After the panel we're all bubbling with arguments and ideas about political divides and immigration and xenophobia in literature and publishing, and we walk along Charing Cross Road, fighting to be heard, dropping in and out of different debates.
At the tube station I need to top up my Oyster card, but the others are already through the barrier before I've let them know. Harper is still beside me as I put cash in the machine, and he and I go through the barrier together. We remain a few paces behind the rest as we make our way down the escalators, into the depths of the underground.
'I liked the Nigerian speaker,' Harper says. 'She made me want to read her novel.'
'You, reading a novel written by a woman?' I say teasingly. 'That's unheard of.'
'Don't think too lowly of me,' Harper says. 'Just because I like classic lit.'
'I don't think lowly of you because you like classic lit,' I say. 'But, I did have an idea of what your favourite book might be.'
'Did you now?' Harper says. We've reached the platform, but the others haven't noticed that Harper and I are a comfortable few paces away from them. 'Well, what's your guess, then?'
'Fight Club,' I say with a grin.
Harper rolls his eyes. 'Wrong again, Jane. My guess for today is Anna Karenina.'
'You think highly of me if you think I managed to get through Anna Karenina,' I say, and Harper laughs.
'Okay, I'll think smaller,' he says. 'I still suspect your favourite novel might secretly be Bridget Jones. Or maybe, god forbid, it's not Twilight, is it?'
'Oh come on,' I say, laughing. 'Of course it's not.'
Harper smirks. 'You know, I read Twilight.'
I gasp. 'You read it? You, who never reads a book unless you're certain it's going to impact you in some great, profound way?'
Harper shrugs. 'My girlfriend when I was fifteen was obsessed with it, and she forced me to read it. After that I promised never to read anything recommended to me by a girl like that.'
'Like that?' I asked.
'I used to like pretty girls with no brains,' Harper says. 'And I'm trying my best to ignore that impulse I have. I know you probably just think I'm a dumb South London guy who plays football, and sure, I used to date a lot of pretty girls, but I've realised more and more as I've gotten older that I like smart women.'
'Harper, you know no one thinks you're a dumb football bro,' I say, but then I wonder whether Harper thinks I'm a pretty girl or a smart woman. I know I'm pretty, and I care about my appearance, and what I wear, and what my Instagram looks like. And if Harper is trying to avoid that type of girl, he would clearly not want to date me.
On the tube home, Harper and I sit in a twin seat, while the rest of the group stand, holding onto the red rails. We continue our discussion of immigration into the UK until we arrive at Shepherds Bush, but when we get back onto the street it's too cold to talk, so we hurry along the high street, eager to be home.
The six of us trudge up the stairs into the house. There's an offer of tea, and we're still full of creative energy and excitement, so we head into Kitty's flat. She brews tea in the kitchen while we make ourselves comfortable on the sofa, and Sylvie launches into an explanation of a short fiction zine she wants to create.
'That sounds really cool, Sylvie,' I say, and Sylvie looks at me, slightly surprised. I'm slightly surprised myself.
'Well, I'd be accepting submissions,' Sylvie says with a smile. 'You could always write for it.'
'I'd love to! And I could help out in other ways, too. I'm pretty good at editing,' I say. 'If you need someone to help you with that.'
'I probably would,' Sylvie says. She glances over at Kitty, almost shyly, and then pushes her hair out of her face before looking at me. 'We should sit down together in the café and put some ideas together one afternoon.'
Ed rolls his eyes. 'You love using my customer's seating space as your office, don't you girls?' but his tone is humorous.
'Oh Ed,' I say. 'Don't you realise it gives the café a good vibe if there are always hot girls working on the sofas?'
'Not hot girls,' Kitty corrects me. 'Stylish, modern working women.'
'I stand corrected,' I say, and I take a sip of my tea.
After we've had tea and chatted about everything that's bursting in our hearts, I finally fall into bed, aware that I have to be up early to work in the café. It takes me too long to get to sleep, but when I finally do I have the same dream of the two little boys in Manchester United uniforms. I'm now so used to these boys running around my brain at night, that their presence doesn't surprise me anymore.
Their childish play around their garden fills my ears, and I enjoy watching how happy and innocent they are. But then the dream changes, and the boys are older. Now they're in a public bathroom. I'm never usually in the room that has the urinals on one wall. I stare at those for a while, momentarily put off, until a sobbing catches my attention.
I turn around to find the door to one of the bathroom stalls ajar. Here are the boys, older now, and no longer wearing Manchester United jerseys, but still recognisable as brothers. The one with the red hair is standing at the door to the cubicle, while inside there is sobbing.
I find myself struggling to get past the red-haired boy, to see what's happened. I see the blood on the floor, and my stomach sinks. 'What have you done?' I whisper to the red-haired brother, but in the dream he can't hear me. 'What have you done?' I repeat, but I'm only dreaming, and the boys don't hear me.
There's so much blood. Boys have never seen so much blood.
• Author's Note •
I'm really curious to hear your thoughts on what you think the dreams mean, so let me know if you have any theories!
And my question of the chapter is...
Have you read Twilight? And what are your HONEST thoughts?
Thanks for reading, voting, commenting!
elle xx