Page 1 of Sincerely Yours, Anna Sherwood

The club flashes blue, acid green, lilac and back to bright electric blue again. The bass thrums through my chest, my bones, and all the way to my fingertips, lifting me onto the balls of my feet with my hands in the air. Everyone’s swaying, shimmying and singing at the top of their lungs to a Harry Styles song that slides seamlessly into a remix of Olivia Rodrigo’s ‘good 4 u’.

For an icebreaker evening, this isn’t half bad.

And this place is definitely a lot better than the Pizza Express where we spent an awkward, stilted two hours earlier this evening, swapping details of our A levels and uni courses and our preferred pizza toppings. (A necessary evil, given that the restaurant had been booked for us by our new employer so we could all ‘get to know’ one another ahead of working together on the Arrowmile internship programme this summer.)

Tonight is about anythingbutthe impending internship.

Which is really saying a lot, because it’s taken over my life formonthsbetween the application process and the agony of waiting to hear if, out of five thousand applicants, I would be one of the fifteen who made it.

As of tonight, I am officially one of those fifteen. Tonight, we enjoy a taste of freedom and excitement before starting one of the most coveted, prestigious internship programmes there is on Monday morning.

Tonight, I let my hair down for once.

For me, that involves some rum and Coke, half a glass of prosecco, and dancing on the sticky floor of a too-loud club with fourteen relative strangers. Four of whom have double-barrelled names, and three of whom are students at Cambridge. All of whom seemed pretty okay at Pizza Express, and right now feel like my new favourite people in the whole world.

There are hands on my hips, the brush of a body behind mine. Broad, masculine. One of my new flatmates and fellow Arrowmile intern for the summer, Elaine, a tall, bony girl with long blonde hair, catches my eye and wiggles her eyebrows, apparently in approval of my new dancing partner. I glance over my shoulder, staring for a moment in the flashing lights before deciding I don’t recognize him; he’s not part of our group.

I turn back to Elaine and shrug, not minding the hands on my hips or the attention until I’m grabbed by one of the interns who, laughing, pulls me away from my dance partner and into a ramshackle conga line back to the bar. By the time I’m jostled to the front of the group, someone’s bought a round of tequila shots and Elaine is pressing one into my hand, a lime wedge balanced on top. Someone else holds out a salt shaker to me. I follow their lead and lick the back of my hand holding the shot, spill some salt there, and pass it on to the next person.

Across the room at the other end of the bar, there’s a guy.

And, God, but he’s acuteguy. Dark, curly hair and chiselled cheekbones accented by a light scruff of stubble, and full lips. He’s sat on one of the few barstools, his elbows on the counter (which, in that light-blue shirt and in a place like this, is a risky move) and both hands clasped around a drink.

In spite of all the people packed in here tonight, it’s like he can tell that I’m looking at him, because he lifts his head and turns in the direction of our group.

Not our group.

Me.My direction. He’s looking atme.

My brain short-circuits in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that a cute guy is looking right at me, and – and he’ssmiling, too, and all I’m doing is staring back at him with my drink poised.

I only break eye contact because I realize everyone’s ready with their shots.

Burnley, a guy who just about clears five foot four, grabs all our attention and booms, ‘Arrowmile interns on three! One! Two!’

‘Three!’ we all scream in unison. ‘Arrowmile!’

It’s all I can do not to choke on the tequila; the taste is horrible. I suck on the lime wedge along with everyone else and my stomach roils, a clear sign that I need to ease off.

Maybe if I’d goneout-out more often during my first year of uni, I’d have a bit more stamina for this kind of thing. Or at least for shots.

Why,why, with the shots?

Everything feels very loud and very bright; the music is jarring, my skin crawling where some stranger’s arm brushes against me. I’m overwhelmed by the sudden urge to go home where I can crawl into bed and have the soothing tones of an audiobook playing through my headphones. I watch with a weird sense of detachment as the others crush together, hands grasping at one another as they spill back towards the dance floor – completely unaware that I’m not following until Elaine turns back to reach for me.

‘Anna, come on! They’re playing “About Damn Time”!’ she shrieks, like I can’t tell.

Actually – I didn’t notice until she pointed it out. But I stay put, shouting back, ‘I need some water. I’m just feeling a little …’

I sift through the noise that’s crowding my brain for the right word, worried I’ll sound drab and dull for saying I want to sit out and take a breather, but Elaine must mistake my hesitation for borderline blackout-drunkenness.

Her plain, freckled face puckers into a concerned frown. ‘Are you okay? Do you want me to stay with you?’

‘No! No, go have fun! I’ll catch up in a bit.’

Reassured, she nods, gives me a thumbs up and yells, ‘Okay, don’t go too far!’ before diving into the crowd after the others to find them on the dance floor.

I turn away, leaning over the bar. Immediately, my forearm lands in something wet and sticky –ugh. I think it’s lemonade. Ihopeit’s lemonade.

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