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Interesting. Gives credence to Finlay’s theory that she got dumped. But would Dr. Moncrieff, already unburdened of a spine, really do that to Arabella? Because what’s more monstrous than a teacher getting together with his student? His student falling for him, and then him calling it quits right before exams. That’s just low.
“Okay, so once upon a time you were—”
“I have never been, nor willeverbe, in a relationship with Dr. Moncrieff! Leave me alone!” Arabella storms off toward Li. Over her shoulder, she shoots me the kind of warning glance that would have incinerated me had the technology existed.
Something else burns into me instead, and I note Baxter’s beetle-black eyes trained on me in a fierce glare. She jerks her head sharply to the main room where the rest of the year group congregates, and with a sigh, I do as instructed, traipsing in long after everyone else.
There are rows and rows of packed tables. I decide to do a slow, lackadaisical circuit of the many different stalls, but I’m so aware of time ticking on and the pointlessness of all this. I don’t know how to engage with a future I can’t envision. We’ve already deferred going to university this year, so it’s not like any of this even matters.
“Where’s the stall for running away and becoming a cowboy?” Rory drawls beside me.
I hold back a smile. “Ranch life for you?”
“I’m used to sharing my personal space with big, hairy creatures,” he laments, and I laugh. Rory nods in front of us. “Speaking of the devil, looks like Fin’s getting stuck in.”
Following Rory’s gaze, I see Finlay engaged in serious conversation with one of the representatives from some tech company. “Didn’t think there was a stall for master of the universe.”
“He wishes.”
We stroll around, glancing at all the different stalls, but nothing could hope to attract my attention as much as the guy beside me. I’m still itching to get out of here. En route, we’d passed a street full of small shops that looked optimistic enough to stock newspapers…
“It’s more varied than St. Camford’s, I guess,” I say, trying to curb my whining, as we pass a busy stall advertising a career with the rail network. St. Camford had promoted law, banking, and not much else. I’d left just as confused as I’d entered, knowing none of it had been for me.
“Nothing catch your eye?”
I pause in front of a stall for budding civil engineers, barely taking any of it in. “I can’t think,” I tell Rory quietly. “My mind’s on literally anything but me.”
“Can’t say I know the feeling,” Rory retorts with an easy half-grin that fades when he notices my lack of response. He nudges me with his shoulder, his expression turning serious. “All this politics stuff, little saint — forget it. Just for now. At the end of the day, you still need to focus on yourself. Because what’s going to happen is you’re going to get sucked down fighting this huge toxic well of political evil, and once everyone comes to their senses and Benji falls,which he will, you’re only going to end up with yourself as you are, having made no progress in your own development.” In a quieter voice, he adds, “I might not agree with him as much these days, but my father’s right to lay on these opportunities for us. We’re being encouraged to sample what’s out there. You may as well take it.”
“But what if he doesn’t?” My lips are barely moving, sensing the treachery of my words. “Fall, I mean. What if he’s always going to be there?”
“Then all the more reason to back yourself and rule your own life. Don’t allow yourself to be a victim of his insanity.”
He’s right. I get it. I can only controlmylife, not Benji’s, and certainly not the lifeblood of a whole country. If I’m still able to focus on myself, then I won’t be as submerged and obsessive as I have been recently.
But I want to be. I don’t even want to consider my future if it’s not free from Benji.
“And you?” I ask Rory, who’s never exactly been forthcoming about life beyond university. We pass booths for the fashion industry, accountancy, oil and gas companies… I grimace. I honestly can’t see Rory doing anything like a proper job.
“Yeah, I’m pretty set.”
“With what?” When he doesn’t answer, I whine, “Withwhat? Don’t I have the right to know?”
“In time.” He shoots me a mysterious smile. “Focus on yourself,” he repeats, and with a growl, I watch as he wanders off, hands in his pockets, and approaches Finlay.
I’ve lapped the bustling room twice now, and I’m increasingly aware that I’ve spoken to precisely no one. Everyone else is chatting, mingling. I pass Danny who, like his time at St. Camford, is unable to say no to people and has therefore managed to be lumbered with a dozen different brochures and multiple complimentary bags of confectionery. He’s talking in-depth to someone from a medical school. For a moment, I wonder if I have it in me to be a doctor, but then I remember that, unlike Danny, the only science I’ve taken to a high enough level is physics, and even that’s been a struggle at times.
“Hiya, lovely. Are you interested in a career in the media?”
I turn in the direction of the voice. An incredibly well-groomed woman with sleek blond waves and shimmery nude lipstick stares straight back at me. Her clothes seem tailored to her statuesque physique, a belted khaki-colored dress that flows as she stretches out her arm to offer me some reading material. I gaze down at the brochure, which readsSENTINEL MEDIA GROUPand features a diverse set of glossy-looking models grinning up at me. When I try to return my attention to her, my focus is instead attached to her to-die-for knee-high heeled brown boots, beside which is a startlingly orange fluffball of a Pomeranian dog.
“Er, I don’t really know…” I figure I may as well give something a shot, so I inch forward to hear her speak. The dog’s pink tongue peeps out at me like a delighted grin.
“At Sentinel Media Group, we’re behind major press publications such as The Daily Patrol and The Watch on Sunday. I’m sure you’ve heard of us?”
I give a non-committal nod, recognizing them from our nightly info-dump politics sessions. Usually, they’re the newspapers thrown away with barely a glance between the contents of their covers. So many spelling errors that I figure I could write it better, constantly banging on about topics nobody cares about, and always written with an off-putting sneer of righteous indignation. They supposedly champion progressive causes but think nothing of splashing Benji’s triumphant face across their front page, coupled with a breathless opinion column. Their style must-haves, which I sometimes flick through for a brain-break from actual politics, are full of clothing priced the same as the full Lochkelvin school fee.
“Yeah… I’ve been thinking about journalism,” I admit, wondering if she can offer tips, even though the newspapers she represents feel like full-on recommendations for what not to do.
