I'm startled out of sleep by a distant thumping noise. Bands of muted sunlight are filtering through a window I don't have, my college bed has expanded into a colossal four-poster one, and a table has disappeared from the side. In bewilderment, I scan the perimeter of this strange place, noting the opulence; wall-mounted candelabra, mahogany wood panelling and richly brocaded floor length curtains. It takes me a moment before I remember where I am.
Al's room.
Of course. We hadn't meant to stay out so late; it must have been well past midnight before we'd decided to wind things up. Why the Hell did I drink so much that I could barely stand? I recall leaning against Al at one point, my arms around his neck as he virtually carried me down some narrow, dimly-lit street whilst I laughed hysterically. Eustace and Shirley, two of Al's friends, were staggering with us and getting rather riled about something…to do with me? College?
Snippets of last night swirl hazily in my mind. I vaguely remember we were somewhere close to the junction of Mill Lane and Trumpington Street when the disagreement broke out. Shirley was blocking access to a door, her voice strained and angry.
"Seriously? You've fucking done it now, Al. You and Monty."
Al was retaliating with just as much fury. "What were we supposed to do? Leave our girlfriends in the street? Fuck that. Anything could have happened to them."
"Take Sunny back to her college, maybe?" Eustace suggested half-heartedly in a bored, baritone voice.
"You know I can't, Stace. Gates closed at ten. It's nearly half-past fucking one now."
"Come off it, Al. There are ways and means…"
"And you think this is risky? Are you for fucking real?"
"Al…"
"Shirley, you can either help or get out of my fucking way. Monty's already taken Lydia back with him. I'm not leaving Sunny here. I can't."
"Fine, Al; have it your way. But don't blame me when you get caught and she gets wiped…"
Wiped? What the Hell does that mean? Must be slang for losing a cash deposit or getting a fine, I suppose. Try as I might, I can't recall any more after that. I don't even remember how I got into this room, although I have a faint recollection of sitting half-undressed on Al's bed and flatly refusing to drink the pint of water that he kept trying to press into my hand. As I rummage around in the murky depths of my mind to uncover what followed, another memory blooms vividly; me running around Al's room in my bra and knickers whilst he tried - very patiently - to get me to lie down and go to sleep.
Oh, the shame! Poor Al; I owe him a massive apology…Hang on, where the Hell is he anyway?
I raise my head slightly and immediately wish I hadn't as I'm engulfed by a wave of nausea.
Fuck. Why was I such an idiot last night? Today, I am going to be doing exactly what I shouldn't be doing this term; wasting precious time nursing an incapacitating hangover.
Just as I'm wondering whether I can actually make it out of a horizontal position at all, the door bursts open. I whimper as the noise reverberates through my skull.
"Sunny?"
"Al?" I croak, screwing up my eyes against the assault of bright light from the corridor behind him. It's difficult to make out Al's features in silhouette, but I can see enough to discern his expression. And I've never seen anyone look quite so terrified as he does in this moment.
"We have to get out," he says, slightly breathlessly. "Now."
"What? Why? What's going on?" I lurch upright and regret it instantly as the room begins to spin. "Ow, my fucking head! Al, I can't move - I'll puke."
"Why am I not surprised? Here - drink this."
Al uncorks a tiny glass bottle and hands it to me. It's thick and rough-hewn as though it's been whisked straight out of a sixteenth century apothecary. I peer at the little vial, trying to force my eyeballs to focus. There's a strange mauve solution inside that almost seems alive, shimmering and contorting entirely on its own.
I'm still completely pissed, obviously. Fluids don't behave like that in front of sober people.
"Come on, Sunny; drink up."
"But what the fresh Hell is it?" I mutter, as I tentatively sniff the contents. The scent vaguely reminds me of plum jam and it's surprisingly enticing considering I'm on the brink of gastric evacuation.
"The best hangover cure you'll ever try. Just down it in one. We haven't got much time."
"What do you mean?" I slur.
