Boarding School Girls

by Helen Eve

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Epilogue

  Also by Helen Eve

  Copyright

  ‘She left the web, she left the loom,

  She made three paces thro’ the room,

  She saw the water-lily bloom,

  She saw the helmet and the plume,

  She look’d down to Camelot.

  Out flew the web and floated wide;

  The mirror crack’d from side to side;

  ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried

  The Lady of Shalott.’

  Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Lady of Shalott

  Prologue

  Romy Dyer

  It might be trial by school cafeteria, but it’s no less horrifying than a courtroom. I shrink into my seat, scratching the oak table as if I can eradicate not only the spikily engraved R that marks my place, but myself along with it.

  The Starlets are crying, their voices hoarse from shock and sleeplessness.

  ‘She didn’t scream.’ Libby clutches her stomach with both hands, almost doubled over with the effort of breathing. ‘She never made a sound.’

  ‘That proves nothing,’ Madison says as she reaches out to wipe Libby’s eyes. I think this is supposed to be a kind gesture but she succeeds only in smearing mascara across her cheeks. ‘She didn’t have time to scream. It happened so quickly … everything changed just like that.’

  She leans against Libby as if comforted by the rhythm of her hysterics.

  Cassidy’s luminous green eyes shine with tears and something like hope. She traces the engraved C that marks her own place frenziedly back and forth. ‘Do you mean … she didn’t have time to realize what was happening to her?’

  I want someone to tell Cassidy that yes, Siena had no idea what she was falling towards, or how it would feel to hit it, or even that she was falling at all. I want someone to tell her that this is all a mistake, and that Siena isn’t dead, and that we aren’t ruined so badly that we might as well join her wherever she is now.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Cassidy has a way of making people want to protect her, but Phoebe is immune to it. ‘Of course she knew. She knew everything.’

  Then I’m crying too, in a way I have no power to stop. I put my hands over my face to shut out Phoebe’s pale, set features, but in the darkness I see only Siena, and I jerk them away again.

  Phoebe stares me out. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We aren’t fooled. We all know exactly how you felt about Siena. How you feel about us all, for that matter.’

  I tip back my head as if it will stop my tears from falling, looking beyond the Starlets across the cafeteria. This is an orientation day for the incoming Shells, the twelve-year-olds who will join Temperley High School next term, and right now our housemistress Mrs Denbigh is walking the new students through the French windows in formation. My vision clears, and, one by one, the Starlets follow my gaze as a tiny aurora appears between the curtains, her blonde hair a blazing halo in the July sun.

  I stand abruptly, my chair crashing over as I run out of the door, my shoes burning and jarring me with every step. I kick them off and run faster barefoot, my breath coming in sobs and gasps and howls.

  In my dreams I chase a sunbeam that haunts my endless nights. Often I wake as it melts into snow, or disappears beyond a pink horizon where rabbits play at dusk, but now it transforms before me into a golden rope woven with flowers and leaves and stars. It shimmers out of reach, a fathomless mirage that I would chase forever more without ever wishing to escape.

  And, for the fact that the truth about me and Siena remains as elusive as my sunbeam, I am able to feel thankful.

  Chapter One

  Six months earlier

  Siena Hamilton

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard?’

  Libby has no interest in a world beyond Temperley High, but her knowledge of everything within its stone walls is absolute. She’s scrolling rapidly through her phone, checking texts alongside tweets and status updates and missed calls. Frowning, she reaches into her Aspinal satchel to cross-reference her bulging day planner with her online diary, and this hesitation costs her the scoop.

  ‘She’s back,’ interjects Phoebe. This is only a lucky guess: Phoebe might possess a hack’s instinct for scandal but she lacks Libby’s networking flair.

  ‘Of course she’s back.’ I say this as if I already knew, because revealing ignorance at this table is as dangerous as wearing last season’s Miu Miu. ‘It’s January. She was always due back after a year.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ says Phoebe defensively. ‘I just hoped she might…’

  ‘Take the hint?’ Libby pushes her lensless glasses up her nose as she and Phoebe break into identical laughter.

  ‘Have you seen her yet?’ Madison abandons the problem sheet she and Cassidy are trying to finish before registration. ‘I wonder if Paris has been a good influence, or if she’s still the daughter of darkness.’

  ‘Inevitably it’s the latter.’ Libby straightens her lace Peter Pan collar. ‘A daughter of darkness who thinks she can treat us any way she wants.’

  We stare at the empty place at our round cafeteria table. We each sit before our own engraved initial, united by the six-point star carved deep into the mahogany that represents our identity as Temperley High’s premier clique. We
haven’t had time to redecorate in the past year, so Romy’s spiny R remains an unfortunate reminder of its erstwhile inhabitant.

