Page 7 of How We Began

Another problem with Ben is that he is always about, everywhere I go, I see him. If I’m walking one way across campus, I can guarantee he’ll be passing in the opposite direction. If I’m going up the library stairs, he will come down (which is embarrassing because I am normally hyperventilating).

He smokes and I’m known for the odd drunken white wine induced nicotine stick, although I’m not addicted and promise never to be. So I see him outside, and he looks at me and I look at him. But I have nothing to say and he doesn’t say anything either, so I just inspect the flowers, or try to ignore the Geese terrorising the grassy areas.

I don’t know why I’ve got this thing going on. I’m sure he’s perfectly lovely, but he just sets me all off kilter like my legs don’t want to hold me up straight.

Ben came out of the bathroom wrapped only in a damp towel earlier (again, I swear he does it on purpose), which caused me to drop my plate of Ryvita all over the floor. He smirked as he walked past me into his room, wafting whatever manly shower gel he uses into my nostrils. Citrus and spice.

“Lilah…” He spoke to me, said my name. I had to answer back. Had to say something… anything.

Nothing.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged looking seriously fit. All done up with a dark shirt, jeans, and hair artfully tousled, he gave us a wink as he sauntered to the front door. Meredith and I were in the lounge area on the ridiculously uncomfortable foam chairs they’ve put in there as easy chairs. Easy my arse. Japanese war torture I’d say. Not that I think the Japanese torture anyone anymore… do they? God. Call myself a history student.

Anyway, there we were as he swept out of the door. “Wonder who he’s got a date with?” Meredith asked.

My stomach dropped into a painful pretzel twist.

“I hope it’s not Barbie.” I reached for the bottle of corner shop Pinot. “Really hope it’s not her.”

22nd September

Ben’s date must have gone really well because he’s not come home. Not that I’m listening for him.

I am.

No. I’m not.

I’m just sitting on my bed wasting away my Saturday, with my ear super glued to the wall. I don’t want to go into town in case I see Tristan. It’s a slim chance, but one I’m not willing to take. I really don’t think that seeing my perfect brother will do good things for my state of mind.

I’m trying to remember when I started hating my twin so much. I think it was around the time when we were fifteen and he started shagging all my school friends. Thinking about it, the mistake my parents made with Tristan, was that as soon as he was ejected from Mum’s womb they stuck a silver spoon in his mouth, wrapped him up in fine lace, and then proclaimed to the world that their golden child had arrived.

A bit like the second coming of the Messiah—but in Surrey.

I slipped out two minutes later but he’d already stolen all the glory. Every scrap.

Sod it, I’m going to take a bottle of wine to Meredith’s room and see if she wants to watch Eastenders on catch-up.

* * *

(8.00 p.m.)

Wine gone. Going to town.

* * *

(11.30 p.m.)

#wineisbad

Meredith didn’t pull her punches. She just came right out with what was on her mind.

“So, Ben?”

“Yes?”

“Well, you like him, right?”

“What on earth makes you think that?”