They all wanted their bully dead. Now someone’s granted the wish. From the author of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests comes the twisted tale of a school reunion turned murderous—and the suspects must catch the real killer before they’re framed. Perfect for fans of Benjamin Stevenson and We Solve Murders.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Reunion to Die For by K.J. Whittle, which is out now.
In a dingy pub, a high school reunion brings five old friends back together. As they catch up after twenty years, painful memories surface, all centered around the disastrous prom night that broke them all apart and the school bully at the heart of it all. King of the class turned handsome sport superstar, Eric Stewart poses as a charming local celebrity, but his old friends know of his hidden cruel streak that made each of them miserable. The more they drink, the more a morbid plan takes shape, with everyone tossing in ideas for how they could get the ultimate form of revenge.
The next morning, heads-pounding and hearts racing, they discover Eric has been found dead, exactly the way they drunkenly planned it.
When a cryptic, anonymous message containing a recording of their conversation from the night before starts to circulate, the group knows they need to act, and fast. Who was listening to them? Who arranged the reunion? And, most importantly, who carried out their murderous plans? Soon, they find themselves dragged into a series of sinister games devised to reveal the truth about prom night and Eric’s death. Before they become the main suspects, the group will need to share their secrets from all those years ago, or risk going down for murder.
EXCERPT
Four teenagers gazed out the expansive windows of the stretch limo, then turned to smile at each other.
Prom night.
Anticipation sizzled inside the car as it sped the excited group toward their school.
“To prom,” the dark-haired boy called out, his ghost-white shirt emphasizing the natural golden tan of his neck. A rogue strand of hair fell over his left eye. He slowly pushed it away, then held up his champagne flute for the others to clink.
“It’s going to be the night to end all nights,” remarked his best mate, who was fairer with sharper features, his ivory tuxedo not fitting as it should.
“I can’t believe it’s finally here,” said the curly-haired girl, her dark spirals cascading across her shoulders, a pointed knee pushing through the slit in her green dress. She leaned forward to kiss the fair-haired boy.
“Let’s savor every second,” commented the blond girl, whose velvet dress was every shade of red, from amaranth to crimson blood.
The car jolted over a bump in the road, and champagne spilled on their shoes.
The girls’ screams soon turned to laughter. Nothing would spoil this special night.
For a moment, the teenagers were silent, lost in their own thoughts. One dreamed of the prom crown, another hoped for a whispered I love you, and the third simply wished for a fun night. But the fourth’s thoughts were moments away from turning to revenge.
Less than a mile away, an emaciated boy stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, pulled his long-sleeved T-shirt on quickly so he wouldn’t have to look too closely at the ribs poking through his skin. His head turned from the mirror so he couldn’t take the time to inspect the gray pallor of his face, the infected spots on his cheeks, and the red marks across his arms.
He pulled on his old jeans and took a sidelong glance at his reflection.
That’ll do, he thought.
“Ready for prom?” his mum shouted up the stairs, mistakenly thinking that he was like all the other teens in his class: excited about prom night, eager to impress their classmates and dance with their crushes, and hoping to be crowned king or queen.
“Ready,” he called back, attempting to add some enthusiasm to his tone. He didn’t want to worry his mum.
Because he had no interest in dancing or socializing at prom. But he had nowhere else to go. This was his only chance of safety, of finding the help he desperately needed.
Again, the dangerous boy’s face flashed behind his eyes. The one who wanted him dead.
He pulled on his jacket and tapped the pocket. The heavy item was still there. It offered him a little comfort. Perhaps he would make it home alive after all.
The girl angrily marched away from her house, pushing tears from her cheeks with the base of her thumb as the desperate words of her distraught parents rampaged through her brain.
“If you leave now, you never come back,” her dad had said.
Couldn’t they see that she was in love? That she’d found someone who loved her, too, and they had carefully planned their future together?
No, they just wanted to control her. They didn’t care about her happiness at all. But she would show them that she was serious about this boy. She smiled to herself as she imagined their apologies when they’d finally meet him and realize just how special he was, how perfect they were for each other.
