She’s never done this before, Kirsty told herself, watching as Eva smiled and listened to the three boys discussing their university courses. It was, Eva had admitted earlier, the first time she had been away from Sweden to study and now Kirsty found herself wondering if it was the girl or her father who had decided that buying this flat in Glasgow was a good idea.
‘How about you, Kirsty? What are you studying?’ One of the lads, Colin, had detached himself from the group and wandered over to her side. He was a nice-looking chap, pale faced with a slick of mousey brown hair that he kept flicking back from his forehead.
‘Oh, I’m doing a course in hospitality management at Caledonian,’ Kirsty replied. ‘So you’ll be all right for Sunday roasts,’ she laughed.
‘With Yorkshire puddings?’ he asked hopefully, smiling back.
Kirsty grinned and nodded, liking the lad immediately and seeing something reassuring in his honest, open countenance. She felt herself relaxing for the first time since coming here. Colin would be okay, she thought to herself. He was… how would she describe her first impressions of this lad? Safe. Yes, that kind of summed him up and Kirsty was glad that one of the boys at least made her feel comfortable.
‘How about yourself?’ she asked, taking another sip of the bubbly stuff. (Flippin’ Nora! It was champagne!)
Colin made a face. ‘Och, I’m doing the bog-standard Arts degree course. Managed to get into Junior Honours to do English Lit.’ He shrugged.
Kirsty heard the self-deprecating tone and nodded again. It was typical of the Scots to make light of something big and this nice young man seemed no exception.
‘What d’you want to do after?’
‘Write,’ Colin replied immediately. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I’ve had a few things published, poetry and stuff…’ He tailed off, glancing round as though he hoped the other boys weren’t listening.
‘Great,’ Kirsty enthused. ‘Maybe you can show me them sometime?’
‘Yeah?’ Colin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘But you know what I really want? To write a novel. I fancy travelling a bit. Australia, maybe. Pick up some work here and there.’
Kirsty noticed the dreaminess in his eyes as he looked away from her. Yet it was a good dream, after alclass="underline" jobs here were hard to come by and these days an Arts degree wasn’t a passport to a definite career.
As the girl stood in a corner of the kitchen she had the advantage of watching the small group drinking their champagne by the big black kitchen table. Roger had already finished his drink and had put down the glass flute; now he was standing over the other pair, hands stuffed in his pockets, listening as Gary explained the connection between his late father and Henrik Magnusson. He’d be happier with a pint in his great fist, Kirsty thought as she observed the big red-haired lad, then wondered if Roger Dunbar would really fit in with the rest of them in this flat with its pretty furnishings. She caught him glancing over at her and for some reason this made Kirsty look down and blush as though he had guessed what she’d been thinking.
Rodge folded the last of his clothes and tucked them into the bottom drawer. The room wasn’t at all bad, he mused, looking around. No dreadfully steep coombed ceilings to contend with, so there must still be a fair old bit of attic space somewhere up there. The bed was a decent size, too; that wee bed in his previous digs was something he had found hard to bear, his feet perpetually cold on winter mornings, thrust out of a duvet that never properly covered him up. He wandered over to the skylight window and opened it, gulping in the chill evening air. Someone down in the street was singing, a maudlin sort of sound that made Rodge grin. The pub was just around the corner and it was probably closing time. He’d noticed the assortment of tables and chairs on the wide pavement as he’d arrived earlier this evening: that would be a good howff for them if he could coax the Swedish bird away from her posh drinks. The other girl looked as if she enjoyed a few beers; Rodge hadn’t missed those swelling breasts under that baggy tunic top. Looked a nice enough lass and he’d laughed at her stories of college when they’d eventually moved into the lounge.
They’d sat there for ages, Eva topping up their drinks. Thank God she’d produced bottles of Staropramen from one of the fridges! Then she’d lit these big square candles on the hearth and their faces had gleamed in the flickering light, especially Eva’s. Rodge thought about that face now as he looked out at the darkened street. How could he describe her to his mates without sounding like a total prat? How did you talk about a girl who was so bloody perfect? He remembered how her flawless skin seemed to glow in the candlelight, her eyes grave as she listened to them talking, and her hair… Rodge sighed. He’d give anything to run his big hands through that stream of pale golden hair. Ach, who was he kidding? A girl like Eva was way out of his league and he’d do well to remember that and not moon after her. Besides, he told himself, as he closed the window and flopped down on the bed, it didn’t do to have these sorts of relationships with your flatmates if you were to get along happily all year.
‘It’s me,’ Eva said. She was lying on the bed, mobile phone tucked against her ear. ‘Yeah, they seem okay. How about you?’ She listened as the voice on the other end of the line replied, his familiar tones making her face light up, the smile softening her lovely features. ‘Sounds good. Anyway, when are we going to meet up?’ Eva’s fingers strayed absently to the ends of her hair, twisting the strands as she waited for the reply.
‘You’re a sweetheart,’ she said at last, sighing deeply. ‘See you tomorrow, then. Sleep well.’
The girl clicked the phone shut then clutched it tight as she rolled over onto her side, staring out into the darkness of the Glasgow night.
‘Thank God,’ she whispered to herself. ‘There’s one person in my life who understands.’
CHAPTER 7
November
The train station at Anniesland was very close by, handy for Kirsty and Eva to get into the city centre and their respective classes. The boys usually took the bus or, if it fitted in with his own timetable, cadged a lift with Gary in his Mini Cooper.
‘Phew! Glad we got these seats!’ Kirsty exclaimed, flopping down opposite the Swedish girl. Already she felt hot and uncomfortable after running up the steps to the platform to catch the train but, looking across at her flatmate, she saw that Eva didn’t even seem to have a hair out of place. Sure, there was a faint rosy glow to her cheeks but maybe that was simply the reflection from the pink cashmere scarf that was draped around her neck. The girl sat back against the seat, hands folded on her lap, smiling her usual smile. Kirsty grinned back but for a fleeting moment she experienced a twitch of envy as she regarded her friend. How did she manage to look like a supermodel in that plain grey coat and cream lacy tights? Was it the classy leather boots in that ox-blood colour that matched her satchel? Kirsty let out an involuntary sigh as the train pulled away from the platform. She would never, in a hundred years, manage to look as well groomed as Eva Magnusson. Maybe it was something about being Swedish, she thought, glancing at her reflection in the window. Weren’t they all gorgeous and blonde?
As the ticket inspector came to check their tickets, Kirsty caught him pausing to smile down at the girl opposite, though he barely gave her travel pass a glance. It was as though Eva could cast a spell over anyone she met, Kirsty Wilson thought to herself. Then she gave a mental shrug and pulled out one of her textbooks and rested it on the edge of the table top that separated them both. But try as she might, the words were a blur as her thoughts turned to the students who lived in the Anniesland flat.
Last night Betty Wilson had phoned and Kirsty had enthused about the flat, trying to show how much fun she’d been having. Since the beginning of the new term they had established a sort of routine, she’d explained to her mother. Didn’t Kirsty mind her role as the flat’s Mummy? Betty had asked, a slightly resentful note in her voice as though these students had been taking advantage of her daughter’s good nature. Oh, no, Kirsty had replied. She enjoyed preparing and cooking for them most nights, and there was always someone to chat to, standing by her side peeling and chopping to her instructions. More often than not it was Colin, whose classes finished early in the day, but she hadn’t mentioned this to her mother for some reason.