Thursday 25 August

I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to track the pattern in the ceiling rose. I’m thinking about the coming weekend – the room, the share house. I’m not going, but some small idiot part of me kind of wants to. It’s the same part that makes me sniff Stu’s scarf – like, I hate him but I still want to smell him. He’s sent me three texts: Where did I go? Did last night really happen or was it just a wild sex dream? Call me, Zaftig.

I know if I talk to him I’ll cry, or whine; I’ll show my age, I’ll be pathetic. I hate feeling so desperate. Why can’t I be enough for him? He’s enough for me. It makes me think maybe none of it was real. Maybe I made it all up. I think about the quote on the Wellness sheet: Happiness is an industry and an illusion. ‘Better we talk about joy,’ Malik had said. ‘Because the con with happiness is we think it’s everlasting.’

Four months ago I didn’t even know Stu existed. And maybe I wasn’t completely happy then, but it wasn’t because of missing him. Now I can’t imagine being happy again. Today I went to class. I masked my sads and kept to myself at breaks. I must have had a fuck-off vibe; no one came near me, not even Jinx. In the afternoon there was a message from Mum and Dad. Iris didn’t Skype them and they wanted to know why.

I wish I’d never come to St Hilda’s, never had the accident, never fallen for Stu’s smile.

There’s a knock at my door. Iris.

‘Go away,’ I say.

She ignores me and closes the door behind her.

Her glasses hang on the granny chain around her neck. Her sleeves are stuffed with tissues and her face looks like she’s been rubbing it with stinging nettles.

‘Are you still sick?’

‘No.’ She scowls and sneezes; snot flies out too fast for her to catch it. We both stare at where it lands on the carpet. Then Iris bends to wipe it up.

‘It’s just a cold,’ she says, her voice thick. ‘What’s your excuse?’

‘My excuse for what?’

She waves her hand to indicate my general fug. Her eyes go to the mirror, Thing One and Thing Two. She’s having a good look at Ady’s fat ladies.

‘Do you want to Skype Mum and Dad?’

‘No.’

She’s silent, looking at me all judgy.

‘Can I help you, Iris?’

‘You never talk to me. You don’t respect my opinions.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to know how you are.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look fine.’ She sits on Jinx’s bed. She looks like she’s got something to say, like she’s been thinking on it for ages, and then she says it. ‘I used to hear Mum talk about you to her friends and get so jealous. You know, you suck up a lot of energy.’

‘Me? You’re the one they’re proud of. You’ve got the bright future. You don’t even need people.’

‘I need people,’ Iris says. She starts coughing. I wrap Stu’s scarf around my mouth as a protective measure.

‘How long have you had that cough for?’

‘About a week.’

‘It’s sounds bad.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Hey, Iris?’

‘What?’

‘I had sex.’

‘You did not.’

I nod. ‘Twice.’

Her eyes go wide. ‘Does he go to Basildon? Are you taking him to the formal?’

‘It was the guy I ran into – who brought flowers.’

‘Him? But he’s so old!’

I’m enjoying shocking her. Talking to Iris I can pretend Stu and I are still a thing, still what we never really were – boyfriend and girlfriend. ‘I don’t know if he’ll come to the formal. It’s a bit . . . babyish. You and Theo will have fun.’

‘What do I do if Theo wants to – you know.’

I start laughing.

Iris goes red. She looks like she wants to hit me.

‘I can’t see it,’ I say.

‘Why do you have to be such a bitch?’

‘I don’t know. Because I feel like it, I guess.’

What is it like to be Iris? So closed off, so self-sufficient. I remember her Google search – How do you know if a boy likes you? – and I want to laugh, because it’s such an innocent question. But even now, even after having sex, it’s still the question. I feel myself soften towards her.

She starts coughing again. It sounds like someone tearing off huge strips of wallpaper. She blows her nose copiously. Then she lets out a wail of frustration. ‘I hate being sick! I’ve got Kate’s this weekend.’

‘You know, Kate invited me too.’

‘She did? Why? I mean, I know you had that thing for Wellness, but . . . Kate’s totally not your kind of person, Clem. She’s refined. You’re like . . . primitive.’

‘What, like a monkey?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ But she’s smiling. And I’m smiling. It’s sort of funny.

Iris spits phlegm into a tissue. She stares at it. ‘It’s yellow. Does that indicate infection? Or is that when it’s green? Or grey? Or bloody?’

‘Go see the nurse. Get some antibiotics.’

Iris stands up, but she lingers at the door. I’m flashing on a hundred childhood photos of us – where one or the other of us is always pushing to the front. Where if one of us looks happy, the other looks destroyed. The way we roll.

‘What are you going to do if you’re not going to be a champion swimmer?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll just be nothing. I’ll just be me.’

Iris shivers, like the thought of that is a fate worse than death. Then she sneezes three times and leaves.

I go back to staring at the ceiling rose, thinking about Stu, feeling stupid. Maybe I could go to Kate’s. Maybe getting away would be good for me. But Iris would hate it if I went. And Ady might not be so happy about it, considering the doughnut.

Ady was right. Iris was right. Jinx was right. I should have been more careful.

The sun sets outside my window and the heaters click on. Just before dinner, Jinx comes in and tells me that Iris fainted in the nurse’s room and has been ordered to bed. ‘She’s going to have a great long weekend in sick bay.’ Jinx shakes her head. And then, when I fail to move, ‘Aren’t you going to go and see her?’

I make a care package for Iris. Chocolates, and some DVDs and, only because I’m pretty sure I’m not going to need it, How to Hook Up, the booklet from Fuss. I think about writing some words of encouragement regarding Theo, but can’t think of anything to say. Because I still can’t see it. But what would I know?