I Hold Your Heart Read online

  I sit back, smiling like I don’t give one, but inside, my stomach’s knotted hard as I try to work out if it’s true. Jonny mouths off about pretty much every girl he sees: to him they’re all sluts, bitches, or worse. Right now, he’s pulling a face and miming the word ‘gay’ in Binney’s direction.

  ‘Just cos the only action you’ll ever see is this, Binney,’ Jonny says, pumping his hand up and down. Everyone howls as Binney goes red. I sense he’s about to ignite. Jonny does too, but instead of backing off, he starts humming a song under his breath.

  ‘Shut up!’ Binney says, voice streaked with desperation.

  I look from one laughing face to another. Clearly the song means something, but I’m not about to ask. Binney’s mouth wobbles so I pour the last of the pitcher into his glass and shove it at him, which everyone seems to take as their cue to move on.

  Then Jonny looks at me. ‘Don’t listen to the Binster. She’s all right, that Gemma.’ And for a moment he seems to be offering me that rare thing in this sort of circumstance – an olive branch, or at least a sliver of one.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ I say briefly, then raising my voice, ‘Same again?’

  There’s a general cheer of agreement at this and I take myself to the bar. While I wait to be served I think about what I’m even doing here. Why this group, why now? Why this town? The last one’s easy enough: I had to get out of London, and living with Dad, who’s not going to win any hands-on father medals any time soon, means I get plenty of space. But getting in with this crowd doesn’t have to be top of my to-do list. I don’t even like them half the time. So why am I here?

  The answer comes at the same time as three new pitchers of lager: because I can be. Unlike the old Aaron, I can make these guys like me or, more importantly, respect me. A big part of me needs that, after everything that happened in London. To prove it hasn’t turned me into the old Aaron again, friendless and pathetic. Besides, the alternative is sitting in an empty flat that’s not my home, thinking – and Christ only knows, I’ve had enough of that.

  As I hand over a note, my phone goes. For one wild moment, I’m expecting it to be her.

  Cherine.

  It’s the lager that does this: lowers the barriers I’ve scaffolded around myself, puts me back into the old habit of checking, waiting, checking. Where is she? What’s she doing? Is she thinking about me? Thoughts I’d never let anyone in on.

  Then I realise the image of Cherine’s long hair, her dark eyelashes, that turned-up top lip, are morphing somehow, being overlaid with another girl’s smile. Gem.

  Because Gem isn’t like Cherine. She’s worth ten of Cherine. I know it.

  I take two pitchers to the table, go back for the third. But before I grab it, I look at my phone. I scroll back through the last few messages from Gem, full of smiley faces and emojis, and suddenly I want to speak to her. I wonder how she’s getting on at that party and who else is there. Like Callum Smith, just for example. I replay what Binners said about him. Then I notice a status update on her Facebook: she’s checked in to a bar called Fimo’s. I click on the website. It looks like a dive. Why would she go there?

  I push my phone down deep into my pocket and take the other pitcher back to the table, ignoring Jonny’s needling about how long it took. But as the next round begins, I can’t help taking my phone out again, wondering.

  Ten minutes later, I’ve made up my mind.

  Gemma

  In the taxi things start to look up. We drink more of the vodka and I introduce my new favourite topic: Aaron. ‘He runs his own business,’ I say, and I can’t deny there’s just the teensiest hint of bragging in my voice.

  ‘Doing what?’ Rachael says.

  ‘He makes apps. How cool is that? And he says he’s getting his own flat soon.’

  To be fair, he only mentioned getting his own flat as a vague aspiration the other day by the beach, but it’s worth it because she gives an impressed nod and hands me the bottle of drink. ‘I wish I—’

  ‘Did I tell you he likes country too? And he’s an amazing kisser.’ I can’t help talking over her. Maybe it’s the alcohol.

  Rachael puts her head on one side. ‘All right, stop before I chuck you out, you lucky cow.’

