Chapter Five

Ashleigh

Most Likely to Kill Each Other

I m not hiding out in the school toilets.

I m not , obviously, because I m not fifteen years old.

I m just taking my time. Checking my hair, making sure my lipstick hasn t smudged from the liquid courage I downed in the taxi on the way here.

Yeah, that s all.

I lean into the mirror above the sinks in the girls toilets; it has that dark, dappled look around the edges and I m sure it s some original fixture from the seventies nobody has ever bothered to update, like the sinks and cubicles. My lipstick, at least, is flawless, and I don t let myself second-guess the deep red shade, dark and stark against my pale, freckled skin. I try not to fidget with my hair either - the wispy fringe, and loose tendrils that frame my face where they weren t quite caught in my bun. It s held in place by about a dozen hairpins and sheer dumb luck, so I dare not disturb it.

Trying to occupy my hands, I smooth them over my flared trousers, pull my skintight top with its puffy, off-the shoulder sleeves back into place. Considering it s my go-to outfit for a night out because it makes me feel so confident, all I can see now is how big my thighs look and how silly that tiny strip of stomach on show looks and how ridiculous the sleeves are, making me look wide and bulky instead of sexy and feminine.

I haven t even said hello to anybody yet, and I m already sweating like I have to get changed for PE and am paranoid that everyone will notice I forgot to shave my legs.

Spoiler alert: nobody ever noticed.

Okay. I can do this. This is fine . It s just a party. I like parties now.

And I liked school, too, for the most part. I liked plenty of the people, and I m still friendly with some of them. I was looking forward to tonight.

If only because there are plenty of people whose faces I d like to rub my life in, and put them in their place. I d really love it if some of them aren t doing so great, too - maybe their partner left them or they were fired or, even better, they re stuck in a job they hate with their dreams all turned to ash, while I m out here doing so well for myself. What a shame that would be.

I grip the cold porcelain sink tightly, teeth clenched.

This is ridiculous .

But this reaction, however much it s taken me by surprise, isn t wholly unexpected. I m returning to the place I spent my formative years of pre-adulthood to face a lot of people who tried their best to make my life miserable. The worst part of hiding out in the toilets and wanting to run home is that I was usually so much better than that, at school. It was a reaction I learnt to temper and control, so the comments about being a square and a try-hard and (my favourite, the most bizarre and inexplicable of all) a slut, would roll off my back. I stopped batting an eye when people snickered at me in the hallways. I trained myself to stop caring.

So why do I care now?

Why do I want them to like me?

I don t. I don t care about that. I don t need to be the belle of the ball and centre of attention. I m not vying for prom queen. I just

Is it really so bad, that I want to prove to those kids who did look down on me, that I m someone worth looking up to, now? It doesn t make me a bad person to want that sort of vindication, does it? Just - human.

My phone buzzes somewhere inside my bag and I know it s probably Hayden, following up on the SOS text he sent a few minutes ago. I promised I was almost here; he ll be wondering where I ve got to.

With a deep breath, I snatch up my bag, roll my shoulders back, and tell my reflection to get it together.

Bryony squeals when she sees me, even doing an excited little dance. Bitch, look at you! You came to play ! Um, hello!

Equal parts embarrassed and gratified, I strike a little pose and give her a spin before walking the rest of the way to give her a quick hug. Bryony was always a hugger, so I imagine that s why she s stood at the door accosting people on their way in. That, and the glory of playing hostess tonight.

I ve barely spoken to Bryony in ten years beyond a few civil exchanges on social media, but between her bitch greeting and the warmth of her embrace, it feels like no time at all has passed - and like we re closer friends than we actually were at school. Not that we ever were friends at school - merely classmates, peers. Maybe, I think, we d actually have a good relationship these days, if we met now.

What about you? Look at you! You look fabulous. This is gorgeous, I tell her, admiring her sparkling jumpsuit.

This old thing? She tosses her ponytail over her shoulder like it s all no big deal, but glows under the praise. She sniffs, a party bloodhound, and arches an eyebrow. Someone snuck a cheeky pre-drink in, I see.

I cover my mouth, trying to smell the tequila on my own breath. I d had a mint afterwards, but I guess nothing escapes Bryony. She did used to know everything about everyone, so.

But she giggles and stage-whispers, You re not the only one. Freddie Loughton and all that lot, they went to the pub beforehand. Raising hell over a pint of Guinness, I don t doubt. Classic rugby lads - they never change.

My smile falters a bit and my eyes dart past her, into the hall.

But I say, Are most people here, then?

Looks like it! I m going to give it five more minutes then come join the party. I ll come find you and we can catch up properly, yeah?

