by Helen Eve
‘Oh, that,’ I say. ‘I lost track of time, I suppose. Everyone knows that the internet barely works in France. Nor the postal service. And I didn’t tell you I was coming back today because … I wanted to surprise you.’
‘Well … okay.’ He shakes his head. ‘Thanks for explaining nothing.’
He’s blocking my path, and he’s too tall to push aside. Forced to look him in the eye, I contemplate sharing some details about my year away. It might be a relief, especially as we aren’t in the habit of keeping secrets from each other. But then I notice that his shirt buttons are fastened wrongly; no doubt the result of recent activity with Siena.
‘What do you want me to explain?’ I sigh, defeated.
‘How about everything? As if you’d push Libby off a ladder! Even if she deserved it, the idea is crazy. Why didn’t you defend yourself and clear your name?’
‘How could I?’ I say. ‘I pushed her. She fell. Bang. I got sent to France.’
‘Why were you fighting with her?’
‘Why do you think, Jack?’ I say recklessly, hoping to embarrass him into letting me go. ‘What do Libby and I ever fight about?’
‘You fight about everything. How am I supposed to know…’ He breaks off as the truth dawns on him. ‘Not again?’
I nod. ‘We don’t fight over everything; we always fight over the same thing. But this time was different, because Libby knew. She knew the truth.’
He doesn’t need me to explain, but, although his face is sympathetic, his words are not. ‘I know you don’t want this, but couldn’t it be a good thing? A chance to come clean at last?’
I blink to hide pricking tears, but my voice sounds like a sob. ‘I’m not ready to come clean, and I don’t know if I ever will be.’
‘I’ve missed you,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to lose you again. Especially not over this.’
‘Please don’t make this harder,’ I throw over my shoulder as I push past him. ‘You and Siena made your choice years ago. The least you can do is live with it.’
‘So that’s it?’ he asks. ‘We can’t be friends?’
‘Think about what Siena wants from you, Jack,’ I say. ‘Really think about it.’
He calls after me, but, as usual, he’s too late.
Chapter Seven
Siena
We have to wear our black scholar’s gowns for exams and meetings with the Headmistress, and the detestable Student Council members wear them every day – by choice, unless Madison’s theory is correct that the gowns grow on them like fungus – but they spend most of their lifespans in our wardrobes gathering dust. So, even though they’re very unflattering, with manmade fibres, batwing sleeves and billowing panels that swamp the most sculpted of figures – even mine – we all agreed with Libby that tonight would be an appropriately momentous outing for them.
The Starlets are neatly assembled when I arrive at our midnight meeting place in the courtyard. We’re all wearing gowns over our nightdresses, and Cassidy smiles blearily, her tangled red hair and birdlike wrists emerging from oversized folds of fabric that render her more waifish than ever. She looks about eleven. Madison has added a skinny belt to her own gown and cut the hem asymmetrically to reveal several inches of bare thigh.
‘I wish we could do this in summer,’ says Phoebe grumpily. ‘Whoever decided on January?’
She never tires of arguing. Sometimes she likes to challenge Libby’s position as second-in-command, and I usually let her, because it helps Libby stay at the top of her game.
‘Would you prefer to leave Romy – a danger to herself as well as the whole student population – at large amongst us until the weather gets warmer?’
Libby tries to wave an arm for emphasis but is heavily weighed down. Her gown is the least flattering of all, customized as it is with inside pockets that hold her day planner, essential items of stationery, and her phone. She doesn’t like to be reminded of her past as a Girl Guide – Patrol Leader, no less, and I have the pictures – yet their teachings seem more embedded in her psyche than anything she’s learned since.
‘Can we stop pretending to have the other students’ interests at heart?’ I suggest. ‘We all know why we’re here, and no one else can hear us.’
‘How are we getting in?’ asks Madison, who’s been as uninterested in details as I have.
Libby loves the pay-off of successful planning, and so thrives on the resulting praise that she has trouble delegating all but the most menial tasks. She reaches inside her gown and produces an iron key.