"Sunny, will you just fucking drink it?" begs Al desperately. "It'll make you feel a lot better, hopefully. It's nothing dangerous or illegal, I promise."
I gaze at him through bleary eyes and decide that I can probably trust him not to poison me. Surprisingly, the contents of the vessel are pleasantly sweet and light, like a fragrance rather than a liquid, and almost instantly, clarity begins to cleave the dense fog hanging over my mind.
"Right, let's get a move on and go."
"What's going on?" I mumble, pulling on my jeans and t-shirt whilst still lying on the bed. Al has turned away to protect my modesty. Fuck only knows why when I was leaping around practically naked in front of him only a few hours ago.
"The warden," mutters Al. "He's here - and we'll get into huge trouble if you're found."
"A fine you mean?" I relax a little. "Don't worry; I'll pay it if we get caught."
Al turns around and looks at me strangely. There's sheer panic in his eyes, which scares and confuses me at the same time. Why is he so anxious? This isn't like him at all.
"It's not just a fine, Sunny. You don't want to find out any more. Will you hurry up and finish getting dressed?"
"I don't understand!"
"You don't have to. Come on!"
"Okay, chill your beans," I grumble, as he grabs my bag and takes my arm. I have to run to keep up with his long strides as he proceeds at full-tilt out of his room, along a lamp-lit oak-panelled corridor, past an enormous ornate fireplace and through a hallway lined with gilt-framed artwork. For a brief moment, I startle, convinced that one of the painted figures twitched slightly, but it must have been a trick of the light, or my alcohol-addled brain in motion.
"Coast is clear, Al," mumbles stocky, blond-haired Eustace, quickly tucking what looks like a bamboo cane up his sleeve. Bamboo? How strange. Naturally, I'm curious, but it's not my place to remark upon it in case there's a sensitive reason for its presence; perhaps it's physically supporting a dysfunctional arm, or it's some deeply personal ritual. Eustace ushers us down the passageway, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
As we hurtle along, I catch a glimpse of two men in conversation down another corridor, dressed in what appears to be full and fancy-looking University regalia, their heads bowed together. One, clad in an ornate purple gown, is short and balding and bears a resemblance to one of my neighbours back home, a quietly-spoken man named Keith. The other one is much taller with mousy hair and reminds me a little of my Uncle Brendan, but before I can take a closer look at either, I've been whisked down a short flight of stone steps and through a small, iron-studded wooden door. Fresh air hits my face and the bustling noise of the city suddenly rings in my ears. I stare up at the tall buildings surrounding us and realise I'm now standing on the pavement of Trumpington Street.
Al lets out a loud exhalation of relief and shakes his head. "Fuck, that was way too close for comfort."
"Honestly, Al; I didn't think you had it in you to be so melodramatic," I shrug, brushing some dust off my sleeve. "I bet your warden couldn't actually give two shits about occasional guests staying over."
He looks at me incredulously and shakes his head. "You have no bloody idea what you've just dodged! Our warden is unbelievably anal about security and visitors."
"So what do we do now?" I ponder. "There's a repro lecture at nine which I should attend, but there's not quite enough time between now and then for me to get back to St John's for a cup of tea, shower and change of clothes."
"Let's go and have some breakfast then," suggests Al, steering me in the direction of King's Parade, where there are about a hundred cafés to choose from. "How's your head?"
"Amazingly okay," I reply, shaking it from side to side to test out the theory. "What WAS that purple gloop you gave me? It's miraculous!"
"Oh, it's just an old family remedy," he mutters furtively. "Secret recipe and all that."
"I need a lifetime stock of it. Honestly, it's completely eradicated my hangover! You could make a fortune selling that stuff."
Al scratches at the nape of his neck, a sense of unease creeping over his features. I wonder if it's because of the apparent 'near-miss' we had a few minutes ago? Admittedly, it's very strange that this particularly strict warden should decide to check up on college accommodation today; almost too coincidental for my liking, if you ask me.
