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Do you ever get the feeling you don’t fit in? Like you’re the wrong piece of a jigsaw puzzle, trying to wedge yourself into a space you just can’t squeeze into? Well, that’s how I feel every day of my life. They all think I’m just a party girl, that I spend more time downing shots than studying, and do you know what? They’re right.

It’s a miracle I’ve even made it through the first three months of university, but I got this far to spite her, because she doesn’t believe for one second that I’ll make it. But here I am, Liv.

Although there are days, like today, when I want to just jack it all in.

The coffee shop is empty this evening so I’ve pretty much been left alone to deal with the customers, although Pierre is in the back office if I need help. It’s suffocating me, being in this place, but I need to pay my rent so I just have to suck it up. I’m not one of those girls who’s lucky enough to have parents supporting her. No, I’m the other kind. The kind nobody can believe has made it this far, one of those girls who ends up in trouble before they’re out of their twenties. But I revel in their shock. It drives me, spurs me on to do even better with my life. I will not be like her.

I’m so wrapped up in these thoughts that I haven’t noticed the middle-aged woman who has approached the counter and is now staring at me, hands on her hips and an impatient frown on her face. A designer handbag hangs from the crook of her arm and she teeters on heels that are too high for her. She shakes her head and huffs at me.

Screw her, I’m only human, and if she knew me she’d understand why I have trouble concentrating sometimes.

‘A skinny cappuccino,’ she says, with no greeting or smile. Maybe her tight, thin lips aren’t capable of one. Perhaps it would just crack her face. She pulls out a matching designer purse and squints at me. ‘Are you allowed to wear that thing in your nose when you’re serving people?’

She’s talking about the small diamond stud in my nose. But I’m used to it. Used to people silently, or not so silently sometimes, thinking, She would be pretty if she lost that disgusting thing.

Even though I want to scream at her to go and get her bloody coffee somewhere else and take her judgement with her, I plaster on my sweetest smile and say, in an exaggeratedly posh voice, ‘Of course. Is there anything else I can get you?’ The smile is painful, straining my face.

‘No, that’s all.’ She pushes back her coat sleeve – on her thick wrist is a shiny gold watch, which probably cost more than my car – and shakes her head when she notices the time. It’s all for show, to force me to hurry up, and because of this I take my time, pretending I’m having trouble with the coffee machine. I give her a shrug, as if to say I’m sorry, but inside I’m smirking.

Don’t get me wrong – I have nothing against wealthy people. Good for them. What I can’t take is people looking down on others, thinking they’re better than you.

When she finally leaves, I silently pray she disliked me enough to never come back in here, no matter how desperate she gets for caffeine, and then I clean the coffee machine again, just for something to do. This shift is the worst; it’s late and people are travelling home from work and probably not expecting us to be open, but Pierre insists on staying open until eight. He must know these last two hours are dead ones, but if he does, it doesn’t faze him. Perhaps he makes extra money doing something else. It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s always getting calls on his phone and never lets anyone hear what he’s saying. A bit dodgy, if you ask me. And believe me, I know how to spot it.

So I’ve got two more excruciating hours here, then an assignment waiting for me at home that I will probably fail, and each minute ticking by feels like a year. But then I turn around and a familiar face is smiling at me.

Zach Hamilton, one of my lecturers.

It takes me a moment to place him because he is so out of context here; I’ve never seen him outside of the university buildings.

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Josie, isn’t it?’

How does he know my name? He must have a thousand students to teach and the academic year only started a couple of months ago. ‘Yeah, hi. Um, what can I get you?’

He orders an espresso to have sitting in and hands me a crisp new five-pound note. And as I turn away to prepare it, I feel his eyes on me.

‘Actually, I wanted to have a quick word with you after the lecture today, but you disappeared before I could catch you.’

This doesn’t sound good. I search my brain for something I could have done to warrant him needing to speak to me. ‘Yeah, I had to go home before I came to work.’ I hand him his drink. ‘What was it about?’ But I already know. He’s going to tell me my first assignment was rubbish, that I’ve got no chance of passing this module so I may as well give up now.

‘Nothing bad at all. Um, maybe we could have a chat now? Do you get a break?’

I’m not really given a break at this time, but I’m allowed to have a cigarette out the front if I get desperate. Thankfully, Pierre smokes so he’s happy to indulge me. I tell this to Zach.

He turns and glances through the window. ‘Okay, I can have this sitting out there. It might be minus five degrees but what the hell?’

The first thing I do when I get outside is light up because I’m nervous. There is so much riding on my degree and I can’t afford to fail a module. ‘So are you going to put me out of my misery?’ I ask, taking a deep pull on my cigarette and sitting opposite him. I don’t mean for the smoke to head straight in Zach’s direction, but it does and he tries to discreetly wave it away. ‘Sorry. You’re not a smoker, are you?’

‘No, not now, but I used to be in my youth.’