The girl hadn’t planned to go to prom, but that’s where her legs were carrying her. She wasn’t dressed for it, in her old black skirt and baggy top, but that didn’t matter. She knew he would be pleased to see her. Prom night was going to be the start of her new life.
She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. It was heavy, but then it contained all her possessions and all the money she had in the world.
It wasn’t much, but she had the most important thing—love. Perhaps tonight that love would stop being a secret; perhaps she could finally celebrate it with the whole school. Then guilt threatened to darken the girl’s daydream, but she wouldn’t let it. It was finally time for her to be selfish. She noticed her tears had dried, and a smile crossed her mouth. She started walking faster, then was almost sprinting as she raced toward all the wonderful things that waited for her.
A lanky boy smoothed gel through his thick auburn hair, using a comb to flatten it down. Then he sighed when the strands resumed their wild waves. It was no good. He would never measure up to his dark-haired rival in the looks department. His pale, freckled skin versus the other boy’s tanned ruddiness. His long, slim body against his rival’s muscular, grown-man frame.
The girl he loved just didn’t see him that way, and he just had to accept it.
“You look so handsome,” his mum told him when he walked down the stairs to where she was waiting in the hallway.
He rolled his eyes then leaned in to kiss her cheek.
“You’ll have fun once you’re there,” she reassured him. “All your mates are going. And she’ll be there too. I really think she’s starting to see you as more than just a friend…”
“Do you think so?” he asked, finally smiling at her.
Could this be the night?
He crossed his fingers as he said goodbye and walked away from his home.
In that moment, as they all wondered what prom night would bring, none of them could have imagined the secrets that would still torture them twenty years later.
Part One
The School Reunion
1
Anne Marie
June 2026
Peering out the rain-drenched car window, down the drive at her old school, Anne Marie shudders.
It looks mostly the same as the last time she was here, some twenty years ago. And she has the same creeping nervousness in her tummy she’d felt back then. Sadly, her tummy is no longer the taut teenage version.
But as Anne Marie looks closer, she sees that, like her, the no-nonsense 1960s cinder-block building has been a little battered by the passing years—bricks discolored, cement cracked and crumbling.
Anne Marie watches the stream of thirtysomethings as they make their way past the car and down the drive, chatting animatedly, laughing, some almost trotting, so keen to get to their school reunion. It’s as if the sight of the old place has brought back some of that teenage energy.
Yet, for Anne Marie, being this close to her former school is draining her body of any enthusiasm she might have had. She can picture it leaking from the car onto the road and down the drain.
As her energy leaves her, it’s replaced by old memories: hot tears dragging mascara down her face, the stabbing pain of teenage heartbreak and the punch of a fist, blood mixing with the red of her dress—
“Off you go, Mum,” Naomi says, flashing a trademark look of impatience from the driver’s seat. “Have fun!”
“Just give me a minute,” Anne Marie tells her, unfastening her seat belt but staying firmly in her seat.
Was this a bad idea? Should she tell Naomi to drive her back to their safe little flat, away from this old place and all its terrible memories?
Mind you, these days their home doesn’t feel so safe anymore…
Naomi sighs loudly, picks up her cell phone, and starts tapping away, her thumb moving manically while the rest of her stays stock still. It’s a wonder that young people don’t have giant muscular thumbs with all the exercise they get.
“Have you really not been back since you were a teenager?” Naomi murmurs, not looking up from her phone.
“No, your grandad got a new job, and we moved away when I was sixteen. Haven’t had reason to come back since,” she tells her daughter, trying to keep her tone nonchalant as she studies the people wandering down the drive, searching for one face in particular.
“Did you at least go to your school prom?” Naomi asks.
Anne Marie’s head whips over to her daughter. Had she mentioned the school prom to her before? She didn’t remember ever bringing it up. Why would she, after everything that happened that night?
“Um… My memory’s awful these days,” she splutters. “Yes, I think maybe I did.”
“Well, now we’re back, maybe you can pick up with your old friends again,” Naomi suggests in a rare moment of compassion.
They moved four months earlier. Anne Marie wasn’t sure about living back in the area where she’d grown up, but she hadn’t had a choice, had been forced to swallow her worries.
