Giant Days Page 4

  Not when she no longer had someone to share it with.

  Everyone back home had told her how hard a long-distance relationship would be to maintain, but her stubborn, can-do attitude had inured her to reason.

  Eleven days she and The Boy had lasted, and it had been Esther who’d pulled out. Or, technically, she’d pulled a shady character called Steve Shields in a dingy nightclub and ended up in his bed. Whatever. The result was the same.

  Since then, she’d been free to explore the alien landscape of university as a free agent, unfettered by her ties to Tackleford. And yet, university wasn’t proving quite how she’d imagined it. There had to be more to this alien landscape than lectures and libraries and laundry (not that she’d done much of any of those things). University was unchartered territory, and already it felt as if she’d mapped out the essentials without making any exciting new discoveries. Where were the lofty intellectuals who stayed up all night drinking three-hundred-year-old wine and debating posh cheese? Or the secret societies that guaranteed you a job in an FTSE 100 company just because you’d once jumped off the roof of a lecture hall?

  Drifting back to where Ed Gemmell remained hunched over his book, Esther slumped down next to him.

  “Are you planning on using your laptop?” She nudged him with her foot.

  “Probably not.”

  “Can I?”

  That got his attention. “For work?”

  “For solitaire. Susan made me delete all the games off my phone because she bet me I couldn’t go a week without playing any.”

  “Won’t this mean you lose the bet?” Ed Gemmell typed in his password and pushed the computer over.

  “You’re not the sort to kiss and tell.” Esther leaned over and gave him a distracted kiss on the ear as she opened up her game.

  Even solitaire, chosen sport of the professional procrastinator, wasn’t doing the trick, and Esther’s attention kept drifting out the window. This side of the library faced one of the city’s many parks, where some tiny toddlers were hurling bread with unnecessary aggression at the ducks in the pond.

  She missed the days when life had been that simple, when feeding the ducks occupied a morning and it was socially acceptable to nap in public and throw a tantrum when presented with anything unpleasant. Growing up was overrated—all it seemed to involve was taking responsibility for stuff that you didn’t want, like actually having to manage your own time and work out what to eat and when and how you were going to last the week on only the dregs of your wardrobe because no one had done the laundry.

  Just as she was about to turn back to her card game, a girl walked right past the window in front of her. Her head was down as she concentrated on her phone, streaks of white layered through a sharply styled beetle-black bob. She wasn’t tall—although the thick-ridged soles of her boots gave her an extra couple inches—and she gave the impression of a spun-sugar delicacy, with slender legs in shredded jeans leading up to a black bomber jacket with a red fur collar.

  There was a ring on every finger and a scowl on her face, and Esther thought she was magnificent.

  Here, at last, was someone who understood the struggle of the outcast, who wouldn’t mock her esoteric taste in music, who would have an infinite capacity for hearing about heartache.

  Someone exactly like Esther’s old friends. Only new.

  Without turning away from the window, Esther dragged Ed Gemmell over. “Who’s that?”

  “Who’s what?” But he was too slow, and the girl had passed.

  “That vision of gothic perfection.”

  Ed Gemmell glanced uncertainly at Esther, then at the window. “Are you . . . admiring your own reflection?”

  “What? No. I’m not that vain.”

  Ed Gemmell turned crimson. “No. Of course not.”

  But Esther wasn’t paying him any attention; she was disentangling herself from her chair and pulling on her jacket.

  “Where are you going?” Ed Gemmell’s plaintive voice called after her, but Esther didn’t even bother looking back as she bellowed, “To find my new best friend!” much to the irritation of everyone else in the building.

  Especially Ed Gemmell.

  The S.U. was busier than all the previous Wednesdays, on which Daisy had used the four-hour window between Emerging Europe and the Celtic West (a thousand-year window, archaeologically speaking) to treat herself to a hot lunch there followed by a bit of note consolidation and essay planning in the library. A schedule that was starting to fall into the comfortable pattern of a routine, in much the same way that her “new” slippers had ceased to be a novelty now that they had molded themselves to the shape of her feet. Daisy liked routine. She liked plans and schedules and boundaries. Nice, solid walls keeping her safe from the kind of chaos on which Esther thrived.