I laugh because he must only be in his thirties. ‘Yeah, I can see you’re heading for retirement.’ As soon as I say this I wonder where it’s come from. This man is one of my lecturers, not someone to have friendly banter with, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Thankfully he chuckles. ‘Not just yet. Anyway, I want to talk to you about your short story assignment. I’ve just finished marking them and, well, quite frankly, I was blown away by yours.’

I stare at him, wondering if somehow I’ve misheard. Or misunderstood. Does he mean he liked it? He can’t mean that. He must have got me mixed up with another student.

When I don’t answer, he carries on speaking. ‘Where did that come from? I mean, you’re so young to have such insight. I don’t mean to be patronising, but if I hadn’t known who’d written it I would swear they were much older.’

So he liked it. Relief pumps through my body, but I am still in shock. Nobody has ever praised me before. Not for something I’ve done, or created. The only compliments I’ve ever had have been from lecherous men, right before they’ve tried to sleep with me. ‘Um, thank you. I… I just wrote from the heart.’

He has no idea just how true this is. That I was able to bring my story to life because it was partly about her. I laid bare my soul with those words, but I guess it was worth it.

‘And I’m older than you think,’ I tell him. ‘It took me a while to get my A-levels, so I’m already twenty-one.’ The age of most third-year students.

Zach smiles. ‘Well, you’ve got a real talent, Josie. I really felt the character’s despair. What are you planning to do after university? I know you’ve only just started, but these years will fly by, you know. You really should think about what you want to do.’

But time isn’t passing quickly for me, it is stagnant, and the end of these student days can’t come soon enough. I need an accomplishment behind me, something to prove I really am nothing like her, that I’m not the selfish, heartless woman she is, because there are brief moments, tiny fragments of time, when I actually begin to wonder.

I don’t want to tell Zach I’m not sure, that it’s hard enough getting through each semester without the added pressure of deciding what to do with my qualification. But I’m not a fool – I know I need to decide quickly. The job market is tough and there is too much competition, too many people will be graduating with me. People who are much better than I am.

The answer comes to me without any thought. ‘Teacher training, I think. English, of course. Secondary school. The truth is, English is the only subject I’ve ever been interested in. The only one I was good at.’

A smile spreads across his face. ‘I’m sure that’s not true. But that’s great that you want to teach. It’s difficult, but definitely rewarding, I’d say. It means another year of studying, though, after your degree.’

But hopefully by then I should be better able to deal with it. Once I know I can achieve something. Yes, I have my A-levels, but I barely scraped by with the bare minimum I needed, and had to wait for clearing to get my place at the University of West London. I had my heart set on London, but I would have gone anywhere I could to get away from Brighton.

I take another pull on my cigarette, careful this time to turn right round when I exhale, and then look at Zach’s kind face. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’ He lifts his espresso and takes a sip.

‘Do you have any advice for… prioritising, I guess. I mean, things just keep getting in the way and I feel like I’m getting behind with it all. It’s weird – I want this so badly yet… I just keep procrastinating. Going out when I should be studying, then everything gets done at the last minute.’ I don’t tell him that it’s much deeper than this. That I need to be out of the flat and out of my mind – vodka or gin will usually do the trick – so I don’t have to think about anything. Then the next day I hate myself, and cram in as much studying as I can to make up for it. I will burn out soon enough – it has to all catch up with me eventually.

‘Hmm,’ Zach says. ‘That’s a tricky one. I probably shouldn’t say this but when I was in my first year at uni I didn’t take it too seriously. I think I was out most nights, just getting used to, and making the most of, student life. But I knuckled down eventually. And do you know what? You will be fine. If you can produce work like you’ve just done for me then you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

His words flow over me, wrapping me in a warm blanket. This man really believes in me. Trouble is how do I believe in myself?

I don’t know what makes me confide in him even more. Perhaps it’s the kindness he’s showing, or the belief he seems to have in me. ‘Sometimes I just feel like walking away, to be honest.’ But the second the words leave my mouth, I regret revealing so much. He will think I am a waste of time now, not worth his attention or advice.

He shakes his head. ‘Don’t ever do that, Josie. Don’t be a quitter. At anything.’

‘You’re right. And I probably should stop going out so much. I need to be more focused.’ But I already know the challenge this will bring: it’s not easy to go against the grain of who you are.

‘Well, remember to cut yourself some slack, too,’ Zach says. ‘You need a balance. But you know what? I really believe you can have anything you want if you put your mind to it.’ He stares up at the dark sky. ‘What I’m trying to say is, just never give up.’

Crushing out my cigarette in an ashtray that needs cleaning, I stand up. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time already,’ I say. ‘Enjoy your coffee.’

He reaches out his hand to shake mine and it’s surprisingly warm. ‘Nice chatting to you, Josie Carpenter.’

As I walk back inside, an unfamiliar feeling overcomes me. I can do this. Zach believes in me. He liked my story. I’m going to make a go of this.

When I step inside the café, I turn around and he’s still watching me.

---

The flat stinks, as usual, of Alison’s cheap perfume and the cloying vanilla scent of the candles she insists on placing in every room. She never says anything but I’m sure it’s to hide the smell of my cigarettes. Even though I only ever smoke hanging out of my bedroom window, the smell somehow seeps into all the rooms.

