by Helen Eve
Everyone around the table furrows their brows. ‘Should we take a vote?’ asks Ambrose quietly. ‘Show of hands for the allotment?’
I don’t bother to count how many hands are raised, but it’s more than one might expect when the subject matter is radishes.
‘The scholarship?’ Avery asks. ‘I don’t mind saying that I, for one, would never have benefited from this wonderful education were it not for the existing support.’
‘I have another suggestion,’ I say.
Ambrose jumps in surprise. ‘Please, Siena. We’d love to hear it.’
‘We should have a ball,’ I announce. ‘That would be the very best use of our money.’
‘Hmmm.’ Ambrose nods heavily. ‘You make a good point, but…’
‘We need this,’ I say forcefully. ‘It’s been a hard winter. We’ve suffered. And when you think about it, allotments don’t boost morale. Dances do.’
‘Siena, if you want a ball, be honest about your motivations,’ Romy says. ‘Don’t pretend it’s for the good of all of us.’
‘Romy, the whole concept was your idea.’ I turn to the rest of the Council with a smile. ‘Romy is a total inspiration.’
‘Really?’ Avery is dubious. ‘I can’t imagine Romy having an opinion about this…’
I flick through my phone until I find the pertinent video. Chandeliers, and glass slippers, and crystals, and roses … Romy is saying in a dreamy voice. Her eyes are closed, conveying extra passion.
‘That’s not what it looks like,’ Romy says in exasperation.
I appeal to the table. ‘Who’s with me and Romy that a ball is the most powerful thing we could spend our money on?’
‘The allotment and scholarship are laudable projects,’ says Ambrose tentatively.
‘So is a ball,’ I say. ‘Dances bring us together as a community. They promote inclusivity, which is an issue very close to my heart.’
‘This would blow our entire budget,’ Romy says. ‘How can we justify spending all our money on one evening?’
‘That’s a very blinkered attitude,’ I say. ‘Memories last a lifetime, and you can’t put a price on that. Especially for people like you – it’ll be like having friends for a whole night.’
Bethany and Nicole shoot up their hands in support, along with some deplorable specimens I don’t usually look at directly.
I contemplate Ambrose. ‘It would also be the perfect opportunity for ineffectual, unpopular monarchs to leave a misleadingly significant legacy.’
He coughs self-consciously. ‘What do you mean by legacy?’
Behind me are a number of portraits from a different period of the school’s history, when being on the Council must have been desirable. ‘You’ll get portraits,’ I say. ‘And history rewritten. And a big party.’
Romy laughs derisively. ‘You can’t buy Ambrose and Avery, Siena. They have more integrity than anyone else I know.’
Ambrose and Avery confer for a moment and then nod sheepishly.
‘Everyone wants to be remembered, Romy,’ Ambrose says. ‘This is nothing more than we deserve. If the Starlets can help make the Council relevant again, we can pass a legacy to future generations. This isn’t a selfish endeavour.’
Everyone but Romy raises their hands. ‘So that’s settled,’ I say, drowning out her protestations. ‘We’ll throw the best dance the school has ever seen.’
‘Who’s going to be responsible for organization?’ asks Romy. ‘Theme? Décor?’
‘The Starlets will do all the crucial work,’ I establish. ‘Obviously we’ll take on help for low-level admin.’
‘What’s the crucial work?’ she asks. ‘Spiking the punch? Flashing your underwear? Tombstoning from the library window into Dr Tringle’s ornamental pond?’
‘Phoebe’s actions don’t always reflect the beliefs of the group,’ I say smoothly. ‘And I’m pretty sure it was a swan dive. Phoebe is captain of the diving team.’
‘And your theme?’ Bethany asks eagerly.
I try to ignore Romy, because she’s smirking as if I don’t have a single thought in my head that hasn’t been put there by Libby.
‘Cinderella,’ I announce. ‘The theme is Cinderella.’
Chapter Twenty
Romy
‘Cinderella?’ I ask in the awed silence that follows Siena’s announcement. ‘Is that how you get Jack in the mood?’
She scowls. ‘I suppose you have a better idea? Water coolers or something?’