‘Mr Menzies keeps this in his shed, and it’s really hard to get close to it,’ she explains. ‘Didn’t you wonder why all the fire alarms went off this afternoon?’
‘That was you?’ Phoebe says in outrage. ‘Don’t you know that the alarms activate the sprinklers in the boys’ changing rooms? My shirt got ruined, and it was vintage, so it’s completely irreplaceable. Don’t you ever think, Libby?’
‘What were you doing in the boys’ changing room?’ asks Cassidy.
Madison smirks. ‘Not what … Phoebe, why are you complaining about your shirt? I heard you weren’t wearing anything except Chelsea boots anyway.’
‘Oh, so that’s why you were wearing a fireman’s jacket afterwards, Phoebe,’ says Libby. ‘I assumed you were pioneering a literal interpretation of this spring’s workmanwear chic.’
* * *
The clock tower that tops the main building has been the Sixth Formers’ preferred hook-up venue for years. It’s always been out of bounds, but security was heightened to Azkaban-like levels following last year’s ill-fated incident which ended with Libby an unconscious heap and Romy on the first flight out of Heathrow. It would be beneficial if Libby’s key theft were to restore the status quo, not least because I’m tired of getting splinters in my back from the floor of the woodshed.
Cassidy fumbles for my hand in my long sleeve as we creep up the spiral steps. Hoisting our gowns over our shoulders, we file up the ladder and through the trapdoor into the tiny tower room. As Shells we all fitted comfortably inside, but now it’s cramped and the uneven floorboards are creaky. I often used to climb out of the window to sit under the clock face when I needed thinking time, but, as I open the window, the ledge looks more narrow and precarious than ever.
‘Do you really think she’s coming?’ Madison asks as we light candles in every corner. Her face flickers in the intermittent glow.
‘Of course she’s coming,’ Libby says. ‘How could you doubt it?’
Madison shrugs as she searches behind sparse furniture and threadbare curtains.
‘What are you looking for?’ Phoebe giggles. ‘If it’s something that belongs to Siena, it’s on the floor right behind that screen. You can see where the carpet’s worn away.’
‘I’d rather have lost it in here than in the swimming pool at Radley,’ I tell her. ‘During a relay race, of all things.’
Madison eventually liberates a bottle of vodka from a pile of dust sheets. I take double my share before handing it to Cassidy, who has the tolerance of a dormouse and thus relies on me to cover her ration without anyone noticing.
‘You’re very quiet.’ Libby is watching her intently. ‘Is something wrong?’
Cassidy jumps and takes a swig. ‘Of course not!’ she chokes. ‘I was just thinking … what if we get caught? This could get us into trouble as well, couldn’t it?’
Phoebe looks dismissive. ‘Romy should have been expelled forever. If the school won’t do the right thing, it’s up to us to wield the moral compass.’
A head rush of vodka makes Cassidy uncharacteristically – and unwisely – bold. ‘We could ask Romy to explain herself. Maybe it was an accident, or…’
Libby looks appalled. ‘Are you suggesting she could have a valid excuse for what she did to me?’
Phoebe nods. ‘Romy’s had more than enough chances to talk. There’s no doubt that she hurt Libby on purpose, and she can’t be allowed to get away with it. What would people say about us if
we did nothing?’
Libby taps her bulky gown. ‘Trust me, Cassidy. Tonight has been planned way beyond any margin of error. By tomorrow, order will be restored to Temperley High and none of us will have to see Romy again. Ever.’
She picks up a candle so that half her face is illuminated white, and Cassidy flinches. Ensuring that Libby can’t see, I edge closer, intending to squeeze her arm in solidarity. Madison has got there first, though, and we both jump back as if, despite having been caught committing the same offence, one of us will break ranks and tell Libby.
Chapter Eight
Romy
The last evening I spent with the Starlets began a lot like this, in the tower room they love so inexplicably. Siena – of course – discovered it years ago when she and Jack were looking for alone time, and, despite the trouble it could have landed her in, it seemed as if she wanted to be caught up there. Anyone crossing the courtyard could have seen her on the window ledge, ivory in the moonlight, her small feet tucked under her and her hair fluttering in the breeze. She was lucky, or perhaps unlucky, that most people didn’t glance up.
