Wild Blue Yonder (The Ceruleans: Book 3) (22 page)

I dreamt about Luke. About Luke in Newquay. In bed. It was a
fabulous dream, and one I fought hard
not
to wake up from. When I did
finally open my eyes, I thought I’d succeeded. Because I saw at once that I was
in our room – the room we’d shared during our trip to Newquay, the room that
stood alone above the penthouse. It took a few blinks before I realised I was
alone. And then it took many more blinks to push back the tears that blinded
me.

Eventually, I got out of bed. Shopping bags were piled up on
the sofa, ready for me to sort, but I ignored them and stood at the window. It
was that in-between time of day, not quite light, not quite dark, and the newly
switched-on lights of the town seemed feeble, not yet a draw to those who’d
head to Club Infinity: who hated darkness and isolation and flocked to light
and company.

I heard footsteps on the spiral staircase leading up to the
room. Hesitant. They stopped and then Jude said softly, ‘Scarlett? You up?’

‘Yes.’

‘You, er, decent?’

I looked down at myself. Yeurch – still wearing the outfit
I’d left Cerulea in. ‘Well, I’m dressed,’ I said.

He appeared in the doorway, a bottle of water in his hand.
When he met me at the window he offered me the bottle, and I opened it and
drank deeply. Then I slumped onto the sofa, and he came to sit beside me.

‘How do you feel?’ he asked seriously.

‘Okay.’

‘You totally wiped out back there.’

‘Sorry about that.’

‘No, it’s me who should be sorry. I pushed too far. Clearly,
the club’s out for tonight – all those people.’ He sighed. ‘We’ll just have to
rest up and try tomorrow.’

I sat up. ‘No! No, Jude. We have to go. I’m fine!’

‘Scarlett, you fell asleep in the middle of town. You can’t
be doing that in the club.’

‘I know. I won’t!’

He looked at me sceptically.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t your fault, it was mine.
I
pushed it too far.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I healed someone. In the changing rooms.’

‘Scarlett!’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. We’re not here for that. Bad Scarlett,
taking away someone’s pain. Terrible thing to do.’

Jude leaned his head back on the sofa and let out a long
breath. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

‘Take me out, of course.’

He sat up again and, frowning, gave me a searching look.

‘I’m
fine
,’ I said again.

He nodded. Then rubbed a hand across his face and groaned. ‘I
hate clubbing, you know.’

‘Yep, me too.’

‘And
this
club: the hottest, noisiest, smelliest,
most exhausting place in town, where we hope to meet a bunch of seriously dodgy
characters.’

I sang a couple of lines from the Black Eyed Peas’ ‘I Gotta
Feeling’, and that at least raised a smile.

‘Just promise me one thing,’ Jude said.

I raised a brow.

‘If some drunkard slips over in front of you, clonks his
head on the floor, vomits everywhere and then passes out, promise you’ll just
step over him and walk away.’

‘It depends,’ I said.

‘On what?’ Jude looked worried.

‘On whether you’re the drunkard.’

He laughed and said, ‘I’ll have you know, I’ve never been
drunk in my life. But on the other hand, I remember a certain person getting
disgracefully
–’

‘Out!’ I ordered. ‘Now. Don’t you know how long it takes a
girl to doll up for a night on the town?’

*

‘An hour and seventeen minutes,’ Jude answered later as we
queued for Club Infinity.

‘What?’ I murmured. I was distracted trying to dodge the
reeling girl in front of me who kept staggering back and stabbing a stiletto
heel painfully down onto my toes.

‘To “doll up” as you call it,’ said Jude. ‘Proving my point
the other day that ordinarily girls take a
lot
longer than blokes to get
ready. I was dressed and waiting before you’d even got out of the shower.’

‘Yes, well…’ I said, and I left it at that. He didn’t need
to know the shower had been epic thanks to all the shaving going on (happily,
the apartment was fully equipped with toiletries and personal-care products for
guests).

‘And then I sat through two episodes of
The Inbetweeners
– which, incidentally, is hilarious; got to get the box set for the island –
before you finally came downstairs.’

I gave Jude a little shove backwards to save him from
Stiletto Stabber’s mate, who was swinging her metal-studded handbag back and
forth like a deadly pendulum and was pretty close to whacking Jude. ‘I’d have
been a lot quicker,’ I said, ‘if the clothes actually fitted properly.’

‘I told you,’ said Jude, ‘you look great.’

He kept his eyes right on mine and I got the impression he
was concentrating really hard to do so. Ever since I’d appeared in the living
room, ready to go, and I’d given him the once-over – thumbs up for the black
jeans, black smart shoes and green shirt – and he’d given me the once-over and
said ‘Wow’, and then we’d both floundered about awkwardly for a bit, he’d been
treading carefully with me.

