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  I wrote back:

  No

  The dots began to wiggle again and then, suddenly, they stopped. I felt intensely frustrated. I decided that it was the text which was the problem – if I could speak to him on the phone, hear his voice, then I might be able to get more information out of him. I picked it up and jabbed my fingers against it. Voicemail again. I returned to my laptop, my fingers tapped against the keyboard.

  No I didn’t know Why?

  Henry

  Why isn’t she coming back?

  Calm down it’s not decided yet

  Not for sure

  But

  she’s definitely not going to be back for next term

  ‘Henry missed a call from you’

  ‘Henry missed a call from you [x 2]’

  Chill out!

  Look

  she’s been acting weird

  taking loads of drugs

  running away

  lying

  her dad found her drugs too

  ???

  What kind of drugs?

  party drugs i guess

  look I have to go

  He went offline.

  I sat on the bed. I stared numbly at the screen. The hard black frame of the laptop grew thicker, blacker. I felt my eyes blur, my vision dim and I started to think about my situation as the abyss grew deeper. My situation was this: Marina had a life that I knew nothing about. She kept me out of it and confided in Henry. She hadn’t told me anything about it then – she had told him. And Henry wouldn’t tell me now. I was worthless to him. I was disposable to her.

  Marina was troubled, yes, but it was hard to feel sorry for her because she was so selfish and superficial and attention-seeking. She was a tortured artist without the art. I decided I was better off without her.

  I went downstairs into the kitchen and looked in the fridge. A good distraction, usually – but I couldn’t help looking when I felt my phone vibrate again. Another message popped up in the corner of the screen. It was a Swipe notification.

  I had told myself that I would only use Swipe once. Being Marina had been exhilarating, but it had been a one-time experiment. If I wanted to use Swipe, I reasoned, then now I could set up my own account. I knew how to use it, and it shouldn’t intimidate me anymore.

  Had the circumstances leading up to that moment been different, perhaps I would have stuck to this mandate. Perhaps I would have set up my own account, and matched Joe as Eva. Perhaps we would have gone on a few dates and slept together and found each other disappointing and then it would have fizzled out. I would have saved myself the trouble that came after. But instead, feeling deserted and lonely, I clicked on Joe’s message. I wanted to creep back into that distraction. I wanted to entertain the possibility that I could be a better version of myself.

  Joe: Hey how’s it going?

  Me: yeah fine

  How are you?

  Joe: Well couldn’t be much worse actually

  Liverpool lost last night

  my dad got really drunk in the pub

  started shouting at this arsenal supporter so I had to restrain him

  Me: Sounds like a character

  Joe: he’s definitely got a problem

  Me: At least he actually speaks You should meet my dad

  Joe: steady on

  Me: Well you’d have to take me to dinner first

  Joe: or a drink? When you free?

  Me: haha that would be nice

  a bit difficult while I’m down here though

  Joe: maybe when you’re back at Northam?

  Me: Yeah perhaps

  Over the remainder of the Christmas holidays, we spent a few hours talking to each other every day. The conversation was light and easy and relatively superficial, yet there was an energy to it which I hadn’t really experienced since my conversations with Marina. There was something about Joe. It wasn’t just that he was handsome. It was also that he was witty, and confident without being overbearing or forward. He seemed as though he understood what I was talking about and was actually interested in what I had to say.

  Another reason that it was easy to talk to Joe was undoubtedly because I didn’t have to interact with him face-to-face. It was a relief to be able to let my words do their own work – I could stop worrying about my physicality, my outfit, mannerisms or tone of voice.

  Still, even as I knew this, I was also aware that talking to him online was a strange compromise. I felt like I was getting to know him on some level – about his family; about his education; about his opinions and tastes – but there were glaring gaps in my knowledge which made me feel simultaneously that I didn’t know him at all. I didn’t know how he sounded; I didn’t know what his mannerisms were; I didn’t know what he smelled like. I only knew enough of him to be able to pin expectations onto him.