Tell Siena’s fortune, Libby commanded me. We’d been playing drinking games and pretending to revise for exams, but Siena had injected a serious note into proceedings by wondering aloud when Jack would propose to her. She’d revisited this question intermittently over the years, but that night she spoke with palpable anxiety, as if she might soon be over the hill and no longer a viable match.
Do you really have a psychic gift? I’d once asked my mother. Her Tarot cards had been her constant companion for as long as I could remember, but I never knew where they came from, or why; only that, in the event of a house fire, she’d have rescued them before any of her family, and then consulted them for her next move. I wanted to sweep the whole pack into oblivion and force her to make her own decisions, even before she insisted that I learn to read them too.
Of course I have a gift, she told me as I inexpertly cut and dealt the cards during one of our lessons.
How will I know if I have a gift too? I asked in a moment of beat-them-join-them optimism. If I had to learn how to read these cards, I could at least develop a labour-saving method of doing so.
You’ll just know, she said. But if you pay attention to me, no one will know the difference.
Do you mean I should fake it? I asked.
I mean that logic and guesswork are usually sufficient, she said carefully. People are so predictable that a real gift is rarely necessary.
* * *
I don’t want to tell Siena’s fortune, I told the Starlets in the tower room. The Tarot cards, which I’d by now inherited, were in my pocket, but predicting a date for Jack and Siena’s engagement went way beyond my usual clairvoyant duties. The Starlets, who were gullible, were perfect subjects for cold readings, warm readings and anything else, and I was usually happy to prophesy about weather (based on television reports or looming dark clouds) or whether a particular boy was worth pursuing (because he inevitably wasn’t); but Libby was in a markedly baleful mood that night, and Siena’s marital future was not a prediction I wanted to undertake.
Nevertheless, having forsaken my free will when I’d first worn the Starlet earrings, I shuffled the cards. It should have been easy to conjure up mental images of Jack’s romantic proposal and Siena’s fake-surprised yes, and their ridiculously Twilight teenage wedding followed by a life of drudgery and resentful imprisonment. But, instead of seeing any of those things, my mind went blank, and stayed that way.
I don’t see him proposing, I blurted out before I could stop myself, even as I should have been describing the crystal carriage whisking Siena to church, the Starlets’ immensely flattering bridesmaids’ dresses, and the Antiguan honeymoon.
The Starlets usually sulked and flounced when I gave an unpopular answer, but the enormity of this transgression was immediately clear. Madison looked bewildered, while Cassidy was close to tears, and Libby turned more rattlesnake than usual as she ordered me to retract my statement. Siena didn’t speak, but she was pale as she followed the others down the ladder. I’d intended to follow them once I’d extinguished the candles, but unfortunately Libby stayed to help, initiating the events that preceded my year-long banishment.
* * *
The focal point of the tower room is a six-point star chalked on a candle-littered floor. The Starlets are cross-legged before their star points, gowns bunched in their laps.
‘It’s good to see you back, Romy.’ Libby’s arched eyebrows practically meet with the ferocity of her frown.
‘Wow, thanks,’ I say as sarcastically as I dare.
‘It’s good to see you back,’ she repeats, ‘as long as you promise not to try and kill any of us this time.’
I turn to Siena. ‘I’m afraid I can’t promise that. But I’m grateful for the opportunity to make amends, Siena.’
Glancing back at Libby, I see a flash of annoyance cross her face before a neutral expression reasserts itself. It’s a petty victory, but still cheering to undermine Libby for an event she’s masterminded.
Siena nods at the sound of her name, but she’s not listening. She rarely does listen to anything going on around her, probably because it interferes with the constantly buzzing Siena feed inside her head. She’s scrolling through photographs of herself on her phone as she chooses a new screensaver, and I can tell by her awkward posture that she’s experimenting with a new Pilates movement.
‘So what’s the plan?’ I ask.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Madison waves at the circle.
‘I don’t tell fortunes any longer,’ I say firmly. ‘You know what happened last time, and you’re crazy if you think I’ll risk being expelled. In fact, if we’re caught, we’ll all be expelled.’
