Page 77 of How We Began

Dad has already sent estate agents around. I mean I know I told him to sell it quick, but really… What a bloody wanker.

I spoke to Meredith the night before her procedure and she told me she was scared they had made a mistake and that the baby might have still been there. I had no idea how to respond at first but then I decided that honesty was the best policy. It seems honesty is always the best policy, it just takes a considerable level of maturity and decency to say the right thing. These are life skills I’m learning fast.

“Babe, we all saw that scan. There was no baby anymore. I’m sorry.” This was met with silence followed by her saying in a small voice, “I know that, I just keep dreaming about it.”

“I know. I keep dreaming about it, too.”

She then assured me that as soon as the operation was over she’d start getting her arse in gear. She almost sounded upbeat, which is good.

Not so good is the fact that I’ll then also have to get my arse in gear. This’ll mean going dry again, giving up the ciggies, going back to the gym and trying to stop having outrageously awesome sex with Ben at every available opportunity.

That’s going to be a complete bitch.

Okay, tomorrow is Saturday. I’ll hit the gym hard and start getting all the nasties out of my system.

I wonder what Meredith has to tell me. The suspense is killing me.

Me: What is it? I want to know now.

Meredith: Be patient! Will be with you in half an hour.

Me: Just tell me, for goodness sake.

Meredith: Get Ben and wait for us at Digby bar.

Ah, Digby bar! The student union bar on campus. My new favourite place as it is so cheap and I no longer have any money due to giving it all to the ‘new home fund.’

Getting up and giving my dead legs a shake, I went to find Ben.

“Wanna come and play?” I asked, poking my head around Ben's door.

I’ve stopped knocking. Seems kind of pointless when we practically live in each other’s rooms on a casual basis. Well, when we are not ignoring each other, that is.

He was sitting on his bed with his guitar, biro in mouth and notebook laid to one side. I knew this look. It meant he was trying to come up with new lyrics or new tunes, or a combination of both. He waved a hand at me and I knew he was in the middle of something so I sat on the floor and waited for him to finish, completely fascinated.

He sat there dead still just staring off into space and then suddenly spent a frantic couple of minutes scribbling stuff down. Then he went back to staring again.

It gave me a good chance to ogle him, a pastime of which I’ll never get bored. I don’t think he has the faintest clue what he looks like. In fact, sometimes I wonder what he sees when he looks in the mirror. He was sporting one of my favourite outfits: sweat pants and a holey stretched-out old T-shirt. It might seem crazy liking him best in what could effectively be pyjamas, but when he’s casual like that, I find him practically irresistible, most especially when he’s padding around barefoot all dishevelled and artistic.

“Are you drooling?” he joked and I made a show of feeling the floor around me.

“No, should I be?”

“You looked a bit glazed then.”

“Oh, whatever, big head.”

“Better believe it, babe.”

We both started to giggle. ‘Babe’ is not a word he should use. It makes him sound outrageously gay.

“Come on,” I said. “Meredith wants to meet us in the bar, and before you ask, I’ve no idea why. It’s a secret surprise or something.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I’ll just get changed. Don’t think I should go out in my pyjamas.”

He shot me a wink, and then made a show of slowly stripping in front of me.

Okay, maybe he is slightly aware of what he looks like, to me, anyway.