"Hi, Charlotte. How are you?" asked Richard.
As if he cared, thought Charlotte, bitterly, but
she was more or less past caring. Maybe if she had been seventeen, and shagging Richard's older brother, she'd have
stood more of a chance.
And, of course, if she had also been as pretty and skinny,
and - most importantly - experienced, as that tart, Julie Bishop.
Charlotte shrugged, in response to Richard's half-hearted
enquiry. "Oh, you know. My head's pounding, after all that booze last night. Other than that..."
Don't bloody cry, Charlotte Fisher. You haven't
got much pride left, as it is.
It wasn't as if she was in a position to judge
the likes of Bryony's sister, she reminded herself. Not after last night.
Charlotte closed her eyes, and willed away the images that
seeped, like poison, back into her conscious mind. She didn't want to remember. She genuinely didn't
remember half of it - and what she did recall seemed more like a nightmare than a memory, of something that
had actually happened a matter of hours earlier.
"Thanks for lending me your mobile last night. Do
you fancy coming back to my place, and picking it up?"
"No, you're all right, Rich. You can give it back
to me tomorrow at school. Listen, I've got to go, okay? I just popped out to get a few groceries for Mum, and
then I've - I've got my Religious Studies assignment."
Bloody Hell! She was blowing out Richard Anderson,
the guy she'd been in love with, almost non-stop, since the age of eleven - to do a Religious Studies assigment?
Charlotte couldn't believe that she'd just said that! She didn't even have an outstanding R. S. assignment
- and, if she had, she could hardly have concentrated on homework, right then.
She was too busy thinking about John Hill.
And, more importantly, whether Emma would ever forgive
her.
Somehow, Charlotte very much doubted that.
