Why why why did I snog Paul Powell on Friday night?

In the cold, sober light of day, I can definitely confirm that I'm not in the least bit attracted to the bloke. Now, suddenly, he's everywhere I turn; in the breakfast hall, strolling across the lawn, picking up a parcel from the Porter's Lodge. The library? Oh look, there's Paul checking out the shelf of books right next to where I'm studying. A quiet corner of the TV lounge? What a surprise; there's Paul, sitting next to the aspidistra with The Financial Times and a cup of coffee. My room? It wouldn't surprise me to discover that Paul is currently under my bed as the newly-appointed student Health and Safety inspector personally responsible for checking the working order of my bed-springs.

I've made some idiotic decisions in my lifetime, but this one is the probably the most stupid. Note to self; if I ever decide to snog someone else I don't fancy, make sure they live in another college, city or preferably on a different continent.

What with running away from Paul at college and avoiding Al Potter in classes this week, it's a wonder I've got any time to panic over giving this bloody talk, but somehow I'm managing to squeeze some high-quality presentation-related anxiety in to my timetable.

Honestly, I'm not sure my nerves can take much more.

Isn't it funny that when you want time to speed up, the hours take forever to pass? Conversely, when you want it to take forever, it never does. Which is why this week has hurtled by at the speed of light and it's now Friday again.

Except this is Friday with bells on; it's presentation day.

It's after midday, and my moment of doom is less than an hour away. Handwritten notes are strewn across my bed, with key sentences highlighted in orange. I've gone over everything I need to say during this presentation a hundred times or more. I should know it off by heart for the rest of my life, but the second I think about having to stand at the front of the lecture theatre in front of all those people, my mind starts whimpering in terror.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, it's just a ten-minute talk," I growl at myself. "I am not going to be alone; nine other people will be going through this exact same thing."

Nine other people, who are far more intelligent and eloquent than I am. Nine people who will have prepared a much more impressive presentation. Nine people who understand exactly what they are talking about.

Eep.

Why am I putting myself through this torture?

I wish the journey from college to lectures was longer. About thirty miles longer would be ideal. All the way, I'm giving myself a pep-talk, trying to convince myself that it's only ten minutes of my life, how good I'll feel once it's over, how much it will help my confidence and self-esteem to Just Fucking Do It, but by the time I get to the lecture theatre, the little voice inside my head has dried to a crispy croak, and whoosh; any useful information has disappeared from my brain.

Who am I, again?

On autopilot, I dumbly follow everyone else from section B into an unfamiliar lecture theatre which is smaller than our usual one and much darker; the oppressive maroon-coloured walls immediately make me think of blood.

Even this lecture theatre seems to be clamouring for my life-fluid.

We file off into our presentation groups and select somewhere to sit. It's only as I'm about to take the seat next to the rest of group B6, that I realise my hands are shaking violently. I attempt to draw a breath but it feels as though there's a dry brick lodged in my windpipe. I can hear the hammering of my heart as it tries to force it's way out of my ribcage.

Fuck.

"Think I'm gonna be sick," I mumble incoherently to nobody in particular, before turning and stumbling blindly out of the lecture theatre. I'm not going to be sick; I think I'm about to go into cardiac arrest, but there's no point in frightening anyone with my imminent departure from this world. I make it as far as the top of the concrete steps leading to the courtyard below before my legs give way, and I elect to sit down rather than plummet to my death. Blood is pumping noisily in my ears and my chest feels like it's gripped in a vice.

It's cold out here, in more ways than one. There's the physical chill of the weather which envelopes me like a cloak. Then, there's the inner frost of sheer panic, creeping through my veins and brain, and turning them to ice.

Everything is frozen solid.

I'm vaguely aware of Ronnie plopping herself down by my side and rubbing my shoulder soothingly.

"Sunita, are you okay? Do you want me to get help?"

I frantically shake my head. Let's not make this any more embarrassing than it already is.

"What's up?"

"I…I just can't."

"Can't what?" she replies, confused.

"Can't…speak."

"Oh. Do you have asthma?"

I shake my head.

"Then what is it?"

"Can't…do…talk," I manage to spit out.

"Oh. But Sunita, you can do this! It's okay - it's just a presentation. It's no big deal."

My chest tightens further. My lungs are threatening to implode completely.

"Shit, do want me to get help?"

I shake my head; I don't want anyone to see me like this.

"I'll be right back."

"No," I mutter, but she's already up and off.