"Al?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Go for it."
"Does your college warden usually conduct rounds first thing on a Saturday morning?"
He narrows his eyes and frowns. "No."
"Well, either that was an unfortunately-timed inspection or someone must have tipped him off."
"What are you suggesting?"
"What if one of your friends…"
"None of them would do that!" Al retorts, shaking his head vehemently. "It's got to be pure bad luck."
"Hmm. I'm not so sure myself. Orla hates me enough to get me into trouble; I'm sure of it."
"Orla would never do that! You've got her all wrong."
"Riiiight," I reply, not convinced in the slightest.
"Sunny, I've known Orla for years, way before University! She's one of my oldest friends. There's no way she'd stoop so low."
Al seems quite resolute on this point, so I don't push it any further, even though I'm highly sceptical. Orla and I barely exchanged a word yesterday evening, and there were moments when I caught her staring at me with undisguised revulsion written all over her face. In contrast, the other four girls - Munisa, Lydia, Fable and Shirley - all seemed genuinely nice, although Shirley lost it at Al for some reason at the end of the night.
We come to a stop outside a white and sage-green coffee shop on King's Parade; oddly enough, the same café that my Mum baulked at back in January when she and my Dad came to visit for the weekend. There's a breakfast menu hanging in the window and we both peruse it briefly.
"What do you reckon, Sunny?"
"Looks nice; there's even a vegetarian Full English option available."
"Shall we go in, then?"
"Yes, why not."
I enter the café first. Immediately, a tiny little woman in a floral apron rushes over to greet us with a broad smile. "Table for two, yes?"
"Yes please."
We follow her past several occupied tables to a vacant one near the rear of the café, whereupon she hands us a menu each and gestures for us to sit.
Al politely pulls out my chair for me and seats me first before getting himself settled.
"Are you two ready to order?" asks the little woman kindly.
"Sunny, go ahead if you know what you want to have. I just need a moment to decide."
"I'll have a pot of English Breakfast tea, and could I have part of the vegetarian Full English rather than the whole thing?" I ask. "Just the vegan sausages and eggs, and granary toast, please."
"Of course you can," she replies, scribbling something down on a small pad of paper. "How would you like your eggs, love?"
"Scrambled, please."
She nods and smiles at me before turning to Al. "Sir?"
Al looks a bit taken aback at being addressed as 'sir', which tickles me for some reason and I have to chew my knuckles to stop myself from erupting into giggles. He relays his order and then leans backwards in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head whilst I continue to read the menu to see what I'm missing out on. We sit in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes until our hot drinks arrive, causing us to simultaneously emit contented sighs as we take our first sips. The synchrony makes me smile, but I notice Al is a little tight-lipped and pensive. Maybe I shouldn't have aired those thoughts on Orla?
Doubt and guilt creep into my mind and I can feel my anxiety levels beginning to rise. I've overstepped a line. Obviously, I can't retract the earlier accusation, but maybe I could apply some remorse and divert a potential argument; I really could do without the stress of another fight.
"Umm, Sir Al," I begin hesitantly, hoping to get back into his good books and not feeling particularly encouraged when he gives me a withering look in reply, "I owe you an apology. I'm really sorry if I embarrassed you last night. I didn't mean to get quite so drunk and make such an idiot of myself."
There's a slight pause, then a sigh, and the shadow of a smile crosses his face. "Nah, you didn't at all. You were just really funny, especially when you and Monty started ripping off regional accents together. Your Birmingham one was mint."
Relief washes over me. He's not too annoyed, after all. "Err, I also wanted to thank you for being so lovely when I was being a pain in the arse in your room afterwards," I mumble sheepishly.
"A pain in the arse?" Al's head snaps up and he fixes me with a reproachful look. "Fucking Hell, I honestly thought you were going to strip off completely and streak through the whole building at one point." He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth are twitching as he continues. "Had to lock the door for your own safety. Then once you'd finished running around my room and laughing your head off about fuck knows what, I tried to persuade you to rehydrate and offered you some water, but you were having none of it and just shoved the pint glass out of my hand and onto the chair."
