I delay going home for Christmas as long as I can. Kiki went straight back to Southend, and Alec flew to France for Christmas yesterday. Leon’s still around for an extra couple of days. We mostly stay in the dorms, or putz around town—Leon’s idea of shopping is way different from mine, as I realize when I watch him buy a pair of sunglasses in Harvey Nics that cost three hundred pounds. (He looks amazing in them, but for that price I’d be wanting them to belt out “I Dreamed a Dream” to me while dancing the Mistoffelees solo.) He begrudgingly lets me drag him into a couple of charity shops, but it’s not the same as when Alec comes because Leon won’t try on any of the sparkly stuff with me.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” I’m tucking into a huge bowl of pasta Leon’s made. We’re sitting in an otherwise empty common room.
“Going home tomorrow,” he says. “Mum’s working right up until Christmas Eve, so I’ll be alone until then. Dad’s home from Germany for a week, then off again somewhere. We don’t see that much of him.”
“At least you get Christmas with him.”
“Yeah.” He stares into his pasta.
“Don’t you get along with him?”
“We do…” He lifts up his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “It’s just that I have to pretend to be straight for a week.”
“He doesn’t know you’re gay?”
“Mum didn’t even know until this year,” says Leon. “She made me promise I wouldn’t tell Dad.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t think he’d take it well. My parents aren’t very liberal about things like that. Dad would disown me if he found out I was gay.” He looks miserable.
“But your mum knows?” I say. “And she’s OK with it?”
“Yes—as long as she doesn’t have to talk about it or acknowledge it in any way,” says Leon matter-of-factly.
“And you’re OK with that?” I say.
“No, not really. I’m living a double life.”
“That sucks, Leon.”
“I know—it’s vile. If you can’t be yourself to your family, what’s the point of anything? But what can I do? Estrange myself?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “That’s a heavy secret to be carrying around.”
“It feels lighter when I’m here,” says Leon. “Being able to have a fresh start at Duke’s was a relief after years of hiding who I was. When I saw what Alec went through at school, there was no way I could come out there. I only told Alec two years ago, you know—just to have someone who knew. But I felt like a fraud, especially after Alec was so honest about his sexuality. It takes a lot of guts just to say, ‘To hell with it. This is me.’”
“Your dad helped Alec, though.”
“He didn’t know Alec was gay.”
I go around the table and hug him from behind his chair. He reaches up and puts his hand on my arm. I guess it’s not just me who isn’t looking forward to Christmas.
They’re closing the dorms today for the holidays. I guess I’d better pack. Alec Snapchats me a picture of a snow-covered chateau with the message “So, so bored.” I send him one of me doing a duckface in the kitchen.
The common room’s quiet. I can hear the echo of a vacuum cleaner from the upstairs corridor. In the absence of an audience, I try singing a couple of notes. They come out, albeit quietly. This gives me courage to attempt the start of a song. It’s not bad. Not really bad, anyway.
When it’s there, it’s good—it just keeps cutting in and out. It might be the laryngitis. My speaking voice still does that when it’s tired. But still, this could be the start of something. Maybe next term I’ll get my voice back.
I can’t believe it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow and I’m only just going home. It’s sad that I’d rather stay in empty, grubby dorms than be anywhere near my grandmother, but there you go. I collect my suitcase from my room and head down to the underground. Maybe I could stop off in Covent Garden on my way. Anything to shorten the stay at home.
My phone pings as I walked down past the Barbican. I stand up my case for a second to look. It’s Fletch.
Fletch 
Back in town today. You around?
Yes. Yesssssssssss.
I’m just leaving the dorms. Where shall I meet you?
Chappell’s in fifteen?
Great. I’ll be the one with the suitcase.
?
Going home later :(
??
Long story.
I’ve got all day.
He has all day. Yay, yay, yay. I inwardly skip all the way to the station. I’d be doing actual skipping if it weren’t for the heavy suitcase I’m dragging.
I get to Chappell’s to see Fletch in the entrance looking at a white grand piano. He grins up at me and pretends to walk into the glass door.
“I’m sorry—I was looking for someone cool?”
“Merry Christmas to you too.” He kisses me on the cheek. It tickles. I’ve never seen him with stubble before—he looks older. “I’ve been downstairs geeking out over all the guitars I can’t afford.”
“Got time to look on this level?” I say.
“Definitely. I’d happily spend all day in here. I love this place.”
I love it too. Vast portions of my early teens were spent in here, rifling through the books with Mum, looking for the score of a new Off-Broadway musical we’d recently discovered, or some difficult-to-get-hold-of vocal selection. We’d start in Chappell’s and then head down to Dress Circle on Seven Dials to buy the CD (Mum didn’t trust iTunes). The last time I came here was with her. I close my eyes and inhale, remembering how much she loved it.
I don’t buy a lot of sheet-music books these days. I just download it like everyone else. But there’s something about just being in here, surrounded by all the millions of dots dancing around all the thousands of pages, that I adore. It feels more musical somehow.
