Boarding School Girls

by Helen Eve

  I’m too angry with her to let this pass. ‘You bitch,’ I say as soon as he’s gone. I dip a paintbrush in the emulsion with which Hattie is coating her clay panda and flick it at her. Black spatters her white Balmain jacket.

  ‘Look what you’ve done!’ she says, holding up her sleeve. ‘You can pay for that.’

  I shrug as I ruin her other sleeve with a second flick. ‘I don’t think so. How many times have you been warned about wearing appropriate clothes around paint?’

  She picks up a can with which Tristan is lovingly depicting the Royal Standard. I dodge, but, instead of throwing the contents over me, she tosses it right over her portrait. Red paint runs down the length of the canvas, obscuring her face, her neck and her white dress, until the image of her is completely gone.

  Mr Kidd emerges from the supply cupboard and stops short. ‘What happened?’ he splutters in disbelief. ‘Who did this?’

  I open my mouth to tell him that Siena has destroyed my work out of pure spite. But all I see is red paint.

  ‘Weeks of work,’ he says to me. ‘What will you do now?’

  My mother taught me to read people using their facial expressions; their reactions to exploratory questions; their involuntary desire to feed helpful details. Siena is immune to those tricks. I’ve tried to ignore my inability to guess at her future, but, as paint covers her lovely features until they might never have existed on the canvas, I feel something I’ve never felt; something that makes me shake involuntarily and turn towards her to check that she’s still there.

  Mr Kidd looks from one of us to the other. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I suggest you remedy it while you still can,’ he says quietly.

  ‘How could you do that to me?’ I ask her when he’s gone.

  She seems a little stunned. ‘I’ll paint you another one. Our styles are similar enough that he’ll never know.’

  ‘I don’t need your help,’ I say. ‘But if you think I’m going to give you an easy ride from now on, you can think again.’

  ‘I don’t want an easy ride,’ she says. ‘We both know who the final curtain belongs to, and you’re just complicating the inevitable.’

  She ducks through the dust sheets by the door. But the stark image of red on a white dress, white curtains, a white moonlight, hasn’t dissipated by the time my vision clears several minutes later.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Siena

  ‘Cut.’ Madison sighs patiently as I stare at the script Libby has provided for Speech Day, trying to memorize it. Romy is dangerous is the upshot, but there are so many adjectives that it won’t stay in my head.

  ‘Don’t cut again!’ groans Phoebe as Cassidy claps the board. ‘I can’t bear it.’

  ‘I had no choice,’ Madison says. ‘What take are we on now?’

  Cassidy erases 43 and chalks 44, then tries to hide the evidence. ‘Only about seven,’ she lies. ‘Hardly any at all.’

  ‘I need a time out with my client,’ says Libby. ‘Where’s the stand-in?’

  Bethany rushes onto my mark as I exit the stage, sitting on my canvas chair as Nicole drapes a dressing gown over my shoulders.

  ‘Must you be quite so wooden?’ says Madison.

  ‘I’m not wooden!’ I modulate my words into an interesting tonal sequence. ‘My Best Actress TEMPAs speak for themselves.’

  ‘If you can play Olga, and Éponine, and Ophelia, then why are you so bad at playing yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I frown. ‘Maybe I need more time to go method.’

  ‘You’ve had seventeen years to go method. You know that you are yourself, right?’

  ‘We only have an hour left.’ Cassidy offers a can of Diet Coke with a straw in it so I don’t smudge my lip gloss. ‘We don’t have time to explore any other techniques.’

  Libby is scowling. ‘It’s disastrous. You promised you had everything in hand, Siena, but you’re not even trying. And what happened to your Inspiration portrait? You were supposed to deliver your speech in front of it.’

  ‘My artwork has since taken another direction,’ I say. ‘It isn’t a problem. I have this in the bag.’

  ‘Why are you so sure?’ asks Madison. ‘Romy is a good actress too. She usually gets the Best Supporting Actress TEMPA, and people say that character parts are more challenging, especially as we never include them in the costume budget.’

  ‘Character parts are not more challenging,’ I correct her. ‘They’re a theatrical meal ticket for unattractive people.’

