“Ohh, Nate,” I mutter.
“I just… I think I thought maybe he’d get back with me, that there could still be hope, but when I see those posts … he looks so happy. And I’m… I don’t know what I am, Jack, but happy I definitely ain’t.”
I turn on to my side to face him too. He chuckles. “What?” I say.
“Now it really feels like a sleepover, like when we were younger. Whispering late at night.”
I smile. “Happy days.”
He sighs. “Yeah. Once.”
“We’ll get your happy back, pumpkin.”
He laughs again. “You’re such a dick.” There’s a bit more silence. “Um … Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it possible to have a bit more duvet?”
I sigh. “How much more duvet do you need, Nate?”
“OK, it’s just … don’t laugh, but I have this thing, this… It probably sounds stupid, but I always imagine there’s a monster in the bedroom hungry for limbs, and if any part of me is exposed and not under the duvet, the creature will eat them. So. My left arm, foot and lower leg are all currently in peril.”
“What?”
“You may as well know because I won’t sleep otherwise.”
“But this savage human-flesh-eating beast is fooled if the limbs it seeks are under a relatively thin piece of material?”
“I didn’t say it was logical.”
I sweep more duvet over to his side. “Ridiculous.”
Nate makes a contented little noise and rolls on to his back. “Jack?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“I’m sorry about … the stuff in year nine.”
I wait to see if there’s any more, like some actual explanation of why he totally stopped speaking to me, but he just sighs deeply, and there clearly isn’t. Still, it’s better than nothing. “No worries,” I mutter.
More silence. I think about Dylan. I think about the fact that Nate misses Tariq so badly and I don’t miss Dylan in the same way. I’ve barely even thought about Dylan in that sense. I’ve just been annoyed, felt competitive, wanted some kind of revenge, I don’t know. I thought Dylan was my everything. I said he was in several Instagram posts. Maybe he’s not.
Nate’s making little sniffing noises. Poor Nate. This whole thing has really messed him up. I don’t want him to have the worst summer ever – we’re sixteen, we’ve just finished our GCSEs, I know because everyone tells you, life doesn’t get much better than this.
“Nate? Do you want a hug?”
He hesitates. “I’m good, thanks,” he mutters finally.
I’m woken by the sound of a delivery truck reversing into a service bay somewhere under our window. It doesn’t seem to bother Nate, who remains asleep, a look of blissful contentment on his face. I reach for my phone.
A text from Mum: Hope you’re not dead. Don’t forget about Elliot – he’s doing some talent show near godforsaken Stoke-on-Trent if you happen to be passing? Love you, blah, blah.
Elliot. It gives me an idea. Nate and Elliot have met before, years ago, when we were ten, but they got on really well. Plus, Elliot’s a laugh, which might be good for Nate, and I’m sure whatever the talent show act is he’s doing will be … well, even if it’s crap, it’ll be funny, so it’s win-win as far as I’m concerned.
I tap on Instagram and am instantly irritated by Dylan and Tariq’s picture of them enjoying some sort of luxury breakfast in a fabulous hotel they clearly booked into after their VIP-gig-thing last night. Fresh orange juice, croissant, a plate of fresh fruit and two steaming mugs of coffee – looks divine. Also looks fake AF since Dylan loathes coffee, but that’s not the point. It’s getting a lot of love. They’ve done that thing where they’ve asked a question at the end of the post: What’s your favourite breakfast? Unbelievably, people have replied: French toast, Muffins, Full English! – it’s so mind-numbingly banal. I mull my options. I haven’t braved the breakfast buffet here yet, but I’m reasonably confident it’s going to be hard to compete with them on this. But then, the camera can be very selective about what it sees.
I hop out of bed, have a quick shower and pull on some clothes. Nate is asleep throughout all of this – he’s clearly not going to be breakfasting with me, but maybe if the old grump gets more sleep, he’ll be a bit happier.
“Farewell, my prince,” I whisper to him. “Sweet dreams, my handsome, beautiful boy!”
“Piss off, Jack,” Nate mutters.
I’m unclear whether he heard that, or whether he’s just dreaming, because either is a possibility. Nate makes a little snuffling noise and turns over.
“Tariq,” he mutters. “Puffle.”
And that settles it. Mission: Distract Nate from Obsessing About Tariq must begin in earnest.
I complete my look by wrapping a black pashmina around myself, because part of me does feel I need to recognize I too have lost a boyfriend, and I should, technically, enter a period of mourning – the black pashmina giving just the right hint of glamorous widow who’s a bit sad but totally up for a new man, should one come along.
*
The breakfast buffet, like every breakfast buffet I’ve ever been to, is an absolute disgrace. The two members of staff in charge of the fiasco are run ragged, simultaneously trying to clear stacks of dirty crockery, show people to tables and refill serving dishes. Ninety per cent of the breakfast guests appear to be aggressively heterosexual men, many wearing branded polo shirts for things like lift maintenance companies, and apparently with a very low tolerance threshold for waiting in line while a fabulous gay teenager, in a beautiful, if melancholy, pashmina (and who maybe has just a hint of eyeliner on) tries to select a fried egg that’s actually still runny for his plate.
I don’t want a repeat of the incident at the campsite canteen, so I fill my plate as quickly as I can: grey boiled mushrooms, an entirely superfluous tomato (gross, but a nice