Libby looks angelic, as far as is possible for a regulation-clothed, sleek-haired Mussolini. ‘We won’t get caught. No one would expect us to come back up here after what you did to me.’
‘I don’t even have my cards anymore,’ I say. ‘I lost them that night.’
‘Then you’ll do it without them,’ shrugs Libby. ‘If you really have the gift, as you’ve always claimed, you won’t need props.’
‘Did you at least bring alcohol?’ I ask. ‘It’s difficult to hold this conversation sober.’
Siena passes me a bottle of vodka. She stares at me as I take a swig – it’s entirely possible that she’s only just noticed I’m here at all – and we all jump as her phone rings. She makes a face as she answers, murmuring in response to an agitated voice.
‘I’ll call you back,’ she says finally and hangs up.
‘I could have taken that for you,’ says Libby. ‘Was it an overzealous fan?’
‘It was Jack,’ says Siena. ‘Something about his mother miscalculating her lithium dosage. The usual.’
‘Shouldn’t you go and be with him?’ I ask incredulously. ‘Don’t you care?’
‘Spare me,’ she snaps. ‘It’s your fault we have to be here at all.’
‘My fault?’ I raise my voice as latent anger – or alcoholic bravery – surges. ‘You’re blaming me, after I—’
‘Calm down, girls,’ says Phoebe smoothly. She attends an etiquette camp each summer where debutantes learn to exit a car without revealing their knickers to spying cameras, and, possibly, to conduct a psychic reading untainted by incivility. ‘Let’s not ruin a lovely evening.’
‘If I tell your fortune, can we go?’ I turn towards Siena, but there’s a gap in the circle where she was sitting.
‘I didn’t see Siena leave,’ says Cassidy as everyone follows my stare.
Libby looks surprised, and then shrugs. ‘You can’t expect her to devote her whole night to this. She must have gone after Jack.’
I smile at the fact that Siena has followed my advice, and Libby scowls. ‘She hasn’t left because you told her to. She’s left because she’s extremely compassionate.’
The window slams, and Cassidy turns in panic. ‘What happened? Is someone
there?’
‘Could I borrow your gown, Romy?’ smiles Libby. ‘I need to block up that draught. It’s scaring Cassidy.’
‘Why does it have to be my gown?’ I ask. ‘Use your own.’
‘I don’t want to use mine,’ she explains. ‘It’ll get dirty. Not to mention that you owe me. Not that I hold grudges.’
I remove my gown, ignoring Madison’s raised eyebrows at the oversized Metallica T-shirt that constitutes my winter pyjamas. My makeover, the result of a desperate visit to the Galeries Lafayette on my final day in Paris, was an attempt to convince my father that my sentence had changed me for the better. A personal shopper, horrified at my favourite leather jacket, chipped nail varnish and ripped jeans, devoted several hours to making me presentable and even forced me into the hair salon to remedy my half-grown-out streaks. Only when I’d left with an eye-watering array of new rainbow-hued outfits, my original ensemble shoved shamefully to the bottom of my now-obsolete backpack, did I realize that I’d forgotten to look for new nightwear.
‘My Chanel is at the cleaners,’ I say as Libby plugs a hole in the wall, but she’s lost interest anyway.
‘That’s better,’ she says as the candles stop flickering. ‘Now I won’t get pneumonia.’
‘I’m quite cold, though,’ I comment to a general lack of interest.
‘Look into the flame, Romy, and tell us when Jack will propose to Siena,’ says Madison tiredly. ‘Otherwise we’ll never get out of here.’
I try to visualize Siena’s future logically, just as I can see Cassidy as a make-up artist and Madison a designer, Libby trapped in a deservedly unhappy marriage to a repressed synchronized swimmer, and Phoebe as a foil for a diamond heist gang; but once again I see nothing but swirling mist. Siena, I tell myself firmly, closing my eyes. Siena and Jack. Anger and jealousy vie for attention, filling my throat and choking me. Several long moments later, smelling smoke, I realize that I’m not being asphyxiated by emotion alone.