The Places I've Cried in Public Read online

  It looked like love.

  It felt like love.

  But this isn’t a love story.

  Amelie fell hard for Reese. And she thought he loved her too. But she’s starting to realize that real love isn’t supposed to hurt like this.

  So now she’s retracing their story, revisiting all the places he made her cry. Because if she works out what went wrong, perhaps she can finally learn how to get over him.

  The Places I’ve Cried in Public is a work of fiction but it deals with many real issues including controlling behaviour and sexual assault.

  Links to advice and support can be found at the back of the book.

  Contents

  Title Page

  About this book

  A Bench by the Railway Bridge

  The College Refectory

  The Number Thirty-Seven Bus Stop

  The Good Places

  The Cube

  Outside Your House

  The Golden Jubilee Bridge, London

  The Leadmill, Sheffield

  Music Classroom

  Platform Thirteen, Clapham Junction Train Station

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  She’s not always easy to spot. She may have her head down, pretending to be on her phone, using her hair to cover her blotchy face. Or she may be leaning against the bus window, turning into the glass so you can’t see her tears.

  There are telltale signs though – the odd gasp for air, her back jolting with a suppressed sob, or she’ll wipe under her eyes, catching the tears and smearing them into her skirt before they give her away.

  Girls cry on park benches. Girls cry in train station waiting-rooms. They cry on the dance floor of clubs. Girls cry at the bus stop. Girls cry at the back of lessons. They sit on the pavement and cry on cold concrete at two a.m., their shoes held in their hands. Girls cry in school bathrooms. Girls cry on bridges. They cry on the stairs of house parties.

  This is the story of one.

  What keeps making her cry?

  Or is a better question: Who?

  It’s half two in the morning and I’m back here where it started.

  Yes, of course it’s cold. It’s half two in the morning, mid February, and I’m not dressed properly. I just bunged my coat on over my pyjamas and ran here in my slippers. I’m sat on this bench, shivering violently under the useless faux fur of my coat and I’m not sure why.

  You see, I was in bed, doing my usual not-sleeping and trying-to-figure-out-what-the-hell-happened and thinking-it’s-all-my-fault and huddling-into-a-ball-and-disintegrating, and then, tonight – half an hour ago, to be precise – it became clear.

  I needed to come here.

  My breath escapes in short puffs of crystallized fog that float down to the dormant railway tracks. It’s so quiet in this alleyway. It feels like the whole world is asleep. Apart from me and my broken heart.

  I’ve used up so many tears on you already and it’s not helping me get over this any better. So I’m sat here in the freezing cold, my jaw shaking, and I’m trying to connect the dots.

  This bench may not look like much. It’s got a plank missing, a grey mossy finish from years of weather, and it’s plastered in offensive graffiti. But this nondescript bench is significant, because this bench is where I first cried.

  Not my first ever cry, but the first cry I can link back to you. To the story of us. Though you and I were more of a scribble than a story.

  If I can untangle the messy line of biro, if I can trace back the scribble, it might finally make sense.

  Here’s the starting point. I’m sat right on it.

  I pull my coat tighter around myself. I close my eyes, and I remember.

  “Don’t worry,” Mum said, watching me not eat my cornflakes. “Everyone will be new.”

  She gave me that smile. The one that begged me not to make her feel guilty about it all.

  “Everyone will know at least someone, whereas I know literally no one.”

  “You will, by the end of the day.”

  I didn’t finish my cereal, so I had to fish the orange pulp out with my fingers before I could pour the leftover milk down the sink. “I hope so,” I said, before going back to the bedroom that didn’t feel remotely like mine yet. I’d not finished unpacking, which didn’t help. Boxes of my life were still piled around the space, waiting for me to admit this was my life now and actually open them. I’d only removed my clothes, record player and vinyl, and, most importantly, my guitar.

  I didn’t have time to play it but I picked it up anyway, shrugging the strap over my shoulder and perching on the end of my bed. I strummed a chord, feeling instantly calmer. I sang softly.

  “Come on, Amelie, or we’ll be late,” Mum called down the hallway. I still couldn’t get used to us not having stairs.

  I unwrapped my guitar from around myself and reluctantly put it down. “I’m coming.”

  I piled into the front seat of our hot car and it was like climbing into an uncomfortable hug. My legs smudged sweat onto the leather. Summer was reluctantly holding on, apparently missing the memo that it was now September. We pulled out of the communal car park and I turned the radio up.

  Mum turned it down again. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay walking home? Call me if you get lost.”

  “Mum, there are these things called phones. They have maps on them now and everything.”

  “Well, you can still call.”

  We drove along streets I didn’t know, rounded corners I didn’t know, drove past students I didn’t know, who were on the way to the same college as me that I didn’t know. They walked in clumps, while I shrank into my seat. We got stuck in traffic as cars struggled to find parking spaces. Exhaust smoke fugged its way through the car’s air conditioning, making it smell of pollution.

  “I may have to spit you out here,” Mum said. “Are you going to be okay?”

  I nodded, even though it wasn’t the truth. It wasn’t her fault any of this was happening. It wasn’t Dad’s either, not really. Having no one to blame for being ripped out of my old life almost made it worse.

