The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  1996

  I ring Freya’s house. I’m not quite sure why I’m doing it. Just to hear her voice? I’m not even sure she’s home. I recall Mrs Allen saying she was to spend time in psychiatric care, so I’m probably not going to have much luck. I tap the numbers quickly; my fingers work without having to think too much – I know Freya’s number as well as, if not better, than my own. It’s Leon who answers, and I nearly hang up.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hi,’ he replies.

  ‘It’s Josephine.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s alright. She’s doing alright.’

  ‘Listen . . . I . . .’

  ‘Josephine, I think it’s best we don’t really talk. Don’t you?’

  ‘Leon . . . I . . .’

  ‘Bye, Josephine.’ The phone buzzes in my ear. I think about ringing him back. Shall I? And then the phone goes and I know it’s him.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, coolly.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Listen. Sorry about that. Things are just . . . things are mad here.’

  ‘It’s OK. I just wanted to tell you something. I needed to speak to you.’ Although I rang to speak to Freya, I start to realise how much I need Leon.

  ‘I can’t. You nearly killed my sister.’

  We go silent and I feel his words like knife slashes.

  ‘I . . . Leon . . . I – I need to explain.’ I’m desperate for his reassurance. For him to put his arms around me and tell me it’s OK. That everything will go back to normal.

  ‘What do you need to explain? My sister nearly topped herself. Blamed you for it. How can I possibly see you? Josephine, you were family. You belonged to our family, do you know that? How could you do what you did?’

  ‘Please, please, if you just let me explain?’ My voice is cracking. I don’t want to have to beg Leon but I need his strength. I need to feel his calmness. ‘Please. Give me five minutes. I won’t tell anyone we’ve met. You need to do this. For Freya. Let me just speak to you.’ I hate begging but I can’t fuck things up with Leon.

  Half an hour later, we meet at the bench in Hyde Park where Leon taught me and Freya how to smoke. He’s sitting there already by the time I arrive, his bike flat on the grass beside him. He’s wearing soft, scuffed leather biker boots and his hair’s grown. It’s freezing but his leather jacket is slung over his lap. His arms, those arms.

  ‘You’ve got three minutes,’ he says. ‘Then I’m going. I’m doing this for my sister. To see if you can help. If you can’t, I’m never seeing you again, do you understand?’ A burning sensation shoots from my heart to my throat, up the back of my nose and I begin to cry.

  ‘Leon, I . . .’ I’m overcome with a desperate need to kiss him and I don’t know whether this is because I need some sort of physical affirmation that everything is OK but he’s looking at me with such a burning hatred that I have to take two steps back.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry. But you don’t know the full story. I can’t tell you what it is. But just so you know. It wasn’t just me.’

  I start crying and open my arms to him. ‘Please. Please help me,’ Leon looks around him and takes a step forward.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he’s saying. ‘It’s OK. I know you’re hurting.’ He relents, just like Freya would, then his face goes all pinched.

  ‘But you have to remember, my loyalties . . .’ he says. For the first time ever, I have more than a superficial surge of jealousy towards Freya.

  ‘Don’t you have any loyalties to me?’ I reply. He puts his hands in his back pocket and looks at me, unsure of what to say. ‘Is she OK?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s having some pretty hard-core treatment at the moment. She’s not great. She’ll be fine, though. Dad and I want her to go back to school. To get some sort of normality back, so we’ll see what happens.’ I wonder if she’s told her doctor everything.

  ‘How is your dad?’

  ‘He’s OK. He’s fine. Doesn’t really know how to handle this. It’s not his fault. But I’ve been looking after her quite a lot.’

  There’s the jealousy again and I’m worried about saying something spiteful. To stop myself, I look over at a passing dog, chasing a bright yellow ball.

  After a while, he says he has to go. That he can’t be seen with me. That if he were, his family would never speak to him again. ‘OK,’ I tell him. ‘OK.’

  Then he turns away, wheeling his bike off into the distance, and I am left to wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

  My offer letter comes in the next day. Father comes to my room just after lunch, where I’ve been at my desk working since six in the morning.