“That would be nice,” she says automatically, picturing her best friends from school, Yvette and Nisha. They were inseparable once. But then prom night happened, and all of Anne Marie’s ties were broken.
She takes a deep breath.
It was no use. Anne Marie had made the decision to attend the reunion, and she couldn’t back out now.
As she reaches for the door handle, a shadow passes her window. She jumps as a tall, broad-shouldered man confidently strides past the car, running a hand through his brown wavy hair.
Her stomach lurches, but then the man turns and she sees it’s not him. She breathes out, watches two women greet each other, embrace enthusiastically, and then link arms as they make their way to the reunion together. She recognizes the strawberry-blond mane of Michelle Davies, who was captain of all the girls’ sports teams, never seen out of gym clothes. Now she’s wearing a sensible skirt suit, her hair shorter, but she still moves with that athletic bounce.
“Come on, Mum, I’m meeting Luke at eight thirty,” Naomi says. “And I need to sort my hair and lashes.”
Anne Marie turns her attention to her daughter. Her dark hair is wrapped in a series of huge curlers. She’s wearing what looks like pajamas, and her feet, encased in giant fluffy slippers, rest by the gas pedal.
“I thought you were ready?” she teases, in a bid to tempt a smile from her humorless daughter.
But Naomi just rolls her eyes and flicks her hand dismissively. Off you go!
Then Anne Marie’s parental anxiety kicks in. Naomi always seems on edge before meeting this Luke character. Her latest beau. Is that a “red flag,” as they say these days? Is he controlling, manipulative, quick to anger?
“He’s a nice guy, this Luke?” she asks, eyes narrowed at her daughter.
“I’ve told you a million times, he’s nice. He’s got a massive social media following and has just been approached to be on that new reality show, so he’ll be raking it in soon,” Naomi says, peering into the rearview mirror.
“It’s not all about money,” Anne Marie tells her. Naomi raises her eyebrows in wordless response.
Then Anne Marie notices a crumpled paper bag stuck into the glove compartment on the driver’s side. Bearing the unmistakable capital letter M.
“Maybe give the car a little clearout tonight,” she suggests. “It’s brand new, and you promised your dad you’d keep it clean.”
“Sure,” she mutters, then turns the ignition on again.
It is time for Anne Marie to face the music. Storm into battle. Address the elephant in the room. Or whatever other cliché she could think of.
“Bye then, love,” she says, stepping out from the car. “Wish me luck.”
“Luck,” she hears before she carefully closes the car door. Within seconds, it’s halfway down the road.
Anne Marie takes another deep breath, an attempt to calm her galloping heart.
Side-eyeing a tiny blond woman who passes her on the walk down the drive, she clocks her bodycon dress, perfect highlights, and wrinkle-free face. Do all women now ascribe to the aging-is-evil mantra? Then, up ahead, she spots the unmistakable sign of a recent hair transplant. So it’s not just the ladies…
Glancing down at her own loose-fitting denim dress and low wedges, she feels decidedly underdressed. She dabbed on her usual foundation and brown eyeshadow before setting out, but her hair shows a few weeks of gray regrowth (which her twenty-year-old hairdresser patronizingly refers to as “sparkles”) at the top of her blond highlights, and there’s nothing she can do right now about her frown lines and crow’s-feet.
As she walks down the drive, she takes in the large banner tied to the railings, announcing SAVE OUR SCHOOL in block capitals. It must have been eye-catching when it first went up at the start of the campaign, six months ago, but one corner has come loose and flaps away in the summer breeze. The words are now smudged and faded. The second S has nearly disappeared completely, so it now reads “save our chool,” which seems appropriate for a reunion like this.
Anne Marie gets her phone out of her bag and brings up the school reunion WhatsApp group again. It has more than fifty members and the profile picture is a screenshot of an article from the local paper about plans to demolish the old place and make way for a new multistory carpark.
The news sparked something of an uproar among some members of the community, most of whom had gone to the school and had seemingly happy memories. There was an explosion of new groups on social media, followed by a string of school reunions.