I sense this is not quite the moment to burst out laughing, so I attempt to school my features into an admonished expression.
"You did eventually decide to lie down and then of course you were clamouring for a drink, so I went to the kitchen to fetch another glass of water, but by the time I came back, you were unconscious and sprawled like a dead starfish across the whole bloody bed. It was then me who couldn't sleep because I had to spend the rest of the night on my very small sofa."
"Oh God, Al, I'm so sorry!" I gasp, no longer able to prevent the laughter from spilling forth.
"And I really believe you are, because people who are genuinely sorry usually find it hilarious when they apologise," he replies drily.
"And I know you're not being serious either because your dimple gives you away, Albatross Potter," I retaliate, leaning across the table to prod it.
"Stupid bloody dimple."
"I briefly remember dancing around your room wearing your scarf and not much else," I mutter, flushing slightly at the memory. "I don't even know why I did that. You know, you never did tell me what a Hufflepuff is."
Al's eyes narrow in an almost scrutinising manner. "It's weird, because really…how…you shouldn't…yeah, well, let's not go there. Hufflepuff is the name of my old school house, that's all."
"Ohh. So that's why I couldn't find Hufflepuff on a Google search!" I reply, words gushing out in enlightened enthusiasm. "Stupidly, I thought it was a football club nickname. Our school had unusual house names too, after the four female founders: Thackle, Mongorry, Goosecruves, and Barbanell. We all thought they were super weird to begin with, but we soon grew accustomed to them. Hufflepuff would have fitted in quite nicely with that lot."
"Yeah, we had a very similar naming system at our school too."
I'm just about to enquire further, when the little woman who took our orders appears with our breakfasts.
"Excuse me, loves. Here you go."
She puts two loaded plates in front of us as we murmur our appreciation. Mine looks pretty good, even to someone like me who doesn't usually eat a substantial meal this early in the day. We tuck in, conversation giving way to post-drinking appetites as we concentrate on devouring our food.
"By the way, I've been meaning to ask you," says Al a few minutes later, placing his cutlery down on his plate and gazing at me earnestly. "I've managed to get hold of a ticket to Trinity college's May ball, and, well, I wondered if you'd like to go with me?"
I gape at him in astonishment.
"How the fuck did you wangle that?" I ask in a hushed tone. "That thing sold out months ago within hours, and spare tickets are rarer than hen's teeth! I doubt I'll be able to afford it."
"There's nothing for you to pay. It's a freebie. So is that a Yes or No?" Al asks patiently. "I'll give it away to someone who wants it if you're not keen, that's all."
"Keen? Give it away? Bloody Hell, Al - Trinity's ball is the most expensive and sought-after one of the lot! Even St John's is cheaper - and that's saying something when tickets are over £400!" I gaze at him suspiciously. "Just how did you…"
"Are you going to answer the question?"
"Are you going to answer mine?"
"I asked first."
"Trinity's balls are legendary! How can I possibly turn this offer down? Even if I detest wearing dresses."
"You only have to wear one, sweetheart. I'll take that as a Yes, shall I?
I punch him half-heartedly in the arm, still completely blown away by his generosity. "You'll have to don a fancy outfit too - it's a black-tie event. Anyway, aren't you going to tell me how you 'just happened upon' this ticket?"
Al touches a finger to his lips. "Ah, sorry Sunny, I'm not. A true gentleman never reveals his secrets."
"For fuck's sake, Al!" I whine. "I thought we agreed last night; we'd be more open with each other from now on!"
"And I thought you liked mysteries! Let this remain one."
"I like mysteries I have half a chance of solving," I grumble, shoving the last morsel of scrambled egg into my mouth and chewing idly for a moment as I process everything.