It was kind of him to compliment me, but it was a blatant
lie and we both knew it. The black off-the-shoulder top was way too off the
shoulder, displaying a lot of horrendously ill-fitting bra. The trousers were
the colour of mud and tight around the butt. Really tight. And they had bizarre
slits on each side that finished mid-thigh, leaving fabric billowing about all
over the place and displaying so much leg that I may as well had just gone out
in my knickers. Which had Tweety Bird all over them. The mules were too high
and too big so that I had to push my feet right down into the toes to keep them
on, like a little girl playing dress-up.

Still, ridiculous as I felt in this getup, apparently I
fitted in beautifully, as moments later we reached the front of the queue and
the bouncer gestured at us to go in.

Club Infinity was just as I remembered it: too loud, too
full and reeking of sweat and booze. Only this time, being here was much worse,
because not only could I not go hide in the cordoned-off VIP section, which was
a little less crowded, but this time I had to contend with all the painful
need
oozing out of people everywhere. Man with sore arm. Girl with aching feet. Boy
with sickly stomach. Woman with itchy lady bits – oh joy, Ms G-String was here.

I clung to Jude’s arm.

‘SHALL WE GET A DRINK?’ he yelled in my ear.

I gave him a thumbs-up.

We fought our way to the bar, Jude ahead with one arm
extended back so he could keep a hand on my arm. We waited. We waited. We
waited. I pushed in front, stood on tiptoes, leaned forward and caught a
bartender’s eye. A minute later we were weaving our way away from the bar,
drinks in hand.

I eyed the far corner of the room, where the proximity to
the DJ box and its gigantic speakers cleared a little space without clubbers
and where a door in the wall was marked with a red EXIT sign. But Jude had
already warned me we couldn’t be wallflowers – if
they
were to come to
us, we’d have to be noticed. So he led me now to the long, semi-circular ledge
that ran alongside the dance floor, and we elbowed ourselves a space to stand
in.

I took a sip of my Coke, leaned against the ledge and got
down to business: watching the other clubbers. Jude had told me to look for
anything out of the ordinary. But the room was full of people acting anything
but ordinary – jumping, gyrating, staggering, shouting. I settled for searching
for anyone who was looking our way, anyone who may have noticed our appearance
with interest.

Eventually, Jude gestured to my empty glass and then pointed
to the bar. I nodded. We went back to the bar. This time, he got served. Back
to our position.

Time passed. I caught a bloke across the other side of the
dance floor watching me. Short. Tubby. Wearing a truly hideous striped shirt.
He stood up tall when he realised I was meeting his gaze, and my heart leapt.
But then Jude leaned in and said something in my ear, and I saw disappointment
flash across the man’s face before he looked away.

‘DRINK?’ Jude shouted again.

I nodded, and off we went.

Five minutes later we were back at the ledge for more
drinking and watching. Stripy Shirt had moved on to leering at a group of women
dancing around their handbags in front of him. No one else was looking our way.

Eventually, when my bladder was fit to burst (I was banned
from going to the ladies’ alone) and my feet were killing me and my head was
starting to swim from all the people, Jude leaned over and yelled in my ear,
‘Time’s up.’ We had agreed to stay an hour, no more; the place was dangerously
draining for us.

So, at the very respectable time of half-past ten, we
conceded defeat and called an end to what was probably the dullest clubbing experience
of anyone, ever.

‘We’ll try again tomorrow,’ said Jude as we walked off down
the street.

‘Great,’ I said flatly. ‘Can’t wait.’

We went to the club for the next three nights with the same
result:
nada
, zip, squat. All we had to show for our nightly excursions
was new-shoe blisters and ringing ears.

On Sunday, the club was shut, and we were both exhausted, so
we stayed in the apartment and lounged about in front of the TV, eating way too
much junk food we’d picked up at the local supermarket. We kept it light,
working our way through
The Office
DVD I’d found. But by episode six,
Jude had stopped laughing: he just sat quietly, staring at the screen, and his
toffee-apple popcorn sat on his lap, untouched.

I thought I knew what was wrong (other than the fact that
after a while David Brent gets kind of depressing). We were on day five now
since leaving the island. Two days left until Evangeline’s deadline, until she
would ‘be forced to take action’. Two days left to find Sienna, and we hadn’t
even got close to one of the Fallen yet. Tomorrow night in the club was our
last shot. And then Jude – and I? – would face the consequences of our
disobedience.

