The Art of Keeping Faith (4 page)

Grabbing his arm I gently pull him up so he is level with me again, “I would love that.” Pushing him back onto the bed, I slide myself on top. “I think that maybe I owe you.”

He flashes me a wide smile, white teeth glinting in the half-light. “Why’s that?”

“Just because.”

Then I stop talking altogether and demonstrate just what Lilah McCannon payback is like.

24th September

Pratty Pilchard—as he shall now be known—hates me. It’s a fact.

In my defence, it is not entirely my fault that I have my head on my desk and occasionally letting out an involuntary groan. I know he has heard bad reports from Professor Johnson about my hangovers, but this time my groaning is legit.

I am sick. Like dying of man flu, sick.

Half way through the lecture I am feeling rather drowsy, but that may be a side effect of the hot toddy that Tristan the Arse suggested I have for breakfast. Now I can’t keep my eyes open and Pilchard knows it. Every time I dose off he keeps waking me up, which is bloody rude. “So, Delilah, why do you think blah-blah reacted in this way.” Or “Do you have an alternative opinion to the historian in question here?”

I am bright red, coughing, sneezing and blowing snot bubbles—not of the crying variety.

Ben thinks this is highly amusing, so does Meredith.

Bastards.

Ben, has been trying to look after me, it is a sign of just how sick I am that I have turned down all his offers of spaghetti Bolognese and sex.

I’m going home to bed. I need my duvet, a box of Kleenex, and maybe a tot of scotch.

I am sure the scotch will help; I need to sweat this out or something. It is Sound Box’s first promotional gig on Friday and I can’t miss it. I simply can’t.

26th September

I’m going to miss it.

I look like Frankenstein.

Worse still, Ben has not even asked if I want sex.

Shit.

27th September

“You’re not coming, are you?”

Nuzzling my ear, Ben snuggles himself up closer to me and slides one knee between mine. I have no idea why he wants to be that close; I am covered in dry crusty snot.

“I don’t think so. I’m so sorry,” I mumble back. I am so disappointed not to be going I could cry—in fact, I think I will.

The gig is in Manchester, which is bloody half the country away. I think it’s stupid the gig is in Manchester when they are a London band. Seemingly, Mihraandah, Ben’s record company’s stick insect PA, has organised it and assured everyone it is the best place to start because of the open music scene. Or some crap like that.

I say “What the fuck ever.” But no one is listening to me. Secretly I think she has organised it in Manchester to reduce the chances of me attending and killing her for being photographed with her hands all over my man all summer long.

“It’s okay, there will be plenty more for you to come to. Although I am a little worried you are not going to be there to beat off any female admirers.” He is smirking, I can feel it against my ear.

“Very funny, Chambers.”

“In all seriousness, you can watch the Twitter feed from the comfort of your own bed and it will probably be a far more enjoyable experience.”

What’s a Twitter feed?

“Uh. I don’t want to seem thick or anything, but what’s a Twitter feed?”

Ben chuckles, so obviously I do seem thick. “You know, you have Twitter up and you can watch the photos and tweets come in.”

“I’m not on Twitter,” I say. And I am not, isn’t that something that only famous people do?

“Well then, I suggest you get on their quick before this evening. Now, Lilah, I only have half an hour before I have to get up to leave, just how much better are you feeling?”

I giggle like a schoolgirl as he rolls me over.

“It’s a miraculous recovery.” I give a little gasp as he lifts my hands above my head catching hold of my wrists with one hand while he slides my camisole up with the other.

Ben kisses along my collarbone and shoulder before setting a path down the underside of my arm to my right breast. “Well, I have always had a firm belief in miracles,” he murmurs, lips a little busy.

“Me, too.” I sigh. “Me, too.”

Three hours later

I’m bored.

Boooooored.

Everyone has left for the gig.

I feel like a complete dick for not going. What on earth was I thinking? Who lets a cold stand in the way of an evening like tonight?

Oh, that’s right. Lilah Dickhead McCannon.

Another hour later

Screw it, I may as well get up and do something. I know there is no chance I am going to make it to the gig but I am desperate enough for company that I am willing to go to Uni and my afternoon lecture. I may as well go, I have nothing to lose.

Four hours later

Shit. I wish I had not bothered—good God that was boring.

I am in the library now. Faced with the choice between going home to an empty flat and a night by myself or the nightmare library stairs. I maturely choose the stairs.

I made it to the top floor of the library where the history books are hidden without injury, which is always an added bonus for me.

Right, then. What book am I going to read first? Eeny meeny miny moe …

One hour later

“Hey, Lilah?”

“Mm?”

“Lilah, are you asleep?”

“What? Sorry?” I lift my head to see who is calling me. The voice is not registering, but that does not say very much. The three people I know are not on campus today.

I look at the guy standing in front of me. I do know him. I just can’t remember his name.

“Richard,” he prompts. Oh, yes. Richard from my history course. Ben became mates with him last year.

“Oh, hey, Richard. Sorry, uh, this book was very interesting and then I just, well, you know, fell asleep.”

He nods understandingly.

“So what you doing now? Apart from sleeping in the library?”

“Um. Nothing. Ben has a gig in Manchester but I was too sick to go.” I sound like a complete bloody idiot. Richard just shrugs a little.

“Fancy coming to the bar, a few of the guys are getting together?”

I shouldn’t. I should go home and watch the Twitter feed, but of course Lilah Dickhead McCannon says, “Sure. Why not?”

