Rachel Sargeant - The Roommates

She watches Phoenix dry the mugs on the draining board and put them in a cupboard. Tegan can’t work her out. The girl has the looks and briskness of a tomboy so where does the regimented domesticity come from? Not boarding school – she lacks the polish of any of Tegan’s school friends; it’s more like she grew up in the army.

They hear a knock somewhere down the hall and find Imo trying Amber’s door again.

“This can’t be right.” Imo’s words sound slurred, and it’s not just because of her cold; she’s already holding a WKD. “Where is she? Why hasn’t she answered my texts?” She knocks again and wobbles on her heels. After another minute, she totters back to her room.

Phoenix says she’ll get a fresh tea towel from hers. Alone in the kitchen, Tegan hears a sound behind her.

“Christ!” She jumps. Riku’s in the doorway. “You shouldn’t creep up on people. What do you want?” she snaps.

He stares, cocking his head.

“Well, say something,” she demands and immediately knows she’s conceded the high ground. If someone threatens by not speaking, you have to give them silent menace back. Shout and you’ve lost. Her dad’s dictum. She tries to recover her position with a face-off, her brown eyes into his.

Eyes still locked on hers, Riku backs out of the kitchen. For a moment Tegan’s insides quake. She curses herself for feeling rattled.

Imo comes back a few minutes later, holding out her mobile. “I’ve called Hamid. He’ll be here in a tick to take us into town.” Her mouth seems to struggle to work as she explains Hamid is the taxi driver Amber got to know when he took them to the all-night garage. “She got us a good rate.”

Tegan can’t believe Imo is doing the same Business course as she is. Hasn’t she heard of market forces? Students are calling taxis every five minutes. Hamid and his mates can charge what they like.

But it turns out Imo has another motive for booking Hamid. On the short journey into town she quizzes him about Amber.

“She’s got shortish hair – dyed blonde, wears unusual clothes.”

“Sounds like most students.”

“You picked us up on Monday night and drove to the petrol station. She had stomach ache.”

There’s a flicker of recognition on his face. “Eight pound fifty? I remember.”

“Have you seen her since?” Sitting forward in the back seat between Tegan and Phoenix, she holds out photos of Amber on her phone, including the one she took before the fair.

“Sorry, love, can’t look. I’m driving.”

“Just a quick glance.”

Tegan’s impressed; with a drink inside her, Imo doesn’t take no for an answer. But the driver says he hasn’t seen Amber since that night – with or without her red wig.

“Are you sure? If she went anywhere by taxi this week, she’d have gone with you because of the discount,” Imo says, leaning on Tegan.

Tegan shrugs her off and studies Hamid’s expression in the rear-view mirror. He looks perplexed by the mention of a discount. As for knowing about Amber, it’s doubtful he can distinguish one pissed student from another.

Imo gives up, shifts onto Phoenix’s shoulder and closes her eyes.

Hamid, realizing the cross-examination is over, slips into driver-patter. “So anything you girls want to know about Abbeythorpe, you ask me. Anything.”

“Okay, thanks,” Phoenix says, adjusting the weight of Imo’s head. “So where’s the best nightlife?”

“Exactly,” Hamid says. “Anything like that you wanna know, just ask me.”

He pulls up on a taxi rank behind a black Mercedes. Tegan’s chest tightens.

“Bloody amateurs,” Hamid says, gesticulating. “Where’s a traffic warden when you need one?”

Through the windscreen of the cab, Tegan makes out a shape in the driver’s seat of the Merc. Skin tingling, she hangs back while Phoenix and Imo get out. Only after they’ve paid Hamid and headed towards the bouncer on the club door, does she scoot after them.

She climbs in the shower, headache threatening. As she stands under the rushing water, her dreams flicker through her mind. Get me, won’t you? Amber, again, her face merging with her sister Sophia’s.

A memory from the club itches and she scrubs her body harder, feeling dirty. Buoyed by Jägerbombs, there had been a moment – maybe even ten minutes, as much as three tracks on the dance floor – when she’d forgotten her grief and enjoyed herself. Became the old Imogen – the one that went underage drinking with her mates, the higher her heels, the tighter her skirt. Then she saw him. At first she had thought it was just a trick of the light, her mind imagining things after a few too many drinks. But when she turned back for a second look, she had known for sure. It was him. The tall man standing across the dance floor. Hood up, watching her as he had done Tegan on arrivals day. Imo sensed his eyes rake over her body. He gave her a chilling smile.

Running to the ladies, she bumped her way through the crowd apologizing, spilling drinks. She made it to the loo in time to throw up. When she came out, Phoenix had an orange juice ready for her. Tegan – grim-faced – suggested they call it a night. Imo agreed. What must they have thought of her erratic behaviour?

Her phone rings as she’s towelling dry. She lets it buzz, knowing it’ll be Freddie without checking the screen. After he’s rung off, she texts him: I’m going, okay. The audition is today. She can’t remember changing her mind, but she must have done. Why else has she got up for a shower and left out leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt? Is she ready to live again?

Among the pizza delivery ads on the doormat lies a note for her from Royal Mail, telling her to collect a parcel from the student union building. How’s she supposed to know where the post room is? It’s probably spare hankies or a pillowcase from her mother.

There’s a package addressed to Riku outside the flat. How come his parcels get delivered and she has to collect hers? She props it outside his door and doesn’t knock. There’s still no reply from Amber’s room and she heads to the audition alone.

***

The auditions are in the theatre on the first floor of the student union. Three tiny backsides greet her when she rounds the corridor. Skinny girls in sports shorts and legwarmers using the bottom two steps of the staircase as a barre. Imo feels fat and unsupple. She has a coughing fit.

A chubby girl with purple hair and wearing the name tag Doris ushers her into a side room. “A word of advice,” she says as she fixes a sticker with a number thirty-one onto Imo’s chest. “Even if you’re not sure of your words, keep singing.”

It’s a small room clearly used as a costume store. Rails of Elizabethan doublets hang alongside sparkly mini-dresses. Three girls, all wearing black Musical Theatre Society T-shirts, stare at her as she picks her way through the busy room looking for a seat.

“Over here,” Lauren calls out and pats an empty plastic chair. She’s wearing her black cape over her dance clothes. Imo joins her but the intimacy of their coffee together has gone and neither can think what to say. They sit in silence while others chat.

Lauren keeps looking anxiously at her watch.

“Could be ages yet,” Imo suggests eventually.

“Hope not. I’ve got to get … go somewhere at twelve thirty.” She goes slightly red and changes the subject. “A lot seem to have been in uni shows before. They must have come back early for the audition. Have you done any musicals?”

Imo shrugs. In a different life . “Once or twice. You?”

Lauren lists a few shows she did at school and says she’s studying Theatre Studies as well as German.