Steph, Kealiboga and Soraya pile into the room.

When they see me sitting at my desk surrounded by files and piles of paper, they stop dead.

‘Oops, you’re working,’ says Steph. ‘Sorry about that. We can come back later if you like.’

‘No, it’s all right. She’s just on Facebook,’ Kealiboga says, looking at my computer screen.

‘Hey, cool! That’s okay then.’

They come in and drape themselves all over my bed.

I stare at them for a moment, wondering what to do. What I really ought to do is explain that I actually was working. That I was just on Facebook for a few minutes. I should tell them that I really need to carry on now and that I’ll see them at lunch.

That’s what I should do.

Oh God, I can’t do it.

They look so giggly and excited. As though they’ve got something really interesting to tell me. I can’t wait until lunch. I just can’t. And anyway – I look at my watch again – I’ve been at it for an hour and a quarter now. I’m exhausted. I deserve a break.

‘So what’s up, guys?’ I say eagerly, shoving my Economics article under the latest copy of Heat.

They all look at each other.

‘Nothing’s up with us,’ Steph says patiently. ‘We want to know what’s up with you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The report-back? The one we’ve been waiting for?’

‘Oh, right!’

I tip my almost-full cup of revolting green tea down the sink and make a mug of hot chocolate for all of us. The girls are practically twitching with anticipation.
‘Okay,’ I say, sitting down at my desk and twirling my chair around to face them. ‘First of all, I’d like to start off by thanking Soraya. She really came through for me and totally kept up her end of the bargain. I asked for good-looking overachievers and that’s exactly what I got. Thanks, babe, you’ve really earned this.’ And I hand her a little gift bag containing not only the mascara she wanted but the matching eyeliner pencil too.

‘Wow! Thanks!’

I stand up and walk over to my cupboard. Then I fling the doors open dramatically. ‘Here’s the coat. Ready for you to borrow whenever you feel like it.’

There’s a moment’s silence while we all stare admiringly at the silvery shimmer of its graceful folds. It really is a thing of beauty.

Then a horrible thought strikes me.

‘And if you spill red wine on it,’ I say severely. ‘I will personally kill you and send the dry-cleaning bill to you in Nirvana, or … wherever Hindus go when they die.’

‘Nirvana’s for Buddhists, you tit. We get reincarnated.’

‘Oh, right. Then I’ll send the bill on to you in your next life.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Soraya laughs, running the back of her hand gently down the sleeve of the coat. ‘I’ll stick to mineral water all evening.’

‘But. How. Did. It. Go?’ Kealiboga demands. ‘The date with Tyson. You still haven’t told us how it went.’

‘We’ve all met him, so we know what a great guy he is,’ adds Steph. ‘And he really seems to like you. I bet not even you can find anything wrong with him.’

I bite my lip in silence. This is going to kill them. This is going to break their hearts. But it has to be done.

‘Let me put it this way,’ I say solemnly. ‘He’ll make some lucky man a very wonderful wife one day.’

Three horrified faces look back at me.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yup.’

‘You mean he’s …?’

‘Yup.’

‘But he can’t be…’

‘And yet he is.’

‘What a waste!’

‘No, hang on, that can’t be right.’ Soraya says almost crossly. ‘He can’t be gay. He was going out with a girl in my Economics class the whole of first term. That’s how I met him. He broke up with her just after Easter. She was devastated. You must be mistaken, Trinity.’

The other two are looking relieved and hopeful, but I have to burst their bubble.

‘Sorry,’ I say shaking my head firmly. ‘I stand by what I’ve said. It might be that he’s in denial. It might be that he doesn’t even realise it himself yet. It might even be that he’s just waiting for the right moment to come out. But there is no way he’s straight. I mean, think about it. When have you ever seen a straight guy that can dance as well as Tyson?’

‘Justin Timberlake.’ Steph says instantly.

‘Besides Justin Timberlake.’

‘Um … no one.’

‘Exactly. Plus he dresses too well and knows too much about fashion. His favourite singer is Cher, and his favourite movie is Dreamgirls. Basically, it couldn’t be any more obvious.’

