drooping. She tried, now, to concentrate as a bespectacled actor of the handsome geek variety and a dark-haired actress of the pouting temptress variety were making passionate love on a sofa. A blonde actress of the wholesome-but-beautiful variety was coming in the door.
‘What’s going on?’ Isabel muttered.
‘It’s the scene where the heroine walks into her flat to find her boyfriend at it on the sofa with the sexy neighbour,’ Ellie explained. ‘And this is the bit when they all shout at each other and the relationship’s over,’ Ellie popped open a tube of Pringles without her eyes ever leaving the screen.
The film’s blonde heroine now lay on a sofa, sobbing while a woman with a long nose, pink hair and electric-blue leggings was tottering about unsteadily in lime-green high heels.
‘The heroine’s wacky flatmate,’ Ellie snorted. ‘This is the bit where the flatmate tells the disappointed-in-love heroine that she’s just gotta get up off her ass and get out there, that there are plenty more fish in the sea.’
Right on cue, a high-pitched, nasal, female American voice filled the room: ‘. . . just gotta get up off your ass and get out there. Plenty more fish in the sea, babe,’ the flatmate added, with a toss of her pink hair.
The camera cut to the woman on the sofa. ‘Yeah, but all I ever get is plankton!’ she sobbed.
Isabel roared with laughter, but then a terrible thought struck her. The excitement of the evening, of making friends with Ellie, of discovering the college in her company had completely eradicated all thought of Olly, who had been so kind to her; who had, in fact, been the first to befriend her.
The vodkas now curdling in her stomach, Isabel sat bolt upright amid the cushions. ‘And this,’ she gasped, her voice shaking, ‘is the bit where I remember I was supposed to be meeting someone, hours ago, for a drink.’
Olly, waiting in the gathering cold and dark outside Branston, had imagined at first that Isabel was simply late. Any moment she would emerge, smiling and full of apologies, from amongst the knots of students and their parents coming in and out of the farty-sounding doors. But the minutes went by, and with it the file of shambling youth with plastic bags of teabags and milk cartons – the latter, Olly knew, destined to sit outside on the windowsills of their rooms until they curdled or fell off. And still Isabel did not appear.
He occupied himself in studying Branston’s architecture. It was possible that he had judged it unfairly, inasmuch as he had ever thought about it at all. It was not by Wren, admittedly, but Christopher Wren had been a modern builder himself once, and the builder of Branston might well be the Wren of the future. Although, as Olly’s eye ran along Branston’s boxy front, where the pale grey concrete was streaked black and green with age and weather, he rather doubted it.
After half an hour had gone by on the large red digital clock above the main entrance, Olly could no longer discount the possibility that Isabel was not coming. He struggled to believe it. She had not seemed the flaky sort – anything but, in fact. Had she not tried to help the old lady on the train? A good-hearted act, if ever there was one. And there was an innocence about her, a wide-eyed capacity for surprise and delight that seemed somehow at the heart of her charm.
He had thought she liked him, too.
He wondered if the pale concrete of the college building, oddly visible despite the darkness, was actually luminous. It was, he thought, just the kind of trick some crazy sixties Swedish architect might pull. What had been his name again?
His own T-shirt was luminous, Olly noticed with mild interest. He had gone casual for the date and, while this T-shirt wasn’t ideal, it was the only clean thing he had and better than the shiny suit. At least, unlike the suit, it was intended to be a joke. He’d bought it at a festival the preceding summer; it had
‘What’s going on?’ Isabel muttered.
‘It’s the scene where the heroine walks into her flat to find her boyfriend at it on the sofa with the sexy neighbour,’ Ellie explained. ‘And this is the bit when they all shout at each other and the relationship’s over,’ Ellie popped open a tube of Pringles without her eyes ever leaving the screen.
The film’s blonde heroine now lay on a sofa, sobbing while a woman with a long nose, pink hair and electric-blue leggings was tottering about unsteadily in lime-green high heels.
‘The heroine’s wacky flatmate,’ Ellie snorted. ‘This is the bit where the flatmate tells the disappointed-in-love heroine that she’s just gotta get up off her ass and get out there, that there are plenty more fish in the sea.’
Right on cue, a high-pitched, nasal, female American voice filled the room: ‘. . . just gotta get up off your ass and get out there. Plenty more fish in the sea, babe,’ the flatmate added, with a toss of her pink hair.
The camera cut to the woman on the sofa. ‘Yeah, but all I ever get is plankton!’ she sobbed.
Isabel roared with laughter, but then a terrible thought struck her. The excitement of the evening, of making friends with Ellie, of discovering the college in her company had completely eradicated all thought of Olly, who had been so kind to her; who had, in fact, been the first to befriend her.
The vodkas now curdling in her stomach, Isabel sat bolt upright amid the cushions. ‘And this,’ she gasped, her voice shaking, ‘is the bit where I remember I was supposed to be meeting someone, hours ago, for a drink.’
Olly, waiting in the gathering cold and dark outside Branston, had imagined at first that Isabel was simply late. Any moment she would emerge, smiling and full of apologies, from amongst the knots of students and their parents coming in and out of the farty-sounding doors. But the minutes went by, and with it the file of shambling youth with plastic bags of teabags and milk cartons – the latter, Olly knew, destined to sit outside on the windowsills of their rooms until they curdled or fell off. And still Isabel did not appear.
He occupied himself in studying Branston’s architecture. It was possible that he had judged it unfairly, inasmuch as he had ever thought about it at all. It was not by Wren, admittedly, but Christopher Wren had been a modern builder himself once, and the builder of Branston might well be the Wren of the future. Although, as Olly’s eye ran along Branston’s boxy front, where the pale grey concrete was streaked black and green with age and weather, he rather doubted it.
After half an hour had gone by on the large red digital clock above the main entrance, Olly could no longer discount the possibility that Isabel was not coming. He struggled to believe it. She had not seemed the flaky sort – anything but, in fact. Had she not tried to help the old lady on the train? A good-hearted act, if ever there was one. And there was an innocence about her, a wide-eyed capacity for surprise and delight that seemed somehow at the heart of her charm.
He had thought she liked him, too.
He wondered if the pale concrete of the college building, oddly visible despite the darkness, was actually luminous. It was, he thought, just the kind of trick some crazy sixties Swedish architect might pull. What had been his name again?
His own T-shirt was luminous, Olly noticed with mild interest. He had gone casual for the date and, while this T-shirt wasn’t ideal, it was the only clean thing he had and better than the shiny suit. At least, unlike the suit, it was intended to be a joke. He’d bought it at a festival the preceding summer; it had
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