The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  ‘Thank you, Verity. I’m sure you’ll do a fantastic job.’ Mrs Allen takes an envelope from Mrs Newcross and flicks it open. The badge.

  ‘Right. On to the big announcement. Head Girl. I know you’ve all been waiting for this for a long time.’ The room stills and Freya nudges me, giving me a thumbs-up by her skirt. ‘Verity’s never going to forgive you,’ she whispers. It’s true. If I’m made Head Girl, she probably won’t. Ever since Dominique, Verity’s older sister, was made Head Girl of Greenwood Hall and went to Oxford three years ago, Verity’s been absolutely hell-bent on following her lead.

  ‘And now for our new Head, who was a unanimous choice by the whole staff. She’s been one of the school’s most successful students since I’ve been here, if not the most successful. We are truly proud of her. She’s been a real asset to the Greenwood Hall name and I’m delighted and honoured to announce her as your new Head Girl. If you’d all like to give a huge round of applause to –’ Mrs Allen gives a half-smile ‘– the wonderful . . . Josephine Grey.’

  Five steps forward. Mrs Allen pins the badge to my school jumper, mouth pressed in concentration. I hear the roar behind me as I stand on the stage. The catcalls make my blood fizz and Mrs Allen pats me on the shoulder. ‘Well done. I knew you could do it,’ she whispers. The other teachers are all on their feet.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Allen. Thank you very much.’

  It’s OK, I think. I feel like collapsing with relief. I’m Head Girl. I’m OK. I’d already been Head Girl once before. Head of Mayfield, the small primary school at the end of our road. My mother had been there when my name had been called at Sports Day. All the other mothers had been dressed impeccably and she, in her holey tights, smelling of ammonia and God knows what else, had caused everyone to move away from us. She with her slow, weary voice, who hadn’t congratulated me. Just stared, until my father had led her away and told me to go back to school and that he would collect me later.

  ‘Head Girl – well done. Keep it up. You keep it up,’ he had whispered. And I had. Even throughout the troubled years, I had kept it up. I had to. And now, for the Anne Dunne. The Anne Dunne, Oxford and then everything will be perfect.

  Mrs Allen is squeezing my shoulder. ‘Josephine? You are very welcome. We are really honoured to have you as our Head. I know you won’t let me down. One of the best students we’ve ever seen here. Very, very well done again.’ I close my eyes briefly then take my place next to her, with Verity on my other side. Verity sidles up to me and whispers, ‘Well done you, Josephine. Reckon we’ll both be put up for the scholarship as well? Fight for Head Girl now a fight for the Anne Dunne?’ She rubs her hands together and puffs at the air, as though she’s about to start running a race. I ignore her.

  Mrs Allen winds up the school notices and thanks all the girls and staff for attending. Time to tell my parents. My father works for the Prime Minister, his right-hand man, and it’s not often I can get hold of him. I use the payphone in the main school and leave a message with Sally, his secretary. She mutters a quick ‘Well done’ and hangs up. Ma is distracted. ‘Good, good.’ She’s breathing heavily, as though she’s run to the phone. I know she won’t have been more than ten footsteps away. She hangs up as I’m recounting the moment my name was called. There’s a small tapping noise on the other end of the receiver. Three or four in a row and then there’s silence. I don’t really know what I expected but I still feel like I’ve been punched in the throat. I put down the phone and Freya appears. ‘You OK?’ she says.

  ‘Fine. Just phoned my mother.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Are you . . . I mean, was it . . .?’

  ‘I’m fine. Yes. It was fine,’ I reply. Freya’s chewing on her bottom lip and I don’t have the energy to expand on the subject matter, or to reassure her that I’ll be alright.

  ‘Well, just because I’m the only one around here that knows,’ she says, ‘it doesn’t mean that you’ll ever be a burden. You can talk to me whenever. OK?’

  Again, she’s said just the right thing. I let her pull me along and we decide to go straight into town. She’s going to smoke and I’ll keep her company. We sign out of the school in the Records Book: ‘4.30 p.m., 7th September, 1996, Head Girl celebration, Café Doombar. Out for one hour, Freya Seymour and Josephine Grey (Head Girl! Woohoo!),’ Freya writes. ‘No one ever checks this damn thing anyway,’ she says.

