Young Writers Society

1

The amount of calories that would be burned in getting up, getting showered, getting dressed and walking to the lecture failed to entice her to open the curtains. Petra had only been at Haulcross University for seven weeks and for the previous three, she had decided that she didn’t have the energy or the inclination to attend lectures. On this particular day she had been woken by a text message that caused her mobile to bleep at a somewhat unreasonable decibel. It was her best female friend, Gemma, more fondly known as Gem Gem.

Pet, ring me when u get this message. Need tell ya something xxx

Peering at the screen with very bleary blue eyes, Petra determined whatever it was that Gemma wanted to talk to her about couldn’t have been that urgent. The fact that she included three kisses lightened the tone of the whole message. If they hadn’t have been there, she probably would have called her straight away. She virtually crawled to the bathroom to get herself some tissue and blew out the remnants of white powder still up there from last nights “mad un”, and rolled over to face the wall and went back to sleep.

Petra’s university room was horrible. The walls were merely breeze blocks painted white. One lick of emulsion was stopping it being on a par with an actual prison cell. How anybody could be truly happy in a room like this was beyond her reckoning. The carpet was a lovely, rich, dark red colour, great for hiding the stains of spilt vodka or cider, but felt like tiny needles, pushing themselves into the soles of Petra’s feet. Very rarely did she dare to venture out of her bed without her feet protected from the harsh reality the carpet bought to her; especially in fragile states such as now.

The sheets were sodden with sweat, as were the clothes she had worn the day before at her room mates gig. They still clung to her clammy body as she couldn’t remember arriving home let alone being in a fit enough state to remove her jeans, black camisole and grey linen jacket. It was mid November, and the wind howled through the vent that gaped open on her window. No amount of sticky tape was keeping that bugger shut, evidently.

Every so often, a waft of the smell of burnt toast burst through the vent, causing her to heave slightly and bury her face in to the pillow more ferociously than she had been doing beforehand. Students, she hated them. Even though she was one herself. Petra knew she was doing it for the right reasons; for her love of the English language and her passion for creative writing. She knew she didn’t need a degree to be a successful novelist, but had succumbed to the fact she would be taken more seriously with one. Not that she minded. Structured academia had always been something in which she had excelled. In fact, if she was honest, it was something she struggled without.

***

Yesterday, before going out and becoming less than sober, Petra had begun to write her piece for the end of the year. It was worth over fifty per cent of her marks. Technically she wasn’t even supposed to know about it yet, but Gemma was in the middle of a dalliance with Petra’s lecturer, and spied the criteria. She just kept turning up at the flat after her early morning pre-lecture session of love making.

“Would this be of any use to you?” Gemma grinned as she slammed down a file on to the communal kitchen table.

Petra dived on it to cover the writing on the pale yellow cardboard; it read, “First year assessment marking criteria, authorised personnel only”. Sam, one of the people in her flat, was in there making the typical student breakfast of waffle sandwiches. Petra didn’t think he would have said anything if he knew what Gemma had just provided her with, but she didn’t fancy taking the chance.

There were supposed to be six people in her flat including herself. The university gave Sam three of these rooms to lure him into coming to the university in the first place. Their reckoning meant for an extra £20 a month, Petra could have the other three rooms, so obviously she jumped at the chance. Sam was the most stunning man Petra had ever witnessed. Arms strong and muscular from guitar playing, brown hair with a slight endearing curl and his eyes…Well, everything about him was perfect, down to his smile that made any girl within a five mile radius crumple thoroughly. Including a perfect music career and perfect girlfriend.

The press were regularly outside the student halls waiting for a glimpse of him on his way to a lecture, or sucking the face off his “perfect” blonde bombshell girlfriend Isabella on the way home from the student union bar. Perfect Isabella was only after Sam’s perfect bank balance and perfect convertible. It was so stereotypical it was actually painful. She was the daughter of Sam’s manager and Petra was somewhat convinced this was why he stayed with her. Petra was dreading the evening that awaited her; a night with Isabella. Sam, Gemma and their other friend Brendan would be there too, but she wasn’t sure whether this would make the evening anymore bearable.

“It’s his own fault. Has he never heard of a computer system and passwords? Really!” Gemma scoffed, putting her feet on the kitchen table so Petra had to bat them off.

Silencing Gemma with a scowl, Sam playfully nudged Petra as he went past and sat in the chair next to her. A drop of coffee spilled on to her jeans so Petra felt it warranted a slap of Sam’s thigh. As she made contact with the blue denim stretched over his thigh he caught her hand and stared directly into her eyes.

“Don’t think so Mrs!” he smirked, and his blue eyes pierced hers.