Sounds good, I say, because it really does. Bryony already seems so much more approachable and laidback than I remember from school. Her life looks so glamorous online, with all the travelling and acting jobs and volunteer work she does. I m pleased it all worked out for her, but I d also love it if I could stick by her side until some of that easy confidence rubs off on me. Or, at least until I remember that I m a confident person - usually.

I weave through the crowd in the school hall with my head held high. Aside from the cloying layer of bleach that clings to the air and the scuffed flooring, the place is transformed. Trust Bryony to strike just the right level of cheesy nostalgia and unironic fun.

I make a beeline for Hayden. He s easy to spot since he stands a good few inches above most of the men in the room, with his lanky body and ginger hair. I catch sight of his expression before I reach him - the terse smile on his face that doesn t reach his eyes, the way he s mentally counting down like he does when the girls are being naughty and kicking up a fuss, and he s trying to decide between letting them get it out of their system or stepping in and putting a stop to it.

He must sense me looking, because his eyes start to rove around the room, away from the conversation that s so clearly not holding his attention, and light up when he sees me. He pulls a pained face, eyes crossing as he rolls them in a cartoonish show of melodrama that sets me giggling. I half debate going to mingle first, and make a gesture to him to convey that.

I will end you, he mouths at me.

Yeah, it s probably time to put the poor guy out of his misery.

I step into the group - a random assortment of people I wouldn t normally have seen together in our school days - and say hi to everyone, and do my best to end their conversation by crossing the space to hug Hayden. He wraps an arm around me in a firm, familiar squeeze. I like how affectionate he s gotten in the last few years; it s sweet.

So much for five minutes , he hisses in my ear, and I nudge an elbow into his ribs. Hayden gestures towards me with his paper cup. Um, everybody, you remember Ashleigh, right?

One girl jokes, How could we forget?

The others all join in laughing, and I don t know if she was trying to be nasty or if I m reading too much into it in my newfound paranoia, but I give them all a beaming smile, like even if it was an insult, I don t give a shit. I drop my weight onto my back leg and readjust the strap of my clutch bag more comfortably on my shoulder, relieved that I opted to dress up as I do a quick survey of the group.

I know it doesn t make me better than Elise Chambers that I m dressed like I m on my way to an expensive, exclusive bar and she s got a frumpy handbag resting by her foot and her skinny jeans are a bit faded, but it feels good . She laughed at me for still wearing one of those plain pink Angel bras from the M S teen collection when we were in Year Ten, like my underwear was any concern of hers, so I don t deny myself the satisfaction now of seeing her swallow her awe at my outfit, or how her body language shifts just a bit into something put-out and defensive.

A little of my usual confidence starts to trickle back in.

It helps when Hayden shoots me a grateful smile and takes the opportunity to make his escape. He hands me his drink on his way, mumbling something nobody else especially listens to about how he ll get himself another and be back.

We both know he won t be back.

So, I say, and give my best boardroom-shark grin to the group. What s everybody up to these days?

The first half-hour of the party is a blur of old familiar faces and violent panic when someone greets me super-enthusiastically only for me to realise that I cannot, for the life of me, remember their damn name .

There are hugs and cheek-kisses and handshakes. Some people, I greet more genuinely than others. It s nice to see Steph and Shaun again, for instance, and every so often I swing by whatever little group Hayden is talking to in case he needs rescuing again. And I quite like it when Bryony calls time on her hostess duties and joins the rest of us mere mortals, but hooks her elbow through mine like we re lifelong besties, like we re a set. Like I am, and always have been, every bit as deserving of the spotlight as she is. Like it s an impossible idea that people would ever have considered putting me down instead of worshipping the ground I walk on - or like she ever did that herself, from time to time.

It s pathetic, how much I enjoy it.

I know it s only for a night, but there s something exciting and exonerating about being one of the popular girls at school for a change.

I like it when people do a double take at my outfit, and I relish it when they congratulate me on my career, especially when I don t have to explain that I work in research development for the pharmaceutical industry trying to fight degenerative diseases, because for whatever reason, they already know. I don t pretend that I m not immensely proud of myself, or that I don t love that my work is making a real difference in the world. I don t bother to hide the smugness from my voice when I tell them things like, Yes, my team just made a really exciting breakthrough, and, I got to spearhead a new drug to treat that, you know. It s actually going through its next stage of trials soon before it can be formally approved, but things are looking good so far.

Now, I slip away from Bryony, who s telling a story about when she went to a premiere party with Olivia Coleman that has everyone hanging off her every word, aware that I ve left Hayden unattended a little too long. I know he s a big boy and he can look after himself, but he s my best friend and I know he was nervous about coming tonight.

