Page 71 of Little Miss Fortune

She hesitates but hugs me back. ‘But I will need some time and distance. To get my emotions in order.’

‘And to get really hot and find a rich husband to rub it in our faces.’

‘It’s like you’re in my head.’ She laughs. ‘But I think this is not the end of us, whether you figure it out or not.’

You—not you and Toby. You, Fuko, need to sort your shit out.

CHAPTER 25

Fuko dances by herself. That’s why she only plays sad electronic music

I’ve never let myself actually feel my feelings for Toby before, I realise that, when the floodgates (previously locked by remorse and humiliation) burst open. My room becomes a prison cell, containing a deranged and sleepless weirdo, mumbling and swaying side to side. I forgot what it was like, fancying someone.

Last time that happened, I was going into year eleven, when a boy from a different school and I got a job at the tennis courts over the summer. He was quiet and mysterious. There was a soft, sensitive side to him. The three months I spent dreaming about a romance with him (probably mixed with intense teenage hormones) made me completely irrational and unpleasant to be around. He was my first kiss. A week afterward, he told me that I had helped him understand his sexuality, and that it was unfortunate I wasn’t a dude.

I’ve never been in a position where a boy (of the pretty and kind variety) professed to me, but I used him for my own pleasure, and then abused my free speech to hurt him so badly that I am scared to ever face him again.

When the night breaks, I start to remember what it felt like to be in his arms. The intensity of the heat that rose in me when his hands were on me. How perfect it felt to be with him. Fuck. You really messed this up, Fuko.

My phone is back in my hand for the fiftieth time since coming to bed. Young and spritely 1 a.m. flashes on my screen. I consider dropping a controversial ‘u up?’ text to Toby, but I don’t even have his number to apologise. Would he accept my apology?

Yes, he did go to Sashka and try to patch things up for me, but what if she misunderstood that gesture, and actually it was just to clear his own conscience, nothing to do with wanting to be with me?

I replay his speech to me, again and again. Then the memories of the next day break into my mind—how easy it was for me to dismiss him; it felt almost natural. His face drops in my mind, and I start feeling as if I do not deserve a second chance. To deal with that, I try to convince myself that I don’t even like him that much, but instead I cry myself to sleep night after night.

On Friday morning, Leon messages to invite me to hang out with him in the evening, which does take my mind off things. In his texts he apologised; I apologised. We gossiped about his new client, chose a film to watch, and sent a few short funny videos from social media. The casual talk with a close friend improves my mood by a lot.

Hanako and I sit in the living room, looking through possible courses that might be available through clearing—the leftover spaces of the universities’ buffet. Her first choice of uni is York and the second is Southampton. When I ask her why she chose those, she just shrugs her shoulders and says, ‘Reverse alphabetical order, innit?’

I think about it for a moment. ‘What about W? Warwick, Westminster?’

‘I am not going to those.’ She scrunches her nose.

‘Warwick is like in the top ten unis.’

‘Yeah, exactly. Not for me.’

I sigh. ‘Why did you pick architecture?’

‘Psycho-Pass had cool buildings.’

‘The anime? Hanako, maji henjin.’ A shiver runs down my spine in embarrassment and disgust.

‘Urusai yo.’ She shoves my head away by holding my mouth shut.

After about ten minutes of bickering, me in Japanese, her mainly in English, we return to making a list of unis that she could call on the results day if she doesn’t get into her first or second choice of uni. I am still not sure about her choice of a degree, as she has never showed any interest in drawing or buildings, but she thinks it sounds cool, so who am I to break her dreams?

I’ve sent her to buy some rice when an e-mail with @simpo.co.uk comes through. I feel my blood pressure rise as I scan through the text. No indication of the outcome of the investigation, only an urgent request to come to the office either today or first thing on Monday.

My anxiety could not possibly take a whole weekend of uncertainty. I get dressed, frantically wait to let my sister in the house, and rush to the Northern Line station after she is back. It takes about fifty minutes from my house to get anywhere in London. I debate whether I need to do something brave or entertaining to appease Madam Fortuna but then talk myself out of racing a stranger up the escalator.

That’s more dangerous than brave. SIMPO’s decision is already made, so there is not much point trying to change anything.

As I am standing by the glass doors of the office, Sue the receptionist notices me but doesn’t say anything. I wave, she waves back. I smile, she smiles back. I walk in and say, ‘It’s been a minute.’ She responds, ‘Yeah, a minute.’

What a beautiful friendship we have built: I say, she repeats.

A deep breath is not deep enough when I call the lift. What if Toby is there when the doors open? He isn’t. The metal box is empty. I throw a quick glance at the emergency light that has been lying dormant ever since we got stuck here.