Al, who had practically inhaled his breakfast within milliseconds of it appearing, is now eyeing up the remainder of mine. Despite feeling ravenous earlier, I'm almost full and merely toying with my last vegan sausage, not wanting to waste it, but not having the room in my stomach for it either.
"Are you planning on eating that, or are you just giving it a tour of your plate?"
"Do you want it?"
"Do I ever turn down food?" Al grins, as he pounces on the sausage, polishing it off in two bites.
"You would if I cooked for you. I can barely cope with toast."
"I'm no culinary genius either, but even I can manage basic stuff. There must be something you can make."
"Well yes; I can make a phone call and order a takeaway pizza."
"That doesn't count, you weirdough."
"Like I knead your opinion?"
"There's no topping that one."
"That's a shame; I could curry on forever," I reply smugly.
"Erm, how is that a pizza pun? It should be crust off the list!"
"Was I skating on thin slice with that one?" I stick my tongue out at him.
"Your puns are going down the pan," he quips, then hastily ducks beneath his arms as I attempt to slap the top of his head. "Change of subject; what are you - we - up to later?"
"Nothing that involves drinking," I say firmly. "I am not touching another drop until exams are over. I have to properly concentrate from now on. There's less than three weeks left before they start."
Twenty days, to be precise. Friday the 29th of May is kick-off day, starting with two exams. After that comes the week of Hell; thirteen papers in a row, stretching from Monday to Saturday morning, with three exams scheduled on both Wednesday and Friday. If, by some miracle I survive that lot, there's two more exams left for the following week; a three-hour human behaviour paper on Monday morning, and two hours of pathology practical exam on Tuesday afternoon.
Then, results will be out the following Thursday, the penultimate day of term. Stapled to huge green boards outside the walls of Senate House, for all and sundry to see. They'll send electronic versions to everyone's email, of course, but the paper documents are always posted up first, in keeping with age-old traditions.
Basically, it's going to be a twelve-day-long nightmarish ordeal with seven days of hopeless panicking thrown in at the end for good measure. Even Yoshi said he's worried, and Yoshi adores exams; he simply thrives on the whole package of revision and performing under pressure.
If Yoshi is concerned, what hope do I have?
"Sunny?" Al waves a hand in front of my face. "Stop stressing about exams."
I snap out of my daze to glare at him, half-astonished and half-irritated. "How can you possibly know that?"
"Your jaw is rigid with tension, you're starting to hyperventilate, and your fingernails have blanched," says Al promptly, taking both my hands to sandwich them between his palms. He begins to massage my fingers gently.
"Yeah well," I grumble, softening under Al's touch, "last year wasn't exactly a walk in the park. I've got every reason to panic."
"That was last year. Time to let it go."
"This year's worse."
"No it's not. You've got a year's experience of exam preparation under your belt, you've identified where things went tits up last year, and we can help each other through our weaker topics."
"What are you talking about? You don't have any weaker topics!"
"Of course I do! Pharmacology is a huge mind-bender at times. As is neurology, and human behaviour is just so…vague. I have no idea how I'm supposed to write an essay on such a woolly topic."
"Neuro sucks," I reply gloomily. "I think we both need to beg Yoshi's assistance for that one."
"Even Yoshi finds neuro tough going. See? We're all winging it together, don't worry."
"Hmm," I mutter dubiously, before consulting my wrist watch and duly noting the time. "It's ten to nine. I suppose we should pay up and get moving, or we'll be late for our one and only lecture."
"I'll get the bill," he says immediately, pushing back his chair and preparing to stand.
"Al, let me buy. You're always paying for stuff."
For once, I'm quicker than him and already on my feet, purse in hand. It's a pre-emptive move; I knew he'd offer to pay because he's stubborn and doesn't like to 'owe' anybody anything, but I hate the idea of taking his generosity for granted. Plus, he's way in credit as it is with that ridiculously expensive ball ticket.
"Halves?" he pleads.
"Absolutely not!" I growl. "Sit your arse down and let me get this one."