The Girl I Used to Be(68)

Jack hadn’t waited for a reply. He sent another message: Time’s gone so fast. You and Lauren look great in your photos. I was badly in need of a makeover!

I laughed, relieved. It seemed he didn’t want to discuss it any more than I did. If you knew the effort we went to every single day. I sent that message, then steeled myself and asked: Jack, do you have photos from the party? The party when we got our results?

I held my breath.

Are you sure you want to look at them? I thought it was better I didn’t put them up here.

I hesitated. I knew what he meant and didn’t want to explain myself. It’s OK. I do want to look at them. That was a great night until it all went wrong. I wanted to see what I could remember about it.

There was a five-minute wait then, and I thought maybe he’d gone to bed without logging off, but then he replied:

Yeah, I have loads from that night. I don’t have time to go through them and sort out which you might want. I’ll stick them on Dropbox if you like.

That would be great, I replied quickly, relieved that I wouldn’t have to face comments from old friends who were there. Thanks so much.

I sent him my e-mail address and he replied, Thanks, doing it now.

True to his word, in just a short time I received an e-mail telling me I could view the photos. I had to steel myself to open the album once they were ready to view. I’d never seen any photos from the party. Photos from other events were always posted on the noticeboard in the common room at school, but of course we’d finished school by the time of the party. Besides, I didn’t speak to anyone apart from Lauren in those weeks before we went to university. After a while I saw a therapist every week for a few months, but by the time I’d been with Joe for a while, I’d dealt with that period of my life. I thought I’d been successful, but now when I opened the album it all came back to me.

The first photos showed everyone arriving at the party at about seven o’clock, when the sun was low. There was a driveway up to the house, with tall trees either side; the road beyond was hidden from the house. It had been a long, hot summer and we were all tanned from the summer break. I looked at the photos and once again realized how young we looked, and how happy and relaxed we were. We’d all been together for those last two years, though some had come there from other schools, and others, like Lauren and me, had been friends since we were very young. Most of us arrived at the party at the same time; when I got there with Lauren and Tom, there were dozens of cars and taxis dropping students off. Everyone carried bottles of wine or crates of beer. There were shouted warnings from parents as they left, but nobody thought the night would be anything other than a fantastic end to our school days.

The photos then moved into the house, where huge bowls of punch and bottles of beer filled the kitchen table and countertops. There were photos of people I hadn’t thought of for years, happy and animated, talking to friends and drinking. Everyone was drinking.

And then I scrolled down and saw a photo of myself, holding a huge glass that was half empty. I knew it would have been full just minutes earlier. That was the thing we all did then. There was no finesse, no tasting what we were drinking. The goal was to get drunk.

Lauren was there, too, wearing her little white dress with pink flowers. Mine was identical, though the colors were reversed, with white flowers on a dark pink background. We looked like mirror images and were so pleased with ourselves. We’d been shopping that day for our clothes and had hit the shops early so that we had time to get ready all afternoon.

Scrolling through again, I saw my first photo of Alex at the party. He was in the kitchen and the clock was behind him. It was just after eight P.M. and through the window I could see it was dusk. His face was flushed, his eyes bright. He looked just as he had when I’d seen him play football or when we’d bump into him in a pub in town. We didn’t know him, didn’t know him to talk to, that is. We couldn’t have said he was a friend, except that on that night, of course, everyone was our friend. It was the last time we’d see most of our friends from school, and besides, we were drunk. But even on the night of the party we didn’t talk to him, though we were happy to stand and listen if he was talking to his friends. We’d seen him as in a different league from us. Looking at the photos again, I could see how hard we were on ourselves.

The next photos were outside, where the fairy lights lit up the trees and the barbecue could be seen smoking in the distance. I don’t remember eating anything that night, but every time I smelled a barbecue for years afterward I’d feel ill. I’d been able to smell it in the bedroom. As the night grew darker you could see from our flushed cheeks and stupid grins that we were getting more and more drunk.

I paused and closed my eyes. There were only a few more albums to go. Soon I would see what was happening while I was upstairs. Asleep.

I heard Joe stir behind me and pushed my iPad under the quilt. He moved farther into the middle of the bed, nudging me over. I tried to move him back, but he grunted and turned over. I held the iPad over the edge of the bed, hoping he wouldn’t wake and see it, but the drink had seen to it that he wouldn’t. He flung his arm over mine, trapping me under it.

I clicked the Off button on the iPad and dropped it gently onto the floor. I was about to settle down to sleep, but a glance at the clock told me it was after one A.M. I groaned. I’d have to be up at seven. I snuggled down in bed, pressing my back against Joe. Or maybe half past. I reached for my phone to change the alarm and changed my mind when I saw a text from Rachel.