tonight. I’ve gotta go. Another time, sure.”
Well, good. Didn’t that totally put the finishing touch on a perfect day?
Ollie watched the lean figure jog up and out of sight.
There was an email waiting for him when he got back.
But he watched a few dog cyst videos before he felt sufficiently calm enough to tackle it. He’d tried cutting once at school but hadn’t liked it very much. Watching large sebaceous cysts being excavated filled the void that self-harm had left. He clicked the email open, fortified by a hobnob.
Dear Ollie,
Very much looking forward to seeing you next week. Perhaps we can chat about your progress on the novel? I’m bringing an old acquaintance of yours, Leticia Cameron. Do you remember Letty? She was at Cambridge with you. She did Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic. So quite useful really. She had a seminar with you once or twice apparently. Anyway, she’s working on her first novel now, so you’ll have lots to talk about. By the way, I never thanked you for the flowers you sent for Bea. I was very touched.
Ronnie has your note, as per your request.
Has she told you the news about Oliver?
I’d better not. Hell hath no fury and all that.
Armour up for Jonas and Luke. They’re going through a phase.
Yours with fondness and anticipation for our catch up,
David
And his day just continued to get better and better.
Still at least the catch up wouldn’t take very long. Jonas and Luke were always going through a phase and, no, he didn’t remember someone called Letty. He’d had something else on his mind during seminars at Cambridge. Someone . She was probably confusing him with Oliver. A lot of people did. Of course, Oliver had also gone to Cambridge. He’d been the most brilliant undergraduate in the English Department. Funny old thing that. A decade of drug use and fornicating with old men hadn’t dulled Oliver’s formidable brain apparently.
Ollie could genuinely not work out which came first—his life or Oliver’s. Had Ollie told Ronnie he was applying for Cambridge and then Oliver in book six went for a look around in the upper sixth and had a brief but highly charged liaison with the professor of modern linguists? Or had he been aware of his mother’s plans to send his nemesis to the finest educational establishment in the world and could not bear to come second to a better version of himself?
And, in the long run, did it really matter?
Maybe Oliver could fucking write his novel.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ollie woke at seven with a headache and a stomach full of acid. He sometimes pictured the sugar and alcohol mixing in his belly and finding new and potent ways to kill him slowly. But everyone always said it was good to eat something when you drank. They never said a whole packet of hobnobs didn’t count as something.
He staggered to the bathroom and contemplated making himself sick but didn’t want to face bad breath and red eyes. Instead, he took four painkillers and forced himself to drink a couple of large glasses of milk. It was slightly off, so it needed using up before he left. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone. He intended to only fulfil his mother’s instructions, say hello, and leave. But history told him this was a vain hope.
By nine, he was feeling much better and contemplated eating but there was nothing very much to have. It was going to be a long drive.
By eleven, he was packed and heading up to Skint’s house.
Army-disciplined, the other man was waiting for him, looking fresh and edible. Ollie squashed this last unfortunate thought and indicated the bag by the man’s feet and then the boot of the car.
Skint locked his door and hefted his rucksack over to the car.
After stowing it safely next to Ollie’s bags, he came around to the driver’s door and held out his hand, apparently for the keys. “I’ll drive if you like.”
“Why?”
Skint hesitated then admitted, “Because you look like shit, and before you jump down my throat, that’s not
Well, good. Didn’t that totally put the finishing touch on a perfect day?
Ollie watched the lean figure jog up and out of sight.
There was an email waiting for him when he got back.
But he watched a few dog cyst videos before he felt sufficiently calm enough to tackle it. He’d tried cutting once at school but hadn’t liked it very much. Watching large sebaceous cysts being excavated filled the void that self-harm had left. He clicked the email open, fortified by a hobnob.
Dear Ollie,
Very much looking forward to seeing you next week. Perhaps we can chat about your progress on the novel? I’m bringing an old acquaintance of yours, Leticia Cameron. Do you remember Letty? She was at Cambridge with you. She did Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic. So quite useful really. She had a seminar with you once or twice apparently. Anyway, she’s working on her first novel now, so you’ll have lots to talk about. By the way, I never thanked you for the flowers you sent for Bea. I was very touched.
Ronnie has your note, as per your request.
Has she told you the news about Oliver?
I’d better not. Hell hath no fury and all that.
Armour up for Jonas and Luke. They’re going through a phase.
Yours with fondness and anticipation for our catch up,
David
And his day just continued to get better and better.
Still at least the catch up wouldn’t take very long. Jonas and Luke were always going through a phase and, no, he didn’t remember someone called Letty. He’d had something else on his mind during seminars at Cambridge. Someone . She was probably confusing him with Oliver. A lot of people did. Of course, Oliver had also gone to Cambridge. He’d been the most brilliant undergraduate in the English Department. Funny old thing that. A decade of drug use and fornicating with old men hadn’t dulled Oliver’s formidable brain apparently.
Ollie could genuinely not work out which came first—his life or Oliver’s. Had Ollie told Ronnie he was applying for Cambridge and then Oliver in book six went for a look around in the upper sixth and had a brief but highly charged liaison with the professor of modern linguists? Or had he been aware of his mother’s plans to send his nemesis to the finest educational establishment in the world and could not bear to come second to a better version of himself?
And, in the long run, did it really matter?
Maybe Oliver could fucking write his novel.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ollie woke at seven with a headache and a stomach full of acid. He sometimes pictured the sugar and alcohol mixing in his belly and finding new and potent ways to kill him slowly. But everyone always said it was good to eat something when you drank. They never said a whole packet of hobnobs didn’t count as something.
He staggered to the bathroom and contemplated making himself sick but didn’t want to face bad breath and red eyes. Instead, he took four painkillers and forced himself to drink a couple of large glasses of milk. It was slightly off, so it needed using up before he left. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone. He intended to only fulfil his mother’s instructions, say hello, and leave. But history told him this was a vain hope.
By nine, he was feeling much better and contemplated eating but there was nothing very much to have. It was going to be a long drive.
By eleven, he was packed and heading up to Skint’s house.
Army-disciplined, the other man was waiting for him, looking fresh and edible. Ollie squashed this last unfortunate thought and indicated the bag by the man’s feet and then the boot of the car.
Skint locked his door and hefted his rucksack over to the car.
After stowing it safely next to Ollie’s bags, he came around to the driver’s door and held out his hand, apparently for the keys. “I’ll drive if you like.”
“Why?”
Skint hesitated then admitted, “Because you look like shit, and before you jump down my throat, that’s not
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