The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

Oh God, Stu! I could literally kill you right now!

Libby’s brought her website up on her phone and Stu and Leo are both looming over her, gazing at the screen, enthusing about the quality of her paintings – and rightfully so. She’s a good artist and a nice person and I wish her all the opportunities she could ever want. But just not here. I don’t want her here. Because watching her familiar face, her careful smile, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she uses her hands to express what she’s saying – too much, too fast – the way she laughs – halfway between gay abandon and self-conscious restraint – I realise with a sinking heart that today isn’t going to help me move on. Not in the way I wanted. Yes, I feel forgiven. Yes, I feel freed from the guilt of the hurt I caused. But I don’t feel freed from my lingering feelings for her. If anything, I’m reminded more clearly than ever of exactly what I lost.

“Call me!” Stu orders Libby, heading to the bar to serve a couple who have just walked in.

Leo pats Libby so hard on the shoulder that she has to steady herself, and then he heads back to the pool table. “Jay, tell your friend we’re not taking no for an answer!” he booms.

My friend?

Yes, maybe that’s what she could be after all. My friend. We’re adults, and whatever I feel can be handled in an adult fashion. So she might be around for a while. So I might end up seeing a bit more of her. Okay, that’s fine. It might even be nice. Perhaps getting to know her again properly will help whatever I feel to subside.

“Well, maybe I’ll be seeing you again after all,” shrugs Libby, turning to me with a smile that suggests she’s both excited and a little overwhelmed by what’s just happened.

“Maybe,” I shrug back, as if it wouldn’t faze me either way.

Friends. I could do that. What could be so hard about being friends?

Chapter 10

Friends

I remember Max staring at the screen and shouting: “Boom, and you’re dead! Again.”

He pushed his glasses up his nose and studied the score. “Two hundred and eighty-five points to… er… twelve.”

Tom, who was lying on his bed flicking through a football magazine, gave a snort of laughter.

Michael put the controls down next to him on the rug with a defeated sigh.

“May I please use your bathroom?” he asked Tom, politely.

“May you?” repeated Tom, without looking up. “Yes, you may, sir. Go hither to the end of the landing and turneth right into the room with a bog in it.”

Michael stood up and carefully picked his way through Tom’s mess of a bedroom.

“You don’t have to take the piss,” I told Tom as soon as Michael had left the room.

“I wasn’t.”

“May I take the piss?” asked Max, and Tom laughed.

“What’s wrong with may I?” I asked.

“Why doesn’t he just say can I, like everyone else?” frowned Tom.

“Because can I means am I able to,” I retorted, “and I’m pretty sure Michael is able to use your toilet. He was asking permission—”

“Oh, shut up,” groaned Tom. “What else is that posh school teaching you? How to hold a teacup with your pinkie finger in the air?”

“How to curtsy?” asked Max, already loading up the next game.

“How to hold a spiffing garden party?”

“How to eat a cucumber sandwich?”

“No one needs to be taught how to eat a cucumber sandwich, you moron,” I tutted.

“Max doesn’t need to be taught how to eat anything,” quipped Tom, puffing his cheeks out.

Max, taking the joke in good humour as always, snorted like a pig.

“So, what do you think of him anyway?” I asked, tentatively.

“Well, he’s crap at video games,” said Max.

“And his hair’s a bit prissy,” said Tom.

“He’s a bit quiet.”

“And his clothes are a bit stiff.”

“And he looks like he needs some sunlight.”

“And some fun.”

“And he says may I.”

“But apart from that,” said Max, “he’s fine.”

Tom shrugged. “’S’all right.”

“He’s just a bit shy around new people,” I said. “Be nice. He’s cool. Really. He’s funny.”

Max and Tom exchanged doubting looks.

“Really,” I insisted, “you’ll like him once you get to know him.”

I knew they weren’t convinced, but I really wanted them to all get on. Michael and I had become good friends over the past few months, spending nearly all our time together at school, and I didn’t want to keep my two worlds separate anymore.

Michael sheepishly entered the room again and we all fell silent for what felt like an awkwardly long time. Sitting on the bed next to Tom, I pinched his toes hard through his socks and he shot me an angry look. I glared at him and nodded towards Michael, urging him to make conversation. He responded by delivering a discreet kick to my thigh.

“So, Michael, what football team do you support?” chirped up Max.

Thankfully, you could always count on Max to be friendly. He had an ability to put anyone at ease. The fact that he was pudgy and wore glasses could have made him something of a social pariah, but in fact his warm personality and self-deprecating wit made him hugely popular with boys and girls alike.

“I don’t really follow football,” said Michael, sitting down on the rug again next to Max.

Max and Tom looked at each other, and then at me, in silent confusion. Whatever our ability, whichever team we supported, we spent a lot of time talking about football.

“We don’t do football at St John’s,” I reminded them.

Tom raised his eyebrows and shook his head despairingly. He thought St John’s sounded stupid and took every opportunity to make this clear to me. In many ways, I agreed with him. I still couldn’t get used to all the petty rules and regulations, the ceremonies, the pointless traditions – but it was starting to feel like my school, and there were times when I looked around me at