the colour I’d go for too if I ever got one.”
Imo and her mother share a smile. Only her dad could see a beautiful woman and show more interest in her car.
A sudden prickling feeling tells Imo that she is being watched. It’s a familiar sense, one she has struggled with regularly over the past few months. Freddie has too – even worse for him. She swallows down a knot of fear and forces herself to look at the crowd. Students and parents rush past in the heat, not looking her way. She tells herself that it’s just her imagination. That nobody’s recognized her.
Then she freezes. A tall, hooded man is standing in shadow under a tree on the opposite side of the street and smoking a cigarette. Dressed all in black, too old to be a student but clearly not a parent. But it’s not Imo he’s staring at; he’s watching the beautiful woman’s every move. His eyes follow her as she turns to lock her car. A shiver runs down Imo’s spine.
When the man sees Imo looking, she drops her gaze to her envelope, hands trembling. Wariness of strangers is another product of the last few months, and this one looks like a stalker.
The young woman puts her keys in her handbag and walks past Imo into the reception, leaving a waft of expensive perfume in the air. When Imo looks back across the street, the man isn’t there.
Imogen
“Smile,” her dad says, as he sticks out his backside to bring Imo into his viewfinder. “Let’s have one for the album.” His turn to play-act normal. But Imo’s face is pale. Her mind still fixed on the man outside, on the way his gaze followed the woman through the crowd. Is that how it happened before?
“Imogen, are you all right?” her mum says, concern in her eyes.
“Fine, still a bit car sick.” Imo smiles weakly and sits down on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. At least her family didn’t see him. She lets the sound of her parents bickering stop her mind from racing.
“Mind where you put your feet, Rob,” Mum squawks, pointing at a pile of clothes on the floor.
“I didn’t touch them.”
“You were about to.”
Imo bares her teeth. It’s like Christmas. Everyone’s got up early and they’re all in one room. Arguing. A tremor passes through her. They won’t next Christmas. Some things are worse than arguing.
The room is small: single bed, desk, slim wardrobe, grey carpet tiles, door to an en suite. Surprisingly modern after the imposing reception hall. When they unlocked the flat, Imo noticed other doors in the long hallway. She shudders at the thought of her flatmates appearing now and recognizing her family.
“Mum, are you nearly ready to go?” she says hopefully.
But her mother is still unpacking and doesn’t reply. With an armful of shampoos and conditioners, Imo goes into the tiny bathroom. The sink – half the size of their basins at home – is fitted close to the loo and there’s no bathroom cabinet.
“I wish we’d had room in the car for a toiletries stand.” Imo calls. “I bet that girl in the big van brought one.”
“And a cornetto maker,” Freddie pipes up.
Dad laughs and Imo walks back into the room. But a shadow falls over her mum’s face and she turns towards the window, arms wrapped around her body.
Pretending not to notice, Dad empties the last cardboard box. “Where do you want your German vocab book?”
“Underneath my pillow.” Imo tries to smile but her heart’s not in it. Her backchat is coming out on autopilot, her hand shaking with nerves. She saw other students on the stairs, making the trek to her floor and beyond. Confident, sharing a joke with each other. Why is it only her that doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing?
Dad joins Mum by the window. “She’s got a gorgeous view of the hills,” he says.
“It’s grass,” Mum says, her normal mood a memory.
“And south facing. This will be a sunny room.”
Imo’s belly flutters again, unnerved for a reason she can’t define.
“Right.” Dad sighs and turns from the window, wearing his bravest face. “I suppose we’d better leave you to it.” He gives her a hug. “Keep in touch. Have a brilliant first term.” He hugs her tighter. “And stay safe.”
Freddie pats her back. “Good luck with the audition, Sis.”
Oh God, she hoped he’d forgotten. He found out from the website that the uni will be putting on Jesus Christ Superstar in December. The auditions are this week.
“You will go, won’t you?”
“I haven’t been to a dance class for a while.” It’s been seven months, as he knows – as they all know. She feels the heat of her family’s attention on her. “I might not have time.”
“Course you will, love,” Dad says. “University isn’t all about work.”
“It’s hardly about work at all.” Freddie grins, but then grows serious. “Promise you’ll audition.”
Dad strokes her arm. “It would do you good.”
Mum stays at the window, rubbing her elbow like she always does when she wants to bail out of a conversation but still listen in. Like she does when Inspector Hare visits. Freddie and Dad keep their well-meaning eyes on Imo and she feels the room closing in.
“Okay, I promise.” It’s worth lying to see the relief on their faces.
She sits back on the bed and watches them line up in the small space by the door. Any second now her world of eighteen and a half years will quit with them. Her throat is hard.
Dad and Freddie give her a goodbye peck and head out into the stairwell. When they’ve gone, Mum sits beside her. “I notice you didn’t bring the lamp Grandma gave you.”
“I forgot.” Another birthday gift she needs to shed. Everything from that day is toxic.
Mum places her hands on Imo’s shoulders and looks her in the eye. “You don’t have to do this. I’m not making you.” Most decisions are impossible for Mum these days, but she was quick to agree that Imo should take up her uni place.
Imo tries to wriggle free, but her grip is firm. “I want to be here.” Would it have been different if she hadn’t already accepted the offer before the world tilted?
Mum lets go. “If there’s anything …” She turns away to rub her eye. “Ring me, day or night. Just ring.”
“Of course.” Imo forces a bright smile.
“And you’ve got your personal alarm?”
“Always.”
“Show me.”
Imo hesitates, but only for a moment, knowing her mother won’t leave until she’s seen the tiny, red-topped canister. Imo retrieves it from her coat pocket and holds it out.
“Keep it with your phone,” her mother says. “You need both at all times.”
She watches until Imo has shoehorned it into a front pocket of her jeans. They hug, her mother holding her tighter than feels comfortable. Then she grasps her wrist.
“And never come home on your own on the train. We’ll come and get you.”
Phoenix
Three of them are in the kitchen drinking Phoenix’s