scissorhands helped her put it on. The remaining material doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

I have to chuckle at Al who is sat next to her. He’s pretending to not notice Ella’s plunging neckline but it appears his eyes are caught in some magnetic field. No matter how hard he tries to look away, he’s looking at her boobs again within a few seconds. Alex and Ella have a strained relationship, mostly because she doesn’t seem to notice him as a sexual object, which causes him great offence. She seems immune. I’ve always respected that in her. It gives people like me hope.

Amelia clears her throat and holds up her glass.

‘Here we go,’ Dave mutters. ‘Was wondering when the speech was coming out.’

‘Thanks, everyone,’ Amelia says, flicking a stern look in Dave’s direction. ‘As we approach the final year of our time together at the University of Newbridge, I want to say a big thank you. You guys have made the last two years a blast. I came to Sovereign Island after my year out a little nervous as to how I’d fit in with people that weren’t my friends back home. I didn’t need to worry. Moving in here has been one of the best experiences of my twenty-one years on the planet. Probably better than my year out.’

I raise my bottle in appreciation despite my annoyance that after a few drinks Amelia is difficult to shut up about how grateful she is to have forged friendships with us all. She doesn’t need any alcohol to wax lyrical about her gap year, though. That’s a given if people are present. Even if we’ve heard it all a million times before.

‘I’ve had a wild time getting to know you, organising you, teaching you the basics about valuable life skills like cleaning, laundry, how to wash crockery properly…’ Amelia continues with a pointed look at Alex. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ll miss you when we all go our separate ways at the end of our final year.’

I join in with the drink-clinking that goes on, unsure as to why the last few words Amelia said has made my stomach feel like it’s tied in knots. This is the first I’ve heard about separate ways.

‘All I’m saying is how did people wash up in Roman times?’ Alex butts in. ‘Washing up liquid is only a few decades old. Humanity has made it this far. Just sayin’.’

That sort of mentality sums Alex Hussain up perfectly. He’s some sort of girl magnet on some ridiculously superficial level. The sort that you see all over Instagram. Muscles. Tattoos. A fearless, bulletproof attitude. He could put up a picture of him wearing a bin bag or a potato sack and he would still have hundreds of likes. He spends a fortune on clothes, haircuts, gym membership, and smelling like an aftershave model. And he can talk the talk. The gift of the gab. How the government didn’t recruit him to negotiate Brexit with the EU, I’ll never know. Alex would have had them in the palm of his hand within a few minutes. Even quicker if the negotiating party was a set of 18–30-year-old females. Although, he can switch the nice on to the point I wouldn’t bet against him in a room of near-retirement males either.

How he ended up doing Economics is a story we haven’t extracted from him yet. What he will do with a degree is a mystery. He has so far funded his way through uni with advertising revenue from his gaming channel. He makes videos of himself gaming. I can only assume his legions of fans aren’t interested in his gaming skills, which he does have, the lucky git, but enjoy looking at him while he does it.

However, aside from his good looks and clearly some sort of brain that he woefully underuses, his idea of cleanliness outside of his own person is to try and burn a hole in the ozone layer. Amelia had to give him a series of lectures on what the bottle filled with green slime was that lives on the kitchen windowsill during week one. Even now, I’m not sure he gets it. His washing-up has a certain grimy texture. It’s worth checking before eating off a plate or drinking from a cup in this house.

‘The next year could make or break the rest of our lives,’ Amelia goes on, turning her back on Alex in another of her classic passive-aggressive moves. ‘I don’t know how much time we’ll have left together to sit here drinking in the lounge of the first home we ever had to pay bills for. Except you, Matty. I know you’re an honorary part of this household.’

I nod, recalling the weeks of agonising over whether to move back home or move into a house with these guys at the end of my first year. In the end, I went back to living at home with my mum. They found a perfect four-bedroom house. Everyone was happy. I had tried halls for a year but with work it made sense to live closer than the student quarter. Mum’s house is a stone’s throw away from the hotel and coffee shop where I work. And it meant I could keep an eye on her. I’m not sure she coped all that well when I moved out. Let’s say she wouldn’t have disapproved if the party had been cancelled and I’d arrived back home with the bottle of wine I brought with me tonight.

