Read Online Let's Get Lost by Sarra Manning - Free Book Online

you something to do when you’re sitting with eight close, personal friends of a guy you don’t really know.
    I shuffled around on the bench so I had my back to the girl sitting next to me, and concentrated on snaking a cigarette out of the packet, tapping it against my palm, and then lighting it. Which took all of ten seconds, and then I could get on with smoking it and wishing that my hair didn’t look like it had had a collision with a hedge trimmer because my head was getting awfully hot underneath my hat.
    “Where do you know Smith from?” the girl sitting opposite me suddenly asked, and I realized there were eight pairs of eyes studying me with feigned disinterest.
    “From around,” I muttered.
    I’m really good at closed sentences. There was nowhere to go after my reply, so I twisted my lips into a grimace-y smile that got me a blank look back and tried to telepathically communicate with Smith to get the drinks and get back to the table stat. My Jedi mind tricks were for shit because he was gone ages, and by the time he finally returned, my leg was jiggling uncontrollably against the table edge and I was halfway down my second cigarette.
    I don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased to see anyone. He sat down on the table in front of me and handed me my drink. “There you are.”
    “Thanks,” I said, and took an enthusiastic gulp, wincing slightly as the vodka burned on the way down.
    Smith turned to the girl who was sitting next to me. “Isabel’s dad teaches American literature at the University,” he said, like it was a good thing. “What’s his name?”
    “Dr. Clarke,” I said flatly, and she shuddered with this ophidian wriggle of her shoulders that made her

    glossy red hair shimmer underneath the lights.
    “I have him for my Modern Classics module,” she gasped, and pinned me with an accusatory look, like it was all my fault. “He’s . . . well, quite sarcastic. . . .”
    “He’s a tosser, you mean?” I supplied sweetly, and she gave me a tentative smile as if she didn’t know whether I was joking or not.
    “You’re so lucky you’re in Cultural Studies,” she said to Smith whose knee was bumping against mine, until I moved my leg away so he couldn’t feel me shaking.
    “Oh, I forgot you were a student.” It came out a tad more venomously than I’d intended.
    “You do realize that you said that the way someone would say, ‘Are you a child molester?’ or ‘Do you like Girls Aloud?’ But yeah, I am. Is that a problem?”
    I hated students and the way they filled up our answerphone with their academic crises. Or came over for these once-a-month suppers with Dad where they spewed all this pretentious crap out of their mouths in the hope that he’d be impressed.
    I knew my face was twisted up in an expression of utter horror, but I blanked my features down and took a generous swig of my drink. “I’ll get back to you on that, shall I?”
    Smith laughed and reached over so he could pull my hat down over my forehead. I forced myself not to jerk away, even though my forehead was starting to get sweaty, and he cupped my cheek with his hand.
    “You’re a piece of work, you really are,” he said, and he sounded dazzled by the concept.
    It’s so stupid how someone touching you—just their skin on your skin—can make you feel all sorts of things that you don’t want to feel. His fingers were stroking my face, and it made me want to brush my head against his shoulder. So I stood up. “I have to go and see someone.”
    The only someone I had to see was my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I looked a state. The concealer was wearing off and I was all shadows and smudges, like an out of focus photograph, the green eye shadow and the red lips garish points of color in my pale face. And that vodka on an empty stomach?
    Really not helping.
    I locked myself in an empty cubicle and sat down with my head in my hands, because I was kidding myself if I thought I could do this. When your