I try and focus on the rhythm of the footsteps behind me, whilst urgently willing my lungs to breathe.

"Sunita, are you okay?"

I recognise that voice. My heart simultaneously leaps in shock and sinks in despair.

Just what the fuck is Al doing here? Does he fancy a laugh at my expense, or something? He's the LAST person in the world who I'd want to see me like this, apart from my Mum - I really, really wouldn't want to be smothered by her embarrassing hysteria or over-fussing right now.

At least he can't accuse me of stalking him in this condition. I'm not in any state to do anything except gasp a monosyllabic answer that I hope conveys the message that I do NOT need his glib concern.

"Yep."

He immediately lets out an amused snort. "Right. Generally, people who are fine don't sit on steps and hyperventilate."

Glad one of us finds this situation funny. I glower into my palms. If I had any breath left, I'd tell him to fuck off and mind his own business.

Hell, why should being unable to breathe stop me?

"Fuck…off."

There's silence for a second. I allow him a moment to act on my words and leave me alone.

Then…

"I'll do it," says Al quietly.

I slowly raise my head in confusion whilst his words register in my brain. As I process what he's said, my chest seems to loosen; relief replacing the suffocating grip of anxiety. I brave a glance upwards at him.

He seems to be in some kind of trance; fixated by a small patch of leaden sky visible between the tall University buildings. Has he been possessed by an alien or has he merely lost his mind?

"What?" I manage to croak.

"Give me your notes and I'll do the presentation," he says, suddenly sounding normal again. He sits himself down on my step, leaving a little gap between us.

"But…"

"But what?"

"They won't let you. My name's down to present it."

"So what? I'll just tell them you've got laryngitis," he says promptly. "Nobody will mind."

"You…but…why?"

"Look, do you want me to help, or what?"

I can hear footsteps approaching and turn slightly. Ronnie has returned. Her face is etched with concern as she shoves a blue inhaler into my hand. "Sunny, do you need this?"

I stare at it for a moment and turn it over in my palm. Like magic, my breathing suddenly seems to have returned to normal all on its own.

"No, I don't. I feel fine now," I reply in relief, shoving the inhaler back at her and taking in lovely, unimpeded lungfuls of cool air. Ah, breathing; I've missed you.

In one fluid motion, Al is back on his feet. "See you in there." He walks off ahead, whilst Ronnie hovers about uncertainly.

"You sure you're feeling better?" she asks kindly. "You sound a bit less worried."

"Positive," I say.

Wow; that was embarrassing.

Ronnie and I walk back to the lecture theatre together and take our seats with the rest of the group. My mind is starting to churn with all sorts of thoughts; how did he know, and why the fuck did he want to help me? I just don't understand him at all.

With only a couple of minutes to go before the presentations start, Al leans across my desk and without saying a word, holds out his palm.

I stare at it stupidly for a moment before realising he's wanting my notes.

"Thanks," I mutter, swallowing what's left of my fragmented pride as I pass him several A4 sheets covered in painfully small writing, with vague, undecipherable diagrams and key phrases marked in orange highlighter. I let out an awkward laugh. "I hope you can read them."

His gaze meets mine for the first time. I'm expecting condescension at the very least, but there is just clear green sincerity, framed by the longest, thickest fringe of lashes I've ever seen on a boy.

Saffron was right - he really has got rather nice eyes.

"If I can read my own writing, I can definitely read yours," Al replies, with the barest hint of a smile.

I feel the heat rising to my face and look away before it becomes blatant.

"So now we have group 6, presenting their talk on Huntington's disease."

Al nods at the introductory speaker. He stands confidently at the front of the lecture theatre, totally unfazed by the large body of students and lecturers facing him. In fact, instead, we all seem to melt under his powerful, assured gaze.

Just how can people not mind speaking in front of an audience? And, more to the point, how can one speaker make a whole audience feel as though they are the ones under scrutiny?

I'm guessing he hasn't been mentally scarred by seven dwarves and a microphone on Rotherham civic theatre's stage at the tender age of four. Just think where I could have been now, if not for that childhood setback.

"Huntington's disease is a progressive neurodegenerative disorder…"

Al times the whole thing to perfection, wrapping up the presentation in just under ten minutes. The talk is delivered so articulately, and in such an entertaining, well-presented way, that it receives a huge round of applause at the end. One of the professors actually stands up to clap.

I think that's going a bit too far; it's not quite that Oscar-worthy a performance.