  The more I spoke to Joe, the more I felt a kind of gap opening up between the physical and the digital versions of myself. As ‘Marina’, I wanted to remain as elusive and detached as possible. But as Eva, I wanted to know Joe properly. Increasingly when we spoke, I found that my mask was slipping. I started saying things, private things, things that I genuinely felt. And it was frustrating to me that I was revealing myself when I didn’t know other things about him.

  An idea began to take shape in my mind.

  The term at Northam started a week later than Moreland – on the 27th of January. Technically the accommodation was available a week before then, but since we had a ‘reading week’ and classes wouldn’t start until early February, I figured no one else would be until around the 27th. So it was agreed with my parents that I would drive back on the 26th. Taking the car made sense: there were a few large items that I needed to take back with me, such as a heavy winter coat – the Northam weather was notoriously freezing from February to April – and having a car in the city would afford me some freedom.

  This was out in the open. But secretly I was less preoccupied by the date of my own departure than that of Joe’s – the 20th of January. The fact that he was going to be at the station on that day stimulated an indescribable urge to see him. I wanted to be at the train station. I had to see him in the flesh in order to discover what he was really about.

  On the nineteenth, I asked him, trying to affect a wry, flirtatious tone:

  Me: When did you say you were going back to Moreland?

  Joe: Tomorrow, as it happens

  I hesitated for a moment, wondering how to put my question to him. I didn’t want to just come out with it and say ‘what time is your train?’ I didn’t even really believe, at this stage, that I was going to go through with it. I just wanted to indulge the fantasy. And so I persisted:

  Trains from this part of the world are a nightmare

  I’m not going back until 27th

  Joe: Yeah shame

  Still up for that drink once we’re up next term?

  Me: Sure

  I looked at the clock. It was now two thirty. I wondered about whether I needed an alibi. Would my parents ask where I was going? I wondered if there was someone I could bring along with me; if Caroline or Suki might be free tomorrow – then I dismissed that suggestion as ridiculous. Someone like Caroline or Suki would spend the whole time talking at me, distracting me, and if Joe happened to walk past would ask why I was gawping. Just the thought of this made me feel annoyed at them, as though it had already happened.

  In that case I would go alone. Since I could drive, I would just tell my parents that I had some errands to run in town. I would say that I needed to go to the post office, to post a letter, or to visit the doctors. Then I would sneak to the train station, see the ten o’clock train heading towards Scotland. I would get a cup of coffee, a paper, and sit on the platform until ten to catch a glimpse of Joe. That was the plan. Or, more accurately, that was the fantasy plan.

  The next morning I came down the stairs and saw that my mother was sat at the table. She gave me a suspicious glance. Her narrowed eyes slid towards the car keys in my hand.<
br />
  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ she said.

  ‘Just to pick up some things from town.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Things. I have to grab some stamps … and go to the post office and stuff.’

  ‘Stamps?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘I have some stamps here. Can’t your other things wait?’

  I shook my head. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Right.’ She rolled her eyes, and ruffled out the newspaper. ‘Well make sure you stick to that promise. We have things to do today. I need your help sorting the boxes upstairs.’

  ‘Fine.’

  I walked outside and unlocked the car.

  As I sat in the driver’s seat and shifted the gears, I caught sight of myself momentarily in the windscreen mirror. The realization of what I was doing hit me – the absurdity of it. It was both pointless and insane.

  I thought about wandering back but then my hand, almost of its own accord, twisted the key in the ignition. The car surged into motion; I felt the thrum of the engine underneath my feet; I felt them pushing against the pedals. I felt the familiar pangs of self-belief that came with fanatical detachment and my doubts disappeared. I began to drive.

  ii.