  ‘Better be on the safe side,’ I reply, although my new Head Girl badge is already making me feel invincible. We slide through the school gates, the metal heavy against our bodies. We head down through the concrete subway tunnels, the opposite way from town, and find a car park away from the school. It’s old and stinks of piss. We crouch next to an emergency exit.

  ‘Hey, Frey, I can’t smoke at school anymore. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I know,’ she replies. ‘I shouldn’t either, but I guess I don’t have as much to lose.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I say, thinking of Oxford.

  ‘Oh, what about the scholarship too? Are you excited?’ asks Freya.

  ‘Why would I be excited?’ I reply.

  Freya takes a step back and frowns. ‘Well, you know, ’cos, you’ll probably get it, that’s why. And then you won’t even need to bother trying for Oxford.’

  I feel my bones jarring. ‘Do you reckon?’ I say, in what I think is a casual tone.

  ‘Well, don’t you?’ Freya laughs. I don’t reply and she exhales a heavy stream of smoke into the air. She hands me her lit cigarette. I don’t take it.

  ‘For God’s sake. Hold it for one minute. Just need to tie my shoelace.’ As she bends down, I take a drag and Freya looks pleased above her shoe. ‘Upper Sixth special exeat in three days. Shall we go out on Saturday night, then?’ she suggests. ‘To celebrate? It’ll be our last real chance, I guess? Before we have to really start working and stuff.’

  ‘Yeah. OK, then. We can celebrate. Or commiserate over the fact we won’t have any more time off until the end of term. Where?’

  ‘How about that club? You know the one we went to last time?’

  ‘The Fridge?’

  ‘Yeah. That one. There?’

  ‘OK, great. Just us, like usual? Will be nice to spend time with you before we never see the light of day again.’

  ‘ ’K. Sounds lovely. Just us, of course.’ Freya offers me some more of her cigarette.

  ‘No. Come on, let’s go.’ I start moving. We walk back to the school, taking the long route through the lacrosse fields and the back of the woods. We have taken off our school jumpers so no one can smell smoke on us and we arrive back at our boarding house cold and damp. We go to my dormitory where we change out of our uniforms and into after-tea mufti – Freya borrows some of my clothes and both of us end up wearing long skirts, Doc Martens and white T-shirts. We can’t talk freely. There’s a girl, probably a Junior, crying on the bed next to mine. Her trunk is still full of clothes, although her personal pinboard is covered in photographs of her family and posters of men with long hair and guitars.

  ‘Alright?’ Freya calls to her.

  ‘Fine. Just . . . just my parents have just left,’ she says.

  ‘Ah,’ says Freya, ‘it gets better, don’t worry. I promise. Look at us, we’re still here.’ She laughs, not unkindly, and opens the top drawer of my bedside table. She pulls out my Acqua Di Gio and sprays us both. ‘Just so you smell nice.’ She glances around the room. Two more squirts and she’s satisfied. ‘There. That’ll do.’

  Mrs Kitts our housemistress knocks on my door and comes in without waiting for a response. I shove both mine and Freya’s school jumpers under one of the beds and open the window.

  ‘Phew. Hot,’ Freya says, giggling. Shut up, Freya, I think.

  ‘Yes. It’s quite stuffy, isn’t it? Ah, Josephine. The new Head,’ she says, clasping her hands in prayer. ‘And our wonderful Prefect too. Both Fallow girls, eh? So proud to be your housemistress.’ She looks at Freya, eyes shining. I’m always surprised by how m
uch thinner Mrs Kitts is up close. I can see her collarbone jutting out of her cream silk blouse.

  ‘Girls, it’s House Meeting soon. Special one for you two. Congratulations,’ she says, nodding at me. ‘And Eleanor? If you need to talk to me, or you are upset, come and find me or one of the girls. Have you been designated your House Shadow yet?’

  Eleanor blows her nose. ‘Yes. I’m meeting her later so she can show me round.’

  ‘Great,’ says Mrs Kitts.

  ‘OK. Shall I ring the gong in about half an hour?’ I check my watch.

