The Bouquet
Vera lay with her eyes closed. On the other bed across the room, Holly sat cross-legged, reading a textbook aloud. Vera’s phone erupted with a popular ringtone. Holly slammed the book shut and shot her friend a reproachful look.
Vera answered reluctantly. A moment later, she was sitting up, then tossing the phone aside, leaping to her feet, and darting around the cramped room, shoving clothes from the wardrobe into a sports bag.
“Where are you going? What’s wrong?” Holly fretted.
“The neighbour called. Mum’s been taken to hospital—heart attack.” Vera zipped the bag shut and hurried to the door, where their coats hung and boots stood in a messy row.
“The exam’s tomorrow. She’s in hospital; they’ll look after her. Take the exam, then go,” Holly said, rising as she watched Vera tug her boots on.
“Listen, Hol, explain everything to the dean’s office. I’ll fix it when I’m back. I’ll retake the exams during break. My bus leaves in forty minutes,” Vera snapped her coat zip shut.
“Call me when you know how your mum is,” Holly pleaded, but Vera was already out the door. The sharp click of heels faded down the corridor.
Holly sighed and turned back into the room. Then she spotted Vera’s phone charger still plugged in. She snatched it up and bolted barefoot after her.
“Vera! Vera, wait!” she shouted, clattering down the stairs.
The front door slammed below. Holly took the last steps three at a time, shoved the door open, and nearly tumbled onto the pavement after her.
“Vera!”
The girl turned, saw the cable in Holly’s hand, and jogged back.
“Thanks.” Then she was off again.
“Harrison! What’s all this racket? One nearly takes the door off, the other’s running outside barefoot. You on something?” The matron, Mrs. Whitaker, stood from her desk, scowling.
“Sorry, Mrs. Whitaker. It’s Vera’s mum—she’s in hospital. It’s freezing. Can I go?” Without waiting, Holly dashed back upstairs.
“Oh, good Lord!” Mrs. Whitaker plopped back into her chair and crossed herself. “Keep her safe!”
Back in the room, Holly brushed sand from her feet, tidied Vera’s scattered things, slipped on slippers, and took the kettle to the kitchen. The exam was tomorrow. Tea would warm her, then back to the books.
Darkness had fallen when a soft knock came at the door.
“Who is it?” Holly called. No answer. She sighed, climbed off the bed, and opened the door.
“Hi.” Tom stood there, clutching a small bouquet.
“Come in.” Holly waited until he stepped inside before adding, “Vera’s gone home.”
“But her exam’s tomorrow,” he frowned.
“I’ll tell the dean. She can retake it after break.” Holly’s eyes lingered on the flowers.
“These are for you,” Tom held them out.
“Thanks. Fancy a cuppa?” She took the bouquet to the window, grabbed a jar from the sill.
“I’ll get water. You get comfy.” She smiled and left.
Tom only kicked off his shoes. Two steps took him to Vera’s bed. He sat, running a hand over the cheap blanket like stroking a memory.
Holly returned, set the jar of flowers on the desk, stepped back to admire them.
“Pretty. What are they?”
“Sweet peas,” Tom replied. “I should go.” He stood.
“Did you and Vera have plans?” Holly rushed, not wanting him to leave.
“Yeah. I got us gig tickets.”
“Really? Take me instead. No sense wasting them.”
Tom hesitated.
“You’ve got an exam tomorrow.”
“So? I’ve been cramming all day—time for a break.”
He weighed it. Vera was gone, tickets wasted. They’d only just started dating; nothing serious. Going with her roommate wasn’t betrayal, right?
“Alright,” he said.
“Yes!” Holly jumped, clapping. “Wait outside—I’ll get changed.”
“Right.” Tom shoved his shoes on and left.
Five minutes later, Holly emerged. Tom noticed she’d found time for mascara, lipstick, and a fancy updo. How?
“Let’s go, or we’ll miss it,” he urged.
At the gig, Holly danced, arms aloft, screaming in shared euphoria. Kept glancing at Tom. He caught her mood, loosened up, shouting along.
