A Hundred Pieces of Me by Lucy Dillon Read Free Book Online
Authors: Lucy Dillon
spring broke through the greyness.
Chapter Three
ITEM : The Marras T-shirt, student union tour, 1996
Oxford, 1996
Georgina is having the best night of her life so far, and it’s only just gone ten.
She glances from side to side before taking a covert swig from Naomi’s dad’s hip-flask, then realises that no one’s going to tell her not to. No one’s watching, and no one cares that she’s two years under the legal drinking age; everyone around her is either drunk, or on something, or snogging someone, or all three. She fizzes inside with an exhilaration that has nothing to do with the vodka and everything to do with the music pounding through her, and takes another large gulp, which burns her throat, but she grimaces and swallows.
Naomi says vodka doesn’t taste of anything but Georgina isn’t so sure. Not that she’s going to say anything. Mixed with the hormones and sweat in the air, compressed by the low, dark ceiling of this student-union function room, it tastes of liquid headache, but it’s going to have to do, because even with Naomi’s kohl eyeliner on, she still has a nervous suspicion that they look under-age and, anyway, they only have enough money for the bus back to Naomi’s brother’s student halls where they’re crashing for the night.
So, technically, this is a university visit. It’s just to the student union, not to the library, as she assured her mother and Terry.
And it’s brilliant. Gina has the feeling she should be scared, but she’s not. Or if she is, it’s a good kind of scared.
‘This’s the most amazing night ’f my life,’ Naomi slurs, grabbing her arm. Her eyes are shining with the intense joy that Georgina knows will turn into intense weeping in about thirty minutes, and this is just the support act. The Marras, whose album Gina has listened to about a million times, aren’t even on for another hour. ‘You were so right about us coming here!’
‘Thanks!’ Georgina yells back, pleased.
Something she wouldn’t say, even to Naomi: when she’s listening to music, Georgina imagines the interesting person she’s going to be when she finally gets to university. Here. Two more years – six terms, five A levels – and she’ll get the chance to be someone new. Georgina Bellamy had a brace, and prefect’s tie. Gina Bellamy is a writer. An actress. She has a fringe, sexy boots and mystique.
Naomi giggles. ‘Georgina, you’re so . . .’
‘Gina,’ says Georgina, firmly. ‘Gina.’
‘What?’ Naomi looks like she might be about to give her the bit of her mind that remains after half a hip-flask of vodka but at that moment the band launches into the one song the audience has heard of, a cover of ‘Heroes’: they’re not stupid enough to end on one of their own. Georgina and Naomi are shoved forward by the crush of sweating bodies.
Naomi squeals, somewhere in the distance, but Georgina closes her eyes and lets the music wash through her, the beat vibrating and booming outside and inside her body, like she’s not even there. She feels weightless, lifted by the force of the crowd as the band powers through the verse. Then the key shifts, like a huge car changing gear, and the whole room tips over into the chorus, bouncing, yelling, pushing. Georgina’s lips form the words, but the music is so loud she can’t hear her own voice; she can sense, not hear, everyone else singing and it makes her feel tearful. A wave of pure drunken happiness drowns her as she smiles blindly into the darkness pulsing behind her eyelids, stinging with sweat and smeary mascara.
When she does open her eyes, her dry lips parted ready to sing the chorus, he’s looking straight into her face. A boy (man?) with longish blond curly hair, like an angel’s, and wide-set blue eyes that shine with the same dazed pleasure as hers. His black T-shirt’s damp, his face is sheeny with sweat – everyone’s is, so many bodies packed together – and she can smell
Chapter Three
ITEM : The Marras T-shirt, student union tour, 1996
Oxford, 1996
Georgina is having the best night of her life so far, and it’s only just gone ten.
She glances from side to side before taking a covert swig from Naomi’s dad’s hip-flask, then realises that no one’s going to tell her not to. No one’s watching, and no one cares that she’s two years under the legal drinking age; everyone around her is either drunk, or on something, or snogging someone, or all three. She fizzes inside with an exhilaration that has nothing to do with the vodka and everything to do with the music pounding through her, and takes another large gulp, which burns her throat, but she grimaces and swallows.
Naomi says vodka doesn’t taste of anything but Georgina isn’t so sure. Not that she’s going to say anything. Mixed with the hormones and sweat in the air, compressed by the low, dark ceiling of this student-union function room, it tastes of liquid headache, but it’s going to have to do, because even with Naomi’s kohl eyeliner on, she still has a nervous suspicion that they look under-age and, anyway, they only have enough money for the bus back to Naomi’s brother’s student halls where they’re crashing for the night.
So, technically, this is a university visit. It’s just to the student union, not to the library, as she assured her mother and Terry.
And it’s brilliant. Gina has the feeling she should be scared, but she’s not. Or if she is, it’s a good kind of scared.
‘This’s the most amazing night ’f my life,’ Naomi slurs, grabbing her arm. Her eyes are shining with the intense joy that Georgina knows will turn into intense weeping in about thirty minutes, and this is just the support act. The Marras, whose album Gina has listened to about a million times, aren’t even on for another hour. ‘You were so right about us coming here!’
‘Thanks!’ Georgina yells back, pleased.
Something she wouldn’t say, even to Naomi: when she’s listening to music, Georgina imagines the interesting person she’s going to be when she finally gets to university. Here. Two more years – six terms, five A levels – and she’ll get the chance to be someone new. Georgina Bellamy had a brace, and prefect’s tie. Gina Bellamy is a writer. An actress. She has a fringe, sexy boots and mystique.
Naomi giggles. ‘Georgina, you’re so . . .’
‘Gina,’ says Georgina, firmly. ‘Gina.’
‘What?’ Naomi looks like she might be about to give her the bit of her mind that remains after half a hip-flask of vodka but at that moment the band launches into the one song the audience has heard of, a cover of ‘Heroes’: they’re not stupid enough to end on one of their own. Georgina and Naomi are shoved forward by the crush of sweating bodies.
Naomi squeals, somewhere in the distance, but Georgina closes her eyes and lets the music wash through her, the beat vibrating and booming outside and inside her body, like she’s not even there. She feels weightless, lifted by the force of the crowd as the band powers through the verse. Then the key shifts, like a huge car changing gear, and the whole room tips over into the chorus, bouncing, yelling, pushing. Georgina’s lips form the words, but the music is so loud she can’t hear her own voice; she can sense, not hear, everyone else singing and it makes her feel tearful. A wave of pure drunken happiness drowns her as she smiles blindly into the darkness pulsing behind her eyelids, stinging with sweat and smeary mascara.
When she does open her eyes, her dry lips parted ready to sing the chorus, he’s looking straight into her face. A boy (man?) with longish blond curly hair, like an angel’s, and wide-set blue eyes that shine with the same dazed pleasure as hers. His black T-shirt’s damp, his face is sheeny with sweat – everyone’s is, so many bodies packed together – and she can smell
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