Petra pulled her hand away, picked up the folder, her cup of coffee in her Eeyore mug, and looked over her shoulder at Sam.

“When you least expect it Samuel Jackson, you are going to be so shocked. Just you wait!” Petra threatened flirtatiously.

Gemma stood up to follow Petra into the cellblock of a room. Great, Petra thought. She was going to have to explain that little episode with Sam to Gemma now. In fact, no she wasn’t. Gemma didn’t even go to this university! She had no right to be here and witness her terrible attempts at flirting with a man that she shouldn’t even be thinking about in that way. He had a girlfriend! Petra decided then and there, Gemma was going home in the next half an hour. After all, she had work to do on her university work. She had started a semi-autobiographical piece in her spare time that she thought she would finish off and submit.

“Gem Gem,” Petra sang, obviously wanting something, “I know you haven’t been here long but I have loads of work to do. Do you mind if I just call you later?” She winced at her own words, knowing that Gemma would be mortally offended as she could always tell when Petra was lying.

“K, don’t worry about it because I’m only here while Patrick’s wife drops his lunch off!” Patrick was of course, Petra’s creative writing lecturer.

“Gemma Louise Bowman!” Now she was in trouble. “You cannot possibly tell me you are OK with this? You’ve never been happy with the amount of attention you’ve received from a bloke when you’ve been the only one in his life! Patrick has a wife, you, and I’m pretty sure he’s seeing that red haired woman from the photocopying department…”

“Petra, Petra, Petra. I have decided, as of yesterday, I am now low maintenance.”

Unable to contain her laughter as she unlocked the door to her room in the most awkward fashion she almost fell through it. The Eeyore mug crashed to the ground, splashing coffee up the dark red door and soaking the carpet.

“Bollocks!” Gemma giggled and scuttled a couple of steps back while Petra mocked hitting her. “You mourn the loss of Eeyore while I go and have fantastic sex. There’s a sentence you never thought you’d hear! I‘ll see you in the Cottage about half past eight-ish.”

“Yeah yeah, at least you give me a couple of hours of mourning time! Bugger off you!“ Petra managed a grin.

With that Gemma turned on her heels and almost skipped down the corridor. Petra liked to see her happy, she’d had a hard life and it was unusual she was so content. This time though, Petra knew that it would end in tears.

The door slammed behind Gemma, and Petra bent down to pick up the chunks of pottery sprawled across the floor. She would never admit it, but that Eeyore mug was so close to he heart. Her Dad had bought it as her first purchase on Ebay and she held it in so much regard as it was the only present he had bought her that she hadn’t specifically asked for, and it was perfect, or used to be.

Just as her eyes began to well up, Petra felt someone press against her raised bottom and all at once she was shoved forward. Stumbling around trying to get her balance, her head thumped into the door. Sam was in her eye line as she spun round and he caught her with his firm hand on her forearm.

“Did that hurt?” he asked sympathetically, evidently shocked by his own strength. He had pushed his hips into her in an attempt to make her laugh and mimic a certain sexual act.

He covered her hand with his on the back of her head and applied some pressure. Petra shooed his other hand away as he went to wipe a tear that was making tracks down her porcelain face. Guilt was flooding Sam’s face; he really hadn’t meant to hurt her, just to make her smile. Petra slid her hand out from underneath his, pushed the tear away, and jokingly wiped it on Sam’s t-shirt. Before she realised what she was doing her hand was resting on his chest for five seconds or more.

“Pet? Petra! Petra, come on please?!” Petra snapped out of her panic at the sound of Sam voicing his concern.

“Sorry, knocked myself a bit dizzy I think Sam.” Petra lied, pleased that she had a valid cover up for behaving like a complete idiot and zoning out like that.

Sam put his right arm round her shoulders, his left supporting her left elbow and steered her through the doorway and newly caused debris towards her bed. He lay her down slowly, planting a slow and firm kiss in between her eyes. Petra didn’t know herself if she was crying in pain, the thought of the loss of her gift from her father or that the kiss from Sam had not been on her lips and filled with intense passion and longing. All she knew was that something hurt.

Kneeling down next to the bed, Sam lay his head on the edge of Petra’s pillow and stroked her hair. She was obviously tired but he didn’t want her to go sleep straight away in case she was concussed.

“Stop mothering me Samuel. It didn’t hurt that much!” she snapped, eager to get him out of the room so she could freak out about what had just happened with the “hand-on-the-chest incident”.

“Just checking you’ll be alright for my gig later. I’m only doing it because it’s your favourite pub. It kind of defeats the object if you’re not there!” Sam soothingly whispered to her. Petra turned to face the wall, away from Sam’s gaze and drifted into a deep tear induced sleep.

