by Helen Eve
Mom spoke quietly. ‘Caity, I know you’re devoted to him, but I think it will be good for you to be around kids your own age without so many responsibilities.’
‘But you don’t even know him. Do you know what he likes to eat after school, or his favourite Saturday morning movie? Do you know that he won’t sleep without the Nemo toy I got him for his birthday?’ I was crying now. ‘Do you even notice anything that doesn’t fit under a microscope?’
I bit my lip too late. Dad was already ushering me away, but not before Mom’s face crumpled with hurt. The last thing I saw was Charlie struggling against her as he tried to run after me. I could still hear him wailing on the other side of Security, and, although it was wrong, I felt almost glad.
* * *
I resisted visiting my new school, ignoring Dad as he tried to read me quotes from the website. I’m sure it’s fine, is all I remember saying before I resumed crying for the rest of that freezing English New Year in an echoing Belgravia house. I ran up an enormous phone bill to my friends back home, happy in the knowledge that Dad would be furious when he saw it, but despite the dutiful chorus of ‘We miss you!’ at the end of every call, I knew my departure had made little difference to the gang. After two years at Campion, I had to admit that Dad was right: exemplary grades didn’t make a lasting impact, and soon no one would even remember me.
On the last day of my vacation I forced myself to take a cab to the King’s Road and trail around in the rain, carrying a stack of British fashion magazines so I could at least try to fit in. Dad let me use his Amex for essentials and I brandished it defiantly, letting a personal shopper choose me smart, tailored clothes that InStyle promised would make me look like a Sloane (even if I wasn’t entirely clear on what that meant).
* * *
Campion was almost one hundred years old, but Temperley High was on a different scale of ancient. The thick trees that surrounded the campus made it totally invisible from the outside world, and we drove down a long, dark drive which widened to show a stone-fronted mansion house with pillars at the door. There was a fountain in the courtyard decorated with hideous lions and fish, and everything was completely ordered and symmetrical. The trees, plants, paths – even the wisteria that grew around the school windows – nothing was a millimetre out of place. It was so immaculate that I thought we’d come to an English castle instead of a functioning school.
‘Oh God,’ I whispered in terror, gripping the car seat.
Dad seemed choked up with pride. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he beamed. ‘Do you think you can be happy here?’
Ignoring this incredibly stupid question I looked upwards, as if for a sign that I would be okay. A wooden clock tower topped the building, and my glance caught the slight figure of a girl leaning far out of its window and watching us. She had a cigarette in her hand, and her long blonde hair cascaded down, catching the wind and fluttering. The sunset made it flame, lighting up her face.
Suddenly she was gone, so quickly that I couldn’t be sure I’d seen her at all.
‘The clock’s stopped,’ Dad commented, following my gaze. ‘Twenty to twelve. You’d think they’d fix it, with the amount of money that must go into the upkeep of this place.’
This sort of irrelevant remark was typical of him. I watched the window in case the girl reappeared, but nothing of her lingered except a plume of smoke way up above and a faintly reverberating laugh.
* * *
Dad started making excuses as soon as he could, barely staying long enough to unload my cases before he raced off to enjoy his new freedom. He waved out of the window as he disappeared while I stood numbly, my hands clenched so tightly in my pockets that one of them tore through the silk lining.
My housemistress Mrs Denbigh met me inside the white-marbled entrance hall. She didn’t seem very strict, and at least the room she showed me to in Woodlands, the Sixth Form girls’ boarding house, wasn’t as austere as I’d imagined. I unpacked my familiar belongings, hiding my favourite plush rabbit under a pillow and arranging my framed photograph of Charlie next to the narrow bed. I fought back the urge to cry as I kissed the glass.
‘Goodnight, baby,’ I whispered as bravely as I could.
Although I tried my best to sleep, alternately reciting the Periodic Table and emptying my mind, I lay awake until dawn, staring into the dark and wondering what was going to happen to me. If I’d known, I might have climbed out of the window and swum back to New York.
Chapter Two
Stella Hamilton
Welcome to my kingdom.