Anne Marie was surprised by the outrage. Were there really people out there who felt nostalgic about their school days? She’d heard the phrase “best days of my life” thrown around. It had been quite the opposite for Anne Marie. It had started well: She’d been a quiet studious girl for the first few years; then, in year nine, she’d suddenly grown boobs, started highlighting her hair and wearing a bit of makeup, and found herself on the receiving end of boyish attention—and from one boy in particular. The two of them were the star couple, the center of the popular group in their class, along with Anne Marie’s outspoken best friend, Yvette; Yvette’s boyfriend, Dean; class clown Barry; and studious Nisha. But then prom night happened and everything went spectacularly, heartbreakingly, life-changingly wrong.
She pictures herself standing outside her school on prom night, the last time she was here. Uncomfortable heels squeezing her toes. Feeling nauseous, her body crawling with a fear she’s not felt since, edged with excitement. Even then, she knew she was balancing on the brink of change.
“Anne Marie,” a voice says. “Is that you?”
She spins around, dragged back to the present day.
Taking two steps away from a balding man who is standing a little too close, grinning at her with crooked teeth, she squints, tries desperately to match a memory to him.
“Sorry,” she splutters finally. “I can’t quite…”
“It’s Dean, Eric’s best mate,” he says, laughing and apparently unfazed by her blank expression.
“Dean Harrison?” she cries, unable to hold back the surprise in her voice.
“Yep, you haven’t changed a bit,” he says, moving in for an awkward half hug.
She gets a whiff of stale whiskey and old-fashioned aftershave. “Wish I could say the same about myself. Still feel like a teenager; the mirror doesn’t agree, though.”
He babbles away as they walk together toward the school. Anne Marie can’t help but take sidelong looks at him.
Was this really Dean? As her boyfriend’s best mate, she hadn’t noticed at the time, but now she realizes how gorgeous he was back then. Curly white-blond hair like a crown, the palest of blue eyes, a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. Devastating in cricket whites. He was always laughing and smiling, always ready to make a joke or receive one, though often at the expense of others.
In her sneaky glances now, Anne Marie sees nothing of that boy she remembered. His hair is nearly gone, his odd-shaped head too small for the rest of him, somehow making his nose and ears appear bigger, resembling a Punch and Judy puppet.
Wrinkles circle his eyes, like the sun’s rays on a child’s drawing.
His branded white polo shirt is well worn and yellowing at the armpits, hanging a little loose on his slim but unhealthy frame.
He is like one of those makeovers videos on TikTok she sometimes shares with Naomi—but in reverse. A dim-down instead of a glow-up.
Anne Marie wonders what Yvette would make of adult Dean. Then her heart does another leap at the thought of seeing her former best friend tonight. After the prom, she cleared all the contacts on her phone, ignored any calls that came through, and kept away from social media.
She simply couldn’t face seeing any of her friends—even Yvette—after the humiliation she endured that night.
Would Yvette be cross with her? Or would time have soothed her hurt?
Anne Marie glances back up the drive, considers just turning on her heel and running.
But Dean is talking and talking at her, asking no questions, just repeating the same sentiment: Time has passed, they’re all older, and yet he feels the same.
She’s been swept along by the tide of former classmates and allows it to carry her toward the entrance, where a bunch of vaguely familiar faces are gathered.
One, wearing a baseball cap back to front as well as an American football jersey and baggy jeans, is immediately recognizable to them both.
“AJ! My man,” cries Dean, quickly stepping away from Anne Marie.
AJ—or Andrew Jones—turns toward Dean and accepts his enthusiastic hug but catches Anne Marie’s eye over Dean’s shoulder. He flashes her a confused expression.
Dean, she mouths to him, and he nods.
“Deano,” he says. “Long time no see. How you doing, man?”
“Bit of this, bit of that, staying out of trouble,” Dean tells AJ as Anne Marie walks past them and makes tentative steps into the reception area.
“Name?” an officious voice barks as she glances around at the dusty rows of class pictures on the wall. Is schoolgirl Anne Marie in there somewhere, still young and carefree? But there isn’t time to investigate, as the stern-faced woman with a severe pixie cut sitting at the desk tuts impatiently at Anne Marie’s hesitation.