  ‘You haven’t learned Libby’s speech,’ says Madison. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Speeches are for the undecorative,’ I say. ‘I’ll use my slot to stand onstage and have people look at me.’

  I’m not sure,’ she frowns. ‘You might look lightweight without anything to say.’

  ‘Everyone’s on my side,’ I shrug, hoping they never find out about the Art class’s dissent. ‘I’m a pro.’

  ‘Not everyone’s on your side,’ ventures Cassidy. ‘The Council have changed allegiance and are supporting Romy.’

  ‘What?’ asks Libby. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

  Cassidy shrinks into her chair. ‘It only just happened. Apparently Romy called a meeting this morning and promised to make them all Prefects if she was elected.’

  ‘We promised to make them Prefects too!’ Phoebe says in outrage. ‘We reassured them at length that their positions were safe and that we’d treat them with the same respect as Romy would.’

  ‘We were lying,’ Cassidy reminds her. ‘Romy revealed our plans to eradicate the Council and hold Prefects’ meetings in Soho House. Apparently they were upset to hear that we’ve got planning permission to convert their meeting room into a hot yoga studio.’

  Libby glares at Bethany with such ferocity that I fear for her safety. ‘Stand-in, you’re fired,’ she barks as Bethany flees. ‘You’ll never work in this school again.’

  ‘After we were kind enough to give them all makeovers?’ Phoebe whips off my dressing-gown cord and flexes it until Nicole also backs out of the hall. ‘And makeover is a total understatement for the hard labour we put in. Major renovation is more like it. Does bribery count for nothing?’

  ‘The Council are irrelevant.’ I wish I felt as confident as I sound. ‘No one cares what they do, so we have everyone that matters on our side.’

  Chapter Forty-two

  Romy

  ‘Is that right?’ I assume an unconcerned smile as the Starlets swing around to face me. ‘Have you actually asked any of the students if they’re on your side?’

  ‘Don’t be so foolish,’ Siena says. ‘We don’t speak to them directly.’

  ‘Students will vote for someone they can relate to, who will represent their views and understand them,’ I tell her. ‘It’s the underdog that people will support, not the spoiled princess. Jane Eyre, not Estella Havisham.’

  ‘I hardly think that the students would choose someone gloomy and northern over the most aspirational heroine in literature,’ she argues.

  ‘You’re missing the point,’ I say. ‘How can you be relevant to students when you only socialize with each other?’

  ‘We socialize with many people,’ contests Phoebe. ‘We maintain a constant dialogue with the Stripes, for example.’

  She gestures proudly at the group of Stripes, minus Jack, that Libby has gathered together as Siena’s test audience. They’ve been alternately falling asleep and muttering to each other, but return to wakefulness as Phoebe blows them a kiss.

  ‘The Stripes don’t count, because you don’t really talk to them,’ I say. ‘You order them around and periodically hook up with them. You can’t even tell them apart.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Siena bristles as some of the Stripes look hurt. ‘They all have their own distinct personalities, and each one of them is a very valued friend.’

  ‘Name them,’ I suggest.

  ‘They don’t need me to do that,’ she says, smiling at them warml
y. Most of them look slightly hypnotized, but one – Sam, not that she’d know – stands up. I remember that Phoebe kissed him recently and has since avoided his calls.

  He addresses Phoebe directly, but she stares without recognition. ‘Romy’s right. If you want our votes, show that you care about us as more than serfs.’

  ‘We must know them all,’ Phoebe murmurs to Siena. ‘Even if it’s just by osmosis.’

  ‘They’re familiar, of course,’ Siena muses. ‘But collectively they blend into a soup of quiffs and aftershave. It’s easier to refer to them by number.’

  She stands in front of them. ‘Sam,’ she says correctly, moving down the line at speed. ‘Harry. Fergus. Miles. James. Spencer. Taylor. Evan. That’s everyone.’

  ‘You missed two,’ I interrupt. ‘And you got some wrong.’

  ‘Amadeo,’ she says with a fresh burst of inspiration. ‘And Gaston.’