Sam waited for Petra’s breathing to even out and become heavier before he left his vigil. Her laptop lay open on her desk and he nosily nudged the mouse to see what she had been up to. A picture of himself, Petra, Gemma and Isabella flashed up on her screen. He traced over his girlfriends face gently with his right index finger. Wistfully he pulled out his mobile phone from the pocket of his flared deep blue jeans; no messages, no missed calls, no Isabella.

2

Rummaging through her black Christian Dior Jazzclub leather patent bag with obvious finesse, Isabella pulled out her MAC lip gloss. She broke out into an inane grin every time she used it, as the shade was entitled “oversexed”. If only people knew how true that was, she thought as she slicked it on.

“My darling,” Emilio’s Mediterranean accent called her through the balcony doors of their hotel room, “you called the black sheep yet?”

Isabella shook her head as she strutted towards him, black silk robe gaping open to reveal her striking red lace underwear. They referred to Sam as the black sheep due to his dark curly hair. Isabella could not risk the press finding out about her affair with Emilio, therefore in the public eye, he was known as her very gay best friend. This was also the impression Sam was under.

“I think it is time for me to go. My taxi is ordered and it should not be long now. Will you miss me Bella? As I will miss you.”

Isabella felt a surge of power flow through her. She knew she had this man under her control and got immense pleasure from this little snippet of information and his funny foreign way of speaking made her smile. Stepping on to the balcony to join her lover, Isabella could not take her eyes of this gorgeous specimen of manhood. Hair as dark as coal, his eyes like a cats, green and speckled with flecks of brown. His skin was dark and covered in tanning oil so he shone healthily and somewhat seductively. The slight blonde ran her finger from his cheek down over his chest and stomach, stopping when she felt the material of his boxers underneath her acrylic nails.

A car horn blasted out beneath them. Emilio waved his arm in recognition that the taxi was for him and stepped inside to pull on his white linen trousers and white vest top. Isabella had never seen him wearing anything other than white, but with his permanent tan, he could more than suitably pull it off. He kissed her firmly and protectively on the forehead, slipped his feet into his overpriced flip flops and swaggered through the door hurriedly as the blare of the taxi drivers horn sounded again.

Flopping down on to the bed in disgust, Isabella pulled out her own mobile phone from the pocket of her robe. She turned it on, and waited to see if any messages

Izzy, you coming to the gig tonight? Will pick you up from the hotel at 6.30 x love u x

She cleared the message off the screen without writing a reply and carried on applying her lip gloss. It was half past five and Isabella only had an hour to get ready. How would she cope?

***

Petra jumped out of the shower as she heard a knock at her university room door, patted herself down with her favourite soft pink towel, and slipped on a pink bathrobe made of the same material as the towel.

“Come in!” she called, making sure she was covered up properly.

Sam scooted in with two t-shirts, one in each hand. He looked a tad embarrassed, but only for a second, that he had caught in such a state of undress. Petra smiled and tried to look confident but her insecurities were eating away at her as he very obviously studied every inch of her.

“Feeling better mate?” he questioned in his deep, resonating voice. “I was a bit worried about you earlier.”

“I’m fine after my sleep. Cheers for looking after me, you didn’t have to you know.” Petra mumbled gratefully after recovering from the shock sting caused by the word “mate”.

“It’s ok. That’s what friends are for.” He paused as his own words stung. “Anyway, will you be ready in twenty minutes? I’ve told Isabella we’ll pick her up at half past six and its six now. Oh, and Brendan‘s expecting you to go and collect that beak too. He doesn‘t want to hand it over in the pub because of the paps being there.”

“Yeah no worries. I’m ready now, can’t you tell?” She joked, laughed and noticed she’d revealed a little more chest than she wished for and subtlety pulled her robe closer.

Sam coughed to cover his embarrassment and enjoyment of the flesh display he had just witnessed. The atmosphere was taut and highly sexual, as it always was when Petra and Samuel were together. He quickly got to the point of his visit and asked her which t-shirt he ought to wear for the nights gig. With Petra’s opinion duly noted, he was on his way.

3

Just before twenty minutes past six, the buzzer rang in the hallway between Petra and Sam’s respective rooms. They both knew that it would be Joe, Sam’s driver, signifying his arrival, therefore they both presumed the other one would answer it, and consequently stopping the infernal racket. The fact the two friends were so similar often backfired on them. The noise reverberated in the corridor until both bodies shot out of their respective doors at the same time to answer. Sam released an easy, hearty laugh as he picked up the phone and told Joe that they would be out. Petra, after exchanging a knowingly amused look with Sam, grabbed her trusty, battered handbag, linked her arm through his and let the door slam behind them.