“Anne Marie Moorhouse,” she tells her.
“Oh, yes,” the woman responds, handing her a name badge. “So it’s not Stewart, then?”
Anne Marie accepts the badge but stares in shock at the woman.
How did she know?
Then Anne Marie is nearly knocked sideways at the memory of repeatedly writing “Anne Marie Stewart” in her diary as a love-struck teenager. She’d forgotten all about that.
For the first time, she peers closely at the woman, who she assumed was a retired teacher helping out. Not one of her former classmates.
Initially, she’s at a loss to recognize the face behind the heavy black-framed glasses and short hair.
Then the woman smiles at her, dimples dig into her cheeks, and her pale-blue eyes twinkle like a cheerleader’s.
“Louisa?” Anne Marie says, remembering the twin sisters Louisa and Liliana, known as the “Timotei twins” for their long blond hair. Often they’d just get “TT” (which, of course, the boys found hilarious), as if they were one entity.
“Good to see you, Anne Marie,” she says, reaching across the table to hug her.
“Is Lily here too?” asks Anne Marie, glancing around for Louisa’s counterpart.
“She moved to Australia ten years ago,” Louisa tells her. “I’ve only seen her a couple of times since then. It’s hard to get over there, with kids and everything.”
Anne Marie nods to signal her understanding but thinks of how sad that is. Those girls were never apart when she knew them. They’d wear matching hairstyles—plaits one day, loose and curly the next—linking arms around the school, constantly whispering and giggling together, so content as a pair. She wonders if Lily has changed as much as her sister or is still flicking her golden locks on the gold coast.
Then her brain empties out. Small talk has never been a strong point. But tonight the skill seems to have abandoned her completely.
“Looks like a good turnout,” Anne Marie says finally, looking around at the growing queue behind her.
“To be honest, I think most people are here to see Eric,” Louisa tells her in a low whisper.
“Ah, life as a local celebrity,” Anne Marie says, forcing a flippant chuckle and starting to walk away.
“Not just local,” Louisa corrects her. “I’d say he’s a pretty big international star.”
“Uh-huh,” murmurs Anne Marie, and she steps away from the table. Once Louisa is distracted by another classmate, Anne Marie folds the sticky badge over and tucks it into her bag. She would prefer to slip under the radar tonight. There are only a few people she wants to see, and she’s pretty sure she won’t need a name badge for them to recognize her.
In a bid to delay walking into the hall alone for a few minutes, Anne Marie steps sideways toward the rows of old school photos.
She walks along the corridor until she finds her year: 2006. There they are, all her classmates lined up in the spring of their final year at the school. To her eyes now, they’re still children, but she remembers feeling like a grown-up in that moment, sick of wearing the school ties and blazers. Quickly, she spots her younger self, beaming confidently at the camera, her eyes dark and her face deathly pale thanks to her latest obsession with “smoky-eye makeup” and layers of foundation. Next to her is Yvette, her body tilted toward Anne Marie, mouth slightly open, frozen in time midgossip. Prom had been weeks away, but they’d already picked out their dresses, spoken endlessly about how wonderful the night would be—the icing on the cake of their charmed last year of high school. If only they’d known how it would turn out.
In the back row are Eric and Dean, arms folded, elbow to elbow, giving tight smiles, familiar poses from all their sports team shots. Anne Marie grimaces to herself; then her eyes move to the row in front, where she sees the familiar auburn hair of Ollie Bell. His head is turned toward teenage Anne Marie. She never noticed that before. She sighs at the image, imagines him turning up today, full of stories of his adventures traveling the world…
“Spot the idiot!” a voice mutters from behind her. A hand on her lower back makes her jump.
She spins around quickly and collides right into a tall man with trendy glasses and a tweed blazer.
It takes her a few seconds to recognize him.
“Barry!” she cries. “It’s you!”
“Anne Marie, as I live and breathe,” Barry says, pulling her in for a hug. His tanned clean-shaven cheek brushes hers, and an expensive woody scent embraces her. Grown-up Barry is a vision of healthy living, a world away from the last time she saw him.
He goes to stand next to her, taking in the old school photo.
