Joanne Sefton Book 2. Joanne Sefton

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СКАЧАТЬ that had been four hours ago, and she was beginning to realise that she must still have been drunk. It had all unravelled when she’d gone to the buttery for a late breakfast and the sight of congealed fried eggs on the hotplate had prompted a green-gilled dash to the ladies. She had emerged to a posse of ‘concerned’ students waving toothpaste in her face and making barfing noises that emphatically failed to match the horrific sounds she’d been producing in the toilets minutes earlier.

      Hoping that some fresh air might help, she’d decided to leave college and found herself wandering along the Backs. An autumn mist hung heavy over the meadows, pierced by the stately gothic rooflines of the oldest and most prestigious colleges, as well as by the looming trees burnished with their autumn colours. Unfortunately, as she walked the hangover set in with increasing vengeance. She found a bench and slumped down, staring into the water and trying to work out whether she was hoping to be sick again or hoping not to.

      It would have been nice, she considered, with more than a touch of self-pity, to have a friend with her now. Before going down to the buttery, she’d tried Alex’s room and then, more reluctantly, gone to knock on Misty’s door too, but there was no answer from either of them. It was always possible that Alex was still comatose, but generally she was an early riser, even after a night on the tiles. Karen thought it was more likely that she and Misty were off doing something together. The uncomfortable twisting in her stomach intensified at the thought.

      Envy shot through Karen’s friendships like the streamers of green weed fluttering in the water at her feet. It had always been that way. It wasn’t edifying, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t shake a profound dissatisfaction with her life that seemed so predictable and pedestrian. She envied Misty’s authenticity: the way she could speak about music or politics and everyone would listen and nod appreciatively, because she came from the north and her dad worked in a factory and had even been the dole. On top of that, Misty was attractive, in that sort of disarming way that people didn’t notice at first, and then couldn’t help noticing. And there was an easy inclusivity about her company; without trying, she would draw a crowd around her in the college bar or in the buttery. Compared to Alex, though, even Misty seemed dull and pedestrian.

      Karen and Misty revolved around Alex like two planets around a dazzling sun. While Karen’s attitude to Misty veered between envy, annoyance and vague tolerance, she adored Alex and would spend every minute in her company if she could. She was never happier than when they strolled along to lectures, arms linked, heads bent together in giggling confidence, Misty safely packed off for a day in the lab. But even underlying the adoration, there was jealousy.

      Because she and Alex read the same subject, Karen saw first-hand how clever Alex was. She grasped ideas instantly – and had the deftness to play and juggle with them – whilst for Karen they remained slippery and difficult to keep hold of, or else altogether out of reach. This wouldn’t be so bad, if Alex was just a brain on legs, but she was anything but. She was beautiful too – much more obviously than Misty. She had the assurance and polish of a privileged upbringing, but one that shared none of the staidness of Karen’s.

      Everyone adored Alex’s bohemian academic parents – rumour had it her dad had inherited a fortune, along with a title he disdained using. Her mum was a refugee from Franco’s regime in Spain. Their party last term had been the talk of the whole university. In the future, Alex and Misty would be people who mattered. Karen would just be someone who’d gone to university with them. Probably an admissions mistake. It wasn’t hard to imagine that more than one Karen Cooper might have applied.

      ‘There you are!’

      Alex’s voice jolted her out of her reverie.

      ‘Alex. Misty. How did you know where to find me?’

      ‘Sara Neves told us about you puking in the buttery. She said you’d headed out in this direction.’

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