‘So, as we approach the final straight, I want to say… I hope that wherever we end up, we’ll always make an effort to meet up. No matter what. Or how far we travel. The two years trying to organise you lot has been the best two years of my life.’

‘Meels, I’m probably not alone in thinking this,’ Alex begins, ‘but without you we would barely function on a day-to-day basis. This house revolves around you. You put up with all our… misdemeanours. You’ve guided us, counselled us, told us off. You’ve done it all.’

‘That sounds like an average week,’ Ella remarks and we all cheer causing Amelia to burn rosy pink.

What Alex said is right on the money. She’s House Mother for all intents and purposes. She’s only a year older than us but the extra year of life experience made us flock to her like young babes. She never judges us, scolds us lots, but always has a smile, a warm hug, and a special way of making the world feel better because we’re in it without coming across as patronising.

I bet she could say the words calm down, dear and get away with it.

The only thing I’ve not seen her do well is rollerskate. It’s why we call her Meels. We tried Mills, Mel, Ammie, and Cemelia, which is a cross between her name and Cecilia, all within the first couple of days of getting to know her. She insisted everyone called her Amelia. (Alex did a version of Cemelia at a karaoke once. She was NOT amused.)

Meels came about one night during our Freshers’ Week. I don’t know if they melted the ice at the ice rink or covered it but instead of ice-skating, we went rollerskating. I say we. Ella, Alex, me, and Dave managed it. Even Dave. Even stodgy, boring, flabby-arsed Dave could do something Meels couldn’t. She put on her skates, stepped confidently on to the rink and wheels, limbs, and three other students went skidding across the arena. Alex immediately brightened the mood by making a joke about Meels on Wheels and it has stuck with her ever since.  

‘I’m looking forwards to enjoying this summer,’ Ella pipes up. ‘This could be the last summer of freedom for us. Think about it, we could be starting placements this time next year. Jobs. Proper jobs. Earning proper money where we compare the annual salary rather than what we make an hour.’

I feel another twinge in my stomach. Do jobs like this actually exist? All I’ve ever known for employment is where I work now. Minimum wage to deal with people who complain about the strength of the coffee or how creased their bedsheets are.

Said I was good at listening, didn’t I? Not a lot else to do when Mr and Mrs Clearly-Iron-All-Their-Bedding-At-Home and their neighbours Mr and Mr Strong-Coffee-Is-A-Pretentious-Outrage are moaning at me. I’ve perfected the art of the sympathetic listening face. A hint of a smile, bedroom eyes, and a gentle nod.

‘Have you guys started making plans?’ I ask.

‘If you want to make it on to a grad scheme you must know by now which companies you’re looking to target,’ Amelia says. ‘Or even what sort of scheme you want to be involved in. My applications went in a couple of weeks ago once I had my results.’

I feel my nerves turn to barbed wire as everyone else nods in agreement. Why haven’t they mentioned this before?

‘But we’re only at the end of our second year,’ I offer pitifully as if that’s some sort of defence for neglecting to make life-defining career choices at the age of twenty.

I can feel everyone looking at me as if I’ve suddenly grown Ella’s cleavage and they’ve turned into Alex.

‘Do you not remember the careers fair?’ Ella says, Alex’s eyes dutifully following her as she leans forward to talk to me.

I’m not complaining at the enhanced view but I remind myself I’m a responsible adult male with morals and standards.

Who am I kidding? A quick glance won’t kill me.

‘Picked up loads of advice that day,’ she continues, as my eyes flick back up to hers. ‘What those companies were looking for. All that guff.’

‘As well as all the free swag,’ Dave adds, producing his house keys from his pocket attached to a host of company key rings.

I console myself with a swig from my bottle, the now-tepid liquid burning the back of my throat as I manage to say, ‘I thought that was end of the third year all that kicked off.’

Chuckles and guffaws echo around the room.

I have to escape. I can’t sit here and be mocked for not having looked into all this. I have no idea what I want to do with my life. None. My plan so far has been to try and keep hold of a steady job, earn some money, put it in a bank account, spend some of it occasionally on ukulele kit, and carry on earning. I’ve worked at the hotel and coffee shop since I was sixteen. No idea how I convinced the manager, Phil, that I was suitable to be responsible for small amounts of boiling hot liquid but I take great pride in the fact I’ve only dropped two cups and burned myself on a drink once since I started.

Cleaning the coffee machine is a different matter.