  ‘That will be perfect. Freya, if you could come with me to go through your UCAS form.’ Mrs Kitts holds out a hand and then pulls it back. Freya looks at me and I nod for her to go. I don’t say anything else as they both walk out of the room. I sit and absorb the past few hours and relive that moment when Mrs Allen reads out my name. Josephine Grey. Head Girl. Josephine Grey. The words loop in my brain.

  After House Meeting, Mrs Kitts calls me over to tell me that Mrs Allen wants to see me straight after tea. ‘Just for a quick congratulations handshake and agenda meeting,’ she says. ‘Only you and Verity.’

  I run to the shower, scrubbing away any possible remnants of smoke and change my clothes yet again. It takes ten minutes to get to Mrs Allen’s study from Fallow boarding house and I walk as fast as I can, through the dew-soaked grass and across the chapel courtyard. Verity is already waiting outside Mrs Allen’s study, looking calm. She doesn’t even bother looking at me when I sit myself down on the wooden bench next to the grandfather clock. Mrs Allen opens her door a few minutes later and ushers us both in.

  ‘Josephine, where would you like to sit?’ says Verity. She almost curtsies as she smiles at Mrs Allen.

  ‘I’ll sit here,’ I say, folding myself into a large, cushioned pink velvet chair. She pulls up a wooden chair next to me.

  ‘Girls, well done. Really well done, both of you. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m feeling great. Thank you, Mrs Allen. And, Josephine, well done again, you look like you feel great too!’ Verity leans over and rubs my arm.

  ‘I’m good. Thank you. Thank you for putting your trust in us,’ I say.

  ‘Well, you both deserved it. Right. Just a few things before choir. The school newspaper this year. Josephine. So, as per tradition, you’ll be doing the edit. Verity, you too?’

  Verity nods and makes a big show of pulling out a notebook, scribbling down the words: ‘The Lens’, in a jaunty scrawl.

  ‘Budget is a bit higher this year,’ says Mrs Allen. ‘I’ll go through the costs with you, Josephine, in the next couple of days. We’ll be publishing in time for the Christmas holidays, as usual, and, as you know, this term is always busy so it would be good if you got things moving before you get swept up with other stuff. Is that all in order?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘And I need some co-ordination help with the Anne Dunne scholarship.’ Verity stops writing and looks up. ‘Nothing big . . . but we need to sort out logistics with the other schools. Again I’ll be going through that with you soon.’

  ‘Do we know who is being put up for the scholarship yet?’ Verity asks. Me, I think.

  ‘No,’ says Mrs Allen firmly.

  ‘Right. Sorry, sorry. Just wondering,’ Verity puts her head down into the pages again.

  ‘OK, so, girls, I think that’s it, other than to again say a huge well done. Upper Sixth privilege in a few days, with your extra exeat. I suggest you take a much deserved break before you come back and it all gets going.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Allen,’ says Verity. ‘Right. It’s six o’clock. Jo, bit early but shall we go and get supper together?’ Verity extends an arm for me to take.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Allen,’ I say. ‘That’s lovely, Verity.’

  Mrs Allen opens the huge oak door and we both leave, walking down the empty corridor in total silence, stopping only to look at Main Notice Board. There’s nothing new tacked up, other than rows of photographs of the new girls, eyes bright with hope.

  And then, as we finally get to the dining hall, Verity and I go our separate ways without giving each other so much as a second glance.

  By the time exeat comes around, I’m exhausted. Right before home-time, I find myself sleeping on the floor next to my desk, curled up around piles of textbooks, marked with hundreds of Post-its, like sprouting yellow teeth. And then it hits me again. I’m Head Girl! And as I keep looking down at the badge, glinting in the light with all its promise, I think about how Freya and I will celebrate. Just us two. Our last unburdened night out. It’s got to be wild. It is, after all, our last night of freedom before my future begins.

  2014

  It’s been nine days since I replied to Freya. I spent the next two days alone, barely able to speak to anyone, thankful that it was the weekend. The others were off, sunbathing on the roof terrace of one of the five-star hotels, while I was left alone in the shimmering heat. I continued to work, stopping only to douse myself in warm bottled water and to eat handfuls of peanuts that had served as my only food intake since Freya’s email.