  “Hang on.” She indicated and yanked the car into a space. I opened the door, readying myself for the big unknown, when Mum reached over and put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you really going to be okay?” she asked for the third time, in her posh accent that wasn’t an accent since we’d moved down here. “I’m sorry, Amelie. I know you didn’t want this.”

  I smiled for her and nodded for her. “I’ll be fine.”

  She left me on the pavement in a cloud of fumes, and I watched her weave away through the thrumming cars. I wasn’t entirely sure where to go so I followed the scatterings of people my age, all walking in the same direction. My skin prickled as my shyness rash erupted across my chest. Great, just what I needed on my first day in a brand-new college in a brand-new part of the country – to be Blotchy Shy Girl. I fell into step behind two other girls and, despite the heat, did up my denim jacket to hide the worst of my red chest.

  My skin got itchier as I imagined the potential hell awaiting me that day.

  • Having to nervously stand around, begging people to come and talk to me with my eyes.

  • Not knowing where I was going or what I was doing, and feeling insecure about how crap I was at basic human functioning.

  • As a result of my shyness, probably attracting some kind of weirdo who I don’t like, because they’re the only one who talks to me, and then spending the rest of my life being their friend out of duty.

  • Freaking about where to sit at lunchtime and ending up in the corner, alone, watching everyone else be the friendly, extroverted person I wish I could be.

  �
�� Having to introduce myself and stumbling over my words and my voice going all croaky and my rash getting rashier and everyone thinking I’m a weirdo.

  The girls in front chatted excitedly, wisps of their conversation floating over their shoulders.

  “Did you see Laura on results day? She’s gone full-on goth. Do you think her new boyfriend knows she loves Taylor Swift? Should we tell him?” They giggled and my stomach twisted. I forgot how mean girls could be. Back in Sheffield, I had my own little bubble of nice people who I loved and trusted. It had taken sixteen years to find friends who got me and I them. I couldn’t believe I had to start again. The girls turned left and I copied, finding myself face-to-face with my new college, freshly painted for the new year. Streams of students trickled in through various entrances and everyone seemed to know at least someone. They launched themselves into hello hugs, asking one another how their summers had been. They were all laughing and chatting too loudly and excitedly – showing off on this fresh start of a new day. This was a small town. The most they could hope for was to “rebrand” slightly over the summer. Whereas I was entirely new. There was not one known face within this compound I stomped into, in my too-hot tan cowboy boots. And maybe that could be liberating – this chance to start over – except I didn’t want to start over. I wanted to be back in Sheffield with Jessa and Alfie.

  Alfie…

  I almost cried then, in broad daylight, before my first day had even started. Tears prickled the backs of my eyelids and sadness welled up in my intestines. And, because he knew me, because he knew me and loved me so well and so hard, Alfie sensed it.

  My phone buzzed, right on time.

  Alfie: I’m thinking of you today. Just be you – blotchy shyness rash and all. You WILL make friends. Remember, only two years x x

  I stood to one side. A smile twitched across my face, though it was a bittersweet one.

  Amelie: HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT THE RASH HAD COME OUT? X

  A sharp bell rang out and I checked the time on my phone – 8.55 a.m. I only had five minutes to try and find room D24 and meet my new form group. I rummaged in my satchel for my map of campus. The paper shook in my hands as I managed to locate the refectory right in front of me, and, apparently D24 was in the media block to the right of it.

  There, I thought. That wasn’t so bad. You are coping.

  My phone buzzed again.

  Alfie: I miss that rash. You’ll be amazing today x x

  I found myself closing my eyes. Standing there with the sun warm on my eyelids, the last dregs of late arrivers striding past me, I could picture every contour of Alfie’s face. The mole just next to his left eye, every tuft of his misbehaving hair. Instinctively, I typed out a reply.

  Amelie: I love you

  I stared at my screen, watching the cursor flash next to the “u”. Another surge of emotions ran through me and I deleted what I’d written. I watched the screen erase the truth, one letter of it vanishing at a time. The bell rang again. I was now late for my first day of whatever the hell my life was now.

  Amelie: I miss you

  I sent that one.

  It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth.

  I shake my head. Here, now, on this cold bench at almost three o’clock in the morning. My breath comes out as more of a pant. My body’s so freezing I can’t imagine ever being warm again. That warm day, not so very long ago, couldn’t feel further from this cold witching hour of everyone-else-is-asleep o’clock.

  What would’ve happened if I’d sent that first message?

  That is one of the Big Ifs I’ve been turning over. What if I had told Alfie I loved him? What if I hadn’t deleted that truth? What if I’d gone with my gut instinct, the primal part of me that typed out the words I love you – even though we had that stupid agreement? If I’d sent that first message, would it have stopped what came afterwards?

  I will never know.

  Because I didn’t tell Alfie I loved him. I only told him I missed him. I pressed send and watched one tick turn into two ticks. Then I put my phone back into my bag and ran to the media block.