  20th January 2014

  Walford town train station was very small and, as usual, very empty. I had visited this station many times, from early childhood through to my teenage years, and it seemed to me to have never changed at all. The interior was grey and steely. The floors were tiled; the walls bare, rippling with a crusty layer of old white paint. The corners of the ceiling curled at the edges and when a train went past – shaking the room, making the floor and the walls vibrate – I saw little flakes of paint break off, and flutter down to the floor. The same two sour-faced workers – who had always seemed to work there – sat behind a smear of glass. Next to that were four old screens, with a number of yellow words sprawling down them.

  I looked at the board that said ‘DEPARTURES’:

  Time. Exp. Destin. Platform

  09.50 10.19 Glasgow 4

  10.09 10.09 Edinburgh 6

  My heart sank. Either could be the train that Joe was catching, on different platforms at opposite sides of the station. I didn’t want to take my chances. With clammy hands, I took my phone out of my pocket and I noticed that the time now was 09.48.

  There was a message from Joe:

  Well what do you know

  My train is delayed

  Now I’ve got to hang out in this shithole with my cousin

  God knows for how long

  I slowly stepped up the stairs towards platform four, my knuckles whitening around the chromium bannister. I felt out of breath, a little dizzy, but I kept my eyes focused on the stones ahead of me. I lingered finally on the last step, then looked up.

  The platform was empty.

  I didn’t get it. Had he gone to another platform? Was he lying? Was I – this was exceptionally hard to believe – being catfished as well? I walked along the platform and pushed open the door to the waiting room.

  That was when I saw him. He was sat on the far side of the room, his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles, a copy of The Economist in his hand. He was a little thinner than I’d expected, and bonier along the shoulders than he looked in his photographs. But otherwise his features were exactly the same. He had soft grey eyes and thick black lashes, a sharp jagged nose, and a full mouth that twitched slightly as he spoke. His mannerisms were refined – long fingers pulled at his hair, he leaned his neck gently sideways. I felt a tingle of terrified excitement as I slunk in through the door. I began to move closer, to sit near him.

  ‘It’s a close call,’ he said to the boy sat next to him, ‘but I think I should wait for this train.’

  ‘But the one arriving is quicker.’

  ‘Yeah, but I have a seat on this one. I don’t want to take the risk.’

  His voice was interesting. It was softer than I had expected, not quite as animated as his conversation suggested. There was a calmness to it, a peculiar quietness, with a sort of London lilt.

  Suddenly I realized that Joe had stopped talking. He was looking at the boy next to him, who was looking at me. The boy’s mouth opened into a broad smile.

  ‘Evie,’ the boy said. ‘Eva.’

  Before I could react, he had stood up from his seat and was moving towards me. His arms were outstretched. He approached, drew me into him, and as he did so his face came close to mine.

  ‘Evie Hutchings?’ he said. ‘I can’t believe it!’

  ‘I … well,’ I stammered. ‘Hello!’

  His bulky arms squeezed around me, and I gathered myself for a moment to place his face in my mind. He was a rugby-looking type, with bulbous eyes, a red, dry-skinned complexion and an oddly aggressive manner which didn’t match his voice.

  I didn’t recognize him.

  It was clear, however, that he knew who I was. As he drew back he seemed to register my look of alarm and confusion and smiled bashfully, drawing his huge chin down into his neck. His pale eyelashes fluttered, then opened wide.

  ‘It’s Jonny, remember?’ he said, and stared into my face with desperate eyes.

  ‘Jonny Wilcox?’ I said in disbelief.

  ‘Yeah!’

  Jonny Wilcox. I blinked at him, beads of sweat forming around my hairline. Of course. God, how different he looked. He had been extremely slim at school – scrawny-necked and chinless. Now he was huge in every way. He had an extraordinarily wide jaw, a girthy neck, hulking great shoulders and an enormous chest. The only feature that made him recognizable was his strained, bulging eyes. Everything else looked supersize.

  ‘You look so different,’ I managed.

