Remix. Part 9

"Really? Friends that's what you call it? Have you looked in a mirror lately, Kaz, because that dress is not a friendly dress. It's a-"

"It's just a dress."

"No, it isn't. Not when you wear it near him. Come and see our camp, Tom!" She sounds so much like Lee did and I wonder whether she has any sense of how mean all that tequila has made her. "Let's go get chips, Tom! I love the way your trousers look, Tom!"

I really wish everyone would shut up about his trousers.

RUBY.

There's a moment when I can totally see there's a choice. Either I can a) stop shouting at the person I love the most in the world and apologize, or I can b) carrying on shouting.

I'm not someone who knows how to stop once they've started. "Yay, please, let's play spin the bottle, Tom!"

"Why are you being such a b.i.t.c.h?" Kaz snaps.

KAZ.

I want to s.n.a.t.c.h the word from the air and crush it in my fist until there's nothing but a corpse of letters smeared in my palm. But that's not how words work. Once you let them out, you can't take them back.

RUBY.

We're in free fall.

"I'm not being a b.i.t.c.h!" I say, barely believing Kaz even said that word. "I'm being a friend!"

"Really? Because right now you're just being poisonous. What has Tom ever done to you to make you hate him like this?" Kaz is properly crying now, but I don't know if it's anger or sadness or both. And I don't know how she can even ask me that question.

"HE BROKE YOUR HEART!" I hadn't meant to shout that loud and I can see people staring at us. "That's what he did. I spent all summer gluing it back together and you're just going to hand it over to him to smash again. When are you going to get it? Tom is over you. It doesn't matter what dress you wear or how much you flirt with him. You are not what he wants."

Even as I am shouting it, I know that it's a lie. Tom looks at Kaz the way that I want to look at Stu.

KAZ.

"Why are you shouting at me about this?" I'm furious at the tears that have escaped and I practically punch myself in the face as I wipe them away. "I followed you over here because I was worried about you and somehow it's ended up with you telling me why I'm the one who's a mess."

Ruby looks confused as if she's lost her train of thought and it's like I've pulled a plug I can actually see the fight draining out of her.

RUBY.

I try to backtrack through the words that brought us here, but when I look for them, they're jumbled and nonsensical and I realize that all the beer and tequila haven't so much caught up with me as overtaken me.

Kaz doesn't drink. Ever. And when she looks at me, it's no longer with guilt, but with disapproval. Just like that, the conversation pivots under me and I find I'm the one holding the s.h.i.+tty end of the stick.

"I know you're not OK, Ruby. But I don't know why." Her voice is bordering on kind, but her expression is hard, patience stretched thin. "Shout all you like about Tom or maybe wait until you're sober and use your indoor voice. But that's not why you bolted from the campsite. What's going on with you and Stu?"

Kaz plants her hands firmly on my shoulders, holding me steady. She's so close I can't really see anything else.

"Ruby." Kaz looks at me. "Tell me."

But what am I supposed to say other than the truth?

"There's nothing going on with me and Stu. I couldn't kiss him, that's all."

I don't tell her that the reason is because I wanted to.

KAZ.

Ruby says nothing more, just starts walking back to camp, and since I don't seem to have any other option, I walk with her. When Ruby clams up, there's no point trying to prise her open and even if we're not walking arm in arm, at least we're not walking alone. Camp is deserted when we get there, tents zipped shut like mouths keeping secrets, and someone's stamped down on the ashes of Owen's fire. Ruby looks like the (barely) walking dead as she struggles to pull off her vest. It's not unusual for her to hit a wall after a night out and usually I'd be tutting at her, untangling her hair when it gets caught in a zip or reminding her to remove her make-up.

Not tonight.

We brush our teeth, taking turns to spit from our tent into the ashes and listening for a hiss of success. Ruby's more accurate than me, but then, as she says, Naomi and I didn't engage in spitting contests as often as Ruby and her brothers.

"Callum always won."

"Really?" Our conversation is paper-thin over the fissures of our argument.

"Don't let his pretentions towards being an intellectual fool you. Callum is a champion Spit Meister." It's a weak attempt at humour and so is the smile she gets for it.