I excuse myself, mumbling something about needing the toilet. I don’t need the toilet. I need to stick my head in the toilet and flush repeatedly to try and wash some of my shame away.

In the end, splashing my face with water from the sink has to suffice.

Once I’ve managed to stop the early stages of what I fear is a panic attack, I remember I do have other people in my life. Like my girlfriend. That’s why I have to have morals and standards. If I wasn’t with Claire then I’d possibly be more towards the Alex end of the scale.

I find my phone has somehow ended up on completely silent and I’ve missed a voice note from her.

‘Hey sexy. Missing you. Wish you were here. Bored with all this paperwork. Anatomy, before you ask. And yes, I know all about the male body as much as the female one.’

We’re still in that honeymoon phase of a relationship. Where an innocent message like that appears to my libido as some sort of invitation. 

I send one back, keeping my voice low. ‘Do you want me to come over?’

Her number appears at the top of my phone screen. I hit the answer button.

‘Thought you had a party you couldn’t get out of?’

‘It blows. I can be there in a few. I’ll see them all tomorrow for the proper night out.’

‘I wouldn’t say no. Could show you what I’ve learned…’

I lock the screen on my phone and sneak out of the bathroom. If there’s the offer of seeing my girlfriend so she can demonstrate what she’s learned about anatomy instead of hanging out with my mickey-taking mates, it’s Claire every time.

I pause at the lounge door, long enough to listen to them discussing something about the best comedy shows on at the moment. That’s probably following on from the Friends discussion earlier. They had managed that without me. They’ve moved on. I’m sorry, guys. My girlfriend wants to see me to do things I don’t want to do with them. Well, maybe Ella, but I still don’t know if I possess the courage to ask.

I let myself out, shutting the door as quietly as possible and walk the couple of yards to the front door of number 30.

Ah yes. My big secret. I’m hooking up with one of the neighbours. Not the girl that has passive-aggressive stand-offs with Meels but it’s still someone associated with her.

Claire knows I know Amelia. Meels has no idea I have anything romantic to do with one of the pesky next-door neighbours. That I know of. She might do. But I’m sure someone would have said something by now.

Claire and I first met at work. We did a few shifts together before I stopped checking her out long enough to ask her out a few weeks ago. I didn’t know where she lived until it was too late. In some ways, it’s added to the thrill. She’s also a student. Medicine. Wants to be a doctor. Good luck to her. Although some of her exams are multiple-guess, which doesn’t seem fair.

Tonight, Claire answers the door in her pyjamas and dressing gown. Her normally tied-up, scraped-back blond highlighted hair is loose in ringlets around her shoulders. I swallow awkwardly and can almost feel my blood departing my brain for a brief sojourn elsewhere in my body. Maybe Claire can talk me through that phenomenon.

‘Why hello, stranger,’ she says, a smile playing on her lips which are framed in pale pink lip stain. It looks to me as if she has reapplied her makeup since I saw her on our shift earlier that day. It seems fresher. Different colours, perhaps. I’ve no idea why it needed reapplying.

‘Party blew, huh?’ she adds.

‘Yeah,’ I sigh with a forlorn look at the door to number 28. ‘Not my scene. They’d already had a few drinks. Wish I could have finished earlier at work and made it on time. But the chess club…’

‘Are monsters. Don’t we know it?’

See? Claire gets it.

‘Well, it was sweet of you to miss me,’ she says, pulling me in close. ‘Are you coming up to my room?’

I shrug and follow her up the stairs to the bedroom that is unnecessarily pink. Everything from the paint on the walls (the reason she chose the room in the first place) to the furniture having pink handles, from the majority of her clothes having pink features, to the bedding including bedspread, sheets, blankets and cushions. The pyjamas she has on tonight, for example, are grey with pink polka dots. If I can name it, I’m certain my girlfriend has a pink version of it.

I mean, her favourite song is Pink by Aerosmith. It’s the song that wakes her up every morning.

The car isn’t hers, although it wouldn’t surprise me if that’s the reason why Claire is friends with Abbie.

Or Scabbie as she’s known next door.

‘Did you do a performance of Happy Birthday?’ Claire asks, closing the door and heading over to her desk to shut a luminous pink folder.

‘I didn’t take my ukulele. If I’d been there at the start I may have. Think they’d already cut the cake anyway,’ I reply, unsure whether there had been any cake at all.