  ‘Aren’t they from the Eligible Young Royals list you keep under your pillow?’ I ask. ‘And who the hell is Evan?’

  ‘That one!’ She points at Steven. ‘Mads went out with him.’

  ‘I did not,’ Madison says hotly. ‘I went out with Eight.’

  ‘You went out with Three,’ corrects Phoebe. ‘Cassidy dated Eight.’

  ‘Wasn’t he called Ewan?’ Cassidy frowns.

  ‘How dare you!’ squeaks Four – James – as the others nod in outrage. ‘We’d never disrespect you like this.’

  Other students enter the hall, and I take advantage of the extended audience. ‘If you don’t know the Stripes, you definitely don’t know anyone else. Why should anyone vote for you when you can’t be bothered to learn their names?’

  The Stripes emerge, empowered, from a brief team huddle. ‘We’re voting for Romy,’ announces Sam. ‘She hasn’t dated any of us and not returned our calls, and she knows all our names.’

  ‘Thanks, guys,’ I say gratefully. ‘I promise I’ll always value your human qualities, and not your six-packs.’

  Spencer, a powerhouse of bulk and protein shakes, is visibly touched. ‘I never thought I’d hear a girl say that. It’s not easy to be judged on looks alone. There’s so much more to us, and we’re individuals, as well as a team.’

  ‘You lost us the Stripes!’ Libby says in outrage. ‘How dare you encourage them to think independently?’

  ‘We need them tonight,’ Phoebe says. ‘They’re our ushers!’

  The Stripes form another huddle, in which I distinctly hear them debate the merits of regular hook-ups versus self-worth, and then they throw a pile of suits at Phoebe. ‘Do it yourself,’ says James as they stalk away. ‘We deserve better.’

  Mrs Denbigh steps between Libby and me. ‘Seats, girls,’ she says pleasantly.

  ‘I’m sitting with Siena on stage,’ Libby tells her. ‘I’m her campaign manager.’

  ‘However many times you say it, a campaign manager will never be a real thing,’ I say. ‘Notice that Jack and I don’t have one.’

  Mrs Denbigh nods. ‘You can sit in the wings, if you like, Libby. We could use somebody to open and close the curtains.’

  ‘We need you down here, Libby,’ whines Phoebe as she, Madison and Cassidy stoically don top hats and oversized blazers. ‘We can’t control the crowds without you.’

  ‘I need to be close to Siena,’ Libby decides.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ mutters Madison as she picks up a giant box of pink Siena rosettes and starts to stick them to chairs.

  I pause before following Siena to the stage. ‘Do you really think this is the best thing for her?’

  Madison looks around furtively. ‘No. I wish she’d give it up.’

  ‘So will you help me to win instead?’

  She shakes her head violently. ‘Don’t include me in this.’

  ‘They’re treating you horribly,’ I remind her. ‘They’re marginalizing you. You might as well have some principles.’

  Libby shouts at her to stop slacking, and she slowly nods her head. ‘Fine. I suppose there’s nothing left to lose.’

  Chapter Forty-three

  Siena

  ‘Happy now?’ I ask as Romy joins me on stage. ‘Or will you be stirring up more trouble?’

  ‘No,’ she says innocently. ‘I’m just musing on the fact that this is all sort of ironic.’

  I want to ignore her, but she’s reeled me in. ‘What’s ironic?’

  ‘You’ve done such a good job of making the Starlets do your bidding that you’ve qualified them for a future without you. You’re a vacuum that they plough their talents into.’

  ‘That’s not true, or ironic,’ I say.

  She fixes her emerald eyes on me. ‘The irony is that you’re merely the embodiment of Cassidy’s vanity case, and Madison’s mood boards, and Phoebe’s attitude, and Libby’s organization. Once they fly the coop – and they will, as soon as they discover a world beyond your face – you won’t exist. And most ironic is that, although they spend every waking hour catering to your every need, the only person who knows you at all is me.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I say, although it doesn’t help my case that, right now, Phoebe, Cassidy and Madison are busily showing students to their seats wearing men’s suits.

  ‘What are they doing?’ she asks.

  ‘They’re ushers,’ I say, ‘but I’m not exactly sure what that entails.’