  ‘What are you doing at home?’ I ask.

  ‘I thought you’d be asleep. Glad to see you’re working. Anyway – I wanted to see you, of course. And I’ve got this.’ I sit up, take the envelope with the Oxford University emblem stamped on the front. There is a sheath of papers inside. I already know what this means. I take it from him, weaving it through my fingers.

  ‘Hurry up,’ he says.

  ‘What are you really doing at home?’ I ask.

  ‘Had to change my suit. Spilt my lunch.’ I look down at his white shirt and it’s spattered with what looks like steak gravy and red wine. ‘Come on then. Shall I?’

  ‘Yes.’ I hand him the letter and he opens it. Reads it. Looks worried. Puts his hand to his mouth in a bid to show me he’s sorry and my heart blips. Then he leans forward, gives me a hug and says, ‘Only joking. You didn’t really believe me, did you?’ Deep down, I didn’t but I’ve never seen my father play the fool like this. So swept away am I by this that I forget to look at the letter.

  ‘Here. Read.’

  Dear Miss Grey,

  Further to your interview with us, I am pleased, on behalf of Somerville College to offer you a place for admission in October 1997, to read History, a three-year course. This offer is conditional upon your obtaining the following grades in your forthcoming examinations:

  I don’t read any further. I have to keep looking at Father’s face, at the gleam in his eyes, because when I don’t, and I remember everything I’ve done and how bad the situation is, I get this horrid, flat disappointment seeping through me, like someone’s punctured all the life from me, and Freya’s face keeps appearing. Us, laughing at something that no one else would understand and my feelings are made worse because I can’t share this moment with her. And I wonder if my father’s pride, me trying to get away from the fear of my mother and the joy I should be feeling at my dreams coming true, is enough to make the pain go away.

  The next morning, Mrs Allen rings to congratulate me on my offer.

  ‘Josephine, I’ve had word from the Dean that your History essay was the best they received in years. Well done. Truly.’

  But this feels hollow in light of the suspension. ‘Any news on when I can come back?’ I ask. I sound agitated.

  ‘Josephine, let’s just concentrate on your news for the moment, shall we? I’m sure you and your father . . . and your mother, must be extremely happy, Josephine?’

  ‘I’m here. What about Oxford. Did Sally get an offer? And what about Freya?’

  ‘Josephine I’m not at liberty to say. I’m sorry. If you want to know you’ll have to ask the girls.’ I hang up the phone and ring Sally. She picks up after half a ring.

  ‘Hello, Aylsford residence,’ she sings.

  ‘Sally,’

  ‘Jo! I got in! Three A offer of course but I did it! I’ve been trying to ring. Got the letter yesterday. Did you? Get the letter, I mean?’

  ‘I did, yes.’ She doesn’t ask any more, safe in the assumption that I got in.

  ‘Have you heard about anyone else?’ I ask.

  ‘No, no, I haven’t. Haven’t spoken to anyone. My dad and I were celebrating all day yesterday. He took me for pizza and the cinema. First time we’ve spen
t any time together in ages.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I say, and mean it.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘I can’t hear you, you’ve gone all muffled.’

  ‘Oh sorry. Anyway, I had better go. Let me know if you hear about the others. Oxford, I mean.’

  ‘Will do. Loads of love, Jo, and thanks. I keep telling Father, you are the reason I got in. You don’t think they’ll stop us, do you? Stop us from going if this all gets out?’

  ‘I hope not,’ I say.

  ‘OK. Call me if you hear anything then. Don’t forget.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Lots of love then,’ she says.

  Sally rings me back later that night.

  ‘Freya got in.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ I say. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I heard from Marge. I have no idea how she knew.’

  ‘Ah thanks a lot for telling me.’

  ‘No probs. And I think we’re allowed back to school tomorrow.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘My dad. Lawyers.’

  ‘And Freya? Did Marge tell you anything else?’