  But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Daisy had been so good at setting up her life at university that the riskiest thing she’d done since arriving in Sheffield had been to use the “disabled” bathroom in Starbucks when she couldn’t find the regular one. (She’d been desperate.)

  Even her friends had been made within an hour of stepping off the train, falling into the kind of companionable little group that suited Daisy best.

  All because they lived on the same corridor.

  For all Jonathan Tremain’s scorn, Daisy didn’t see the problem with that. Sure, Susan refused to open up, and Esther was so preoccupied with what was happening next that sometimes it felt as if now barely existed for her. And, OK, any inadvertent reference to parents or family or death was inevitably followed by an awkward pause and a rapid tiptoe out of the past and into the present.

  Friends didn’t have to show an interest in how Daisy came to be orphaned and why she lived with her grandmother.

  Did they?

  “That’s enough!” Daisy was so stern with herself that the boy in front of her, who’d been reaching for a third packet of ketchup, retracted his hand and gave her a somewhat nervous glance before hurrying away to his friends.

  Daisy had played it safe long enough. This afternoon, she would break from the comfort of her routine, and she would go to the Activities Fair. Alone. She could do this.

  After she’d had a hot lunch.

  Before she’d started, Susan hadn’t known exactly what to expect from studying Medicine. She knew she was smart, but there were bound to be elements of the course she’d struggle with. Maybe histology or embryology or something as seemingly simple as taking a blood pressure reading. But nothing she had watched, googled, or imagined had prepared her for the intricacies of the first-year medics’ timetable.

  There was no regularity to any of it. They might have lectures nine to twelve every morning, but the afternoons were anyone’s guess. Last Wednesday, there’d been a rogue cardiovascular lecture. The Wednesday before, she’d spent all afternoon doing a placement in the hospital next door. Each week followed some kind of mystical rota written by the Gods of Spreadsheets and distributed to mere mortals to paper across the walls of their bedrooms.

  According to the list she’d copied from today’s schedule onto the back of her hand, Susan’s afternoon would be spent at the health center over on the other side of the city. Parting ways with Kully, Susan met up with a marginally revived Grace at the bus stop, where students outnumbered regular passengers three to one. Gossiping amenably about the morning’s lectures, they squashed into what standing space remained on the first bus.

  “Excuse me . . .”

  Susan tensed. She knew that voice. As Grace stepped aside to make space, McGraw set down what looked like a cupboard door, propping it gently against a folded stroller with more care than if it were an actual child.

  There was no avoiding him. Susan was held immobile between Grace’s backpack and a woman a little older than her mother who was muttering a constant stream of obscenities under her breath, possibly at Susan.

  Surprise and wariness rippled across McGraw’s expression when he saw her.

  “Susan.”


  “Mm.” As she avoided his gaze, her attention flickered to the cupboard door by his feet, which McGraw mistook for interest.

  “To replace one that disappeared from our kitchen in the night.” McGraw ran his hand over the grain. “Better quality than the university deserves.”

  He looked at her again then, dark eyes beneath thick dark brows.

  “You’re violating the contract,” Susan said, so reluctant to speak that she hardly moved her lips. McGraw issued a barely discernible sigh and turned away.

  They rode for six stops before McGraw picked up his stupid cupboard door with his stupid sinewy arms and took his stupid unnecessary self out the doors and off the bus.

  “Who was that?” The question exploded from Grace’s lips barely before the bus doors hissed shut. She stood on tiptoe, neck craning to get another look as he crossed the road.

  “No idea.”

  “Don’t lie—he knew your name!”

  “A lucky guess.”

  Grace looked at her askance, not yet calibrated to Susan’s level of sarcasm. “Well, next time can you tell him my name? And my address, e-mail, and availability.”