  ‘I think ushers show the wedding party to the bride or the groom’s side of the church,’ she says. ‘They’re splitting the audience according to whom they’re supporting.’

  ‘Your side will be a bit sparse, then,’ I say, ignoring the fact that the Council have taken their seats on Romy’s side alongside the newly activist Stripes. I exhale in silent relief when the lights go up to reveal the crowd, showing my side still notably fuller than hers.

  ‘Your chairs have pink rosettes and mine have … screwed-up newspaper,’ she says. ‘How lovely.’

  As the only male candidate, Jack isn’t giving a speech, but he sits between us anyway. Folding my arms and staring ahead, I force a smile as Dr Tringle, and then Avery and Ambrose, discuss the importance of the Head Girl position at interminable length before introducing Romy.

  She’s wearing her usual jeans and vest top, her unbrushed hair cascading down her back. I feel irritated that she moves so easily in her ballet shoes while I limp in heels; that she runs her hand through her hair without trapping it in adornments; that she eats what she likes without considering the fit of custom-made clothes. I imagine for a moment how this must feel, and then I dismiss it.

  Her supporters cheer while I wait for her to fall on her face with an ill-judged remark about the teachers, making Jack see that I was born to be Head Girl (and, by extension, his wife), thus fully restoring equilibrium. I almost want to alert my mother to the good news right now, and I’m so cheered that I start to plan our reconciliation: Jack’s reintroduction at our next dinner party, and an exciting Upper Sixth with him by my side.

  But when I sneak a glance at him, those things seem irrelevant, and I meander into distractions like his citrus smell when he comes out of the shower, the tickle of his hair on my cheek when he kisses my collarbone, and the feeling I get when we sit in the courtyard listening to the clock without saying a word because it’s nice just to watch time pass, storing our memories and anticipating the unreleased seconds and minutes ahead of us.

  ‘Classmates,’ Romy says easily, taking the lectern with both hands. It hasn’t occurred to me until this moment how much support she might be able to gather, but perhaps it should have, because the Starlets have always had what we call critical friends, and they’re a resolute presence on her side of the hall. Nor has it occurred to me how well matched she and Jack really are, and how much more he has in common with her than with me. Of course he likes her. I hunch over my shoes and search my mind for something – anything – that will count as a speech to make him respect me as he respects her.

  ‘I don’t believe in organized politics,’ she says, and some of the
more liberal students transfer from my side to hers. ‘But then I realized that, while I can’t address most of the world’s problems – I mean, everyone recycles and has an adopted Cambodian goat, but do these things really make a difference? – I can do something to help right here.’

  A conglomerate of slackers lazily unwind themselves from their seats on my side – where it occurs to me they may only have sat because it was closest – and join Romy’s. Our support is now even.

  ‘I care about this school,’ she continues. ‘I cared enough to come back after I got kicked out. I cared enough to give this speech. I cared enough to stand for Head Girl when no one else wanted the job and there were no associated benefits, and I prepared for it with four years on the Student Council.

  ‘I also did something else to prepare, which, let’s face it, took a lot of self-sacrifice. Does anyone know what that was?’

  ‘Trying to murder Libby?’ someone shouts. Laughter erupts, and not, I feel, at Romy’s expense. A group of girls who’ve experienced the rough edge of Libby on a couple of occasions deliberately join Romy’s side, putting her in the lead.

  ‘Not quite,’ she says. ‘I joined the Starlets.’

  The crowd is silent and I shift back my chair so I don’t have to look directly at Libby.

  ‘You’ll have noticed that I don’t fit in with them,’ she says candidly. ‘I’ve asked myself many times why they made me a member. My best guess is that, what they don’t understand, they take over and crush.

  ‘So when you cast your vote, you should consider what you stand for, and who you want to stand for you. Because I know from personal experience that everything brought under the control of the Starlets ends up like this – frightened and completely absurd.’

  With that she pulls out a quivering pink rabbit from her pocket and places it on the lectern, to thunderous applause.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Romy

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Siena leans across Jack towards me as I return to my seat. I expected anger, but she seems bewildered. ‘You betrayed us!’