The Roommates. Rachel Sargeant

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СКАЧАТЬ isn’t all about work.”

      “It’s hardly about work at all.” Freddie grins, but then grows serious. “Promise you’ll audition.”

      Dad strokes her arm. “It would do you good.”

      Mum stays at the window, rubbing her elbow like she always does when she wants to bail out of a conversation but still listen in. Like she does when Inspector Hare visits. Freddie and Dad keep their well-meaning eyes on Imo and she feels the room closing in.

      “Okay, I promise.” It’s worth lying to see the relief on their faces.

      She sits back on the bed and watches them line up in the small space by the door. Any second now her world of eighteen and a half years will quit with them. Her throat is hard.

      Dad and Freddie give her a goodbye peck and head out into the stairwell. When they’ve gone, Mum sits beside her. “I notice you didn’t bring the lamp Grandma gave you.”

      “I forgot.” Another birthday gift she needs to shed. Everything from that day is toxic.

      Mum places her hands on Imo’s shoulders and looks her in the eye. “You don’t have to do this. I’m not making you.” Most decisions are impossible for Mum these days, but she was quick to agree that Imo should take up her uni place.

      Imo tries to wriggle free, but her grip is firm. “I want to be here.” Would it have been different if she hadn’t already accepted the offer before the world tilted?

      Mum lets go. “If there’s anything …” She turns away to rub her eye. “Ring me, day or night. Just ring.”

      “Of course.” Imo forces a bright smile.

      “And you’ve got your personal alarm?”

      “Always.”

      “Show me.”

      Imo hesitates, but only for a moment, knowing her mother won’t leave until she’s seen the tiny, red-topped canister. Imo retrieves it from her coat pocket and holds it out.

      “Keep it with your phone,” her mother says. “You need both at all times.”

      She watches until Imo has shoehorned it into a front pocket of her jeans. They hug, her mother holding her tighter than feels comfortable. Then she grasps her wrist.

      “And never come home on your own on the train. We’ll come and get you.”

       Chapter 3

      Phoenix

      Three of them are in the kitchen drinking Phoenix’s instant coffee. Her mug has Elexo Engineering Solutions in turquoise lettering on the side – a freebie she picked up from a science and technology careers fair. The peroxide blonde – Amber? – waves her Amnesty International mug in the air. Phoenix isn’t sure whether she means to brandish it, but she moves her hands a lot when she speaks.

      The third girl – Phoenix has forgotten her name – sips out of Polish pottery. Expensive. Like the Mini Convertible she swept up in. Phoenix has kicked off her trainers to pad around the kitchen in woolly socks; this girl is in classy sandals.

      When are they going to sit down instead of acting like it’s a cocktail party? Phoenix has the urge to move from the cooking area to the easy chairs in the dining end of the kitchen. She shifts her weight and listens to Amber.

      “I’m doing Theatre Studies. I’ll probably go into directing and writing.” Amber’s bangles and friendship bracelets cascade down her wrist as she drags a hand through her bleached crop. “We need more women in pivotal roles. Smash through the glass ceiling of the existing patriarchy.”

      The rich girl suppresses a yawn. Ignoring Amber, she looks at Phoenix. “Where are you from?”

      Phoenix hesitates. She’s worked out her backstory but toys with the truth. These girls are her flatmates. Why pretend? Why: because the rich girl might judge and find her wanting. But before she can decide how much to say, Amber’s off and running with her own answer.

      “I’m from Chadcombe in Surrey. My dad works for a top accountancy firm in Town. That’s London Town. We call it Town.”

      The rich girl’s face doesn’t move, but Phoenix smiles. Amber must be a Home Counties kid, away from home for the first time. Wholesome, but naïve. Doe eyes in kohl and sweetheart mouth behind purple lipstick. Perhaps she’ll work hard and do her parents proud. Yet Phoenix wonders about her; something desperate in the rapid way she speaks.

      Another girl steps into the kitchen.

      “Hi, welcome.” Amber turns to greet her. “What’s your name?” She steps forward and hugs her, holding her half-drunk coffee behind the girl’s back.

      “Imogen … Imo.” The girl swallows. Despite hunching her shoulders inside her Jack Wills sweatshirt and looking down, she’s striking. Her blonde hair looks natural like Phoenix’s own, but this girl can grow it long. It’s well on the way to her waist and she wears it loose.

      Amber steers her in front of the others as if she’s the hostess. “This is Imogen, but we can say Imo. I’m Amber and this is Phoenix, named after the actor.”

      Phoenix winces. Why do people always assume that about her name? Phoenix is the mythical bird that rises from the ashes. Fire – that’s why her parents chose it. Almost an obsession. She winces again as she remembers watching one of their obsessions turn deadly.

      Imogen holds out her arms for a light hug and Phoenix understands why she wears her hair over her face: her cheeks are raging with acne. She looks anxious and there are dark shadows under her eyes.

      “I think I saw you in the car park, getting out of a blue ice-cream van,” Imo says.

      Phoenix smiles nervously, wondering how many others noticed it.

      “I saw a big van as I drove in,” the rich girl says. “Are your parents caterers?”

      Phoenix hesitates. “That’s right,” she lies.

      Amber completes the introductions for Imo. “And this is Tegan. Have I got that right? A Welsh name?”

      Tegan – so that’s the rich girl’s name and explains her mellifluous accent – doesn’t step forward but waits for Imo to reach her. Even in her designer sandals, Tegan’s the shortest of the four of them, but there’s something ten-feet-tall about her. Phoenix doesn’t expect to be having many kitchen chats with her after today. Their social circles won’t intersect.

      “What are you studying?” Amber asks Imo.

      “German and Business.”

      “I can’t do languages. Except BSL – British Sign Language – which I learnt in a day.” Amber leans in close to the newcomer. “But I know Epic Theatre. You must have heard about that if you’re doing German.”

      “A little …” Imo pauses СКАЧАТЬ