  “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  “Well, yes, but he’s in Plymouth, and I need a crush to pass the time.” Grace gazed thoughtfully at the spot where McGraw had been standing. “That particular gentleman was lush.”

  “If you say so,” Susan replied, pulling her jacket tighter and lowering herself gently into the seething hot waters of resentment.

  The distance between the S.U. and the Octagon (the boxy redbrick building where the fair was located) was small, but the number of overly enthusiastic students distributing flyers between them was large. By the time she made it inside, Daisy had acquired a pretty blue balloon with a tree on it and a perforated page of drinks vouchers from every pub, bar, and nightclub in town.

  “Welcome, friend!” A round, gregarious young man opened his arms to reveal a T-shirt with FREE HUGS! written on it. As he approached, Daisy skittered backward, tripped over the tail of someone dressed as an enormous blue kangaroo, and fell back, scattering flyers like confetti.

  The Free Hugs guy reached down and offered her a hand.

  “Not interested in joining the Free Huggers, then?” he said.

  “Not really. Is there a Preserve Personal Space Society?”

  “You could try the Young Conservatives. No one ever hugs those guys . . .”

  A group of people so posh they could have been mistaken for a shooting party were offering people a tray of Pimms and pin badges that said Too Rich to Tax.

  “I’m not sure they’re really my type of people,” she told the Free Hugger, but he had already abandoned her to launch himself enthusiastically at someone else.

  The Octagon was huge inside. Banners and posters lined the walkways and hung from the beams, and all the booths were festooned with freebies. New blood was at a premium, and Daisy’s combination of vulnerability and good manners made her an appealing target. Five steps into the room, and she was accosted by a barbershop quartet, who sang her a jaunty little tune detailing what she could expect if she just wrote her e-mail address on the bottom of their sign-up sheet.

  When she asked if they knew any Enya, they burst into an a cappella version of “Orinoco Flow,” delighting Daisy so much that she signed her name with a flourish and moved on to the next booth.

  As Daisy worked her way through the press of eager students, it seemed to her as if there were a book club for every language, a society for every sport, and so much more. There was no hobby in the world that wasn’t catered to, each with a crack group of enthusiastic participants hawking their passions to a receptive crowd.

  “Come test your tiddlywink skills . . .”

  “Can you tell your feta from your cheddar?”

  “Sign up for squash!”

  They made everything sound so enticing—no, she’d never considered writing a comic before—yes, it did sound fun—pigeon fancying? Yes! She’d just adopted an orphaned chick who lived in the nest outside her window, his name’s Baby Gordon, only maybe he’s a girl and—oh, of course she’d sign the mailing list . . . A pin badge? Thank you so much . . . Sign here to petition for UK students to maintain access to the Erasmus scheme? I don’t know what that is, but—ooh? A pen. Of course. Sign here? Right?

  It was impossible to say no. Everyone was so charming and friendly and smiling, and they all had such exciting merchandise. By the time Daisy had reached the far end of the room, her hand was cramped from all the mailing lists she’d signed up for and her Totes a Fan of Totes! bag was stuffed to the seams with swag.

  As she turned the corner, Jonathan’s familiar voice boomed across the crowd. Daisy saw him thrust a clipboard forcefully at a group of passing girls and cajole them into signing up for women’s rugby. Panicking, not wanting to become his next victim, Daisy dived behind the nearest booth so fast that her tote bag slipped from her shoulder.

  The contents cascaded across the floor, pin badges and coasters and pens and sweets and key rings all skittering and bouncing and rolling everywhere.

  “I’m so sorry!” Daisy yelped to no one in particular, falling to the floor in an attempt to scoop everything back up, somehow scattering things farther afield.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Someone was crouching down next to her, a slim, perfectly manicured hand resting on Daisy’s wrist. “There’s no need to panic.”

  Which was all very well for this stranger to say, but she wasn’t the one in danger of signing up for women’s rugby.

  “Hi,” the stranger said, lips parting in a wide smile that crinkled the corners of her deep brown eyes. “Do you need a hand?”

