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‘Good, yeah,’ Jenny says. ‘I’ve got an interview with a start-up this week, so if you’re lucky, you might not see me again.’
‘That’s great. I mean, that’s great if it’s a job, not great that you’re leaving.’
‘Actually, Samantha,’ Aisha interrupts. ‘I really need to tell you something. I wanted to tell you the other week, but you had to rush off, and then last week you couldn’t make it, so I’m going to say it right now in case you have to go.’
Samantha’s face heats. ‘OK.’
Aisha puts her sandwich on the paper plate and wipes her mouth with a napkin. She glances at Jenny, then back at Samantha. Samantha’s stomach clenches – here it comes.
‘The other week,’ Aisha begins, ‘you mentioned you were with a UCL lecturer. As in living with?’
Samantha nods, all speech for the moment quite impossible.
‘Well, it’s Peter Bridges, isn’t it?’
Samantha feels herself blush. ‘How would you know that?’
Again, Aisha glances at Jenny, as if to reassure herself that she has permission to continue. ‘Well, the thing is, after the very first class, we, um, once we had your name, we, um, we looked you up on Facebook—’
‘Not in a creepy way,’ Jenny interrupts. ‘Just, you know, normal stalking levels.’
‘We were only curious,’ Aisha continues. ‘You seemed so nice and everything, so we just tapped your name in and looked at, literally, three photos.’ She turns to Jenny, who nods.
‘Literally three or four,’ she adds.
‘We didn’t scroll down your whole history or anything,’ Aisha goes on. ‘But there was a photo of you and Peter and the baby. You know, about three months ago?’
‘Five,’ Samantha says quietly. ‘Nearer six, actually. It was the week she was born.’
Aisha looks like she’s sitting on spikes. ‘Yeah, so, the thing is, I didn’t know that when I booked onto the course, obviously. I didn’t know you’d gone to UCL or read English or anything at all. Well, the college doesn’t put the name of the tutor on the course details, so neither of us even knew who it was going to be, did we, Jenny?’
Jenny shakes her head.
‘And Jenny didn’t even book onto the course until I made her, did you, Jen?’
‘Nope. I wasn’t planning on doing a course, but when Aisha suggested it, I was, like, yeah, whatever, something to do, you know? I thought it would make a change from mainlining Kit Kats in front ofLoose Women.’ She laughs, as does Aisha.
In her discomfort, Samantha smiles. She doesn’t laugh, couldn’t even if she wanted to. The photograph of Peter with his arm around Aisha sharpens in her mind. Peter and Aisha, she thinks. Sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
‘So is that why you wrote the shitty poems?’ The question is out before she is aware of herself asking it, of the power in her voice.
Aisha frowns. ‘What shitty poems?’
‘The clerihew in week one?’ Samantha insists. ‘Don’t you remember I asked about it? Someone wrote a clerihew with my name in it and wouldn’t own up to it. Then there was a limerick, a piece of flash fiction. And the villanelle was really impressive, by the way.’
Aisha glances at Jenny, back to Samantha. She shakes her head. In both their eyes, only confusion. Samantha falters.
‘What? That’s four. There was only one, wasn’t there?’ Jenny says. ‘Why, was it dodgy? You didn’t say it was dodgy. Were they all dodgy?’
Jenny’s voice floats overhead, but Samantha is staring into Aisha’s deep brown eyes. She is staring so hard she can see her own face, pale and small and pathetic.
‘Yes, it was … dodgy.’ She looks down at her hands. Her nails are bitten, though she can’t remember biting them. ‘They all were. I didn’t mention the other ones. I didn’t want to give it any oxygen. Peter said—’
‘You’ve been getting abusive poetry?’ Jenny interrupts. ‘That’s mental abuse. Can we see?’
‘It wasn’t us,’ Aisha says, her voice plaintive, hurt.
Samantha flops back in her chair. Both women are looking at her, and all she can pick up is concern. Their guilt over looking her up on Facebook was palpable; if they knew anything about the poems, she would sense it, surely. But where does that leave her? Where does that leave her and all this poison?