  A little while later we spill out of the taxi at the bottom end of town and drunk-walk under the Christmas lights already strung between discount shops. Fimo’s might not be a London club, but everyone knows they never ask for ID. We duck in out of the cold and push our way through to the bar. All the side tables are full, music pumping out from the glass-topped DJ booth at one end of the dance floor. Rachael manages to shimmy into a narrow gap as someone turns from the bar, leaving me stranded three people back. She flashes a winning smile at the guy she’s just queue jumped. I watch as he makes a gesture to his mates, his hands squeezing thin air just behind her butt and they all laugh. Rachael shouts her order to the girl behind the bar all oblivious, but I see him cop a handful on the way back through. She turns, but faced with six of them all laughing, simply shrugs and pushes on back to me. We exchange eye rolls.

  ‘You’re getting the next lot,’ she yells in my ear.

  We find a pocket of space on the edge of the dance floor. It’s too loud to talk much in here, and anyway, Rachael seems more intent on scanning the crowd. Her eyes come to rest on a boy not much older than us. He’s dancing with what I guess you’d call more enthusiasm than skill, but when he meets her eyes she juts her chin up. He starts snaking towards us and a moment later, she’s thrust her drink in my hand and soon she’s dancing up close with him, his arms around her waist, their crotches brushing together in this tragic way. I finish my drink, then start on hers while I run through my options. I watch drunk faces under the lights, trying to pretend I’m not starting to stress. After three more songs watching Rachael and the boy kissing in the purplish light, I grab her arm and yell, ‘Toilet break?’ in her ear. I have to yell another two times, but she finally follows me into the Ladies.

  I sit down more heavily than I meant to on the toilet and when I come out, the floor seems to be coming up to meet my feet faster than it usually does. Rachael’s putting more lipstick on.

  ‘He’s hot?’ She says it like a question.

  I turn my ‘Meh’ into an ‘Mmm’. Then add, ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Who cares? Look, you don’t have to hang around. I’ll probably go home with him anyway,’ Rachael says airily, but there’s a flicker of doubt chasing her eyeliner as she touches up her eyes.

  I consider telling her this is a monumentally bad idea. I know before I’ve even opened my mouth she’s not going to listen. ‘Rach, maybe grab a taxi home with me? You don’t know anything about him, you—’

  She zips up her bag and marches out. I follow, hoping he’s lost interest, but nope, he’s taken the opportunity to get shots in. She takes the two he’s offering her and drinks them one after another. Then, with a sinking feeling, I realise the guy’s not alone. Looks like he’s with the gropey boys from the bar.

  ‘Awesome,’ I mutter to myself. Because Rachael might be a pain in the arse when she’s drinking, but I’m not going to leave her here to do who knows what. Or have who knows what done to her, seeing as she’s now dancing right in the middle of the group and one of the other lads has come up behind her and is pretty much trying to dry-hump her.

  Before I can do anything, Rachael turns, her face flushed, and shoves him away. Dry Hump Guy staggers a step back, then as I move forward, figuring now would be a good time to drag her away, he starts spitting swear words at her. I catch the word ‘slut’ more from the shape his mouth is making. Oh, actually, make that ‘sluts’ as he seems to be including me. Rachael’s shouting back, while I’ve got hold of one of her arms, trying to pull her away. The rest of the guys are either looking hostile or laughing. I glance around. No one seems to care. I feel the first flickers of panic. Rachael’s still shouting at the guy, one of her boobs dangerously close to escaping from her top as she pulls against my arm. Th
en, just as I see a bouncer ploughing a path through the crowd towards us, an arm inserts itself between Rachael and gropey boy. It happens so fast; one minute he’s yelling the C-word at us, the next he’s on the ground, looking as surprised as we are to find himself there.

  I whip my head around to see who our rescuer is, and my legs nearly go from under me.

  It’s Aaron, standing over the gropey guy like some avenging hero from a movie.

  Oh. My. God.

  Rachael yells for us to stop the taxi twice so she can heave at the side of the road. I hold her hair, keeping my face turned from the sick smell. After the second time, Aaron has to sweet-talk the driver into not kicking us out to walk the rest of the way. He doesn’t say much, apart from asking Rachael her address, which I have to give while she leans on my shoulder, face pale, emitting wafts of sick-scented vodka breath as she groans. I sneak a look at Aaron every so often, but his expression is so serious and closed I soon give up trying to make conversation.