I pack up my stuff quick sticks, eager to be doing anything other than sleep in the library.

Once outside I turn my feet toward Digby Stuart’s student bar, one of my favourite places, but Richard catches my elbow and turns me in the opposite direction.

“Digby’s that way,” I say gesturing toward the bar.

“It’s closed, Lilah, everything is over at Froebel. Do you mean to say you have not been to the bar yet? We’ve been back two whole weeks!”

Obviously this is very funny, because he chuckles away to himself as we walk to the muddy path that leads to Froebel.

“What about Trev?” I think out loud. Trev is the barman at Digby’s and I am quite fond of the sour old git.

“Don’t worry, he is over there, no doubt wondering why the takings are so low.”

Very funny.

Honestly, I don’t know why people always think I drink too much.

Five pints of Kronenberg later

Damn it.

There are loads of people here. It is crazy loud and I am trying my hardest to watch the Twitter Feed on my phone. I may be looking through one eye.

Ben texts to tell me they are all there and setting up and that he hopes I am feeling better. I have to be honest and tell him I am at the bar.

He calls straight away.

“I knew you would be!” He’s laughing so I guess he is not overly offended.

“How?”

“Because it’s you, it’s Friday and I knew you would be feeling lonely or asleep in the library.”

“Would not!”

“You fell asleep in the library, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Ben laughs down the phone and I clutch mine even tighter, trying to get him as close as possible.

“I’m sorry I did not come.”

“Lilah, it’s fine. It’s about a million degrees in here and we have not even started yet! You would have passed out.”

“Classy.”

“Scene stealing.”

“Okay. I’m watching that Twitter thing.”

“I’ll call you after, be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love you.”

“Love you.”

Another pint of Kronenberg later

“I’ve gotta go.” I groan and push myself out of the sofa I am wedged into. “Ben’s going to be on stage soon and I want to be able to watch properly.”

“Shpoil shport,” Emma, another girl from the history course, slurs in response. I don’t think I am the only one who should be going home.

“Want to go splits on a cab?” I suggest. I have no idea where she lives but the mature grown-up inside me thinks I should make sure she gets home okay.

“Nah, the shites shtill youngs.”

Okay then.

Richard starts getting up with me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Going to make sure you get home okay.”

Laughing, I turn and wave my hand at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, you stay and have another drink, I will be fine.”

“How about you stay and have another drink and then we will all go home together.”

What’s the worst one more pint could do?”

28th September

7.30 a.m.

Holy crap.

My head’s broken. I think I may have a broken arm as well and I can’t find my phone or purse. I don’t remember getting home. I just woke up face down on the hallway floor. The front door was wide open, my keys still in the lock.

Where the hell is my phone?

One hour later

It’s gone. I have none of my belongings, just an empty backpack. No phone. No purse. What I do have is an enormous bruise down the outer edge of my right thigh, an elbow that won’t bend, and what feels like an egg on my head.

How on earth am I going to explain to Ben that not only have I lost all my stuff, but that I did not watch them play their huge gig? All because I am a pisshead.

Ben’s going to hate me.

I think I may hate me.

4.00 p.m.

“Lilah? Lilah?”

Ben has crashed through the front door and I can hear him taking his shoes off in the hallway. It’s a thing of his; he must always take his shoes off. It’s kind of endearing.

I am still trying to think of a good excuse for not watching the Twitter thingy and losing all my stuff. Any excuse other than I’m an outrageous drunk. “Hey, rockstar,” I call back. My voice sounds phony even to my own ears.

He doesn’t notice. He bounds into our room and lands with a bang on the bed before throwing himself at me.

“Jeez I missed you,” he whispers into my neck as he squeezes me so tight I can barely breathe. I feel so disappointed in myself tears start to leak out of the corner of my eyes.

“I missed you, too.”

He leans back a little from where he is holding me tight on our bed to look at me.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, I am just gutted I missed out.”

“I called about a hundred times last night, what on earth were you doing?”

“I lost my phone, Ben. I’m sorry?”

“What do you mean lost it? How drunk were you?”

“Surprisingly not.”
Liar, liar. Pants on fire.
“I left to go home and watch the pics come rolling in, when I got home my phone was gone.”

I should be in hell
.

“Don’t worry, Miranda got it all taped for you.”

That’s nice.

“Thanks.”

Then I really start to cry.

30th September

Liars never prosper. Or, is it cheaters that never prosper? All I know is that I have fucked up bad. Even bad for me, which is saying something.

We are just settling into our seats in the classroom when I spy Richard walking toward me with my phone and purse in his hand. Ben is already in his seat behind mine but I know he has the blues locked on Richard’s approach.

Shit.

This is going to be bad.

“Lilah, you’re alive! How are the bruises?” Richard laughs as he drops my purse and phone on the desk.

“Bruises? What bruises?” I shrug.

“The bruises from where you fell out of the cab and landed on your head?” Richard laughs some more.

This explains the egg and the two-day headache.

“Ooh, I don’t think it was that bad. Was it?” My fingers graze over the bump on my scalp.

“I tried to get out to help you but you just waved the cabbie off and crawled down your front path on your hands and knees.” He laughs some more.

This explains the very sore elbow.

“Guess it did not help that you fell over on the dance floor twice either.” He continues.

This explains the bruise on my thigh. Someone kill me now.

“Mm, guess not.” I slide a hand down my sore thigh. Yep, it’s still sore.