After, they walked back, buzzing.
“That bit was my favourite,” Holly hummed a tune.
“Yeah. And when they—” Tom echoed another, even mangling a few lyrics.
At the dorm, Holly tugged the locked door.
“It’s Mrs. Whitaker’s shift. She won’t budge. What now?” She looked at Tom, panicked.
“This way.” He hooked her arm, leading round the building. Behind a corner, two girls clambered through a ground-floor window. “Quick, before it shuts.”
He boosted Holly up; hands inside yanked her through. A whistle trilled nearby.
“Hurry!” Holly hissed from inside.
Tom hauled himself onto the sill, dropped into the room. Holly snapped the window shut, yanked the curtain. The whistle faded. They all exchanged glances.
“Thanks. We’re off,” Tom nudged Holly toward the door.
Giggles followed. They raced upstairs, collapsed into Holly’s room, laughing.
“Should go. It’s late,” Tom said after.
Darkness held them; no one had flipped the switch.
“Stay. I fancy you. A lot,” Holly whispered fiercely, pressing close, tilting her face up.
Vera returned to the silent dorm at term’s end. Holly and Tom were still away, like most students. Vera arranged her missed exam, provided hospital notes. The danger had passed, but Mum stayed in care.
She barely scraped through. Term began, but Holly never returned, ignoring calls. The dean said she’d taken leave—illness.
Soon, a new girl moved in. Studies, Tom… No time to wonder about Holly. She faded from memory. Tom never mentioned the gig, what came after. It felt unreal, like a dream.
Twenty-one years passed.
“Mum, Dad, I’m home!” A girl, Tom’s image, walked in.
“How’s uni?” He lowered his paper.
“Let her change,” Vera called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s warming.”
Soon, the family sat around the table.
“Mum, Dad, today I met a girl at uni who looks exactly like me. Everyone noticed.”
“Doubles happen. Rare to meet them. Want another roast potato?” Vera asked Tom.
“Dad, you spaced out,” Marina nudged him.
“I’m full. Did you talk to her?”
“Of course. She’s a final-year. Guess what? Her name’s Claire—Claire Brightwood.”
“At uni, my roommate was a Bright—Holly, I think. Left after first year. Remember, Tom?” Vera studied him.
“Right! Brightwood, Holly Brightwood. Pretty, eh?” Marina beamed.
“I only had eyes for you. Didn’t notice others,” Tom said, sipping tea—then choked. “How many times—scalded my tongue!”
“Sorry.” Vera rose, adding cold water to his glass.
“Don’t want it.” Tom pushed back from the table.
“Really that alike?” Vera asked his retreating back.
“Everyone says…”
Tom lay on the sofa, pretending to sleep while his mind raced. *Coincidence? So it did happen. Why pretend? That’s why she left. Idiot. What were you thinking?*
“Tom, don’t nap—you’ll ruin your sleep. Feeling ill?” Vera’s voice cut in.
“No.”
He barely slept. Called work—dentist excuse—then drove to the dorm.
“Does Claire Brightwood live here?” he asked the matron.
A different woman, but Mrs. Whitaker’s twin in demeanour. All matrons blurred together.
“Who’s asking?”
“Her uncle. Passing through.”
Suspicion hardened her gaze. Three girls descended, laughing.
“There she is. Brightwood, visitor,” the matron called.
“Who?” Claire skimmed him with cool eyes.
“You coming?” her friends called from the door.
“Go ahead. You are?”
“Let’s talk outside.”
She didn’t move.
“He’s not your uncle?” the matron interjected. “I’ll call security—”
“No need.” Tom looked at Claire. “Is your mother Holly Brightwood? Born September twenty-fifth?”
“Who *are* you?”
“You didn’t answer.”
Claire weighed him. Deciding he was harmless, she relented.
“Yes. So? I think I know who you are. Where’ve you been? What do you want?”
The matron strained to eavesdrop.
“Outside.” Tom moved to the door.Tom stood there, heart pounding, as Claire walked away, leaving him with the weight of the past and the quiet hope that, one day, she might understand.