‘Don’t you listen to anything I say?’ I snap. ‘I’m against water coolers.’
‘Cinderella,’ Bethany sighs. ‘What a wonderful concept.’
‘Thank you,’ Siena tells her graciously. ‘I already have so many ideas.’
Nicole’s fountain pen scratches eagerly across her page. ‘I’ll record them for you.’
Siena stares at her poised pen as she attempts to make her brain cells connect. For a second I think she’ll achieve it; then she shakes her head in defeat and reaches for her phone. ‘Let’s invite Libby. She’ll really take this to the next level.’
Gloom settles as Libby arrives almost before Siena’s SOS has been delivered, as if she’s been hiding in the broom cupboard at the end of the corridor.
‘What do you need, Siena?’ she asks anxiously as she fans her with a spare agenda. ‘Is the greyness infecting you? Do we need to stage an intervention?’
‘I’m hosting a Cinderella ball at the end of term,’ Siena announces. No one asks her when this became her ball. ‘We need your expertise, Libby.’
‘A Cinderella theme has so much scope.’ Avery has by this time completely abandoned her pretence of caring about scholarships. ‘All the girls in white…’
‘All the girls?’ Libby says haughtily. ‘I think you mean one girl.’
Of course. At a Cinderella ball, there’s only one princess.
‘Does that mean only one girl gets glass slippers?’ I ask. ‘Only one girl kisses a prince?’
‘We’re in a recession,’ Libby reminds me. ‘It’s a time of austerity and self-sacrifice.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘But how do we choose the lucky girl? Obviously the selection process should be equitable and transparent.’
Libby taps her pen on the table. I know she’s wishing, more vehemently than usual, that we were still separated by the English Channel. ‘Of course it should. I think the fairest method will be to choose the girl who’s most likely to marry a prince.’
Before I can tell her that, although many Temperley High girls must have a good shot of marrying aristocracy, this method is non-quantifiable, she hunts in her bag and emerges triumphant with the centrefold of the last yearbook. Most Likely to Marry a Prince, reads an insipid swirly headline above a large photograph of Siena. The very existence of the category is beyond depressing.
‘You see?’ she says. ‘Siena will be Cinderella, and Jack will be Prince Charming. It’ll be just as you saw it in your vision.’
‘You know you can’t stop people from wearing what they want?’ I say. ‘It might breach their human rights.’
‘We’d never dream of telling people what to wear,’ Libby assures me.
‘There are plenty of other characters for students to depict,’ Siena puts in. ‘Like mice, and rats, and … toads, probably. There’s so much choice.’
‘And students are welcome to come as a pre-ball Cinderella,’ Libby agrees, glancing over my outfit. ‘That look would come very naturally to some people. But I doubt anyone would dream of contesting Siena’s right to be the princess. It’s instinctive for students to stand back and watch her shine.’
I flick through the yearbook at speed. Past images of Siena under Best Hair, Best Figure, Most Likely to Become a Supermodel and the no-brainer that she wins every single year, Most Beautiful; past me with felt tip bars and Most Likely to Need a 4 a.m. Attorney scribbled over my face; and then there’s Jack. Most Whipped. The accompanying picture shows him carrying Siena’s pink Birkin and a matching candyflos
s bundle that I now know to be my rabbit, as Siena, weighed down only by Prada sunglasses, follows him towards Libby’s chauffeured car. Not only is he whipped, but he’s completely aware of the fact and completely accepting of his fate.
‘I hope you’re proud of yourself,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve successfully emasculated him.’
She smiles indulgently at the photograph. ‘I’m very proud.’
‘Shall we go?’ Libby asks Siena. ‘I think we’ve covered the main points, and we’re missing valuable outfit-planning time.’
Siena nods in relief and follows Libby from the room, blowing a perfunctory kiss to Avery and Ambrose as the door closes.
‘How could you agree to spend all our money on a party?’ I ask the room at large as soon as they’ve gone. ‘And how could you agree to collaborate with Libby?’
They still look scared. The effect of Libby on a room is notable; it’s as if we’re all recovering from a state visit from Maleficent.