  ‘She didn’t think she could treat us any way she wanted.’ I trace my finger up and down the unclaimed sharp edge. ‘It was never about that.’

  They exchange glances. ‘You’re very compassionate, Siena,’ says Libby. ‘I’m sure I’ll never forgive her in the way you have. But then, I am the only one of us who carries the physical reminders.’

  She gathers her nut-brown hair into a ponytail to showcase the faint scar that runs along her hairline and behind her ear. Apparently it still smarts in cold weather.

  I smile. ‘Don’t worry, Libby. It’s not about forgiveness either.’

  ‘Good.’ Phoebe twists her own white-blonde braid around her finger as if she can’t decide how to continue. She’s a picture of innocence, but people should know better than to take her at face value. ‘So what will you do about Jack?’

  The school football team, the Stripes, are doing a lap of the gloomy pitch as part of their morning practice, and I watch my boyfriend Jack through the window as he pulls into the lead and shows off by running the final steps backwards.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask. ‘Why would I need to do anything about him?’

  ‘You won’t, of course.’ Libby frowns at Phoebe. ‘It’s just that … you know what Romy’s capable of. Maybe she’s spent her year at reform school planning revenge.’

  As she looks around for support, no one points out that a Parisian private school isn’t exactly Pentonville. Cassidy is pale and trembling, and I laugh to break the silence. She has a nervous disposition, and a resurgence of last year’s screaming nightmares would draw very unwanted attention to us.

  ‘Like Carrie?’ I ask.

  ‘Maybe,’ counters Libby. ‘She could have deadly powers for all we know. When she pushed me, I saw my whole life flash…’

  As much as we sympathize with Libby, there are times when I think I’d plummet down a ladder myself sooner than hear her recount the incident one more time.

  ‘Don’t worry, Siena,’ interrupts Madison. ‘We totally have your back.’

  ‘Of course, some of us have proven our loyalty more than others,’ says Libby, exhibiting her scar once again. Madison has a theory that she highlights it with lip liner on special occasions, but we’ve never caught her at it.

  ‘You’ve all proven yourselves sufficiently loyal.’ I place my hand in the centre of the table and they pile their own on top.

  ‘Starlets for all time,’ we whisper before raising our arms into the air. It’s a five-year-old ritual too childish to continue now we’re seventeen, but the others cling to it, and who am I to rob them of their comfort blanket?

  * * *

  Jack is still wearing his muddy kit as he pulls up a chair beside me. He displaces Libby, who shifts offendedly a couple of inches, and leans over to kiss me, his lips soft but freezing. I press my cheek against his for as long as I can stand it and let him put his cold hands between my knees as I look him over for signs of change after the Christmas holiday. He’s reassuringly the same: tall and athletic with messy black hair and a face that always makes him look as if he’s up to no good. Usually he’s not.

  ‘You’re so warm,’ he murmurs with a look of concentration as he moves his hand up my leg.

  I push him away as Libby makes a disgusted face. ‘We’re at the breakfast table, Jack,’ she chides him. ‘I’m eating a granola slice. Please show some respect for protocol.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says contritely as he turns to his giant cooked breakfast – he’s the cafeteria ladies’ favourite – and starts to eat. ‘Sometimes I just can’t help it.’

  He whispers into my ear. ‘Libby still isn’t getting any, then?’

  I shake my head, smiling at Libby as she watches us suspiciously.

  Phoebe leans forward. ‘Jack, did you hear who’s coming back this term?’

  Jack stops shovelling hash browns into his mouth for half a second and gives her a warning glance. ‘What are you planning, Phoebs?’

  Phoebe’s kitten eyes are round and innocent. ‘Nothing,’ she says, and it comes out like a mew. Sometimes I think Phoebe is a genius.

  ‘Good,’ says Jack. ‘Because I think you made your point very clearly last year. The last thing any of you needs is more trouble.’

  Madison raises an eyebrow as she tosses the little stars woven into her ash-blonde hair. ‘That’s a matter of opinion. And, if you remember, Romy created the entire situation by maiming Libby in an attempted murder. Don’t put the blame onto us.’

  Madison’s interjection is helpful as she’s the Starlet to whom Jack always refers as sensible. Phoebe and I smile at each other as he returns his attention to his fast-increasing cholesterol levels, and then we gather our books as the registration bell clangs.

  ‘Let the fun begin,’ Phoebe sings.

  ‘The fun of a new term,’ she clarifies as Jack looks at her warningly. ‘New lessons, and challenges, and … tribulations.’

  * * *

  When they’ve gone, Jack pulls me down onto his lap and wraps his arms tightly around me.

  ‘Don’t get mud on me,’ I say, trying to twist away. ‘Or egg yolk.’