It’s the first day of the spring term and I’m in the cafeteria at breakfast, working hard to ignore my best friend Katrina. We agree on most things, and her collection of Cartier watches is unparalleled, but right now she’s in danger of boring me into a stupor. I’m half-aware that she’s telling me about her Christmas holiday and half-hypnotized by the Minnie Mouse bow in her shiny brown hair.
‘And Amber was being a nightmare.’
Amber is her stepmother. She’s only five years older than Katrina, so you’d think they’d have lots in common, but friendship hasn’t blossomed and the upshot of Katrina’s story is that she cut off Amber’s hair extensions during a misunderstanding over the remote control on Christmas afternoon.
‘I mean, I left it a bit uneven, but I did her a favour – acrylic is such a fire hazard.’
Now her dad has banned her from the Great Missenden estate until she apologizes, forcing her to spend future holidays in Monte Carlo with her estranged biological mother.
I’m finding it hard to care. Her mother shares many characteristics with mine, notably that she’s never shown any signs of wanting children and treats Katrina as a costly encumbrance who must be intermittently tolerated. But Katrina feels the rejection more keenly than I do.
‘Then I thought, I don’t have to go to Monte Carlo, do I? I can come and stay with you.’
I snap back to attention. There’s nothing I hate more than people depending on me, which is only one of the reasons why this is out of the question.
‘Of course you can,’ I say warmly. ‘But is it a good idea to leave Amber with your dad all year round? Don’t you want to keep an eye on her? See what’s really going on with her anti-gravity yoga instructor?’
She scowls and I relax. Her father is at least sixty and I know how much she worries about her trust fund. I can’t imagine her having to work – actually work, I mean, because hosting lunches for animal charities doesn’t count – for her Manolos, and I doubt she can either.
I’m pleased to be part of (I might say ruler of) such an exclusive set of girls, because it prevents others getting close enough to hear what we’re talking about. I’ve listened to enough male conversations to know that most boys are halfwits – even the popular ones. Especially the popular ones, actually. Huddled together, darting glances at the girls around them – I used to be intimidated by this until, by virtue of having a popular boyfriend, I was allowed to join one of their confabs and discovered that their principal conversation topics, which each lasted more than twenty minutes, were their favourite sandwich fillings (cheese and ham, the timeless classic, was the eventual victor) and the size of Steven Gerrard’s football boots (it’s a debate they can’t settle). And these were the coolest boys in school.
Girls are different – more self-aware, more crippled by self-loathing – but even so, the Stars can be inane. Each of them contributes something crucial and unique, but sometimes I have to remind myself that as a unit we are very much more than the sum of our parts.
I inherited our cafeteria table from my older sister Siena, who coincidentally was leader of a six-strong clique called the Starlets. They carved a six-point star into the table along with each Starlet’s initial, so all we had to do was update it with our own names. This ensures that no one sits with us in error and we avoid the stress of rushing to reserve the best spot. My point faces the window so I can see my reflection: that way, if the Stars are being unacceptably tir
esome, I’m still guaranteed a pleasant dining companion.
* * *
‘Happy New Year, girls!’
I groan inwardly as Ruby clacks over in new Jimmy Choos and a very tight Marchesa jumpsuit. On her breakfast tray is an apple – which she won’t eat – and a black coffee. She’s especially beloved amongst the younger students (it’s prudent to cultivate across-the-board popularity) and it takes her a while to reach our table because she stops to greet each little girl who calls out to her. I push away my cereal and force a smile as she draws up a chair and starts talking breathlessly, complimenting Katrina on her cape-back minidress before turning her attention to me.
‘Stella, can I borrow your Hamlet essay for some inspiration? You know I wouldn’t ask, but Jamie is so sweet and I can’t possibly tell him my excuse for not doing it. You can borrow the Zinnia in return.’
I roll my eyes at Katrina, who smirks. Sometimes I get sick of having to bail these people out, but Ruby got the new Zinnia bag for Christmas, and, as much as it pains me to say it, I didn’t, so I dig around in my (mass-produced, last season) bag and hand her the essay. Such is school.
‘What is your excuse, out of interest?’ I ask, taking a liberal approach to the word interest.