  At school, in year nine, Jonny and I had been in the same philosophy class. Forced to sit together, we had formed a contextual friendship. He had always seemed a gentle boy during those lessons: kind and inoffensive, albeit without much going on between the ears. After our exams, however, when our class had gone for an illicit drink in the park, he had pulled me into the shadows and pushed me up against a tree. I had told him to stop. He had put his hands under my shirt. I had told him to stop again, several times. But he had continued, sliding them under my bra, burrowing his face into my neck. Eventually I gave him a swift knee in the groin, which caused him to leave me alone. But it was after that that I’d had to quit school for a while. When I returned for sixth form, Jonny had moved away.

  It seemed pointless to tell anyone about what had happened. No one would have believed me, they hardly knew who Jonny was, and I had been instructed – by my friends and teachers – that good girls kept quiet. But now, looking at his eyes popping out at me with the same aggressive neediness – the same idiotic sense of possession – now I wish I had. It repulsed me. The whole episode was grotesque. He was grotesque.

  In the event, I forced myself to make polite conversation. I forced myself to stay focused on Jonny’s face, to smile and breathe and to not – under any circumstances – look at Joe. I cleared my throat.

  ‘You look – really, so different,’ I spluttered again. ‘Sorry. It took me a moment to recognize you.’

  ‘Oh it’s fine, it’s fine.’ A long smile stretched across his chin. ‘It happens a lot these days.’ Then he leaned in; murmured in earnest: ‘It’s so great to see you!’

  I tried to suppress a shudder.

  ‘Yes you too. Did you – ah—’ I could feel my cheeks flaming up.

  ‘I’m a bodybuilder now,’ he interrupted.

  ‘Right.’

  There was an excruciating pause. Jonny cleared his throat. Then he affected a dismissive, laddish wave – something about it was out of joint – and said: ‘Oh, I’m sorry! This is my cousin Joe.’

  I looked over. Joe looked up from his copy of The Economist, and we stared at each other for a moment. His grey, almond-shaped eyes seemed to soften and register interest. His brow relaxed a little. He gave me a polite smi
le.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, in a strained voice.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ I said again, idiotically. ‘I’m Eva.’

  ‘Joe.’

  He nodded. It was difficult to stop looking at him and I was conscious of my face doing that eager, intense thing that it sometimes did when I was impressed by someone. With considerable effort I looked back at Jonny, who was frowning.

  ‘Eve was in my philosophy class,’ he cut in. ‘We were at school together. Really close back in the day.’

  Joe smiled indulgently. His eyes wandered back to The Economist.

  A knot of childish disappointment tightened in my stomach. I tried to dismiss it. It wasn’t rational, I reminded myself, to think that he would like me. He had only swiped on me because he liked the look of Marina. But I couldn’t help feel anyway that he should have been more actively interested. He should have intuited that I was I, that Marina was me.

  Jonny cut into my thoughts again. This time his hand was on my shoulder. I felt his broad fingers over my bra strap and thought about them squirming under my shirt.

  ‘What did you say you were doing now?’ he asked. ‘Hiding from real life?’

  ‘I-I’m …’ I trailed off.

  Joe had begun to flick through The Economist.

  ‘You’re …?’ Jonny prompted. He had this stupid face on, like he was flirting with a puppy.

  ‘At university.’

  ‘Oh yeah, where? Joe’s at university too.’

  I swallowed before answering: ‘Northam.’

  Joe’s eyes, which had been skimming down the page of the magazine, suddenly stopped. I watched him in the corner of my vision. His mouth twitched; his finger slowly scratched his jaw. Then his eyes raised. He watched me with a new curiosity.

  Jonny clapped his hands and made some impressed-sounding noises, though there was also an edge to his tone, as though I had somehow offended him.

  ‘Wahey,’ he said, putting his hands on his hips, rolling his shoulders back. ‘Check you out.’

  I tried to change the subject: ‘You weren’t tempted by university?’

  Joe cleared his throat. ‘Did you say Northam?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’