Virgin(16)

Her mouth dropped open. “I’m sorry, Ellie, but are you suggesting I don’t care? I’m here for you whenever you need me. I drop everything every time you have a crisis, which is pretty much every other day.”

My hurt morphed into anger. “So? We’re best friends—that’s what we do. Okay, fine, I have a lot of crises, but they’re not serious. I don’t . . . I don’t mope about them or anything.”

She cried out in disbelief. “Please, Ellie. You are so self-pitying. And you know what? You can be really selfish too.”

“I can be selfish? Look who’s talking! We spend hours talking about Jez every couple of days, analyzing his text messages and going on and on about the latest news at Oxford when I don’t even go there, and I don’t care about the people there.”

“Exactly,” she spat. “You don’t care about the people in my life but you expect me to care about whatever guy recently smiled at you on the tube, or the people you hate in your English course. It’s almost like you’re jealous of me.”

We stared at each other, and our words seemed to echo around the room. This was our first fight. I didn’t know how much of it we meant. Was it true? Was I selfish? The silence was unbearable. I finally understood the phrase about cutting the tension in a room with a knife.

She stood up abruptly. “Whatever. I’m leaving.” She grabbed her bag and coat, and walked out of my room, slamming the door behind her.

The minute she left, I burst into tears and all the anger dissolved into hurt and regret. She was right—I did self-pity and mope and I was selfish. But wasn’t everyone? And how could she say those things to me? Didn’t she care that she had just hurt me more than any boy ever had?

I curled into a ball on my bed and began to cry very quietly. My wet hair soaked through my dressing gown, but I barely noticed. Lara thought I was desperate.





 She still hadn’t called. It was Wednesday and I didn’t know whether to stay in my Camden room or go back home to Guildford. Lara would be there too—or maybe she had gone back to Oxford to be as far away from me as possible. We’d never had a falling-out before.

In the cold light of day, a bit of the anger had come back. The things she had said were so hurtful, and so . . . true. She had blurted them out without caring how I felt, and I’d been just as bad. I couldn’t face her and I couldn’t even begin to start processing the thought of an apology. I had spent all of Tuesday crying, eating my feelings and distracting myself with movies. Now I had an ice cream hangover and couldn’t spend another second in my own company.

The only option was to pack up my stuff and head home in defeat for the Easter holidays, but I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting around in Guildford with nothing to do. The only reason I normally went home was to spend evenings with Lara, watching films and lounging in the park. I couldn’t face going back yet. At least if I stayed in London, I would be surrounded by people. I needed a distraction, to spend time with someone different so I wouldn’t have to think about Lara.

Suddenly I remembered Emma. If she was still around, maybe we could have our promised drinks. Before I could change my mind, I reached for my phone and sent her a text asking if she was free. I hadn’t even had a chance to put my phone down when it buzzed with a reply.


Yes! So glad you texted. I say we get a late pub lunch and start drinking immediately afterwards. Girly cocktails?

Perfect. Where shall we meet?

See you at The Rocket at 3pm?

Done!! x

Feeling proud of myself for taking the initiative and doing something with my day, I showered quickly and decided to walk the thirty minutes to the pub to work off some of yesterday’s calories. I’d forced myself into my favorite black skinny jeans and even though it had taken me half an episode of Friends to do them up, they were finally covering my cellulite and inspiring me to walk briskly. I flicked around on my iPod until I found my Fuck You, World playlist. It was a relic of my teen angst days but I needed to re-embrace life. And dancing to the Killers was the easiest way to do it.

Forty-five minutes later I arrived at the pub and collapsed, exhausted, into a booth. I had just ordered tap water when Emma walked in. She gave me a hug, enveloping me in flowery perfume, long feathery earrings and her jaggedly cut blond hair. Thank God I had worn my favorite jeans and black suede boots with gold studs, because otherwise I would have been seriously underdressed. Emma was wearing a chiffon cream shirt over a black bra, paired with jeans, heeled boots and a furry leopard-print coat.

“So, have you ordered yet?” she asked. “I’m craving a full fish, chips and mushy peas with a proper sticky toffee pudding.”