It kind of makes me forget about Fletch as I rummage through the shop. Ah, amazing! An Adam Gwon songbook. And—what’s this? A Joe Iconis selection? These are going to be great. (When I can sing again, obvs.)
I’m flicking through a Sara Bareilles piece when I feel him behind me. Actually, I think I smell him first—not in a creepy way, just in a leather, clean washing, and deodorant way. Is that his hand on my waist?
Omigod, he’s going to make a move on me, right here in the sheet-music department of Chappell’s. This is, like, the most romantic thing ever.
Oh, wait.
It’s less of a move; more of a maneuver. He’s trying to squeeze through the aisle without touching the old man on the other side who’s looking at Lloyd Webber Greats. Not that the old man looks as if he’d mind being touched by Fletch at all; on the contrary—he’s been checking him out since we came in here.
“Sara Bareilles?” Fletch has disentangled himself from Mr. Lloyd Webber Greats and is now standing next to me, reading over my shoulder. I fight the urge to lean my head back on his chest. “The Waitress writer?”
“Yes—you need to get into this. Pre-Waitress.” I hand him the other book. “And this. Some great stuff here.”
“Looks tricky to play. Might be good to practice, though.”
“Do you practice a lot?”
“As much as I can,” he says. “It’s kind of essential if I want to MD. Are you buying it?”
“Yep.”
“Let me go halves with you.”
“Why?”
“Then I won’t feel so bad about nicking it.”
We pay for the books and leave. It’s one of those first cold days in London that makes everyone look like they’re breathing out cigarette smoke. I shiver.
“You cold? Here.” He offers me his elbow. I take it, and he pulls me close to him.
We walk around Soho and Covent Garden for the next hour or so, taking it in turns to pull my suitcase, looking in shop windows and occasionally going in. Mostly we just talk. I don’t ask Fletch what time his train is. I don’t want to remind him.
“How are you on skates?” he says out of the blue. We’ve stopped to look at the enormous Christmas tree in the piazza.
“Roller skates?”
“Ice skates.”
“Er, I’m OK.” I’m not OK; I’m dreadful.
“They’ve got ice skating at Somerset House. Wanna go?”
“Sure.” Is this turning into a date?
It feels like one ten minutes later as Fletch takes my hand and whooshes me around the rink. I’d expect Alec to be amazing at something like this. But Fletch? No way. He’s actually really good. He reminds me of Gene Kelly roller-skating through Manhattan in It’s Always Fair Weather. If I didn’t know him better, I’d half expect him to break out a casual tap dance.
I’m terrible on skates, so I don’t discourage the help. Also, I like the feeling of his hand in mine.
“Wow, you’re good,” I say as he steers me around a corner, neatly avoiding two kids and a grandad.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am, a bit.”
“Don’t laugh,” he says, “but Danny and I were on the local street hockey team for a while.”
I snort. “That’s hilarious.”
“Actually, we were cool.”
“Were you?”
“So cool.”
An hour whizzes past. I mean, like, I blink and it’s over. He’ll be catching his train back home soon, which means two weeks without seeing him. I doubt he’ll come into town again.
As we come out of Somerset House, I’m fully expecting this to be goodbye. But he doesn’t go; instead, he starts walking over Waterloo Bridge with me.
“Doesn’t your train go from King’s Cross?” I say.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s in the other direction.”
“I know. I’d just prefer to hang out with you a bit longer, if that’s OK.”
“OK.”
We stroll along the South Bank, Fletch pulling my case for me, and head all the way up to Borough. We stop for a moment to watch a street performer. Fletch puts his arm around my shoulders. Which you’d think would be enjoyable, but is actually exhausting because now I can’t breathe. (I don’t dare, in case it reminds him that he’s got his arm on me and he pulls it away.)
What is with me? I’ve never been like this with a guy. Maybe I’ve just never felt like this about anyone.
We keep walking and eventually stop at a bar covered completely with fairy lights and a full-on window display with a sign reading: “Mulled-Cider Happy Hour.”
We go inside and find a little booth, my suitcase sealing up the end. It feels cozy, intimate. I notice it’s dark outside. We’ve been walking for two hours.
Four drinks later, our fingers are almost touching on the table.
I can feel the heat from his hand.
“OK. Truth or dare,” he says.
“Truth.”
We’ve been playing this game for about fifteen minutes. So far, Fletch has licked the bar and let me put my lipstick on him (hot); and I’ve let Fletch put an ice cube down my back (fairly sexual) and asked a famous actor for his phone number (success times two: got the phone number and hopefully made Fletch jealous).
“Do you have a crush on anyone at Duke’s?” he says.
I pause. “Yes.” I probably shouldn’t have said that but I’m feeling light-headed. My foot touches his under the table. He doesn’t move it away.
“Who?”
“That wasn’t the question. You drink.”
“Dammit.” He drains his mulled cider.
“OK, my turn,” I say. “Do you?”
“I might have wanted a dare.”
“OK,” I say. “I dare you to take all your clothes off right here.”