“Shit! What the fuck is up with her?” Sam exploded as Joe’s land rover pulled up outside the balcony.

Isabella was sitting in her silk robe, hair obviously wet and wrapped in a towel, green face mask plastered on, lying on a sun lounger, reading a magazine.

“Keep driving.” Petra uttered quietly but in such a determined way that Joe took his foot from the break and sailed straight past.

“Petra! Who gave you the right to…” Sam raised his voice.

“Look, listen for a second before you go mental.” she soothed. “She knew what time you were coming, she’s never on that balcony when Don Juan’s not around….”

“His name is Emilio!” Sam interrupted with a small but distinct grin on his face.

“She has done this purely to piss you off Sam and you know it! Drive on, do your gig and wait for her to contact you. Do not let his affect your performance. All my mates are coming!” She grinned easily and squeezed his knee affectionately.

Placing his hand on top of Petra’s, he smirked and thanked her. The three or four minute drive from the hotel to the pub hosting the gig, went smoothly with Joe, Sam and Petra chatting easily amongst themselves, but Sam’s hand stayed firmly on Petra’s and she did nothing to move away either. It seemed a subconscious decision for both of them as there was no flinching or awkwardness. As the car came to a halt, Sam squeezed Petra’s hand and mouthed the words “thank you” as Joe had already opened his car door to a around thirty screaming teenage fans.

Not phased by any of the organised chaos going on outside of the car, Petra waited the obligatory two minutes, as per usual, before opening her door. She briefly filed her nails and sent Isabella a text message that just had a sad face on it to let her know how disappointed she was in her behaviour. That’s all she would have to do with the matter. A couple of me in their thirties were outside the pub smoking cigarettes and joking loudly about “how shit” the smoking ban is. Petra was fed up of hearing this particular argument, as she worked part time behind the bar. The Cottage, stood back two or three metres from the road and this space was taken up with a picnic bench and several ceramic plant pots full of sand. These were there for the cigarette ends to be collected in except there seemed be more on the floor around them, than anywhere else.

Leaning against the wall and staring into the road, she lit up her own cigarette, enjoyed the release of the nicotine and waited for the curtains to twitch over the road. Brendan was from Bedford. A southerner living in the midlands. Petra often thought he must have an aversion to t-shirts and jumpers as she could count on one hand the amount of times she had seen him fully clothed. Not that she was complaining.

Brendan gave Petra a subtle wave-turned-stretch from the front window of his pale bricked terraced house and she promptly flicked her cigarette into the neighbouring drain, crossing the road with swift stealth. The so called “back door” was to the side of the house and she knew it would be open. It always was when she was on a “pick up”. The bags of white powder were handed over in exchange for a large sum during a brief tumbler of vodka and Brendan vowed to be in the pub in time for the start of the gig. Petra giggled to herself as he heard the sound of girls talking and laughing from his upstairs window as she crossed the road to enter the pub. He won’t ever change, she thought to herself, but she was glad.

Sam was down in the cellar when Petra entered the pub. It was one of the smallest venues he had ever played at and this was the only place to warm his voice up in peace. Petra had guessed this was where he would be. Half way down the stairs she paused, and sat down, resting the warm flesh of her forehead on the contrasting cold brick of the wall.

“Please give it one more try for the sake of our love. Please give it one more try ‘cause I can’t give you up. I can’t live one more day without you in my arms…” He sang beautifully.

She was always so taken back by the effect his voice had on her. Isabella was an idiot. Did she not know what she had? Petra contemplated. She heard the sound of wood on metal, probably his guitar being put down to rest on a barrel and she jumped up to carry on walking down the stairs. As she turned the corner, they almost bumped into each other. Inches apart they laughed at the look of shock on the other one’s face.

“Bloody hell Mr Bigshot! You trying to give me a heart attack?” she joke, playful shoving him in the chest. She passed him one of the grams of cocaine with a satisfied smirk.

“Well, if you must know,” he quipped, “I was coming to find you so you could share in the revelry of the most salubrious dressing room I’ve experienced so far!”

“Cheeky bastard!” She grinned and turned on her heels and skipped up the stairs, leaving Sam speechless and staring after her.

The pub looked full of girls under eighteen. Petra sent a text message to Brendan telling him to “hurry the fuck up” and set straight to work.

“Have you got any ID mate?” she questioned for what seemed like the millionth time.