Al returns to his seat, his expression betraying no emotion whatsoever, even as members of our group congratulate him. It's as though he's just spent ten minutes on something as mundane as posting a letter.

Safely nestled amongst the watching students as the talks progress through groups seven to ten, I feel a pang of envy and a lot of admiration for all those who have the confidence to talk to a crowd, but relieved and grateful I didn't have to do it this time.

Before the final speaker has finished presenting their talk on Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, a few murmurs of "pub?" have already begun to circle the lecture hall. It's so close to the Christmas break now that even the most die-hard scholars are thinking about beers rather than work. Several students plan to head directly to the nearest drinking establishment immediately after leaving the theatre, which happens to be a pricey and very shiny sort of wine-bar called Vermilion's.

Veronica pulls a face. "It's so chrome it hurts my eyes in there. And it's not very 'me.'" She looks down at her galaxy-print leggings, boots and vintage parka and I have to agree; her outfit is a far cry from the chinos and tiny dresses normally seen gracing that establishment. "Couldn't we all go somewhere cheaper? How about The Whale and Wicket? Or The Castle, maybe?"

One of the guys from another group butts in. "We're going to The Whale, I think."

"Sounds good to me."

I'm not exactly dressed to kill either, wearing skinny jeans and a light grey hoodie, but it's okay as I wasn't planning on murdering anyone this evening. Quite frankly, I cannot be bothered to go all the way back to college and change into something flattering, when there are beers to be consumed. This whole day has been crying out for alcohol from start to finish. Although if my Mum saw me socialising whilst dressed like this, she'd pop an artery; she never goes anywhere without looking like a walking Gucci advert.

We're already on our third round of the day by 6pm. My head is starting to spin slightly from a lack of lunch and the consumption of several pints of lager in quick succession. Veronica isn't the slightest bit affected by this amount of booze and I can't help feeling jealous of her staying power.

"Ronnie," I slur. "How is it that I'm three-quarters of the way to being battered and you look like you haven't had a drink yet?"

She laughs modestly. "I guess I've developed a decent tolerance for alcohol. Resistance built up from years of mis-spent youth. That, and Baileys every Christmas from the age of eight upwards."

"So basically, I should have started drinking long ago, as a small child?"

"Well, if you want to be good at anything in life, it helps to start young."

I let out a giggle, because I cannot imagine my Dad ever condoning drinking at any age, even if there was a benefit associated with it.

"I also learned responsibility and accountability through the world of teenage drinking," continues Veronica. "I made quite a few mistakes at sixteen."

"You're really selling this concept," I snort.

"I'm still relatively sober," she replies, looking over the top of her spectacles at me in a superior fashion, which halts my laughter.

"In which case, I better entrust my care to you this evening," I declare solemnly. "I'm inexperienced, with no cut-off switch; please be the sensible one and only buy me safe drinks like tea from now on."

"This pub doesn't serve tea," she says. "And tea is not that safe! Look at what excessive caffeine does to people!"

She's not wrong.

"Is there nothing I can drink without getting into trouble?" I ask in a small voice.

"Water."

"I wouldn't. Over-hydration and intoxication can occur when you drink too much water, you know," says a muffled voice in my ear, making me jump out of my skin. I wriggle around in shock, then smile broadly when I see who it is.

"Hey, Yoshi!" I cry, greeting him with unnecessarily loud drunken enthusiasm. "You're here! Please save me from myself and don't let me get too pissed."

"I might be too late. You look like you're past the pint of no return," he remarks drily, making me cheer raucously, because I love a good pun; who doesn't? "But I'll do my best. You can join my teetotal club this evening. How does that sound?"

I ponder for a moment before nodding in acceptance of the idea, thankful that Yoshi hadn't waited until I'd absorbed even more alcohol in my system before turning up this evening. I might not have found the idea quite so agreeable after five lagers.

"Thanks Yoshi," I reply. "You're saving me from ale-ing."

"Nice effort! Especially considering you're half-cut." He laughs in a pleased sort of way before gazing around at the occupants of the pub. "Hey, where's Lenny? And Al? Weren't you and Al in the same presentation group? How did it go, by the way?"

I'm just about to answer that I don't know and it couldn't have gone better because Al saved my ass and did it all, when Bella leans over from the other side of the table to reply. "I think Al's coming later. Said he had a few things to do first."

"Oh right." Yoshi nods.