‘A party is a good idea,’ Avery says. ‘It’s a long time since we’ve had one.’
‘We could have spent the money on something worthwhile,’ I argue.
‘The time is right,’ says Ambrose, as if we might not have noticed his legacy plans. ‘And with the Starlets in attendance it’s a guaranteed success. Think about it, Romy – we can actually make money.’
‘Think again,’ I say, remembering my predictions for crystals, chandeliers and gold crockery. ‘You’ll find that this party is the most expensive the school has ever thrown.’
‘Well, we have Libby as events planner,’ says Avery. ‘I can’t imagine safer hands.’
‘It must be wonderful to have such a loyal friend,’ Nicole says earnestly. ‘Libby would do anything for Siena.’
‘It’s creepy,’ I tell her. ‘And unhealthy.’
‘I have an idea that will cheer you up.’ Avery confers with Ambrose, who nods effusively. ‘We’ll use the ball as an official kick-off for the coronation of the new Head Girl and Boy. We’ll announce your name alongside his during the evening.’
‘You haven’t even told me who the new Head Boy is going to be,’ I point out. ‘What if you’ve chosen someone awful?’
They smile broadly. ‘We’re still finalizing the details, but he’s going to be such a hit,’ gushes Avery. ‘This will be an unforgettable night, and now the Starlets want to be a part of it, we can all embrace an inclusive Temperley High. What a wonderful start to your Head Girl tenure!’
‘If you think the Starlets want to work alongside you, you’re completely wrong,’ I say. ‘They don’t work with anyone except themselves, and half the time they can’t even manage that.’
Chapter Twenty-one
Siena
‘I feel bad that you had to handle that meeting yourself,’ Libby is saying as we hurry to her room. ‘You should have called me immediately.’
‘It was fine. It’s not as if they were going to argue with me.’
‘So Romy’s prediction came true,’ she says. ‘How annoying that she should be right, even if it is our ideal outcome.’
I wonder dimly if causing a prediction to come true is enough to validate it, but Libby has already opened her wardrobe to run her hand along a row of dresses. Her expression is beatific as she pulls out a shimmering gold dress and holds it against herself.
‘You can’t wear that,’ I tell her. ‘Gold is shiny and eye-catching.’
‘So? Nothing stands out more than white. And no one stands out more than you.’
‘I know that,’ I frown. ‘But you do want the Fairy Godmother position, don’t you?’
Panic crosses her face. ‘Who else is in the running?’
‘Well, I’d never dress my Fairy Godmother in gold, any more than I’d dress my maid of honour in gold at my real wedding,’ I explain. ‘That would be madness.’
‘This isn’t your real wedding,’ she whispers. ‘The colours don’t have to match.’
‘It’s a rehearsal,’ I say. ‘It should replicate a wedding.’
‘So what colour do you have in mind for your Fairy Godmother?’ she asks.
‘Green.’
‘I’m a Spring!’ she pleads in horror. ‘Green will make me look jaundiced. Or worse.’
‘I have a second choice,’ I tell her consolingly, because she does look peculiarly washed-out in green. ‘You’re very welcome to wear burnt orange.’
‘Green it is,’ she says manfully. ‘Maybe my skin tone will change before the ball. If not, I’ll just have a chemical peel.’
‘Whichever you prefer. How are the other arrangements coming along?’
‘I’ve only been working on this event for ten minutes,’ she says. ‘But everything’s well under control.’
‘This has to be flawless. Otherwise how will Jack understand the joy of weddings?’
‘Is something wrong between you and Jack?’ she asks. ‘Surely you aren’t worried about this?’
‘Everything’s great between us. Especially since the football game. But there’s no harm in ensuring that his decision is firm and non-retractable. We’ve had a few challenging moments recently.’
‘Why?’ she breathes. ‘Is it Romy?’
‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘Maybe. She hasn’t helped. Should I have to make this proposal happen? Is that how relationships are supposed to be?’
‘Of course it is,’ she says. ‘How else would men know what they want?’
‘It’s tiring to have to manipulate everything into happening,’ I admit. ‘I wonder if it’s sustainable.’ I search for a simile. ‘It’s like trying to keep a rose garden in order when the roses keep changing course and colour and growing in ways they aren’t supposed to.’
