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‘Really? Didn’t you go there, Georgia?’
‘I don’t remember you,’ she says, her top lip curling.
‘I only did a couple of subjects.’
There is silence. It’s as though we’ve run out of small talk.
Liam returns. He hands me a Coke and takes a seat next to Georgia, who is sitting close to him, staking out her territory like a stray dog. I take a sip and enjoy the sugar hit. Liam downs half his pint in a few gulps. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
Thankfully, the conversation switches to something else. They’re talking about university and some band that I’ve never heard of, which is coming to the campus. Tiger boy mentions Glastonbury and they swap stories about camping at the festival and what bands ‘killed’. He tells a lie about hooking up with a girl the others seem to know. Georgia talks about going to the Mad Cool festival in Spain and seeing Metallica and Imagine Dragons.
‘What sort of music do you like?’ asks Liam.
It takes me a moment to realise that he’s talking to me. My mind goes blank. I can’t think of a single band, let alone a song. Instead, I repeat the bands that Georgia just named.
‘How original,’ she says.
‘Anything indie?’ asks Liam.
‘Yeah.’
‘Have you heard of the Pigeon Detectives?’
‘No.’
‘They’re ancient,’ says the smoker.
‘Liam is in a band,’ says Georgia.
‘I used to be,’ he says.
‘I thought you were getting back together,’ she says. ‘You said I could be a backing singer.’
‘If the others agree,’ says Liam.
He’s lying. He doesn’t think she can sing.
Georgia has pressed her thigh against his leg. I feel myself growing jealous, even though I don’t want to care. My cheeks are hot. I hold my glass against my face, enjoying the cold, but I worry about sweat rings under my arms, or worse my boobs. The others are discussing some show on Netflix I haven’t seen. The dappled shade from the trees is falling across Liam’s face. He’s beautiful and he knows it.
‘I have to go,’ I blurt.
‘But you’ve only just got here,’ he says.
‘I have something on.’
‘Now?’
He follows me through the pub, trying to convince me to stay. We’re on the pavement outside. He asks for my phone number. I remember the first three numbers and then nothing.
‘Give me your phone,’ he says.
He takes it from me and holds it up to my face to open the screen, before typing a message to himself, which pings on his phone. ‘I’ll call you,’ he says.
Then he kisses me. I let him. His lips are soft. His hand is on my waist. He draws away and I tell myself to breathe. I touch my lips with my fingers.
‘Sorry about Georgia, she can be a bitch sometimes.’
‘Have you slept with her?’
