Page 11 of The Reunion

But I guess maybe I do owe her something for that, so I make a point of following the daggers she’s staring at me right to the source.

My stomach gives a jolt, and I feel my brain stall.

I don’t know why it takes me so long to register that the woman I’m looking at is Ashleigh. I mean, it’s not like Ashleigh these days is so far removed from the one I knew at school. That girl was soft and skinny – undefined and unremarkable in that juvenile way of someone who hadn’t quite grown into themselves yet. I remember, because I used to take the piss out of her about it, and because she’d always give me that shrewd, withering look that made it clear she could not care less what teenage me thought about teenage her.

Plus, it’s not like I haven’t checked in on her social media regularly enough over the years to have followed each change in haircut, the soft-launched relationships abruptly cut to a close, the endless stream of coffees and chipped nail polish that takes up the majority of her feed.

From this angle, I can see the birthmark on her forehead. She’s got a new fringe and this one doesn’t hide it the way she always used to in school, which I think was habit more than any sort of self-consciousness over her appearance.

But this version of Ashleigh …

Fuck, this version of her isn’t just ‘not self-conscious’. She towers over Steph and a couple of the other girls – I’m sure I recognise Morgan and Thea there – and in that outfit, she just demands to be looked at. Not ogled, just … Observed. Acknowledged. She always had this way about her that I envied, an ability to pull focus onto herself and demand she be noticed and heard without having to make a song and dance about it, but …

I think, if I saw her in a nightclub and I didn’t know who she was, even I’d be too intimidated to go up and introduce myself.

The sudden realisation that Ashleigh is somebody I’d even consider approaching on a night out pulls me sharply back to reality, where the conversation around me has continued and nobody seems to notice that I’m too busy staring at my old arch-nemesis to pay them any attention.

My gaze still locked with Ashleigh’s, I lift my drink to her and incline my head, my grin sliding back into place as I offer up a silent toast. Her eyes flash and her jaw clenches tight, and it makes my heart pound just a fraction harder against my ribs.

She’s too proud to look away, but that’s okay. It still feels like a winning move – like a middle finger in her direction – when I turn back to the group surrounding me and answer a question about what Justin Trudeau is really like.

Ha! Checkmate, Ash.

But, as always when it comes to her – even if I’ve won this round, I know the game is only just beginning.

Chapter Seven

Bryony

‘Most Likely to Become Famous’

For all I was worried – okay, terrified – about how this reunion party was going to go, I’ll be the first to brag that I absolutely killed it.

People can’t stop talking about the decorations, the vibes, how awesome it is to be back here with everybody. Even the cheap plastic trays of sausage rolls and sad-looking packets of crisps are going down a treat; I managed to talk Steph into ordering a bunch of pizzas, and a few other people pitched in money towards the order.

The mood took a definite lift when Ryan showed up and honestly, trust him to rock up an hour late. But he is the go-to party guy, even if he’s a bit of a tight-laced politician these days, so I’ll cut him some slack for it. It was a pretty epic entrance, to be fair.

But, as even Ryan Lawal knows, the spotlight in this school ultimately belongs to me.

I stride up onto the stage and use a remote control to turn the volume down on the music. I pick up the microphone from the stand and turn it on; it’s temperamental at the best of times so I brace myself, but let out a sigh of relief when the screech of feedback doesn’t wail through the speakers. Another sign that everything is going exactly my way tonight. Total W, Bryony.

And really, everything is going my way. It’s exactly as I pictured in my less panicked moments in the run-up to the reunion. The flattery, the awe, the steady stream of, ‘Gosh, haven’t you done well for yourself!’ Everybody’s snooped around on social media to see what other people are up to these days, I know it – if not out of genuine curiosity, then because they’re worried they should have been keeping up to date with their old classmates’ lives all this time.

I’m no exception. I spent weeks looking people up. Although, part of that was so I could update Steph’s old presentation with some more recent photos.

Well. No, actually, the presentation was just the excuse I created for myself so I could convince myself that I was being productive, instead of trying to find proof that everyone else was as miserable as me these days, trapped by the short-lived glory of their youth and long nights of marking homework in front of true crime documentaries on Netflix.

Still. We’ve all been trawling Instagram and Facebook and stuff, and that’s why people think I spent a week on set in Sicily for the new Knives Out movie, when actually I just had a minor role in an indie movie of the same name on a cleverly designed set in Tenby. It’s not like anything on my social media is patently false, but …

It’s not exactly true, either.

On my better days, I tell myself that I’m manifesting (cue sparkle emojis). I’m putting out into the universe how I want my life to be; if I can create and cultivate the reality I aspire to, then it will happen. I can pretend that every local theatre production I do lifts my spirits and speaks to the performer in my soul. Or that getting cast for tiny bit-parts in productions or taking work as an extra during the school holidays scratches that itch, is a foot in the door and a step on my way to those goals of landing leading roles on the West End or in a movie.

But the sad reality is that I resent the plays and musicals I perform locally because all I can think is that I know I deserve better than this. And I cry every time I come home from set because it’s not a foot in the door – it’s the door slamming in my face because I was never good enough in the first place. I feel sick every time I upload something on Instagram, but it’s like an addiction – corrosive and compelling all at once. That little kick of dopamine when someone comments ‘wow!’ takes the edge off for a moment.

The closest I get to that pride in a job well done these days is when I see one of my kids amped up in class, because they know they nailed it, and I helped that happen.

But here – tonight – it doesn’t matter what’s true and what’s not, and it doesn’t matter what keeps me up at night.

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