Page 40 of The Reunion

Bryony starts pacing back and forth and muttering to herself. ‘Stupid, bloody … Ugh! How could you be such an idiot? And bloody Mardy Mara, thinking she knows everything, and Hayden …’

I sit up straighter at the sound of my name, but also hold my breath like it will help her not to notice me. I’m not exactly sure what I’ve done but Bryony sounds furious, and I’d really not rather have to deal with her mean-girl attitude and endure her carefully crafted put-downs.

Then she takes a deep breath – several, in fact, in such a deliberate manner it must be some kind of exercise she learnt in drama lessons or something.

More calmly this time, she tells herself, ‘It’s fine. It’s fine, okay? You’ve got this. Nobody knows anything, not really, and they’re not going to find out. Why would they? Why would they know?’ She lets out a shrill laugh that sounds – not drunk, but worryingly hysterical. ‘You’ll be fine. Just a few more hours, then you’re home free. You can do this. Those posers and pretentious little shits out there don’t need to know a thing …’

She takes a few deep breaths and I see her silhouette as she shakes herself from head to toe, arms waggling out wildly at her sides. She throws her head back and makes a few weird noises that must be some kind of vocal warm-up, then rights herself, smooths out her sparkly jumpsuit, and strides back out like that didn’t just happen.

Not that I’m sure exactly what just happened, but I give her a couple of minutes before I emerge from backstage, too. I guess maybe I’m not the only one who needs to rally themselves to make it through tonight.

When I get up to slip back into the party, though, I see Bryony hasn’t gone too far. She’s standing next to the poster of her teenage self from the yearbook, looking out across the room as if assessing – she’s probably trying to decide which group to go and talk to next. But then I see a little crease appear between her eyebrows and she glances around quickly before turning her attention to the poster, which has slipped slightly, hanging a little crooked where the corner of the tape has peeled off. She smooths a finger gently over the tape, checking it’s firmly in place before stepping back to assess her handiwork.

And then she dives back into the party, a smile plastered on her face as she shouts across to someone.

Weird.

I mean, it’s not weird that she’d be obsessed with her own poster, but … everything that just happened was kind of weird.

The box of costumes and props catches my eye, and the gears in my brain are whirring before I fully process why, and my hands pick up the programme on the top of the box seemingly of their own accord.

And something finally slides into place when I open up the folded sheet of A4 and see, below the cast list, a line that reads: Produced by Ms B Adams – Head of Drama.

Chapter Twenty

Ashleigh

‘Most Likely to Kill Each Other’

Stalking through empty halls and past closed classroom doors gives me the weirdest feeling of being late for class. The fact that it’s dark, with motion sensors making lights flicker to life one by one as I storm ahead, gives the whole place the creepy aura of a nightmare.

Not that I still get nightmares about showing up to an exam I haven’t revised for, or being shouted at in class for not knowing something basic. Obviously I don’t. I’m almost thirty. I’m in my Charlotte Lucas era. I’m totally over it.

I escape down the corridors, past the maths classrooms, and Ryan is still chasing after me. I don’t know why he didn’t just leave me alone after I left him in the library, or why he hasn’t gone back to the party now.

No, that’s a lie. I do know – it’s because his overinflated ego can’t bear to concede defeat and let me win this fight. But to think he has the audacity to try to sound like my reaction to his cutting words has truly, genuinely, bothered him … I’m not falling for it.

I finally reach the science block – an extended wing of the school built decades after the original building, which has apparently had a complete revamp since we all left. The ceilings are smooth and white, free from damp spots and flaky paint. The laminate floors are still shiny with only a few dark shoe-scuffs worn in, and the nameplates on the doors declaring which teacher’s classroom it is, are embossed metal ones rather than worn-out sticky labels defaced with Sharpies.

The musty, papery smell that lurks in the other corridors is replaced by plastic and disinfectant here. It’s enough to make me gag.

Also enough to make me gag: Ryan calling out, ‘Ashleigh, please, can you slow down? I can’t …’ Can’t keep up, because he can’t bloody run with that knee injury, and now I feel like the arsehole. Again. ‘Can we talk about this?’

I grit my teeth and pick up the pace.

He doesn’t want to talk; this isn’t about being nice or civil or mending bridges we burnt long, long ago. I don’t want him to be the bigger person here, to have grown up or changed or any of that bollocks. It’s too little, too late.

As if he’s got any right to act like I was the one in the wrong, when all I did was stick up for myself and retaliate when he started it. God knows everybody else, our teachers included, spent enough time glorifying Ryan, making him out to be some godlike figure among us mere mortals. I was the only person who ever called him out. As if he cared what I thought enough to let it bother him – never mind still let it bother him. And he’s got no right to stand there pretending he didn’t dish it out, too. Like he didn’t go out of his way to belittle me and humiliate me at every turn.

I shouldn’t be so shocked that he acts so untouchable, so above it all, after all this time. I bet it works wonders for him in the world of politics. Butter wouldn’t melt.

Except he’s not special. He’s not godlike or glorious or anything else. He’s flawed and human like the rest of us, even if I’m the only one who sees it.

He calls out, and I spin around to face him. The heavy door behind him slides shut, the whisper of it across the floor timid and gentle. A green light blinks to life on a little keypad beside it.

Ryan stops in his tracks, mouth agape, and for once …

For once, he looks like he doesn’t know what to say or do. Good.

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