“My mum complains she doesn’t have one picture of me as a kid when I’m just smiling normally; I’m always pulling daft faces,” he says, pointing at his sixteen-year-old self in the middle row. Eyes crossed, tongue hanging to the side like one of those Chinese crested dogs. Yet he doesn’t look well in the picture: His skin is so pale, cheekbones visible, acne dots his forehead.
Anne Marie tucks the thought away, laughs along with Barry. “That’s how I remember you,” she says, feeling relieved to have found an old friend.
“Oh, look, there’s Nisha too,” Barry says, pointing to the picture.
Anne Marie looks back and sees their friend in the front row, staring into the camera, unsmiling, arms folded neatly across her chest.
“Did you hear what happened to her?” he asks.
“No…” she mutters, biting her lip as she waits for the update.
“She quit school, never did make it to uni, fell out with her parents,” he says. “I don’t know the details, but sounds like none of her plans came to fruition.”
“Oh no, she worked so hard.” Anne Marie peers into Nisha’s dark eyes in the photo, feeling guilt wash through her body knowing she’d let her friend down.
“Perhaps we’ll see her tonight,” Barry says, then pulls Anne Marie in for another hug. “You honestly don’t look any older. And it’s been, what—almost twenty years?”
“Thanks, but I don’t believe you,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears self-consciously. “But you look wonderful, much better than on—”
“Prom night?”
An image of Barry from prom pops into her head. Eyes sunken into his pale face, staring around fearfully, as nervous as an abused kitten.
Their eyes meet, and Barry’s expression darkens but then is quickly replaced by a sad smile.
“Ammo,” he says with a sigh.
The nickname Ammo takes Anne Marie back; she hasn’t been called that in years. Not since school.
“About prom night…” Barry starts, but then he’s cut off by Louisa’s bossy bellow.
“Make your way through to the hall,” she calls from behind them, and a stream of people follow her instructions.
“Better do as she says,” Anne Marie murmurs, slipping her hand through Barry’s arm as they follow the others into the old school hall.
On the stage opposite, there’s a large gold sign declaring “Class of 2006,” with the numbers made up of helium-filled balloons, dancing away together, reflecting the spotlights so that the year 2006 dazzles. How can 2006 be twenty years ago? It just doesn’t add up.
It seems like only yesterday that she was standing in this exact spot, in her prom dress, looking over at the DJ booth, where the balloons are now.
Then, the well of the hall was a disco-lit dance floor filled with twisting and grinding classmates, the girls in skimpy dresses and the boys in too-baggy suits. Hormones, cheap perfume, and possibility filled the air.
Now the same area holds the grown-up version of those same people. Standing, chatting politely, clutching their plastic cups protectively in front of them, nodding and grinning at each other. Mortgage chat, school catchment areas, and an undercurrent of competition is more the order of the day now, thinks Anne Marie. Being back in this hall does nothing to ease the overexcited butterflies multiplying and panicking in her stomach.
She squeezes Barry’s arm.
“See anyone you recognize?” she asks.
He shakes his head, his brow furrowed as he scans the room, and she sees he’s nervous too. Who is he worried about seeing?
“Let’s get a drink,” she suggests, spotting a pockmarked school table laden with plastic cups half filled with bright-pink drinks. The table is manned by a familiar-looking gangly man.
“Two?” he asks them, handing over the cups.
As Anne Marie takes hers, she spots the large ornate punch bowl at the center of the table.
Its cut glass edges are so at odds with the old-school table. What’s more, it sparks a memory.
“Found it in one of the old cupboards—covered in dust but cleaned up pretty well,” the man tells them, noticing her staring at the bowl.
“It was used at prom,” Anne Marie says. “Remember?”
She turns to Barry, but he shrugs and takes a large sip of the punch. Then:
“It’s Philip, isn’t it?” he asks. “Do you remember us—Barry and Anne Marie?”
“Of course I do,” says Philip, blushing just like he did as a schoolboy.
Philip Fletcher, the studious kid who sailed along at the top of her class, appearing to exist on a different plane from Anne Marie and her mates.
“What you up to these days?” Barry asks politely.