  When we get to Rachael’s house, Aaron helps me extract her from the back of the taxi and I use her key to open her front door. ‘I’ll take her up if you could wait?’ I whisper. He gives a short nod and gets back in the taxi while I drag her inside and try to sneak her upstairs. We’re met at the top by her mum wearing a satiny dressing gown and a less than ecstatic expression.

  ‘Uh … hi, Mrs …’ I’ve totally forgotten Rachael’s surname under her mum’s steely gaze.

  ‘Hello, Gemma. I’ll take her. Thank you for bringing her home,’ she says in a quiet voice that manages to pack way more of a punch than shouting would. She takes Rachael’s arm and gives her a look that contains exasperation, worry and a smidge of disgust as Rachael blasts her with her puke breath. ‘Stop fussing! I’m fiiiine,’ Rachael wails.

  She completely isn’t; her dad’s also emerging from a bedroom, and I suspect from the way her parents are now exchanging looks that Rachael’s in reasonably deep shit. Time for me to scarper before they call my parents too.

  Back in the taxi, Aaron gives the driver my address. As we pull off, I turn to him. ‘Sorry about all that. Rachael can get a bit … Thanks for rescuing us. It was lucky you were there.’

  ‘I just want to make sure you’re OK.’ He says it gently, but there’s a look in his eyes I’m not sure how to read. Is he worried? Annoyed? Can’t tell.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I twist in my seat to face him. ‘Seriously. I was handling it. But I was glad of the backup.’

  ‘You should be more careful …’ Aaron begins, but we’re pulling up outside my house. Aaron leans over me to open the taxi door. He smells amazing. I, on the other hand, probably reek. ‘Somewhere like Fimo’s isn’t the place for you. You’re better than that,’ he says and there’s that smile, like driving out of a heavy rain shower into bright light. It totally works. He calls softly after me, ‘I’ll wait to make sure you get in safely.’

  I attempt a normal walk up the path, but I’m not entirely sure I manage a straight line. Still, it only takes one attempt to get my key in. I turn and wave, a big smile plastered on my face, before I shut the door.

  Well, that could’ve gone worse.

  I could choose to see Aaron having to rescue us as deeply humiliating, but as I gulp down a glass of water then go for a wee, my brain’s furiously putting a positive spin on things. It was sweet of him to intervene and his mini-lecture in the taxi was only because we’d worried him. We probably cut his night short too; he must’ve had to ditch Jonny and the college dudebros. I wonder how I missed them in Fimo’s. Maybe they’d only just arrived … Hang on – what the hell is that?

  I’ve just caught sight of myself in the mirror and it is not pretty. My make-up is a disaster, hair not much better. The concealer’s come off all my spots and there’s a big stain of something down my top. I have no idea how it got there. Plus, there’s a definite waft of sick lingering around me and I don’t think it’s just smell hangover either. I reckon Rachael’s splashed my shoes. And if my bloodshot eyes and eerie pallor are anything to go by, there’s every chance I might be puking too in the not too distant future.

  I look the exact opposite of hot.

  Aaron’s never going to want to see me again.

  Chapter Nine

  Gemma

  It’s fair to say hauling myself into the cafe the next morning is painful. But I’ve told Cal I’ll meet him there to do the application. He never wants people over to his house, because his mum finds visitors hard to handle.

  He’s already waiting with an oversized chocolate milkshake at one of the tables when I get there and bounds to his feet when he sees me. ‘Hi!’

  I groan, and slump at the table, sunglasses still on.

  ‘Fimo’s was good last night then?’ he says.

  I give another moan in response, fold my arms on the table and rest my head sideways on them. I still have The Fear from last night. Why did I let Rachael get so drunk? And what must Aaron have been thinking when he had to ditch his mates to sort us out? We must have looked a right state.

  ‘Coffee,’ Cal says, and goes up to the counter. A few moments later, he slides a cup along the table, until it’s resting a couple of millimetres from my nose.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. I raise my head a few inches. ‘I am never drinking again. Why did I think Fimo’s was a reasonable plan?’

