Score: Stonecold Crazy - Queen

Lydia

I am lying on my stomach across Mark's chest. My left arm is folded under my chest and my chin is propped on the back of my palm. With my other hand, I am reaching into the grass. A tiny ladybug is climbing up a blade of grass beside our tangled bodies. I pick up a small branch from the ground and let the ladybug crawl onto it. Mark's hand is stroking my hair gently and the August afternoon sun is blazing down on us, burning the skin of my bare shoulders. I am aware that the straps of my summer dress are going to leave tan lines, but I can't be bothered.

The last two weeks have gone by in a lazy, content haze. Since his failed attempt at a date, Mark and I have spent every single day in each other's arms. During the day, we laugh, talk, wander the streets, go to various events, or, like today, have picnics in Hyde Park. And during the night, we fuck.

OK, not only during the night. We have sex every possible minute. In his bed, in the shower, on the sofa, and even in the back of the Discovery. I have never felt this way before like I have this insatiable need burning inside me, that no ocean could put out. I feel like I need this deep-seated connection with him, which is not only physical but also very emotional. I want to be close to him, to merge with him, to fucking dissolve into him. I have never felt so connected to anyone else. It is like my mere breathing depends on his presence. Which also means that he could easily take it away, with just a snap of his fingers. I have never intentionally given this much power over myself to a single person. And it's fucking terrifying.

I have been replaying the conversation I had with Alex on the morning after Gloria's birthday party in my head over and over again. About love being scary. Well, this better be the real thing, then, because I'm petrified. But I also feel like I have taken a deep inhale of oxygen after having held my breath for far too long. I feel finally at peace, with myself and with the world.

I would never tell Mark any of this, though. It is scary enough feeling this way, but, telling him about it? It's like baring a nerve to the elements. No, thank you.

The heat wave has dragged on unusually long, and the sun has been shining bright above us every single day. I haven't heard from my father, not even once. John's been calling, bless him, to ask if I needed anything. He even texted me once asking whether I wanted him to drive me the BMW.

Patrick's back in town but hasn't announced himself once. It seems like I have finally managed to miraculously escape all of my problems.

However, as August advances, I get this feeling, gnawing at my insides, that it will soon be all over and I will be left alone, in an abyss full of memories and of all the monsters I have been hiding from.

With the approach of the announcement of the A-level results, I feel more and more anxious about what the outcome will be. Also, when Mark's gone, back to America, what will I have left here, in London? What will my life look like in September? What will become of us? What will become of me?

But I choose to do what I have been doing best my whole life and ignore the impending reality. Who needs reality, anyway, when I am currently living in the sweetest dream?

"I need to go back to my dad's to pick up my passport," I say. I didn't think I'd need it when I left Brompton Square three weeks ago. I didn't know I'd be flying to Greece for a fucking wedding then.

A fly buzzes close to my ear and I swat my hand in the air to chase it away. It is so hot that even flies are sluggish and this one dances away in the still air, as if drunk.

"OK, do you want to go by today?" Mark asks. He lifts his head from the grass and squints one eye at me.

"Yeah, why not." I sigh. "Today is as good a day as any. I don't think I'll be more mentally prepared tomorrow."

"Will you ever tell me what happened that day?" Mark asks. I haven't told him the full reason why I left Brompton Square. How could I? How can I possibly tell him that Colin tried to push me back toward the Casterlys for money, even after Patrick choked me? It sounds unbelievable and totally embarrassing! Not to mention the realization that we're broke! Our family has been wealthy since before I was born. Being wealthy is a part of who I am, about everyone in my circle. That's another thing to be scared and embarrassed about. How bad is it? What am I going to do? Even if I get into Uni, which would be entirely by luck, how am I going to pay for it?

I push my unpleasant thoughts away.

"Maybe, someday," I say, turning my head toward him and laying my cheek on his chest.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His powerful heart beats in his chest. It almost feels like tiny earthquakes under my face.

"Fine." He lays his head back down on the grass. His voice reverberates through his rib cage.

I bury my face in his chest, inhaling his familiar scent.

God, am I ever going to get enough of this man?