‘Dreamgirls?’

‘Yup.’

There’s silence for a moment. Then Steph says mournfully, ‘Why do the hot guys always turn out to be gay?’

We give this question the consideration it deserves.

‘I think you’re asking that the wrong way round,’ Kealiboga says. ‘We should be wondering why so many gay men turn out to be hot. And the answer is simple – they take better care of themselves.’

‘True,’ Soraya agrees.

‘In a way they don’t really have a choice, do they?’ says Kealiboga. ‘The gay community is hugely looks-oriented. Imagine if Tyson had never seen the inside of a gym, drank a six-pack of Windhoek a day, and walked around in sandals with socks. Would he still be hot?’
We start to giggle. The image is just not coming into focus.
‘Hey, speaking of Tyson,’ Steph says suddenly. ‘Remember we promised to go dancing with him again tonight. Tarts and Vicars party up at the Monument. Who’s in?’

Kealiboga nods, but Soraya and I shake our heads.

‘I’m working tonight,’ says Soraya. ‘My partner and I have to finish our Business Admin project by tomorrow or we’re in trouble.’

‘What about you, Trinity?’

‘I’ve also got something on.’

‘What?’ demands Steph.

‘It’s just a … lecture or something,’ I say vaguely.

‘At night? Come off it. What lecture?’

‘I don’t know! It’s just some memorial lecture thingy. But the topic is something I’m spotting for June exams, so I thought I’d better go along. It’s also up at the Monument actually, so I might be able to join you guys later.’

Steph gives me one last suspicious look, but luckily decides to drop the subject.

******

I manage to slip off on my own after supper that evening to avoid further questioning. Steph and Kealiboga are too wrapped up in putting together the most outrageous outfits they can find to worry about what I’m up to.

Thank goodness.

Because I really do not want to try and explain why I’m going to this lecture. I hardly understand it myself. All I know is that it probably isn’t a good idea.

Okay, scratch that. It definitely isn’t a good idea.

For one thing, the lecture has absolutely nothing to do with what I’m spotting for June exams. It’s called ‘Scepticism, Spiritualist Epistemology and Exegesis in Dickens’ Late Period.’

I’m not kidding. That really is the title.

I understand maybe three words in that whole sentence. And even that doesn’t help. Somehow I get the feeling that what I understand by a ‘late period’ has got nothing to do with Dickens.

So why am I going to it? And where did I even hear about it?
Well, a couple of days ago, right at the end of one of our poetry tutorials, Farouk happened to mention that he’d been asked to deliver the annual Guy Butler Memorial Lecture. He said it was being held this Thursday up at the Monument, and that we were welcome to come along if we felt like it. He said he knew we weren’t doing Dickens this year, but that it might come in useful for next year.

He was looking at Tyler and Vuyo as he spoke, and I think he was really directing the invitation at them. Like they’re the intellectuals of the class who might actually stand a chance of keeping up with him. They both kind of nodded and smiled, to show that they’d think about it. He didn’t even bother looking in my direction.

I made up my mind there and then that I would go to his stupid lecture. If only to teach him not to make snap judgements about people.

But if I’m honest, it’s also because I want him to acknowledge me again. To look me in the eye. Ever since he got back from his grandfather’s funeral, it’s as though I’ve ceased to exist. One moment he’s sending me secret invitations to his club, and the next I’m the Invisible Woman.

And, yes, I know that’s what I wanted. I wanted to keep him at a distance. But that’s the point – I wanted to keep him at a distance. Not the other way round.

It’s driving me crazy trying to figure out what I might have said or done to make him cool off like this. Am I not good enough all of a sudden? Am I not brainy enough for him?

Just thinking about it makes me feel all cross and scratchy inside.

Still, no prizes for guessing why this isn’t something I want to share with Steph and the girls. Not after I’ve spent the past week going out on one blind date after another to try to get my mind off him. They’ll think I’ve lost the plot.

Maybe I have.

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