Ruby flips her hair over her shoulder before replying. It’s long and dark red – really beautiful – and the motion reveals the sparkly star earrings we all wear as a nod to our group identity. Sometimes I think this is a bit juvenile, but mostly I like wearing something that sets us apart. Not that other people couldn’t wear stars if they wanted to – we’ve never trademarked it – but cheapening our symbol wouldn’t be advisable.
She leans forward to build up the suspense and glances around to see who’s listening. ‘I was with Blake,’ she hisses.
Blake is our PE teacher, although last term I found out that his real name is Glen. Even though we’re Sixth Formers we have to take Games twice a week and Ruby is really reaping the benefits of the exercise.
Involvement with a hot teacher would usually garner respect from one’s peers, but Blake isn’t a real teacher: he’s an exchange student from Australia and he’s only nineteen. It’s typical of Ruby to look for kudos in this way and get it so wrong. Blake’s attractive, if you like the meathead look, but he’s also easily led, and beneath his Speedos he’s really not worth spending time with. He and Ruby go well together, come to think of it.
Katrina gives me a smile that Ruby doesn’t notice. ‘Which base?’ she asks.
Ruby giggles. ‘Only third. What do you take me for, Katrina?’
I don’t comment on this information. She’s had weeks to write that essay, so the twenty minutes she spent being groped by Blake behind a bin full of hockey sticks is entirely irrelevant. She’s always looking for approval, but she should know by now that the cupboard holding the athletics equipment will never be the place to find it.
Katrina, having lost interest in Ruby’s sex life, is checking her BlackBerry. ‘You’re trending, Ruby,’ she says. ‘Your bag is famous already.’
I look around the room to see several camera phones pointing our way. This is a commonplace occurrence, especially after a holiday when everyone’s outfits are newsworthy, but Ruby should never be the focal point.
‘What else is trending?’ I ask before she becomes intolerable.
My online presence is particularly crucial this year as I’ll be competing in the Head Girl election in July. I’ll certainly win, because no other student has more influence, power or sway, but in the interim it’s important to keep abreast of Twitter gossip so I can judge whether someone close to me is feeding information or whether it’s being fabricated in a cynical bid by less-popular students to gain followers. Although I’d never do anything as vulgar as post news about myself, it’s notable that nobody trends as often as I do.
‘The Asprey earrings you wore at Winterval,’ says Katrina. ‘Did they really cost a million pounds?’
Winterval, the Christmas dance, is one of our key events and always generates stories that last well into the New Year.
‘Thereabouts,’ I say, looking over her shoulder. ‘What’s that about you?’
Katrina scowls. ‘People are still complaining about my punch, which is really unfair. I did explain that I’m very much a novice mixologist, but tagging it as nativity anthrax is totally libellous.’
‘I know,’ I say comfortingly. ‘But maybe some people found the yard glasses a step too far.’
* * *
Edward and Quentin are throwing a football over everyone’s heads. No one asks them to stop because it wouldn’t be respectful: Edward is captain of the football team – the Stripes – and clever too, and everyone likes him. He’s my ex-boyfriend (and his brother Jack dated my sister Siena), and although he no longer interests me that way I can still see the appeal of his messy black hair and impish, don’t-blame-me expression. Although the Stars are exclusively female, Edward likes to think of himself as our seventh member and usually we’re happy enough to have him around. In fact, it helps to have a male voice in the mix, because some girls can be bitchy when left to themselves.
He’s laughing loudly and as he glances at me I see Ally, the Fifth Form rebound he settled for last term, trying to move into his eye line whilst scowling in my direction. I glare back half-heartedly. She should realize she was hardly a substitute for me, even in the short-term, and the comfort eating she’s evidently been doing over the festive period hasn’t helped her chances of rekindling anything.
Edward imitates my glare, crossing his arms and stamping his foot, and I laugh despite myself. We’ve known each other since we were little, the downside of which is that he’s more like a brother than anything else. He used to imitate me in the same way when I was an eight-year-old hogging the swing, but sometimes his childishness is reassuring in its familiarity.