By the time I've finished brus.h.i.+ng my teeth and cleaning my face, Ruby's already down and out on her back, arms folded above her head, breathing with the kind of depth that comes with too much alcohol. The eyeliner she slicked on so thick this morning has held fast, but it looks wrong on her sleeping face, like graffiti on a statue.

When she's awake, Ruby is as big as her personality, but sleeping she looks as small as she really is. Her arms look snappable and I feel a p.r.i.c.k of dismay at how thin she is at the moment. Without the smiles and the energy, the enthusiasm and the pa.s.sion, Ruby looks ... vulnerable.

As I unlock my phone to set an alarm for the morning, it buzzes in my hand.

Tom.

11 * IT'S BEEN A WHILE

RUBY.

There's a rustle somewhere near by. A swoosh of the zip, a whiff of cool night air. By the time my beer-befuddled consciousness claws its way out of oblivion the tent is still. I roll over and see that Kaz's sleeping bag is open, slipper socks and pyjamas flopping out like entrails. Her shoes are gone when I pull open the front flap. Toilet trip, I guess.

Until I hear a familiar laugh.

Just outside of our camp, silhouetted against the glow of the fires beyond, I see Kaz. And Tom.

I yank the zip shut as if not-seeing can turn into not-believing.

But who am I kidding? Everything Kaz has done today has been leading to this moment with Tom.

Now it's here, I'm no longer so sure why I thought it was my place to stop it.

Tom broke her heart before, but who's to say he'll do it again? Maybe he made a mistake? Maybe he's been regretting it all summer and now he's finally got a chance to make things right?

Maybe I'm not thinking about Tom when I say that.

Go home, brain, you're drunk.

Tomorrow, when I'm sober, when I know how to use my indoor voice, I will tell Kaz I'm sorry and I will mean it.

KAZ.

Tom hands me back Ruby's phone. The battery is at thirty-seven per cent and I make a mental note to remind her to take it to the charging tent tomorrow.

"Stu found it. I thought you'd rather I was the one who brought it back." He smiles and brushes a bit of floating ash off my cheek with the back of his fingers.

"I should head back." I half-turn towards my tent, but Tom lays a hand on my shoulder.

"Wait."

When I turn back there's no mistaking his expression.

"Yes?" My voice might be light, but the look I'm giving him is so heavily loaded I can barely lift my lashes.

There's a second in which he swallows and I expect his gaze to dart away, for him to remember that we (presumably) broke up for a reason.

Tom doesn't move an inch. "Let's go somewhere for a bit. Just you and me."

We make our way towards Three-Tree Field, pausing to cross the main track. Even though it's past midnight, late arrivals are still tramping down from the car park, rucksacks on, ground mats rolled under their arms as they carry crates of beer and carrier bags. Mostly it's the older crowd people who have driven here from their day jobs and the conversations I catch seem to be focused on whether there's s.p.a.ce to pitch their tents. I don't think there's anywhere left unless they're prepared to camp up a tree. When I make this joke to Tom, he huffs a laugh at me.

The smell of roast pork and popcorn, candyfloss and hot chips engulfs us as we pa.s.s the food vans lining a track marked WEST WALK, fading into the night as the track peters out on the far side of the site. There's a choice between turning towards Tom's camp, or turning away.

It's Tom who decides, each step he takes pulling us away from the noise of the campsite and up a slope that starts off gentle before taking a savage turn up into a copse of trees. There's no one here and we let the hill get the better of us as soon as we're beyond the first of the trees. My hands are shaking. Every part of me is consumed by energy, my skin buzzing with suppressed excitement like it's opening night and I'm singing the solo.

"So what exactly are we doing here, Tom?" I look up at the sky, at the trees near by and then, finally, at Tom, who shrugs. The setting might be romantic, but the boy isn't. After all, this is Tom. The person who thought an umbrella was a suitable Valentine's gift "because we're having a wet February".

"I just know it's been good seeing you," he says. "I didn't know how much I'd missed this us until I saw you."

And there it is: the gulf between the way I feel about him and the way he feels about me. I've missed him every second of every day since we broke up.