  ‘Marge didn’t know any more but my father spoke to Mrs Allen. Apparently she’s doing absolutely fine. Walking around and stuff. She’s got to do some more psychiatric tests but they’re going to question her about everything tomorrow, before we get back. I don’t know if that was the whole story but I don’t think she was allowed to tell him much more.’

  ‘Right.’ I want to ask Sally if she thinks it’ll be OK but she gets there first.

  ‘She won’t say anything, will she? I mean this is more about her and Mrs Kitts, right?’

  ‘I think so. Listen, Sally. Just remember, Oxford. If you are tempted to say anything at all, like I told you before: Oxford. I’m going to coach you with our mocks and I’ll do A levels too. OK? I got you the interview, so you have to trust me on this.’

  I can almost hear Sally nodding down the phone. ‘Yup. I will. Don’t worry. I’ve got this far. I’m not going to let it go now.’ I believe her and hang up, relieved.

  I think of Freya having psychiatric tests. Whether she’ll be in a fit state to be questioned and I wonder if she’s thought of me at all. The next day, Father gets me a taxi back to school and waves me goodbye before he sets off for an afternoon meeting. He strides off, looking at the sky, waiting for it to rain.

  There is no rain, though, for days. Only sun, bright blue skies and grass blades bending back and forth. All the girls are smiling. Picnics outside. Lacrosse games, swimming championships. It’s all wonderful. No one mentions The Lens. The buzz of gossip over Mrs Kitts and Freya seems to have died down. Soon this will all be over, Freya’s getting better and I’m pretty sure I’m going to Oxford.

  2014

  I’m twenty minutes early for my meeting with Freya, so I walk around the park. It’s drizzling and I haven’t an umbrella, so I stay under the canopies of trees, away from the cyclists and runners. By the time midday comes, I work my way back to the Kensington Gardens Gate.

  There she is, I can see her, leaning on the railings.

  She looks perfect. Absolutely perfect. She’s got her back to me but I know it’s her. All that time searching the crowd for her face when if she was truly among them, I wouldn’t have needed to, she would have stood out immediately. She’s wearing tight-fitting jeans, crocodile-skin loafers, a pink cashmere jumper that hangs just underneath a loose-fitting blazer. That beautiful hair as well. It’s tied up in a chignon, in a tortoiseshell clip, the luscious thickness making her look even taller.

  She’s got sunglasses on her head, which, despite the rain, she manages to pull off. She’s holding a see-through umbrella and a black leather bag with a gold buckle and, when I turn to look at her, I can see everyone else is also staring. She’s oblivious though. Even when one man whistles and gives her an up and down, she just smiles back and I can see her mouthing ‘hello’ to him, like he’s offered to carry her bags.

  As if she senses me staring she turns around. Scans the park. But somehow she doesn’t see me. I am slightly hidden from view, deliberately so I can watch her unchecked. She smiles at a passer-by. Her teeth glow. Her whole being glows. She is luminescent in the grey drizzle. I stop and drink her in for a few minutes. I feel dowdy in my black boots and my black jeans. I’m wearing a thick, woollen jumper that looks like I made an effort but not so much that it’s obvious. I ended up wearing minimal make-up. Just a slick of mascara, blusher and a tiny dab of nude lipstick that I find in my bathroom that’s probably over ten years old. It’s the same colour I used to wear when we were at school. I feel more confident in it. That Freya will be able to recognise me. The old me.

  I see her looking at her watch. She pulls up the sleeve of her jumper and I wonder if the scars on her arm are still visible. She looks around for me and I can’t quite bring myself to go over yet. After a few minutes more, I finally move. I bump into two people, who both stop and swear at me. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter. ‘Sorry.’

  As I pull away and apologise to the second person, she sees me. She sees me, dammit, walking into someone. I’m sweating and I try to look as though they’ve been the ones to bump into me. I hold my hands up in mock reassurance. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say to them, smiling.

  I look over and wave. She waves back. Smiling. She’s smiling so widely I can see her back teeth. White and perfect.

  The sun comes out and the noise of the rain stops. I can hear the beep of a lorry reversing, the screams of some kids playing football and then, my name.

  ‘Josephine,’ she’s shouting. ‘Josephine!’