I look away from him as my phone rings. It’s my baby sister Syrena, and I contemplate her face on the display – a blurry close-up she took of herself wearing tinsel and a Santa hat – until it stops. I remind myself to call her back later. She’s at day school at home in London, as she won’t be old enough to start Temperley High until September, so at least she’s in safe hands.
We’re joined at this point by the others – Lila, Penny and Mary-Ann – who have all been out riding. Lila and Penny are complaining loudly about the non-availability of Zinnia bags, which annoys me intensely. I hate Ruby to feel indispensable, because that’s the last thing she is.
Mary-Ann is still wearing riding clothes, and she has straw in her hair and a streak of mud (or something worse) across her cheek. She often walks around with her blouse creased and labels sticking out, and even when I tell her she can hardly be bothered to correct it. It’s lucky she has me to help her or she’d never know how much these things matter. And I’m happy to assist, because, as I sometimes remind Katrina, Mary-Ann’s fierce intellect gives the Stars a gravitas with which even the most classic diamond timepiece can’t compete.
I have a horse too, Pip (Siena named him), but I don’t ride him because of the adverse effects of riding on the thighs. I used to ride every day, even though my mother Seraphina was forever telling me it would ruin my figure, but last year I witnessed keen horsewoman Priscilla Craven completely change shape as she trained for the inter-school gymkhana: she was like a weeble by the end. Now I bribe one of the stable boys to ride Pip and muck him out, and I groom him when time allows. I take a lot of Pilates and can only hope that no lasting damage has been done.
Katrina is terrified of horses, and she’s embarrassed about the reason (I’d never tell anyone it’s because of a really weird horror film she saw as a child), so Pip often provides a great excuse to get away from her. Now, though, I’m dying to bitch about Ruby, so I kick Katrina hard under the table and smile as she jumps in pain.
‘Come on,’ I say patiently as I wait for her to stop staring at Penny’s toast. ‘I need fresh air, and you know we don’t eat complex carbs during months cont
aining the letter r.
‘Later,’ I add as we leave, not making eye contact with anyone.
* * *
The Zinnia has unexpectedly elevated Ruby in the pecking order, rendering Katrina sufficiently insecure about her own place to waste no time in critiquing her.
‘I was with Blake,’ she mimics. ‘God, she’s so gullible. As if he cares about her!’ Her voice is an indignant squeak.
I take a drag. We’ve been smoking since we were thirteen, when she smuggled a pack of Gauloises into school in her hot water bottle cover, together with a previous stepmother’s Diazepam. It made for an interesting, indistinct term. As Sixth Formers we’re allowed to smoke, although it’s not encouraged. I wouldn’t like any of the teachers to see me, but this space between two sheds, behind the cafeteria bins, seems safe enough.
‘Did you see Edward staring at you?’ Katrina continues. ‘I suppose you heard that he kissed Penny at New Year. She won’t stop going on about it.’
Edward’s feelings for Katrina can most generously be categorized as tepid, but she’s a romantic and calls him a modern-day Heathcliff. I might point out that she’s unacquainted with the source material and seems to envisage Heathcliff as a sort of stand-offish Justin Bieber. Edward only shows romantic interest in her when he’s drunk, but this makes her more determined. She might be quick to criticize Penny, but whenever he’s single she thinks it’s finally her turn.
She’s still talking. ‘It makes me wonder what you do to have all these boys falling at your feet when you aren’t even nice to them. I wish you’d teach me.’
I tell her, as I always do, that it’s simply a case of being the one who cares less. I don’t know why she finds that so hard to grasp. We spray ourselves with Allure, and I borrow her breath freshener, and then we head to English.
Chapter Three
Caitlin
Stella and Katrina were absent when I was introduced to my class – they were probably outside smoking – but nothing could have prepared me for the heavily made-up faces of Ruby, Penny, Lila and Mary-Ann, who lounged across the back row as if they were being shot for Vogue. I’d arrived late, because every time I’d tried to get into the communal bathroom someone had cut in front of me. Finally I’d given up, raked a comb through my hair, pulled on the outfit my personal shopper had sworn would make me blend right in with the Chelsea set, and headed to my home room – form room – with the help of a shaky map Mrs Denbigh had drawn for me the night before.