"Do you have keys?" He asks.

"No. I'll just ring the bell. Or call John."

"OK, let's go, then," he lifts onto his elbows, forcing me to move off his chest. I roll over on my back on the grass and whine in protest.

I move to stand up and straighten my dress down my waist and thighs. I pick my bag up from the grass and retrieve my phone. I shoot John a message, then take Mark's hand, which he has extended for me. I lay my head on his shoulder, as we walk in the grass, hand in hand.

It feels so good, so natural, to walk like that with Mark, hand in hand, like all the other smiling couples, trying to escape the heat by hiding under the shadows of the trees in the park. I can finally look at those happy couples, without feeling a pang of jealousy at them. During those last months that Patrick and I were together, I'd look at those passing couples and sigh, a feeling of longing trapped in my chest. Like, I was feeling a little envious of that girlfriend, looking into her girlfriends' eyes with so much infatuation, or this lady, leaning on her partner's shoulder to take a rock out of her shoe with a smile. Like, I'd put my walls up, even for Patrick, locking my emotions behind a steel door, and never thought I'd be able to let him in again, as it had been at the beginning of our relationship. We had that, but only for a brief moment. It was before I put up my walls, and hid away from the entire world, locking him out in the process. It all went away shortly after my mum took all those pills.

But with Mark, I feel like I want to be all in again. I want to be soft. Vulnerable.

"From this moment on, it's me and you, Lydia...You are mine and I am yours. I don't want anyone else, do you understand that?"

Mark's words from that night in the guest room echo in my mind. And that's exactly how I feel about him, as well.

Oh, God, I'm so fucked!

Lost in my own thoughts, I haven't noticed we've exited the park and are now walking down Brompron Road. As we get closer to the flat, anxiety pops its ugly head up from the warm haze that I have been moving through. Somehow, I realize now, I have always felt anxious about going to the flat. Every single day, for years and years, when coming back from school, or returning to London after a holiday, I felt like entering a beast's den or walking into an exam room. I never felt safe. Even when it was my home.

Technically, it still is my home. But in reality, this can't be further from the truth.

I grip Mark's hand more firmly. He turns his head, lifts my chin up with the hand, which is not holding mine, and plants a soft kiss on my lips.

"It's going to be fine, babe." He says, sensing my uneasiness. "In two days, we'll be lying on a beach in Greece."

I close my eyes and smile at the mental image.

My phone chimes and I look at it, seeing a message from John.

"John says he's at the flat," I say, more to myself than to Mark. Relief passes through my body. I really didn't want to ring the bell and have to face Colin or Celia. Or both of them.

The surge of relief, however, doesn't drown out the anxiety, which keeps escalating with every step I take toward Brompton Square until my hands are clammy and shaking. When we reach the building, I have the urge to turn around and run, until I see the coast of Wales, but I do need my passport if I want to go to Greece.

I shoot an "I'm outside" message to John and prop myself onto the railing of the stairs to wait. Mark moves toward me and stands between my bent knees. He cups my cheek with his hand and lowers his face until it's mere inches from mine. The gold in his eyes is standing out in the afternoon sun.

"I'm coming with you upstairs," he says, his lips almost brushing mine.

"You don't have to," I shake my head.

"I know. I want to," he says, nudging my nose with his.

John arrives at the top of the stairs, wearing sweat shorts and a T-shirt. He looks like he's just gotten out of bed.

"Hey, Lyds, hey, Mark", he doesn't give a hint that he is even remotely fazed by the fact that Mark and I are engaged in very obvious PDA.

"Hey, how have you been?" I jump off the railing and run toward him, throwing my arms around his shoulders.

"I'm fine", he says, as we enter the building. Mark is walking a couple of steps behind us. "But Dad's gone mental."

"What do you mean?" I frown, walking into the lift. Colin has never exactly been in his right mind, but what made John say that?

"He's hardly left the flat and he has been non-stop drinking."

"Colin's been non-stop drinking since before you were born, Johnny," I say as we exit the lift on our floor. "He'll be fine."