  I walk over and she starts to pull me into a hug but sees me step back a touch. She drops her arms and, as she does so, I change my mind, walking into her embrace. We end up clashing. Freya makes a little sound, like a bird. We both pull away.

  ‘Freya,’ I whisper.

  ‘Josephine,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe it’s you, after all this time.’ There’s something false in the way she’s talking. The smile is too forced, the twitchy hand that keeps pushing back the two locks of hair that have come loose from her chignon.

  ‘Me too. Me too.’

  We both stare at each other until someone pushes me aside.

  ‘Move out the way, will you?’ he shouts, scowling. Then he notices Freya and attempts to pull back his words. ‘Oh, sorry, sorry . . . Just . . .’

  She shoots him a look and he slides his eyes up and down her before walking off. ‘Dick,’ she says. We both laugh.

  Then her face becomes serious. ‘I’m sorry about your mother, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Bench?’ she says. ‘Here. I bought you a coffee. I remember you used to drink yours black. I hope you still do.’ She turns around and picks up a cardboard tray with two cups from the base of the park railings. ‘Here.’ She hands me one.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, taking it. The paper burns my fingers, so I let it rest between the flesh of my palms.

  We walk in silence. I’m standing a few feet away from her. She keeps moving towards me but I’m finding her presence all too overwhelming.

  ‘It’s been so long, hasn’t it,’ she says. A skater speeds in between us, causing Freya to jump.

  We reach our old bench. Leon used to sit in the middle and pass a lit cigarette to us both. ‘Suck it down like this,’ he’d say, gasping air into his lungs.

  ‘Look,’ Freya calls. ‘It’s still here, look!’

  I look over and Freya’s holding out a beautifully manicured nail on the slats. ‘I can’t believe it’s still here,’ she’s saying. ‘That time you, me and Leon etched that funny symbol into the wood. Here, just on the edge of the bench arm.’

  I look and there it is. A small round circle with two squiggly lines through it. We had vowed, on that day, that that would be a binding symbol, our calling card. That if any one of us needed help throughout our lives, we would use the symbol and the others would come to the rescue.

  �
��Wow. I had forgotten about that,’ I say, smoothing my fingers over it. Leon had carved it into the wood, with a Swiss Army knife. I think about his long, brown fingers, working into the wood. Leon.

  ‘I’ve always avoided this part of the park,’ she says. ‘Ever since . . . well, ever since we last saw each other.’

  We sit. Freya takes out her hair clip and puts it in her bag. She looks like she’s going to give me something but decides against it.

  ‘I don’t know where to start,’ she says, looking at my face.

  ‘Me too. I don’t know why you wanted to meet me so much,’ I reply. The sun’s out now, making me squint. Freya hands me her sunglasses.

  ‘No. I’m OK thanks.’

  ‘Don’t want to show any weakness?’ she laughs. I only realise what she’s said a few seconds later, when she looks like she’s about to start crying.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s a long story. I wanted to talk to you about things. I wanted to tell you things. And ask you about that night.’

  ‘Why? Why now? What good can this possibly do?’

  She doesn’t say anything, just stares down at her feet. After all the hounding and emails I am finally here and she can’t answer the first question I’ve asked.

  ‘Why?’ I ask again. I’m practically shouting and Freya looks up at me, frowning.

  ‘It’s still in my head, I just needed to . . . I’ve got a kid . . .’

  Freya has a child? ‘So?’

  ‘And I just needed to lay my ghosts to rest.’ She winds her hair around her fingers and lets it drop on her shoulder.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  And then Freya starts crying. Just a small trickle at first, and then the tears splash out, landing on her cup.

  ‘I just keep thinking about us. We weren’t even eighteen,’ she says in a small voice. ‘We were young. And then I think of my child. And how alone I felt and what I would do if . . . Like I said, it’s just in my head at the moment. That’s the main reason I was so desperate to work this out. So I could move on. Look after my child without it being here.’ Freya points to her chest and then her head. ‘Haven’t you ever felt like that? Aren’t you tired of carrying it too?’