By early evening, when Jude sloped off to use the bathroom,
I was rummaging in the living room sideboard, looking for some cheery DVD to
lighten Jude’s mood. I didn’t find any, but I did find a stack of board games
and, tucked behind them, a bottle of Bacardi. A big one. Still sealed. I should
have ignored it, I know that. Just grabbed Monopoly and monopolised Jude into a
game. But this whole week had been so stressful, and my head was whirling with
questions demanding answers, and Jude’s head was clearly a miserable place to
be, and I figured – why not escape for a little while?

So I pulled out a game, dumped it on the living room rug,
took the Bacardi to the kitchen, poured a generous slug into two tumblers and
added Coke. When Jude returned, I was kneeling on the rug, setting up the
Monopoly board between sips of drink.

‘Er…’ he said, eying the TV, which was now tuned to a ‘100
Britpop Anthems’ countdown on VH1. We were at number fifty-four. Space. ‘The
Female of the Species.’

‘We’re playing Monopoly and having a drink,’ I announced.
‘We need a break. Sit.’

He stood for a moment and then stepped carefully over the
board and sank down to sit cross-legged across from me. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But
can you play Monopoly with two people?’

‘Only one way to find out.’

He smiled and picked up his drink and knocked back half of
it. And promptly launched into a coughing fit.

‘Rum and Coke,’ I said helpfully.

‘Rum?’

‘Like I said, we need a break. From thinking. And feeling.’

He stared at me for a long moment, and I crooked a ‘Come on,
join me, fellow maverick’ eyebrow. He grinned. I grinned.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Hand me that top hat piece and prepare to
be bankrupted.’

*

I think I won. Or it might’ve been Jude. Or perhaps the
little silver Scottie dog. Didn’t really matter in the end. Much more fun
throwing paper money in the air and singing along to the VH1 countdown, it
turned out.

‘“Song Two”. M’tellin’ you. Blur’s gonna be number one.’ I
held up my index finger and waved it in Jude’s face. ‘See? One.’

‘Nah. S’Take That.’

‘Thas not Titpot. S’cheese pot.’

Jude sniggered. ‘You said Titpot.’

‘Look! Ha! Knew it!’

David Albarn was on the TV screen belting out ‘Woo hoos’. We
sang along, and then jumped along, until there was a slippery-rug moment that
ended with me flat out on the floor.

‘Y’okay?’ Jude called.

I giggled. ‘Yolky. Like an egg.’

‘D’you know, my head feels funny.’

‘’S’cause you’re drunk.’

‘M’I?’

‘Yep.’

‘S’quite nice.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Hey, lesgo for a walk.’

‘’Kay.’

*

I remember that it was spitting rain out, and the cloud
cover meant it was dark. I remember that it was cold, really cold. I remember,
too, that the beach was deserted. It looked deserted.

We sat on the sand at the water’s edge. The stagger from the
apartment in the bracing air had sobered us up. A little.

‘Your feet are bare,’ I pointed out to Jude.

‘You’re wearing my shoes,’ Jude pointed out to me.

We had a little giggle.

‘I’m cold,’ I told Jude.

‘It is cold,’ he said. ‘Here, scoot over.’

I did. He put his arm around me and I rested my head on his
shoulder.

We watched the crashing waves.

‘I like the sea,’ said Jude.

‘Me too.’

‘I like it here.’

‘Me too.’

I pulled back and looked up at him. Had to lean back further
to bring his face into focus. Started tumbling. His arm at my back stopped me.

It happened then.

I don’t know how it happened. It was so quick, and
unexpected. Was it me who made it happen? Did I lean forward? Did he? Or was it
just a matter of momentum, of his arm pushing me upright just as the beach
lurched beneath us?

I remember that his lips were soft. I remember that they
tasted sweet, like toffee-apple popcorn.

It can’t have lasted long. The kiss. I don’t think it lasted
long. We pulled away. We looked at each other.

‘Oh,’ Jude said.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ said the echo of the wind.

Jude leant over and threw up spectacularly on the sand. He
sat up, wiped the back of his mouth, leaned over and was sick again.

My stomach rolled, but I held back the nausea and helpfully
patted him on the arm.

Finally, when he was done retching, he scooted back a little
way and collapsed on the sand. ‘Don’t like being drunk,’ he said, closing his
eyes.

I lay down next to him and closed my eyes. ‘Me either,’ I
said.

He was quiet beside me, and I thought maybe he had the right
idea – a little nap to smooth away the
stupid
of this night.

It was nice and quiet. Just the ebb and flow of the waves
and the whisper of the wind that said,
Scarlett, Scarlett, Scarlett, what
did you do?