I still don't know what to make of the fact that Al stepped in and saved me from humiliation, especially since the last time I spoke to him I told him he was a paranoid dickhead.

Well he was.

"What about Lenny, anyway? Where's he got to?" Yoshi enquires.

"I have no idea. I'm not his secretary," I reply. "Although I'm pretty sure Saff and Lenny were in the same section but in separate groups, so they might have gone to the same pub." I rack my brains, trying hard to remember. "Jude was in section D. I'll WhatsApp the girls and see what they're up to this evening."

"Good idea," says Yoshi. "You round up the troops and I'll get some drinks. So, what'll it be, Sunny?"

"Diet coke, please," I reply in a small voice, feeling awkward yet proud of myself at the same time.

Whilst Yoshi is at the bar, I extract my phone from my bag and send a message to both girls, before remembering that Judith will probably be playing Softball and therefore won't be out drinking.

I cast a glance around the table, fidgeting with my beer mat as I wait for Yoshi to return. Bella and Catz-boy are in one conversation, and Lemar, Milas and Veronica are in another.

Yoshi places my drink down on the table and pulls up a chair as I check my phone.

"Just reading Saff's reply to my message." I tilt my phone so Yoshi can see what she's written. "She's in The Eagle with Lenny and some of her college friends. I don't think she'll be moving from there. Thanks for the drink, by the way."

"You're welcome," he replies as we clink glasses. "Heard from Jude?"

"Nope. She hasn't answered. I expect she's doing something sporty as usual."

"We should ask India, I suppose."

"I'll text her now."

With enormous personal restraint and a bit of peer support, I manage to steer clear of any further alcohol for a few hours. By the time 9pm rolls around, I'm almost back to sobriety and I know full well it's only thanks to Yoshi that I haven't joined the ranks of vomiting, incoherent drunks by now.

To my surprise, I'm still enjoying the evening. The surrounding snippets of conversation that reach our ears indicate it has devolved into an erratic jumble. For once, I'm not participating it. Instead, I'm sitting on a sofa in a quiet corner of the pub, indulging in relatively civilised banter with Yoshi and India, who, on hearing that Leonard would not be joining us, decided to accept an invite to our party of two.

Poor Leonard. He's such a nice guy. Who, err, calls India 'Cupcake' and completely gets on her tits.

"Okay, I'm going to head off," says Yoshi, getting up from the settee and stretching. "I've got a violin lesson first-thing tomorrow morning, and then an orchestra performance in the evening."

"Ooh, where are you playing?" India asks. "Can we come and listen? Sunny, you'd be up for that, right?"

"Umm, sure," I say uncertainly, not having much of an appreciation for classical music, but willing to cheer on Yoshi all the same.

"We're performing at West Road Concert Hall," replies Yoshi. "I'm not sure there are any tickets left, but I can always text you if there are." He pulls on his coat and slings a rucksack over his shoulder. "I guess I might see you two tomorrow, but if not, I'll see you in lectures on Monday."

"I think I better leave too, seeing as I'm losing my 'voice of reason'," I say, reluctantly extracting myself from the sofa, which is easier said than done as I've managed to firmly wedge myself between two cushions. "Sorry, India."

"It's fine," she says. "I should get going too. Hang on, Yoshi. If you're walking and you're going past Queens, I'll come with with you."

"Sure," he says, halting a few steps away to wait as India hurriedly gathers up her stuff. "Sunny, are you okay to walk back on your own?"

"Yeah, of course. It's only a five-minute walk to St John's from here," I say, gathering up my bag and coat. I probably won't even bother to put it on; it really will only take me five minutes at the most to get to my college.

"Okay."

I step outside. It's cold enough for me to see my breath in the air. Suddenly, putting my coat on seems like a sensible idea. I fumble with my bag and coat for a couple of seconds, as pedestrians go by.

"Excuse me."

Obediently, I shuffle forwards away from the pub entrance as I try to find the end of my sleeve, my left hand lost somewhere around the armpit region. As I automatically glance around at the sound of the voice, I realise, with a lurch, that Al is going into the pub with Orla.

I hadn't realised they were a couple, but I'm not that surprised - lots of people are already paired off in our year group.

He doesn't notice me wrestling with my coat and bag straps, and I don't interrupt his progress. Now that my anxiety has subsided, I'm left with a deep sense of shame at my failure to present the talk earlier.

How could I let someone, especially him, come to my rescue, and what must he think of me now?