  Daisy wasn’t capable of anything more than nodding and staring. This woman was possibly the most intimidatingly beautiful person Daisy had ever seen. She had glossy black hair and a face of clean lines and cute curves, with the kind of light Mediterranean-brown skin that Susan might have had if she bothered with things like exercise and healthy eating and sunlight.

  When the woman reached forward to pick up a handful of badges, the bare skin of her arm brushed Daisy’s hand, leaving Daisy feeling as if she’d been warmed by the sun.

  Turning the badges over to read what they said, the newcomer raised her eyebrows, which were strong and dark and sharply angled at the apex, like the outstretched wings of a seabird.

  “Are you trying to collect a full suite of acronyms?” she asked, pressing one into Daisy’s hand. “What’s H&S?”

  “Hide-and-Seek,” Daisy managed.

  “LGBTQA . . .” She flicked a curious glance up at Daisy, who flushed and muttered, “Yes. Well. Um . . . they were really friendly,” while shoving the badge into her bag.

  “Is this one of yours? Black and Minority Ethnic?” The stranger didn’t hand the BME badge straight over to Daisy, clearly thinking there had been a mistake.

  This time, Daisy didn’t mumble or blush.

  “Actually, my granny’s black. She’s from Jamaica, but she moved here in 1957.” She took the badge and pinned it to the outside of her tote bag. “But my grandad’s white, and so was my mum.”

  “Was?”

  “Both my parents died when I was two. I grew up with my granny.” It was the most she’d ever said about her family since she’d arrived in Sheffield, and she didn’t even know this girl’s name. Maybe a name mattered less than a calm and interested expression, something Daisy was unaccustomed to. Susan’s face relaxed naturally into a scowl, and Esther only left pauses in conversation when she got distracted by something outside the window.

  As friends went, they didn’t exactly invite quiet, meaningful sharing.

  Still. Knowing someone’s name was always nice.

  “Hi. I’m Daisy.” Daisy held her fingers up in a cautious wave, and her companion smiled.

  “My name’s Elise.”

  Aware that it was long past when she should have eaten, Esther scuffed her way miserably in the direct
ion of the S.U. It was the nearest, cheapest place she could think of to get a hot meal, and after more than an hour of wandering in the cold, Esther was desperately in need of warming up.

  She had looked everywhere. Or at least, everywhere in the vicinity of the park. She’d walked the paths like someone looking for a lost dog or, judging by how many people had stopped to ask, like someone who might have been selling drugs, which had her reconsidering today’s choice of distressed fishnets and giant hoodie.

  It had all been fruitless. Goth Girl was gone. Disappeared like a graveyard shade that could only be seen at three minutes to midnight every third Sunday.

  So much for finding her new best friend . . .

  Esther indulged in a fantasy of bumping into Goth Girl on her way to a gig—something obscure and angry—only to find that they were both on their way to the same concert. Crowd-surfing and headbanging and hijinks would ensue, and Esther would finally have someone with whom to share makeup tips and music and (potentially, maybe, one day . . .) secondhand Victorian ballgowns.

  Walking under the bridge toward the S.U., Esther had to push through a more purposeful crowd than usual. Besides the usual milling-about-ers under the bridge, sitting on the raised flower beds, chatting and smoking and messing about, there was a swell of people handing things out.

  “You look like a considered connoisseur of crossover cyber grindcore.” A young man shoved a flyer into Esther’s hand.

  “Er . . . this says it’s for something called ‘Rock Night,’ and you’ve listed . . .” Her face contorted in horror. “The Killers???”

  The man shrugged within his duffel coat and pulled a wry smile.

  “Thought I’d try to give it a positive spin.” He ruined it by winking. “Just for you, sweetheart.”

  “No, thank you.” Esther handed the flyer back, but she’d barely walked another step before she was accosted by someone asking if she’d ever considered becoming a Mathlete.

  She had not and would not.

  “What is all this?” she asked.

  The math enthusiast pointed across the forecourt to the squat red building next to the union. “Activities Fair. In the Octagon.”