  I had only managed to send the email after spending hours hunched up on the bed, writing and rewriting replies. A swell of memories had filled my head as I typed: Mrs Allen’s glasses, perched on the shelf of her bosom as she read out School Announcements, and how I felt when I found out I was Head Girl; the surge of power that that little red badge gave me. It made my spine stretch high, towards the cream-coloured ceiling of Main School. Smaller details popped up, unbidden – the skirt Freya wore that fateful night, denim with little skulls and crossbones lined across the waistband, the result of hours decorating with a penknife and some glue. I found it the day after, scrumpled up in the bin. I took it home and kept it. Never admitted that to another living soul.

  Dear Freya, I had written (‘Freya’ had sounded too passive aggressive, ‘Hi Freya’, too fake.) I hope you are well. Time has gone past quickly. Thank you for your email. I’m sorry, I can’t see you. Things are extremely busy at work at the moment and I’m probably going to be off again soon, so not sure where my next post will be. I wish you luck with everything.

  I had deliberated on how to sign off for a good three hours until my head felt like someone had kicked it.

  All best wishes

  J.

  Send. Done.

  And since then, nothing. I’ve managed to keep myself from constantly clicking the refresh button on my emails, wondering if she’s playing some sort of game. Bitch, I think, then curse myself for getting caught up in it all. You wanted this, I tell myself. During work days, I have to keep putting down my tools to check my phone. Refresh my emails. Everyone’s noticed and I hear Mia asking Jeremy if everything’s OK with me. ‘I’m fine,’ I interrupt.

  Nine days and I haven’t left my room other than to work and to make two quick trips to the supermarket, stockpiling my fridge with food for packed lunches. On the tenth night, my colleagues come and knock on my door.

  ‘Join us for a drink?’ they ask, blinking nervously.

  ‘No. I’m OK. Thanks, though.’

  ‘Sure?’

  I nod and since last night no one has bothered coming. Against my best intentions, I check my email. There’s one from Toby announcing that he’s coming to see me on his way back from Iraq.

  Josephine, Josephine. I’ll be swinging by Amman, mainly to see you but also for a story on the Syrian refugees. Dine with me? I’ve got some interesting stories for you. Other things afoot too, so will be good to talk. Arrive day after tomorrow. With you at seven, earliest. Fondest, T.

  Toby always has interesting stories. I’m a keen recipient of his time in war zones; blood, guts, guns, he’s had it all and for some reason, he keeps coming back to boring old me, who’s had a pair of hands in dust and mud for the past ten years. I wonder if he’ll take my mind off things as he normally does and I’m interested to know what other things he’s got to talk to me about – Toby’s always one for surp
rises. I reply.

  T, I would love that. I’ll have a whisky and soda waiting for you in the bar of Hotel Mamounia, for when you arrive. No flak jackets allowed. J.

  Send.

  Refresh.

  Nothing from Freya. Stop checking, I tell myself. And then I wonder again if this is all a stupid little game. If she’s doing this to torment me.

  I pour a drink, a ginger beer from the minibar fridge. Then I choose vodka, from the little bottles lined up in front of me. I splash one into the plastic cup and, before I know it, it’s gone. Filled with bravado, I have another one. A glass of cold white wine follows and I sit, staring at my computer. I didn’t want to see her. But why hasn’t she written back? I should be pleased. But she can’t have given up that easily, can she? Before I know it, my fingers are flying across the keyboard in a mixture of panic and defiance.

  Freya, I hope my email got through to you. Connection is tricky here sometimes, especially when I’m out and about on a dig. I hope you understand that we can’t see each other. I do hope you are well. Josephine.

  Send. Frantically click the back button. Too late. It’s gone. I feel a sense of relief that I’m the one that’s ceded the power. Not to have it in my hands anymore feels good. But then the panic really sets in and I start trembling. Fuck, I think. What have I done? I feel like I did with Toby the first night I met him, greedily scouring his mind and then scribbling my London phone number on the back of his hand in the sticky-floored bar. ‘It’s OK to feel vulnerable,’ I mutter. No, I think. I’ve been there, done that and it’s not.