‘Oh. Shame. I was picturing you in full swing singing to your friends. Imagining her man being a total rock star can turn a girl on, you know?’

‘Is that you expressing sorrow for Amelia? Have you reached some form of entente yet?’ I ask, more out of hope than expectation.

Claire violently shakes her head as she strides over to me and presses a finger to my lips. ‘How dare you accuse me of such a thing, you naughty man. I take it the birthday girl isn’t suffering from alcohol poisoning or something else horribly self-inflicted?’

‘Not yet. She seemed to be in decent spirits. Grateful to have us in her life. All that jazz. Slagged this house off about the bins as well. The usual,’ I say, slumping on the bed but propping myself up on my elbows. 

‘Another shame. Stuck up bitch,’ Claire retorts, climbing on top of me, her hair tickling my face. ‘Imagine if she knew about your betrayal.’

I have to hide my expression behind my hand, not wanting to reveal to my girlfriend I’m on Meels’s side with the bin location debate.

What can I say? I’m making hay while the sun shines. Or baking a cake and eating it. Either way, I seem to be pitting both sets of neighbours against each other in the hope I’m not caught in the crossfire.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Thought I was going to sneeze.’

‘Glad you didn’t,’ she murmurs, tucking her hair behind her ears and slipping her dressing gown off in one movement to then lean down and press her mouth against mine.

‘Mmmm, beery kisses,’ she moans softly.

As the kiss goes on for a few long moments, I find my mind starting to wander. What’s happening next door? Have they noticed I was spending a while in the toilet? Had they even noticed I was gone at all? Would they ever find out I was dating someone who lives with their wheelie bin nemesis? Where had Ella found that top from?

A freshly naked Claire jolts my mind back to reality and my clothes melt off me.

And to think I had planned on spending the whole evening next door.

CHAPTER THREE

A year later

‘Thanks for the pictures,’ my mum says over her shoulder as I fumble with my apron in the coffee shop kitchen. Her name is Elise, although I haven't called her that since my rebellious teenage phase.

‘No worries.’

‘Wish I could have made it to your graduation. But you know how…’

‘I know, Mum. Nicky and Rick have given you this amazing opportunity and you want to seize it with both hands and–’

‘Yes! I do! So stop making me feel guilty. I’m your mum. I should have been there.’

‘I’m only trying to say I get it.’

‘And you make me feel more guilty! Stop it!’ 

‘It’s fine, Mum. Honest. I graduated and nobody apart from everyone else on my course and all their families witnessed it.’

She brings the sarcasm out in me. I know I should take the high road but it’s how our relationship seems to work.

‘Wasn’t as if your dad made the effort, either.’

I’m sarcastic and Mum scores points against Dad. It’s how we roll.

‘I know,’ I sigh. ‘And Claire is on holiday. I only had the Economics crew. Look – here are the pictures of us doing the hat toss. Or whatever the ceremonial name for it is.’

I hand her my phone.

‘These are great memories to keep,’ she says, handing it back to me. 

‘I know. I’d probably have never graduated without those guys. They’ve made the last few years bearable.’

‘Did you have the official ones taken too?’

‘Yes,’ I tell her, my tone suggesting not to ask any other pointless questions. ‘They’ll be available in a few weeks.’ 

Mum pauses as she appears to realise something.

‘You never mentioned anything about Claire not being there.’ 

‘You knew she wasn’t going to make it. She’s on that holiday her group of Medicine students booked at the start of the year. It’s why she’s not been at work this week. She’s not here next week either.’

‘Well, I wish you’d have said something. I’d have begged to go.’

I give her a sceptical look. ‘So why didn’t you?’

She’s the boss. Surely she has the power to do that.

‘I’d have had to make some calls and it would have all gone pear-shaped. Saturday is our busiest day and…’

My mother proceeds to make excuses which makes me feel the stab of betrayal slice through me like she’s using one of the ginormous knives we use to cut the triple-tier cakes in the cabinet.

‘Fine. I get it,’ I say, snatching the spray and cloth from the counter. ‘What do you want me on first?’

Mum gestures towards the far corner of the coffee shop through the hatch. I drag myself out of the kitchen screwing my face up at the thought of working for the next few hours before I can drop in at the graduation ball.

I stare around