Chipo. Breathless, catching up with me, grabbing my elbow.
“All those days we spent in lectures seem almost worthwhile for the high you get when you walk out of the last exam, hey Tessa? What say we go out and celebrate? You haven’t met Paul yet! Friday? Come on, please?”
I feel as drunk on the cloud of freedom we’re floating in as she looks. No more evenings spent shut in my room, studying. I can actually watch some TV, read a novel, relax, go out on the town. Good idea.
“Okay. Where?”
“Archipelago’s. The night club. I like to dance.” She does a twirl in the corridor, loses her balance and collides with a concrete column, dropping her bag. “Ouch.”
I pick it up for her. “You’ve already planned this, haven’t you? Are you all right?”
She’s leaning out over the parapet next to the column, turning her face to the midday sun and the dome of the sky. “Ah, heaven. We’ll go there Friday night then, yeah?”
“Be there!” I aim a forefinger at her chest and we both shriek with laughter like silly schoolgirls. “Paul picking you up, or do you want a lift home?”
“He’s coming to meet me outside the college in…” She tilts her watch and taps it with her right forefinger. “In fifteen minutes. You go. I’ll call you before Friday? Where’s your car?”
It’s parked two roads away. I’m halfway there when a very odd thing happens. I get a desire to buy myself a posh frock. This is not something I’ve experienced before. A new show jacket, jodhpurs perhaps, a T-shirt or a pair of shorts, yes. But a dress? That’s always been Mum’s job: “How about this one Tessa?” or “That one will go with your black shoes, don’t you think?” or “That looks nice on you.” Or her default, like back when I had my interview with Charles, “Why don’t you wear your school uniform?”
And I’ve let her do it. Well, not any more. It’s like I’ve inadvertently pressed a switch in my head – one I never knew was there before – and something’s changed.
I jay-walk across the road and head into the city centre.