"No, Lyds, it's not like that. He's not doing anything, but lying in bed and drinking. Celia's moved out of their bedroom..." John's voice trails off, as he realizes he's made a mistake.

I spin on my heels and turn to face him. "Where to?"

John looks down at his feet.

"Where's she moved to, Johnny?" I say, shoving a finger into his shoulder.

"To mum's old room." He finally says to his feet.

Everything before my eyes goes blurry. All I can hear is loud buzzing, as if someone has switched a TV to static.

As if in a dream, I take Johnny's keys from his hand and shove the key to the front door in the lock. When the door clicks open, I walk straight to my mum's old room.

I had this plan in my head, that I'll just pop in, grab my passport and leave, without anyone, but John seeing me. But things have changed.

I walk into the room, and, lucky for her, Celia's not there. But I can feel her presence all over the place, meddling with Mum's presence. Silencing it.

I suddenly feel sick.

Celia's tracksuits and scanty dresses are scattered all over the bed. One of her dresses that I particularly loathe, a shiny silvery scrap of Spandex, is draped over the backrest of the chair next to the full-size mirror. Some of my mum's clothes that I left in her closet have been taken out and are peeking through the piles of glitter and polyester.

A red haze falls before my eyes. All I can think of is how to punish Celia, and how to save more of my mum's old stuff.

I walk to the dresser and open the third drawer from the top. I take the scissors that I know for a fact live in there and take the first horrific piece of sparkly hideousness that I can grab, and, before John and Mark even manage to open their mouths and yell at me to stop, I cut it into ribbons.

"What are you doing, Lydia?" Mark rushes by my side and grabs my wrist.

"You don't understand!" I yell, angry tears running down my face now. I wriggle my wrist from his grip and grab another piece of clothing, cutting it into confetti that I scatter all over the bed.

"What I do understand is that you are acting crazy right now! We came here for your passport! Just grab it and let's go, drop this!"

"I don't care! I'm going to make her regret this!"

"Leave it, Lyds!" John says, coming closer, and squeezing my arms gently. "It's not worth it! She's not worth it! Just grab anything you like and go."

"It's not just about the stuff, John! She's sleeping in Mum's bed! It all happened in this room! Her presence here is an insult!"

"Where's your passport?" Mark asks me, clearly giving up. I tell him and he leaves the room. I scan the bed, deciding on my next victim.

"How could he allow this?" I spit under my breath.

"I told you, sis, he's completely out of it," John says.

I hear footsteps in the corridor. I expect it to be Mark with my passport, but, instead, Colin's frame appears in the doorway.

He stops at the door, his eyes moving frantically from me to the mess I have made in the room and back.

I understand John's concern now. Even his physical appearance is changed. He looks pale, his eyes are sunken into his gray face, covered with patchy three-days-old stubble. His lips are cracked and dry. He looks years older.

"What have you done, Lydia!" He squeezes through his gritted teeth. "Haven't you done enough already?"

The red fog before my eyes thickens.

"What have I done?" I spit out. "You let your whore into Mum's room!"

Mark appears behind Colin's back, clutching my passport. He looks flustered and his ears are bright red.

He squeezes past Colin and walks to my side.

"Found it, let's go." He says, draping an arm around my shoulders protectively.

"Mark Carter," Colin sneers. It hits me now that my dad hasn't seen Mark since he's come back from America. "I haven't seen you since you were what - sixteen? Seventeen?"

"I was eighteen in Italy, Colin," Mark says.

"Right. So, is this where my ungrateful daughter has run off to? To Mark and Gloria? You're not children anymore, you know. You cannot just hide away in your friends' loft again. You have to accept responsibility..."

"Why don't you take your own advice and get your shit together, then?" I say, my voice thick with poison.

"Let's go, babe. It's not worth it." Mark pleads, turning to face me and taking my hand.

"My! Now this is a surprise." Colin sneers. "I did not expect that! So, you're telling me, Lydia, that you rejected Patrick fucking Casterly for Mark Carter?" He shakes his head. "On the other hand, it's not surprising at all." He continues, folding his arms in front of his chest. "After all, Young women have always had a weak spot for Carter men."