“You got me,” he says, laughing. “I’ll take truth. Although I just want you to know that I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of physically. But, you know, the winter and…well, the police…”
I laugh. “So do you have a crush on anyone?” Omigod, we’re like a pair of thirteen-year-olds. His middle finger touches mine.
I should just kiss him. “I—” He falters.
We’re so close I can feel the warmth from his face as well now. He wants to kiss me, I know he does. What’s stopping him? He leans in to me. Our lips are nearly touching now. What am I waiting for? I should just go for it. I’m ninety-eight percent sure he’d kiss me back…
“Do you think it’s possible to be into two people at the same time?” says Fletch, moving back suddenly.
Erm, whatttt? “Pardon?”
“Do you think it’s possible to have feelings for two people at once?”
“Do you have feelings for two people?” I say, moving my hand away slowly.
“No. I don’t think so. Probably not,” he says. He picks up his cup again and drinks the last drop. He already finished it a minute ago; it’s like he just needs something to do.
Probably not? What does that even mean? I don’t say that, but I can tell he knows I’m thinking it.
“I can’t really explain it,” he says heavily. “I just mean… Not being able to get someone out of your head? Like they just live in there, and you can’t get rid of them?”
“You can’t stop thinking about someone? Two people?”
“Kind of. It’s weird.”
The sick feeling in my stomach is only half down to the cider. I’m naive. Of course he doesn’t like me. Or if he does, then he likes someone else more. It makes sense—he’s never made a move, and most of the time we’ve spent together has been writing… Maybe that’s it. He just sees me as a writing partner. I’ve obviously mistaken it for something else. Thank God he said it before I let him know how I felt. But the moment we had, just then—our lips were literally millimeters apart… He must have felt something.
“That is weird.” I feign detective-level curiosity, not wanting him to see the obviously written-all-over-my-face devastation. “Who—”
“I’ll tell you what we need,” he says. “We need a change of scene. Let’s go across the road to that bar over there. It looks like they’ve got live music.”
“Actually, I should really think about going.”
“Come on. Please.”
“I need to go, Fletch.” I stand up and move my suitcase aside to give myself room to get out.
“Nettie.” He stands up too.
“What?”
“At least let me walk you to the station.”
“No, you’ll miss your train.” Breezy, breezy.
He holds onto my face and looks straight into my eyes. We both know he’s messed this up. It’s just easier if neither of us says it.
He kisses my forehead and lets me go.
My head’s racing as I walk to the station. All the way home, I try to figure out what’s going on, but it’s difficult after a lot of alcohol. I’ve got that sicky achy feeling that comes just before a hangover, and my heart seems to weigh more than normal, which I don’t think is anything to do with being drunk.
I can’t get it straight in my head. He nearly kisses me at the pub, just before telling me he can’t stop thinking about someone else.
Did he nearly kiss me? Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I just projected what I wanted to happen onto him.
No, it definitely happened.
I feel confused. I can’t even phone Alec because it’s so late. I get my phone out, thinking I’ll message him, when something pops up from Fletch on Instagram.
Best day ever.
There’s a picture of the ice rink. He must’ve taken it before we got on. I hit like and put my phone down. We had such a good time today. He was definitely flirting with me in the pub. But what did he mean about having feelings for two people at once? Jade Upton flashes across my mind. Please, not her. Anyone but her. She did hint that they were together last year. And she tried to get me away from him at the Freshers’ Ball.
It might not be Jade. He’s never mentioned her in that way. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend back home. Oh God, what if he does have a girlfriend, and I’m the girl he’s got feelings for… What if I’m the other woman?
I should just stay away from him. I will stay away.
Whoever this other girl is, she can have him. I’m not doing this anymore.
It’s just going to be hard now.
Now that I’m completely and hopelessly in love with him.
I try to open the front door quietly, but for some reason I can’t get the key in until the third attempt. It opens more suddenly than I’m expecting, making me fall into the hallway in a sort of jazz-split position.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I bet she wakes up. OK. If I can just get to my room—
“Did you have a good term, Antoinette?”
I peer through the kitchen door. My grandmother is sitting at the table, sipping tea from a bone-china teacup, and doing the crossword. She’s wearing her dressing gown and slippers, but her hair and makeup are immaculate.
“Er, not bad,” I say, uncertainly. I’m waiting for a big chewing out about staying out until the day before Christmas Eve.
“There’s tea in the pot,” she says coolly. She doesn’t look at me.
“I’ll probably just go to bed, if that’s OK,” I say warily.
“Just make sure you’re up by eleven tomorrow. I’m hosting lunch for the ladies from the tennis club.”
That’s fine by me. I can move back into Mum’s house when I graduate. We just have to tolerate each other until then, and only in the holidays. Then we’ll be rid of each other forever.
I slump off upstairs and throw myself onto my bed. It’s two whole weeks until I’ll see Fletch again, and that’s almost too much to bear. I’m so tired, but everything’s jumbled up in my brain and I can’t sleep.
I want my mum.