  He kisses me, and, in case he’s thinking about anything – or anyone – other than me, I don’t stop him until Mrs Denbigh blows her whistle from the teachers’ table. ‘Two feet on the floor, Siena,’ she shouts. ‘Both hands where I can see them, Jack.’

  ‘I have to go,’ I tell him, struggling to my feet as the other Stripes start cat-calling from their own table.

  He stands up and lifts my chin so I have to look at him. He gets offended when I talk over his shoulder to my reflection, not understanding that his face could never be as diverting as my own. ‘I’m serious,’ he says. ‘Tell me you don’t have anything planned for Romy.’

  ‘I really don’t. I have many more important considerations, like whether Bethany’s Achilles has healed for the start of netball season…’

  ‘How did she tear it again?’ he asks mildly.

  ‘She’s extremely clumsy. And whether vermilion makes me look jaundiced…’

  He frowns. ‘I’d no idea you had so much on your mind.’

  I’m about to elaborate on my complexion concerns when it occurs to me that he might be joking. Incognizant of the commitment involved, he sometimes treats the responsibilities of Starlet membership as trivial.

  ‘And the plight of the white rhino, which Libby and I are working tirelessly to rectify,’ I say instead.

  He laughs as if he can’t help himself. ‘I wondered what your sponsored bikini car wash was in aid of. What was it about the white rhino’s plight in particular that touched you?’

  I turn the conversation back. ‘Why do you care what we do to Romy, anyway? Is there something you want to tell me?’

  My voice is light but he knows I’m serious, and for a second our eyes fix on the empty star point.

  ‘I love you, Siena,’ he says steadily as he reaches for my hand. ‘You and only you. Don’t forget it. In fact…’

  ‘Yes?’ I prompt. Soliciting compliments is some way beneath my dignity, but there’s no harm in offering encouragement when he’s feeling tongue-tied.

  ‘The next few months will be important for us, if everything goes to plan,’ he says. ‘I hope this term will be our most exciting ever.’

  My heart is beating fast, and I collect myself before I betray my excitement. For a moment I actually wondered if Jack might go down on one knee right here, in the cafeteria. Even though he’d never do anything so indecorous, I breathe an internal sigh of relief at his words, which are his first hint that a marriage proposal is imminent. The end of our schooldays is approaching at speed, and, with no firm reassurance from him about our future, I’ve even wondered if … well, it doesn’t matter now.

  Supplementary details would be helpful, but the breakfast table, with its debris of muesli and coffee stains and stagnant
appetite suppressants, isn’t the place to discuss something as romantic as a betrothal. Instead, I put aside my mud-related misgivings, wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss him hard. There’s no harm in a carefully judged public show of togetherness, especially during times of shifting sands. I pull away again as Mrs Denbigh’s whistle sounds with increasing shrillness.

  ‘Remain two feet apart,’ she bellows. ‘Or I fetch my bucket of water.’

  I kiss him once on the cheek as I turn to leave, as if I’m branding him. Feeling the buzz of my phone, I retrieve a message from Libby.

  Are you ready for the off?

  Even though Jack’s gone, I still check that no one’s watching before I reply.

  I’m always ready.

  Chapter Two

  Romy

  For twelve months I drew and erased chalk marks that counted down weeks and days and minutes. I explained ceci n’est que temporaire so often that it became my nickname amongst my classmates. I spent endlessly confusing mornings cramming alongside native French overachievers and diplomats’ kids on the Harvard fast track, and endlessly confusing afternoons watching dubbed re-runs of Gossip Girl in a Common Room thick with smoke.

  I hoped that my enrolment in the French-only quarter of my international school was, as my dad promised, accidental; that being reprimanded for tripping over false cognates was good for me; that the Opéra Bastille and the Genevan Model UN Conference and a brutal volleyball championship would be helpful distractions.

  But in the end none of this mattered at all, because, while my conscious hours passed as blurrily as the chalk I smudged across the dormitory walls, my never-ending dreams, spiked with Tarot cards and trapdoors and unfathomable amounts of trouble, remain as vividly technicolour today as they did on the day I left.

  And just like that, in the time it takes to fly from Charles de Gaulle to Heathrow and take a cab down winding, narrow Oxfordshire lanes and a driveway lined with oak trees that conceal the place I hate most in the world, I’m back at Temperley High.

  And, as I’d feared on my darkest nights away, nothing has changed in a year except that the Starlets have grown more unified and more powerful and more untouchable. Despite my entirely separate Parisian existence, my new haircut and wardrobe and determinedly laissez-faire attitude, I’m still nothing but an exile; an ex-Starlet whose errors can never be forgotten or forgiven or rectified.