“I’m a partner at an accountancy firm,” he tells them. “Three boys at home. My life’s just as boring as you’d imagine…”
“Not boring at all! That sounds fantastic. Well done, you,” Anne Marie says, lifting her cup to give him a cheers. Then she inwardly cringes; why did that sound sarcastic?
Philip gives a cautious smile and taps his water-filled cup against hers.
“So what are you up to these days, Anne Marie?” he asks. “I always imagined I’d see you on one of those Cheshire Housewives–type programs…”
“Ha! Don’t be daft. I’m doing OK, working as a sales executive for a fashion label. I’ve got a daughter,” she tells him.
She isn’t sure how selling her daughter’s old clothes on Vinted turned into working at a fashion label, but the lie just came out.
“Ah, that sounds great,” he says, then starts filling more plastic cups. Even her lie failed to impress, it seems.
Anne Marie thinks back to her school days. She recalls Philip gazing at her in class more than once. Back then, he was falling over himself to get her attention. Save my chool, she thinks.
“Well, we’d better go and mingle,” Barry says, holding his elbow out toward her.
In need of some liquid courage, she takes a large gulp of the room-temperature drink.
“Yuck,” she says to herself as they walk back over to watch the expanding almost-middle-aged mass in the well of the hall.
“Not up to your usual standards?” Dean asks, suddenly appearing by her side, clutching a cup of punch, which he quickly downs, crunches the plastic cup in his hand, and then tosses it onto the floor, as if he’s in the middle of a rave.
“Dean—look who I’ve bumped into…” she says.
As the two men lock eyes, she feels the atmosphere cool. A few seconds pass, and then Dean finally reacts.
“Bazza, good to see you,” he says, his voice overly loud and enthusiastic. He shakes Barry’s hand and then wraps his other arm around him in a forceful embrace that looks more rugby tackle than hug.
This grown-up, muscle-bound Barry doesn’t tumble to the floor, as the slimmer teenage version would have.
Rather, he stands firm and flashes Anne Marie a surprised expression.
“I bumped into Dean outside,” she tells him.
Barry widens his eyes and grimaces. They share a look that says, Hasn’t he changed. Remember when he was hot?
Barry switches his expression to a friendly smile as Dean finally pulls away.
“Looking good, my man,” Dean says, slapping him hard on the shoulder. “Remember when we used to call you Beryl?”
With that, Dean leans over, guffawing, his hands clutching his knees, as if it’s the funniest joke he’s heard in years.
Anne Marie notices Barry’s smile flicker, his hand touches the small gold ring in his ear.
She remembers Dean and Eric bellowing, “Beryl” or sometimes even, “Auntie Beryl,” along the school corridors. It seemed funny back then, but now she sees Barry probably wasn’t laughing at the time.
“You keeping busy, Dean?” Barry asks him.
“Yep, this campaign’s a full-time job for us, trying to stop the bulldozers flattening this place,” Dean prattles on, puffing out his chest. “Eric said he might come tonight.”
At those words, at that name, Anne Marie’s anxiety escalates, and the sound of chatter in the room feels overwhelming. Everything in her is screaming: Leave right now! Go back to the flat where it’s safe. Well, safer.
“What about Yvette?” counters Barry. “Any sign of your childhood sweetheart?”
At that, Dean’s cocky expression fades away, replaced by a look of genuine horror.
Anne Marie finds a chuckle rising up her throat.
“Fancy another drink, prom queen?” Barry asks, holding up his empty cup.
“She wasn’t crowned prom queen in the end. Don’t you remember?” snaps Dean, before quickly recovering to grin too broadly at her.
Clearly confused, Barry looks between Anne Marie and Dean.
“Oh, I—I thought…” he splutters.
“You’re right, Dean, I wasn’t,” admits Anne Marie, feeling her cheeks burn as she instinctively looks over at the stage opposite them.
She pictures Eric up there in his tuxedo.
Sweat shining on his handsome brow as he stands under a blazing spotlight.
The look of disgust on his face as he sees her fighting through the crowd to get to him.
Her heart starting to crack under her velvet dress as she propels herself toward him.
Toward inevitable devastation.
