Don’t You Forget About Me(96)

A ripple of laughter. And breathe.

‘I’ve never told anyone about my worst experience at school. Not my best friend, not my sister, not my mum, not any boyfriend, then or since. Not the counsellor I saw in my twenties. But I’m going to talk about it now.’

I glance up. I shiver when I see Lucas, standing against a wall by the bar, eyes fixed upon me with intensity. I knew he might watch, knowing the subject matter, but the confirmation gives me a thunderclap of the heart. I have no time, no space, to be more terrified.

‘It was the night of the sixth form leavers prom. I went to that do on a cloud of excitement and hormones, shoe-horned into a red dress I’d saved up for. It cost ￡55, which seemed a fortune at the time. I was reeking of vanilla and tonka beans, whatever they are, having snuck three large squirts from a perfume bottle in my older sister Esther’s bedroom. And I had Durex in my handbag, hidden in the zipped compartment. I bought them in a pub vending machine, and had never felt so grown up in my life. I hadn’t told anyone but I’d started seeing a boy, another pupil. We planned to stay together after the party, for the first time.’

I glance up at riveted faces and gather myself, careful not to look at Lucas this time. I see Jo, her eyes glued to me, frowning. Talking about condoms feels so personal that I question whether I should be doing this. Too late. I turn the page.

‘I wasn’t popular, exactly, at school. I was popular enough. I didn’t get picked last for netball, I wasn’t bullied, the cool kids knew my name. I felt as if popularity was something you had to work for, and rigorously maintain, and I spent every day aware of it. I clowned around when I thought it would win me approval, I didn’t always admit to knowing the answer in lessons. I made sure if I got A grades, I didn’t show off. I knew who not to cross. And I knew who I had to impress.

‘At the party, at first, it felt as if those years of striving were paying off. The most popular boy at school told me I was “fit”. He was That Boy – I’m guessing every school year has one – who carries himself like he’s Jim Morrison. He is revered and desired. His word is God. When it came to girls, he only consorted with queen bees, the handful deemed attractive enough to be worthy of him. I didn’t fancy him, and I didn’t expect him to fancy me in a million years, but I wanted his approval, above all others. Everyone did. His opinion of you could make you, or break you.

‘And he’d complimented me. This was unprecedented. This was a coronation. It was like being in a daytime soap, and being nominated for an Oscar. Then he added: You look like a high-class prozzy. “That’s your thing, right?” Everyone laughed. I laughed too, to show I wasn’t stuck up. If I laughed, I was part of the joke, not the object of it. I wanted to believe he meant I looked seductive, when in fact I knew he wasn’t paying me a compliment at all. He was making it clear I was viewed as a girl hopeful for that sort of attention, and that I was actively inviting being treated a certain way. He was saying you’re cheap, and I was enthusiastically agreeing.

‘He told me he wanted to “show me something”. When I think back to that moment, much as I wanted to believe me and this boy were friends, I knew I was being mocked. Remember those times in life, when you sense everyone is on something, and you’re not? The holding of breath while they see if you fall for it, the murmuring, the giggling they catch in the throat, so they don’t ruin the prank? It was that. Nevertheless, I said “Ooh OK …” with a stupid grin on my face, wanting them to accept me, wanting to be game Georgina who was up for anything and so, so likeable. Above all, be likeable. Never stop smiling. Keep smiling, laugh along, and you can’t go far wrong.’

The room is so still, I could hear a pin drop. I continue.

‘Onlookers outside his gang watched in envy and wonder as he led me away from the party, by the hand. A huge public gesture, being prepared to be seen with me like that. I was being anointed by the king. Georgina Horspool just got a major promotion. If he wants her, then she’s made it.’

I shuffle and turn my sheets of paper and in the now sepulchral silence, the rustling sounds painfully loud in the microphone.

‘The Boy took me into the disabled toilet. He locked us in before I really comprehended where we were, and put himself between me and the door, a smirk on his face. Suddenly, I knew I was out of my depth.

‘“What are we doing here?” I said. He pushed me roughly against the wall and tried to kiss me. I pushed him away and tried to laugh it off. I heard the noise as if it had come from someone else, strangled and false-sounding.

‘“What’s the problem?” he said. “You like me.”

‘It wasn’t a question.

‘“I do like you,” I said, quickly, because I wanted this boy to think that, and I wanted him to like me.

‘“Then what’s the problem?” he said.

‘He pushed his mouth against mine again. It was sloppy and aggressive, teeth first, and tasted of Strongbow. But he was That Boy. This was an extraordinary honour, if he wanted to kiss me. So how could I stop him?

‘Nothing in my life so far had equipped me for this. School teachers, my parents, getting on and fitting in – my experiences had taught me nice girls say yes please and thank you, we oblige people, we meet their expectations, we don’t hurt feelings or offend. We don’t say no. This boy wanted something from me, so I should reciprocate.’