Read Online Noughties by Ben Masters - Free Book Online

you were busy doing something important” (oh Christ—does she know? How could she? She knows …) “with A levels getting so close. Once again, we are really excited about working with you. Take care, Eliot.”
    “Thank you! Good-bye.”
    “Bye bye.”
    I put the phone down, off my tits on adrenaline andendorphins. Mum and Dad, who had been carefully hiding around the corner, eavesdropping, clattered into the living room and gazed at me with unbearable expectancy.
    “
Well
, what did she say?”
    For a second there, I entertained doing the whole false-disappointment jag (“She thinks I’m not quite up to scratch, but it’s okay, guys, don’t worry about me … I’ll be fine”).
    “I’ve got an offer from Oxford!”
    Dad looked like he was going to cry and did the well-done-son thing with a firm hand on the shoulder, perhaps envisioning a six-figure career in banking and a sports car for Christmas. I performed a victory lap round the living room, eventually collapsing on the sofa.
    The next day at school, Miss Hill, forgetting all about her rehearsed handshakes, planted a coffee-creamed slopper on my cheek—“I knew you’d do it!” Then she dragged me into the head teacher’s office to show off her wares: “He’s in! We got one into Oxford!” I wanted to say, “Hang about, I need to get some As first,” but dared not ruin their moment.
    Rob ripped me tirelessly at break: “Miss Hill snogged Eliot!” he announced in the canteen.
    “No she did not!” I hotly protested.
    “Apparently she fellated him.” This was Rob’s verb of the term: he had only recently discovered it somewhere (probably a porn mag) and was using it at an hourly rate.
    “This is bullshit.”
    “Make the most of it, mate, coz blowjobs are gonna be few and far between at Oxford. I mean well done and everything, but you’ve really shot yourself in the cock.”
    “Cheers.”
    My elderly English teacher, Mrs. Booth, with her jittery blinking act, was the one I really cared about though. Iknocked on the English staff room door and she answered, fluttering rapidly.
    “Guess what, Miss?”
    “What have you done now, Eliot?” she said with mock despair.
    “I’ve got an offer from Oxford!”
    She reached up (a tiny lady) in motherly pride, and gave me a hug, almost knocking her glasses off.
    “Oh Eliot, well done. I’m so pleased for you.”
    “Cheers, Miss.”
    I had just become a big fucking deal. There I was: I knew nothing about nothing, but I was a big fucking deal.
    “You’re right: he
is
a cock,” I say, confirming Jack’s nuanced interpretation of our Terrence.
    “Oh, he’s not that bad,” says Ella.
    “Well … I like him and everything, but he’s an absolute cunt,” I say, generously allowing Terrence a metamorphosis of genitalia.
    Scott brings over a tray of insidious-looking shots—luminous blue—unnatural. These will hurt in the morning. We throw them back and shudder and seethe—sticky hands—bonding. We move to another gunky pub-grub table. A portrait of Prince Charles pulling a pint hovers above us. Heritage.
    Megan and Sanjay are conjoined at the end there. He’s pining for her. She’s got a boyfriend.
    “You been up to much?” he asks, confidentially.
    “Just a long phone call with Mike.”
    Sanjay takes a sorrowful, longing pull from his pint. It goes down like shards of glass.
    “You?”
    “Thought about going gym but realized I couldn’t be fucked sort of thing.”
    I notice that this mention of the gym prompts Jack to look down at his arms and, as subtly as possible, tense them. Nope—the protein shake still isn’t doing anything.
    Megan nods. She probably hasn’t even listened.
    “You’ve gone well red, Eliot,” broadcasts Abi.
    Great. Thanks for pointing that out to everyone, mouthy bitch.
    “Great. Thanks for pointing that out to everyone.”
    Ella gives a little giggle, knowing how much this annoys me. She’s seen me red plenty of times.
    The poetry of the pub envelops