EXTRACT: New Skin by Miranda Nation

The Monday after Leah’s birthday, her friends Helen and Naomi bring a cake to say sorry for not making it to the party. The second lecture is cancelled and a group of them go to eat cake in the coffee lounge. They pull tables together and form a great circle. Amir plants himself next to Leah. He seems unhappy. His absence from the party was an act calculated to wound, but now he seems to be regretting it. Alex is on the other side of the circle, and when their eyes meet Leah tries to communicate to him that the seating arrangement is not by her design. Naomi lights the candles and Helen counts in the song.

One, two, three . . . Happy birthday to you . . .

Leah beams as her friends sing to her. She accepts the first, extra-large, slice of cake from Helen. Amir begins to question her about the party, about who attended. He takes a particular interest in the fact that Alex was there – not jealous exactly, but suspicious, like on some level he already knows his place is being usurped.

How did you get home? he asks. Who else was in the car?

Leah toys nervously with her plastic fork. She still loves Amir, a love that has been given space to breathe since they broke up and he is no longer panting down her neck all the time. At first, Amir’s self-conscious passion made Leah feel like she was living in a classic romantic novel. He bought her a dozen roses for their one-month anniversary and wrote her poetry. He had jealous fits during which he punched walls so that his knuckles bled, or threatened to kill himself, preferring to die rather than lose her to another man. It became suffocating. Earlier this year, Leah tried to break up with him. He told her he had a pre-cancerous lump in his balls. One night at a college party she got horribly drunk and kissed a fresher on the edge of the oval at 3am. Amir found out and staged a jealous stunt at an intercollegiate cricket match, stopping the game to confront the guy and demand an apology. He was lucky he didn’t get the shit beaten out of him by both teams. That was the end.

In the cafeteria, cake and emotion clog Leah’s throat, a cloying sadness that lodges there and won’t budge all through Wet Specimens, despite Tom’s attempts to make her laugh. At lunchtime, Leah waits for Alex in her room. She’s not sure if he will come.

He knocks, a quiet knock like he also is not sure of how things stand between them, but when she opens the door there is no hesitation.

After they have sex, they lie together and talk until almost five o’clock, when Leah has to go and hand in an assignment. Outside her window, the light turns from golden to the monochrome blue of evening.

Do you remember when you kissed me at the door yesterday? Alex says. When I was leaving for my shift at the nursing home?

Yes.

I thought you were kissing me for the last time.

Leah pushes herself up on one elbow so she can see his face.

Why would you think that?

I guess it was some kind of defence mechanism.

Defence against what?

I’m scared of being hurt, he says. Leah stares at him.

Tom said you weren’t the type to feel an obligation to even speak to a girl you’d fucked, she says.

The thought is out of her mouth before she can stop it. She reddens but Alex shrugs.

That’s a crude but pretty accurate way of putting it, I guess. Is it true you’ve never slept with someone in a relationship? Do I seem like I’m in a relationship with many people?

I don’t know, says Leah.

Alex laughs.

I haven’t slept with that many girls, and to tell the truth I never really enjoyed it until the other night.

Leah pushes him in the chest.

Seriously, Alex says. I’m not that good at liking people, and even worse at loving people. But I’m willing to give it a go.

At work scheme kitchen duty on Wednesday night, Leah and Helen scrub grease out of the dinner pots. Helen glances in Leah’s direction and smiles.

Guess who I saw doing a walk of shame past the dining hall?

Leah shrugs, as if she doesn’t already know where this is heading.

Alex.

Oh yeah?

Leah feels her cheeks go red. She bends over the sink filled with soap suds and globs of oil.

He was looking a little dishevelled, Helen says.

Leah concentrates on a stubborn bit of baked-on fat, scrubbing harder with the steel wool.

I’m happy for you, says Helen. But what about Amir?

Just then, the kitchen manager, Vicki, comes in and tells them to stop talking and hurry up. Leah is saved from having to say more, but she knows that next time she’ll be obliged to go into detail. Helen is Leah’s closest friend in college. Their intimacy was seeded in O-Week by the fact that they were the only first- year med students at St Margaret’s and flourished partly because of mutual interests, and partly because they share a disordered relationship with food. It didn’t take them long to sniff each other out. Due to certain clandestine aspects of their friendship, Leah feels unable to lie to Helen about her personal affairs. Helen rinses the pot and holds it out to Leah to dry.

You do know what he’s like, don’t you? Helen whispers. Leah takes the pot, more forcefully than she intended.

Of course, she says.