The Roommates. Rachel Sargeant
woman – at early thirties, probably the oldest person in the room bar the creepy man in the hoodie – is talking to a young couple in front of her desk. A little girl with a curly mop of auburn hair sits under it, engrossed in a sticker book.
“We can advise on antenatal classes and, thinking ahead, there’s a crèche for when the little one is six months old,” one woman says.
The man nods and puts an arm across his pregnant partner’s shoulder.
“Do come along to our barbecue on Saturday. Let me get you a leaflet.” As the older woman reaches behind her, the little girl clamps her arms round her legs. The woman scoops her up and presses a leaflet into the pregnant woman’s hands. “You’re about to take the most magical and precious journey of your life.”
Phoenix smirks at Imo. The woman sounds like one of those middle-class earth mothers they interview on Radio 4 when someone’s been banned from breastfeeding in a Jacuzzi.
“Don’t think this stall’s for me,” Imo whispers, turning away. “I have enough trouble looking after myself. I’d never cope with a kid as well.”
The final aisle is given over to sports societies. Two guys, muscling through their T-shirts, home in on Imo’s pert backside. Tegan’s at the far end, sauntering towards them. She flicks her hair, obviously loving her own slice of attention.
After Phoenix has signed up for archery and Tegan’s taken a leaflet for tennis, they work their way to the exit through the crowds of freshers still arriving. Phoenix wonders which ailment Amber will greet them with when they find her outside.
The steps and forecourt in front of the Great Hall are busy with students, but Amber isn’t one of them.
“She could have waited,” Tegan says, setting off for the flat.
“Hang on,” Imo calls. “Let’s check round the back. There might be benches.”
Tegan follows Imo and Phoenix. “Doubt Amber will be on one. Bound to be allergic to wood.”
There’s only a small car park on the far side of the Great Hall. With her phone to her ear, Imo spends ages walking back and forth and peering in car windows. When she seems satisfied Amber hasn’t taken refuge there, she strides back to the forecourt. Phoenix and Tegan rush to keep up.
Shaking her head, Imo puts her phone away. “She’s switched off her mobile.”
“Don’t sound so worried,” Tegan says. “We don’t need sniffer dogs just yet.”
Imo wheels round, eyes narrow. “Don’t joke about something like that,” she snarls.
Tegan backs away.
“They have search dogs for a reason.” Imo’s voice is tight and preachy. “Some families rely on them …”
“Okay, I get it,” Tegan says, still moving backwards. “Lighten up.” Her sandal catches something on the tarmac that makes a metallic jingle.
“What’s that?” Imo asks, squatting by Tegan’s feet, her sudden anger apparently forgotten. “A bangle.” She holds up a silver bracelet. “Amber’s, for sure. I remember her wearing it.”
“Come on, Imogen. How can you tell?” Tegan says.
Imo shrugs and pockets the bangle. “I’ll keep it until we see her.” Her voice tails off and she looks nervously around the crowd. Her hands clench into fists.
Imogen
Why did Amber run off like that? Did something trigger a panic attack? Imo swallows. That was one of the what-if scenarios Inspector Hare suggested for Sophia: panic leading to amnesia.
Her phone rings. Freddie. She snatches it off her bedside locker, heart thumping. He never rings. Never. It must be news.
But that’s not why he’s called.
“Don’t forget the audition is on Thursday.”
“I’m not going,” she says as her pulse returns to normal.
“You promised.”
“I’m already behind and it’s only the first week.” She tries to keep her unhappiness out of her voice. “The computers don’t work so I can’t do my German. How can I keep up with everyone else if I’m in a show?”
“Do what you do best.”
A stone settles in her stomach. What is her best? The same as his. Trying to hold everything together. Their parents don’t need more distress.
“Are you still there?” There’s an intake of breath down the phone. Is he thinking the same thing? “I meant flirting and dancing. You’re good at them.” He chuckles. Imo can tell it’s forced; he’s trying to laugh away other thoughts.
“How’s flirting going to help me with German post-war politics?” She plays along with a forced chuckle of her own.
“You’ll find a way.”
After he rings off she scans the notes she made in the lecture. All she copied down was the first link and one article title before the crow girl told her to stop writing. She won’t make that mistake again, she’ll write the bloody lot down. But that won’t help her with tomorrow’s seminar.
Do what you do best. There is something she could try. It’s crazy, but maybe. She opens her Tinder app.
***
Finally climbing into bed at 3 a.m., she hopes she’s done enough to keep Dr Wyatt happy. The responses have been coming in dribs and drabs. She’s spent the evening and half the night learning them. They might be garbage – useless for Wyatt’s seminar – but what choice does she have?
It’s darker in the room tonight despite the broken curtain. But images of the day flood her mind. After the German lecture from hell in the morning, the fair was fun. Until Amber stormed off.
It was nice of Phoenix to call for her but she can’t help feeling she was just being polite. Phoenix and Tegan are both out of her league. There’s something old soul about Phoenix, and Tegan acts more like thirty than twenty. Is that down to having a gap year? Imo thought rich kids got wrapped in cotton wool and knew nothing of the real world. Where does Tegan get her streetwise cynicism?
Amber’s more on her wavelength. She forgot to ask if she’ll be auditioning on Thursday. Maybe if she can get Amber to go, she’ll go too.
It could be her usual fatigue, but for some reason she feels calm. A difficult day is over and she’s made a friend in Amber. Now she welcomes rest.
Sometime later, in her dream, she registers Amber sitting on her bed.
“You will come to get me, won’t you?” Amber whispers.
Imo stumbles through her slumbering mind. Get her for what? She says she will, then the dream fades.
Wednesday 28 September
Imogen
When the alarm doesn’t go off, it’s a miracle Imo manages to wake at all. Half an hour late and touch and go whether she’ll make the German seminar. Her hoodie and jeans are by the bed. Yesterday’s knickers will do, save on the handwashing.
She goes to the bathroom. After she pees, she washes her hands, pushes a flannel under her armpits and makes a monumental effort to brush her teeth. She doesn’t plan on talking to anyone today; it’s almost pointless caring about fresh breath.
Suddenly, remembering her dream about Amber, a prickle of doubt crosses her shoulders and she shivers. But there’s