This particular girl looked sheepish with a very red faced complexion. She actually did look old enough to get served, and on a normal days work Petra would never have asked her for proof of age. It was her shyness and the company she was with that made Petra sceptical. It turned out she was born in 1988 and Petra found herself being the one with the red face.

The pub door swung open and knocked into a gaggle of giggling teens who Petra had refused to serve anything other than Diet Coke to. Brendan coyly made his apologies and threw his coat at her. Petra hung it up while he pushed his way through the crowd, so he was on the correct side of the bar for serving drinks. The evenings clientele were obviously very appreciative of the dishy barman, despite the brightness behind his eyes being highly drug induced.

He set to work with ease and was even serving three customers at once at one point. Petra would have felt inferior in terms of customer service to anyone other than Brendan. Sam opened the cellar door, picked up his pint of cider strategically placed behind the bar, took a long and satisfying swig before slinging his guitar on his shoulder. He had sniffed up a line of cocaine expertly off one of the barrels in the cellar and it had given him a much needed boost of energy and the ability to smile at his fans. Isabella not being there was severely crushing his ego, something he only overly-employed

Full of charisma, the musician climbed upon the makeshift stage. The crowd fell silent apart from the odd excited titter or a random declaration of love for Sam. The set was unbelievable and Sam knew it. Through every note he played and sang there was a twinkle in his eye, visible only to Petra. Unbeknownst to either of them, Petra was the one that put the gleam in his eyes.

On the other side of town, Isabella had had an almighty row with Emilio. He was annoyed with her for missing Sam’s gig in the pub as it wasn’t “professional”. Isabella had reminded him that it was not her job to be Sam’s girlfriend. The phone had been put down on Emilio’s part and had not been answered again; in fact, it had been turned off.

Gemma and Patrick quickly unfurled themselves from a long embrace in a cosy corner of the pub as Petra and Brendan were having an ice cube fight and one of the slippery cubes had gone astray. It landed in Patrick’s pint of lager and caused it to splash and soak the two of them. They really didn’t look impressed which only amused the slightly tipsy Petra and Brendan even more. Sam had been taken away by Joe to drive around until the fans dispersed. A beeping sound resonated from Petra’s mobile.

“He’s on his way back now and he says to sort him a line.” Petra announced, her voice full of mischief.

“Don’t do one for me!” Patrick stretched out of Gemma’s reach and put his feet up on a stool in front of him. “I’m far too old for this shit.”

“Boring!” Gemma giggled. “Old fart!”

“Children, children!” Petra chastised, as she tipped out almost a gram of cocaine on to the bar.

Brendan clicked off the CCTV at the power button and dimmed the lights. Gemma shut the curtains and put the door on the latch., running excitedly to reopen it as soon as she heard Joe’s Land Rover pull up outside. Petra placed her hand on the small of Brendan’s back in a silent bid to ask him to take over. Even though she was extremely used to taking drugs, she was not particularly keen on sorting them out so other people can take them. She felt this was due to the little bit of moral conscience she had left, where illegal substances were concerned.

Petra’s view of the situation was that it was all to do with personal preference and how an individual acted when they were under the influence. She didn’t get aggressive or violent; they made her happy and relaxed. She vowed that the first time she didn’t like herself or her behaviour on them, drugs would never pass through her system again. This wasn’t the way for everyone, but Petra knew that. Some people were vile and nasty when they had been taking drugs. She just wished she knew who they were.

Brendan felt like he had been getting the eye from Petra all night. She looked stunning in a simple black short sleeved t-shirt and figure hugging jeans. Her long, smooth auburn hair framed her porcelain face beautifully. He had always liked her and was pretty convinced the feeling was now reciprocated. She was forever brushing past him as they worked in such close proximity behind the bar.

Petra was the kind of woman that didn’t take men’s fancies straight away. She kind of grew on them, in the most appealing way. Her smile and fascinating green eyes were comforting and familiar. She didn’t have to try to look good, she simply just did. This appeared to take a while for men to adjust to. Petra also did not have the supermodel figure of Isabella or even Gemma; she was more the short and curvaceous type, with big hips and a big chest, yet small everything else. A “proper woman” as her mother often described her. She hadn’t had a boyfriend since she was doing her A levels, and quite frankly, didn’t particularly want one.

“Oh that is fucking hilarious!” Petra screamed as she watched Brendan prove he could do a forwards roll.

He toppled over to the left, and ended up with his slender legs in the air, causing Petra and Brendan to fall about laughing. Gemma and Patrick has headed home, as they were both “ever so tired” despite the copious amounts of cocaine they had managed to expedite. It was obvious to the three remaining that the couple had gone home for sex.