Based on the number of times I ve heard people murmur, Isn t it a shame about Hayden? his concerns weren t unfounded.

But when I find him chatting to a group of girls I recognise from A-level maths, he s animated, flushed, telling them, I swear, some days, that big blue dog is my nemesis . Bandit, you know, the dad? He s always playing these great games with Bluey and Bingo, and then of course my kids expect me to do the same because I m at home with them most of the time, and I don t know how to explain that I cannot keep up with this damned cartoon dog .

Bloody Bluey , I think, and swallow a laugh. Even I ve watched the episodes multiple times over when I swing by to hang out, or when I ve looked after Margot and Skye; I reckon Hayden must know some of them word for word by now.

But our old classmates are laughing, and one of them starts up saying how the Grannies game from the show is her son s favourite thing and she can never play it for laughing too hard because he s too good at pretending to be like his nan, and then someone mentions the name Peppa Pig and a collective groan sounds from the group.

I leave Hayden to it, glad he s found some safe ground in fellow parents for a while, and circle back around the room.

Bryony has moved on to a new group, but flags me down when she spots me.

Ashleigh! Ash, over here! We were just talking about that Red Nose Day talent show we did, d you remember? The one you organised in Year Twelve?

A few heads turn at the sound of Bryony s voice. It s always carried, like her natural state is to project, and I don t hate when the eyes shift to me.

So I call back to her, D you mean the one where you coloured your hair red with cheap hair dye that ran everywhere? By the end of the day, you looked like one of the Angry Birds.

Bryony laughs, hand reaching for me to pull me into the group. There s a buzz as the topic ripples through the party and people start reminiscing about that particular talent show. The teachers that sang ABBA or got up to ballroom dance, Shaun and his mates who formed a little band to sing Wonderwall (unironically), when Roisin and Noodles Greg (why did we ever call him that? Why can t I stop thinking of him as Noodles Greg ?) tried to do a sort of circus double-act and he knocked himself out with the juggling clubs

That was mint, to be fair, Ashleigh, someone is saying to me now. You got us the whole afternoon off lessons for it, remember?

It takes all my willpower not to roll my eyes. Of course that s what they remember now - not how peeved people were with me after making the grand announcement in the common room and how much they grumbled about having to waste their afternoon on some stupid fundraiser rubbish.

But I smile and say, I know. It wasn t easy.

Bryony catches my eye, the tip of her tongue bitten between her teeth like she knows what I m not saying is that I had to fight tooth and nail with our Head of Sixth Form for it and prepared a kickass presentation for the occasion, and got no thanks from anybody for it - even after they had such a great time. It was one of the rare times I found a true ally in her, taking my side against the rest of the year group; she was all for an excuse to show off, and the first to sign up.

What she says to the others, though, is, Well, we all had to make sure we put on a good show after that. Ash never skipped lessons for just anything, did she! You swot!

The group falls to dissecting their favourite memories of the talent show, and I listen with only mild interest.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and I don t notice at first, not until my hand clenches so tightly around my paper cup that it crumples in on itself.

And I don t know what s wrong, until I do.

It s an hour into the party. Everybody s here.

Almost everybody, anyway.

There are heavy footsteps approaching, a confident stride that nobody else seems to notice, not until the double doors are thrown open by a broad man in an expensive suit, who stands there while heads throughout the hall swivel towards him and conversations hush, as if his very arrival deserves that particular mark of respect.

It doesn t.

Ryan Lawal gives us all that smug, shit-eating grin that hasn t changed a bit in ten years, and stands there like he s God s fucking gift. The prat is even wearing his school tie , for Christ s sake - bright cobalt that would be unremarkable but for the silver imprint of the school badge on it.

I always remember him as a big guy, and while he s not as tall as Hayden, he seems to take up the entire doorway, his ego filling the space his body doesn t. His dark hair is short, not like the long, floppy style he preferred at school, and he s still annoyingly good-looking.

Worse, actually.

He s devastatingly good-looking now. He must have worked out what length to grow that particular scruff of stubble on his jaw to make him look just the right amount of rugged in order to balance out the polished look his suit grants him. The top button of his shirt is undone and his suit jacket is slung over one shoulder; one of his hands is tucked into his trouser pocket in a stance that is both casual and commanding all at once.

Still every inch the arrogant arsehole I remember, by the looks of it.

The only changes I can truly remark on are that his shirt is tucked in and his tie is done up properly. Pulled ever so slightly loose around his collar, but not the ridiculous chunky knot and three-inch tie slung halfway down his chest I recall him and a bunch of the other boys wearing around school.

He swaggers into the room with all eyes on him, and declares, Now it s a party!