Libby is asking me what I’m talking about, and if I’ve gone mad, but I don’t reply because my head is full of a rose garden instead. A garden, originally comprising red roses only, that was a wedding present from my father to my mother. He added to it with pink roses when I was born, and, after Stella’s arrival five years later, with white.
* * *
‘Grace and joy,’ he told me one day as we stood, hand in hand, before our abundantly swirling petals. ‘That’s what pink roses mean, and why I chose them for you.’
‘White roses are innocence and secrecy,’ he told Stella, who was five. ‘And silence,’ he added when she failed to reply.
The garden was complete and self-contained, but that day we watched the gardener dig over a new patch of soil, creating a portentous space beside Stella’s roses. Our mother had woven Stella’s hair into plaits, making her eyes bigger than ever in her small face. I didn’t like them on her, and I shook them out so that her hair fell in curls to her waist.
‘You’re wise,’ our father agreed. ‘That hairstyle could get an awful lot of boys into an awful lot of trouble. How do you think I ended up here?’
Stella let go of my hand and stood over the soil patch, staring intently. ‘What colour roses will the new baby have?’ she asked.
He was apparently too startled to reply, and, looking from him to Stella and back again, I saw that she’d beaten him to the chase. He’d brought us here to explain that we were to have a new sibling, but, for unexplainable reasons (certainly not weight gain on our mother’s part, or anticipation on our father’s), Stella had already known.
We don’t need a new baby. I dared not speak out loud, because I had a dim sense that, once I voiced this opinion, it could never be unsaid. But, as I met my father’s eyes, I understood instinctively that he felt the same.
‘What colour roses for the baby?’ Stella prompted him.
‘Black,’ he said drily.
I tried to draw Stella back towards me, but her eyes were trained on the soil patch as if at any second a baby might begin to grow before our eyes; a changeling whose roots would kick and push themselves between me and Stella until it belonged so undeniably that no one would remember a time when it hadn’t lived amongst us.
Our mother appeared and snaked her arm into our
father’s, her hand flat against her still-small waist; her pale cheeks flusher than usual. She leaned into him, but he remained rigid, staring at her red roses instead of greeting her.
‘What do red roses mean?’ I prompted him. ‘Do they mean love?’
‘One meaning of red roses,’ he said as our mother waited eagerly, ‘is job well done.’
‘What about beauty?’ Stella asked as she dragged her eyes back towards us.
Seraphina nodded, but our father’s expression was hard to define as he stepped away. ‘Surely that goes without saying,’ he said. ‘For all of you, beauty is one thing that will never be in short supply.’
‘How does he make the greatest compliments sound insulting?’ our mother muttered as we watched him leave.
* * *
My heart pounds as I begin to identify with my mother’s frustration. She must have wondered on that day, as I wonder now, what would happen to her if my father changed his mind: how she’d face life if it came to pass that beauty were insufficient, and manipulation ineffectual.
Libby pats my shoulder. ‘We’ll leave nothing to chance. We’ll follow Romy’s predictions to the letter. The décor will be exquisite, and Mads can make the dresses. It’ll be the most perfect evening you’ve ever had, and I guarantee that, by the last dance, your hand will be so weighed down by the Lawrence rock that you’ll never play tennis again.’
‘Do you really think so?’ I ask.
‘I know so,’ she says. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t be a very good Fairy Godmother.’
‘You’re the best Fairy Godmother in the world,’ I reassure her.
‘I’m the greenest,’ she mutters as she contemplates her reflection.
Chapter Twenty-two
Romy
Siena’s room is the largest in Woodlands, so, although she dislikes clutter, she generously opens her doors to guests before the Cinderella ball.
I haven’t been privy to any dress discussions, but it’s been made clear that the Starlets will have final approval over my wardrobe. I queried this as a human rights issue with Mrs Denbigh, but she was too enchanted by the concept of a united Cinderella cast to offer useful support, so I arrive as instructed in my dressing gown, ready to accept whatever horror of a gown is thrust upon me.