  If you’re shy, trust me when I say there’s nothing worse than entering a room late. I opened the door to D24 in a flustered sweaty heap and everyone turned around like meerkats. I tugged at my denim jacket as my rash bloomed further across my body.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I stuttered to my new form tutor.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not even the last to arrive. Lots of you get lost on the first day.” He gestured to an empty chair in the circle. I sank into it and avoided eye contact with the people sat opposite. “As I was saying,” he continued, “my name’s Alistair and I’m your form tutor for the next two years.” He looked young, with ginger hair and a pink shirt. “You’re lucky, I’m pretty damn awesome.”

  The circle laughed self-consciously and I looked up to take everyone in. I just KNEW they’d all spent ages picking out today’s this-is-me outfit and the room reeked of trying-too-hard. One guy sitting opposite had a political slogan emblazoned across his chest and held a leather-bound journal so we knew he Cared About The World and Wrote Things In This Special Journal. The girl next to him showed off freshly dyed pink hair, wearing large cupped headphones like a necklace and a denim pinafore over yellow tights. Not that I could judge. I’d agonized over exactly which granny dress to wear and couldn’t handle the fact it was too hot for my usual cardigan. “Even if you went to war, you’d go in an oversized cardigan,” Alfie had once said, before removing my cardigan and looking at my shoulders like they were the best pair of shoulders in the whole goddamned world. My fashion style is essentially, If some old person has recently died in a dress, that’s the dress I want to wear. I don’t even own a pair of jeans.

  The door burst open and a girl with red hair and a perfect fringe appeared on the threshold. “Is this D24?” she asked, not seeming to care how everyone’s heads had craned in her direction.

  “It is indeed,” Alistair said. “Sit down, sit down.”

  She walked over in her own time and smiled before sitting next to me.

  “Hi,” she whispered to me, just like that. “I’m Hannah.”

  I felt words catch in my throat but managed a “Hi” back.

  Alistair made us wait five minutes for the last latecomer, but they didn’t show. He proceeded to welcome us to college and explain how it was different to our secondary schools. We were allowed to wear our own clothes. We wouldn’t get detentions. We didn’t even have to turn up to class, though we’d get kicked out if we got less than eighty per cent attendance. Today all our lessons would be introductory, before the real timetable started the next day.

  “Now, you’re organized into forms based on your subjects and you guys are all specializing in the performing arts in some way,” he explained. “I’m head of PA. That’s why I’m your tutor.” He then unexpectedly jumped onto the table and started cancan-ing and doing jazz hands while we all laughed and looked at one another in disbelief. “Therefore I’m expecting all of you to sign up to this term’s talent show,” he sang like an old-fashioned crooner. Alistair twirled, jumped off the desk, and landed back onto the grey carpet. “Right, let’s all get to know each other.”

  The following hour was hell’s teeth. Actually, you know what? I think maybe that’s making too light of it. Alistair made us stand up and freakin’ sing three facts about ourselves. I squirmed in my chair, my rash spreading down and itching my stomach as no one else seemed that embarrassed. I guess performing arts students aren’t natural introverts – in fact, I’m the only singer I’ve met with significant social anxiety.

  “I’m Darla,” sang the girl with pink hair. “I love writing songs, taking photos of sunsets, and living every day like it’s my last.”

  “Hello, Darla,” we were forced to sing back.

  Leather Notebook Boy, to be fair, was not a happy bunny. “I’m George,” he said gruffly. “I like books, and football, and politics, and I think I may be in the wrong form
because I’m not studying any performing arts.”

  Alistair burst out laughing. “Oh no, George,” he sang, all dramatically like we’d suddenly walked into a musical. “You may very well be in the wrong room. Let me check my notes!” He twirled again and picked up his clipboard. “No, your name isn’t on here,” he sang again. “I’m so sorry, but you don’t belong heeeeeeeere.”

  “Bollocks,” George said.

  Alistair skipped over and peered at George’s welcome sheet. “You’re in B24, not D24,” he sang out.

  “Double bollocks.”

  “Please do not swear in my classroooooom…”

  George collected his stuff, still cradling his leather notebook. “Let’s sing him out,” Alistair suggested, before bursting into “So Long, Farewell” from The Sound of Music. Everyone joined in, like this was a totally normal occurrence. Apart from Hannah, who rolled her eyes at me and mimed shooting the side of her head.

  When it was her turn, she stood up, and said, “I do drama, not music. I’m not singing.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I am Hannah.” Her voice demanded to be listened to, in a quiet, assured way. “I like drama but I hate musicals, and this, this…” She paused for effect. “This is my idea of hell on earth.”

  The room gasped but Alistair was totally unbothered by her criticism. “I can’t believe someone in my form doesn’t like musicals,” he muttered. “There must be some kind of mistake.”

  Hannah shrugged and sat back down. It was my turn. Everyone twisted towards me and my chest tightened, my lungs drawing in on themselves.

  Pretend it’s a gig, pretend it’s a gig, I told myself as I scrambled out of my seat. How am I supposed to sing when I can’t breathe? Okay, pretend it’s a gig. You get through enough of them somehow. Breathe…breathe…

  “My name’s Amelie.” My voice cracked but I recovered as I sang. “I just moved here from Sheffield. And I like songwriting and singing and playing the guitar.”