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‘And you’re telling me you don’t do a little dab from time to time?’
She shakes her head.
‘Not even at festivals?’
‘I don’t go to festivals. They’re too expensive.’
‘Clubbing, then?’
‘I don’t like clubs. I get claustrophobic.’
He raises his eyebrows in genuine surprise. ‘So you don’t do drugs at all?’
Again she shakes her head. ‘I don’t really drink much either, to be honest. Sorry.’
‘I thought everyone your age did MDMA. I was with this girl, about ten years ago now, and she loved festivals and everything that went with that. I was like you, I never indulged, but trust me, this stuff is the secret the government don’t want you to know about. All the feel-good, none of the hangover.’
She shrugs, tries to create the impression of an ambivalence she doesn’t feel. She has always felt at odds with people her own age, for as long as she can remember. Only in her studies and her close friendships has she ever felt truly comfortable. Now, here she is, on the periphery once again. She expected to feel many things with Peter, but peer pressure was not one of them.
‘I didn’t go to a very good school,’ she says, with no idea why. ‘What I mean is, I had to work, like, pretty hard to get away. I mean, get my A levels. Only three of us went to uni.’ She sounds defensive, worries he’ll think she’s chippy. His own background is clearly so much wealthier than hers. ‘Some of my friends do Ecstasy,’ she says. ‘E. That’s what it is, right?’
He nods.
‘I know it’s supposed to make you feel euphoric,’ she adds, not wanting to appear naïve. ‘And loved up, et cetera, but when my friends do it, they’re actually quite boring. And then they, like, talk about having done it and when they’re going to do it again, and that’s even more boring. And a bit like clubbing, I never really saw the point. Plus, I’ve always been afraid of … I mean, I like to feel safe. And I guess they’re not legal, are they, and so they’re not, you know, regulated. And people have died. You hear about people dying. I mean, what if you get a bad batch, or whatever?’
He breaks one in half. ‘You sound like a worried mummy, Samantha. Can I call you Sam?’
She shrugs. ‘Pete?’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘No, that sounds wrong. You’re not a Pete.’
He appears not to have heard. He is holding up a pill. ‘Aren’t you curious? You strike me as someone with an enquiring mind.’
She hears herself inhale sharply.
‘Trust me, you’re completely safe. How about we take half each? You’ll like it, I promise. There’s no way you can overdose on a half.’ He places the tiny orange crescent in her hand. ‘Neither of us knew this would happen tonight, did we? We’re riding the wave. We’re going with the flow. And something made you get into my car, even though you would never usually do that kind of thing, am I correct?’
She nods.
‘What you need is a safe risk. A risk-assessed risk. That’s what this is, trust me.’
A short laugh escapes her. ‘I wouldn’t exactly call it a risk. I don’t feel like I’m in, like, danger or anything. You’re a lecturer, aren’t you? You’re part of the university, you know, the establishment or whatever. You wouldn’t throw away your career by molesting a student, would you? Not in this day and age. Anyway, you’re not like that; I can tell. I’d know by now if you were a monster. I’d sense it.’
‘Of course you would. I’m no monster, I assure you.’
Of course he’s not a monster. He’s too beautiful. But actually, she wonders then if shewouldsense it. She thinks she would. She’s pretty sure. But he’s right that she’s acted outside of herself, and now here she is, with a man she has only observed from a distance. Admired. But he is vouched for. And he did open the wine in front of her.
‘Ready?’ he says.
Not really, she thinks. But he has built up such a fascinating idea of her, and she doesn’t want to disappoint him. She’ll pretend, tuck the pill up by her gum, take it out when he looks away and shove it in her pocket or something.
She takes a deep breath. ‘All right.’
Three
Eyes locked, they press their hands to their mouths. She takes a sip of wine and throws back her head, pretends to swallow. But the half pill dissolves so quickly and a bitter taste spreads over her tongue. Oh, it’s so disgusting. It’s rank. There’s no way she can keep it in her mouth, no way she can dig it out without making a fool of herself. She takes another slug of wine, washes it down, away, but a horrible hairspray taste persists. He only sighs and drinks a little more too. He doesn’t comment on what they’ve just done, as if it’s irrelevant, no biggie. She tries not to worry about the pill and focuses on him. He is talking to her, quite naturally, about his doctorate on Caravaggio – he tells her the title but it is full of academic jargon and she cannot hold it in her head.
‘That’s why my book is called simplyCaravaggio.’ He smiles and she wonders if he can tell that her mind is blown, despite her efforts to appear admiring, impressed but no more – not amazed to near breathlessness. He has written an actual book. That book on the shelf is by him. Oh my God, he is so accomplished; it’s too much. What is she? Nothing, that’s what, nothing at all in comparison. The best she can hope for right now is not to appear like a child.
‘Do you have any, like, old paintings in the house?’ She winces at the use of ‘like’, how stupid it sounds now, here, with him. And ‘old paintings’? He’ll think she’s an idiot. And he’d be right. She sips her wine. Actually, she’s pretty thirsty. She should ask for some water. She will. In a minute. And her phone.