Alison and I couldn’t be more different from each other, yet here we are, sharing this poky flat, in each other’s pockets, when both of us know we can’t stand the sight of each other. We can’t even make small talk about our studies as I know nothing about environmental science and she shows no interest in literature or creative writing.

The dopey woman who arranged our flat-share said she was sure we’d have a lot in common. That even though Alison was a third-year student and I was just beginning my first, we were the same age so should get along fabulously. Like that’s all it takes. I hit it off better with my lecturer within minutes – as opposed to the months I’ve lived with Alison – and he said goodbye to his twenties some time ago.

I think Alison and I each expect the other to request an accommodation transfer from the university, but for some reason neither one of us has bothered so far. I would do it, but I don’t need the hassle of uprooting myself again. I can stick it out until summer and then I will definitely not share with her again in my second year.

It’s dark in here, other than the faint orange glow from the street light right outside, so I know she’s not home, but we never tell each other where we’re going.

As I always do when I find myself at home alone, I head to Alison’s room and try the door handle. Just to see. But of course it’s locked, as it always is. I don’t know how she got a lock on her door when I don’t have one, but I think her dad must have done it for her.

Either she doesn’t trust me or she’s got something to hide, but it’s hard to imagine Miss Studious Bookworm has a dead body hidden under her bed. I laugh at the thought. She’s so frail and skinny I doubt she’d have the strength to do anyone any harm. But then again, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. She’s always staring at me, and I have no idea why.

My stomach rumbles so I head to the kitchen to get something to eat. There is nothing in my cupboard but a half-empty bottle of ketchup, not even bread, and the nearest shop is a half-hour walk away, so I ransack Alison’s supplies. Another difference between us: her cupboard is full of food, all of it neatly arranged with all the labels facing forwards.

I grab a can of tomato soup and a couple of slices of bread; I’ve done it before on the odd occasion and she never says anything, so I don’t think she notices. Or she’s too afraid to confront me. Yes, I feel bad, but not too bad – her parents pay her rent every month and send extra money for food so she doesn’t have to pull shifts in a coffee shop to get through her degree.

While I eat my soup I think of my conversation with Zach Hamilton and how he raved about my short story. I replay his words in my head and they fill me up, making me float.

My phone beeps with a text and I scoop it up, smearing the screen with a residue of butter. I wipe it off with a sheet of kitchen roll that’s been left lying on the table, probably by me, earlier. I’m not messy, but Alison’s ridiculous cleanliness drives me crazy, shouts out for me to defy it.

The text is from Anthony, a psychology student I met in a bar last week. Did something happen between us? I remember black hair, golden skin, stubble on his face, as if he was trying to prove he was a grown man, him leaning in to me, whispering something about me being hot, but I’m sure I pushed him away, as I always do.

I read his short message: Wanna meet up tonight?

No How are you? or Hope you’re okay. He may as well just ask me if I’ll screw him.

Sorry, busy. I press send and smile as I imagine the look on his face as he reads my rejection.

Another text comes through, this time from someone I’m actually happy to hear from: Vanessa, another student I met somewhere along the way, asking if I’m up for a night of tequila shots at her place. The thrill of the offer is hard to resist. Vanessa is a good laugh, and she doesn’t judge me or anyone else. I wouldn’t call her a friend, but it’s nice to have superficial acquaintances in the absence of anything else.

I’m still eating when a key turns in the front door and Alison appears in the kitchen doorway, a ridiculously large bag slung over her arm, textbooks poking out. I’m surprised her body can bear the weight of it.

‘Hi,’ she says, her eyes flicking to my bowl of unfinished soup. Her reddish hair, set in pristine waves, glints in the light. She places her bag on the floor.

‘Hi.’ We may dislike each other but there’s no harm in being polite if we’re going to be stuck with each other until summer.

‘I’m surprised you’re home,’ she says, in her passive aggressive way. Why doesn’t she just come right out and say, It’s almost 9 p.m., shouldn’t you be off your skull by now?

I push my bowl aside. ‘Felt like a night in.’

She doesn’t reply, but opens her food cupboard and rummages around, turning back to glance at my bowl. I pray for her to say something this time, to confront me so we can have a huge row that will force one of us to call accommodation services to request an immediate transfer.

But all she does is rearrange her food to cover the gap her can of soup has left.

I almost feel guilty again now. Perhaps I will replace it tomorrow. After all, we can’t help the families we’re born into. Some of us are just dealt a shitty blow, while others, like Alison, have perfect, doting parents. Anyway, she may be weird but she’s never actually done anything to me, apart from her freaky staring. I can live with that; I’ve lived with far worse.

I head to my room and lie on the bed, surprised to find I’m thinking about Zach Hamilton again. Minutes later, I jump up to sit at my desk. Before turning on my laptop, I text Vanessa to let her know I won’t be going out tonight.

I’ve got studying to do.