  ‘Don’t give her any sympathy. Silly girl.’ It’s Dora, wielding a cloth, which she splats down on to the next table along and begins scrubbing at the coffee rings left by the last two customers.

  I lift my head higher. ‘What?’ I say, trying to sound innocent.

  ‘You think I don’t know a hangover when I see one? Best thing for it is a good fry-up. I could do you one, if you like.’

  This immediately conjures images of fried eggs glistening with fat, and for a second I’m in serious danger of finally puking. It might be a relief at this stage. I give a weak ‘No thanks’ and an even weaker smile, and Dora clicks her tongue.

  ‘Well, don’t do it again. Oh, and I need someone to cover Sunday’s shift next week, if you’re interested?’

  ‘Michael’s got a home game.’ I say. ‘Esi might be able to come after church, but I guess she’d be a bit late. I can ask her anyway if you like?’

  Dora nods, then gives me a pat on the shoulder that manages to be disapproving and comforting all at the same time, before disappearing back behind the counter.

  Saying Esi’s name has made me realise I haven’t actually texted her since the one I sent very late last night. Or more accurately, in the early hours of this morning, updating her on the whole Aaron-rescuing-us thing and what a mess I looked. Her response wasn’t massively reassuring – something along the lines of Who cares if he’s that shallow?

  Rachael’s text, when it finally came through at about ten, was better:

  OMG I am sooo ill :( :( although A was AWESOME last night. Like something out of a film. xxx PS hope you are in as much trouble as I am.

  I totally am not, because unlike Rachael, I am capable of sneaking in quietly. Plus, Mum and Dad were way too focused on getting Michael on the bus for his away match today to notice the state of me, thank God.

  ‘Sooo, we doing this or what?’ Cal says. I push my sunglasses on top of my head and take a proper look at him. He’s so good-natured, not even giving it out to me for cancelling on him the other day and then disappearing last night.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. Yeah, come on.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He whips his laptop out of his rucksack. A moment later he’s logged on to the cafe Wi-Fi and got up the application page. ‘Right, here we go.’

  I squint at the form. My head is thundering as loud as the music Dora has on; I’m not in the mood for ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ today.

  We go through the form, then I see we have to book an audition date.

  ‘The Bristol one’s in a couple of weeks. Do you think that’ll give us time to rehearse?’ Cal says.

  My head hurts too bad to decide. ‘Le
t’s just go for it,’ I say.

  Aaron’s probably going to ditch me.

  ‘OK!’ His fingers fly over the keys. As I watch his details go in, then mine, my mood starts to pick up, and by the time we’re ready to press Send I’m definitely feeling perkier.

  ‘This is pretty exciting,’ I say as Cal’s hand hovers over the Return key.

  ‘Do you want to do it or shall I?’ he says with a grin.

  ‘Together,’ I say, putting my hand over his. ‘On the count of three? One, two, three!’ We press down and the box disappears. A second later an acknowledgement message appears on the screen and now I am really bouncing on my seat. ‘Yessss!’ I say.

  Cal holds his hand up for a high five and I smack my palm against his. ‘To the greatest country song ever written,’ he says, and we’re grinning at each other like little kids about to see Santa.

  Which is the moment a voice from behind us says, ‘Hey, Gem.’

  Chapter Ten

  Aaron

  It’s getting light by the time I get home. I can’t stop running through everything in my head. What was she doing at Fimo’s – why there? The same questions circling, refusing to land. I think I know the answer to the last one: she was looking out for that girl … I think for a minute. Rachael. She really is the sort of girl Jonny has a point about.

  When it’s obvious I’m not getting any more sleep even if I wanted to – the seagulls making their harsh-croaked racket on the roof say otherwise – I go downstairs. The flat has a damp, sticky feel that comes from its proximity to the sea, at a guess. I bet it’s a bitch here in winter. No one’s about except Moonshine, who greets me with a short whine, then sits, wagging her tail, waiting to be fed. I wonder how long she’s been on her own for; there was no sign of Dad last night. I’ve got her trained up since I moved here, though; no more barking at me to get up. I fill her bowl, tell her to sit while I put it down. Her fur quivers as she catches the scent of food, but she knows now I’ll whip it away if she doesn’t wait nicely.