by Bankes, Liz
Gabi replies to my Dan text with a smiley face.
I suddenly wonder why I’m even going for this drink with a girl I hardly know. I didn’t have to say yes. Am I thinking that Cleo and Jamie will take me to hang out with their elite gang? It would be the first time in a while I’ve hung out in a group. I’ve been avoiding social occasions recently. Even though all the girls totally froze out Kieran, we were still friends with guys from his school, and there was always the chance of bumping into him, and I couldn’t face that.
I missed all the end-of-finals stuff and even the Year Eleven prom; I had a dress and everything. Mom took me out shopping to cheer me up because I’d broken up with Kieran. She thought I was just sad because I loved him so much. She didn’t know I was constantly panicking that people were talking about me. But the shopping trip really worked for a while. We tried on stupid clothes and Mom got stuck in some skinny jeans and I couldn’t even help her because I was laughing so much watching her struggle. But then I saw some of Kieran’s friends in town and I was sure they were looking at me and whispering to each other.
I sat in my room on the day of the prom in my pajamas just looking at my dress hanging there. My phone kept buzzing with texts from Gabi, starting with, You ready babe? X and ending with, ARE YOU DEAD? before I finally replied I’m sorry, I’m not going x.
Gabi offered to come over, which was really lovely of her, but I wasn’t having any of it, as she’d been going on about the prom all year and getting to see Max in black tie (he still wore his hat, apparently). But just the idea of everyone being there freaked me out, even though I felt miserable sitting like a loner in my room when I knew everyone was on their way to the prom in a limo. Mom didn’t say anything about the dress. She put her pajamas on too, banished Jeff and Matthew from the front room, and we watched The Notebook and ate pizza.
I walk back along the dark, echoey corridor toward the bar, thinking that I’ll tell Cleo I’m actually feeling pretty wiped out and will just get picked up now.
But when I see her sitting up on a bar stool, she’s already poured me a glass of champagne.
“Oh, actually you look all right,” she says, holding out a glass.
“Um, thanks.” I clamber onto the bar stool in front of her, wishing I could develop a way of gliding elegantly around at all times. Or just having longer legs. Or a different body and personality.
“We’ll head over to the pool house later if you like. Jay’s got some of his sad little friends there. It’s pretty fun watching them basically kiss his ass.”
She clinks her glass on mine. “So who are you, Mia?” She’s looking right at me now. Like she really wants to know about my dull life.
I start tentatively, saying “um” a lot, and tell her where I live and go to school. Is it possible to bore someone to death? I feel like I’m making a very good attempt.
But Cleo seems interested. She pushes her hair back from her face, emphasizing her flawless skin, and smiles warmly at me while she tops up my glass. Her accent has a hint of something that I can’t place. I bet she’s traveled to all sorts of exotic places and has stories a hundred times more interesting than me informing her that I have a cat and a brother. I tell her about my traveling plan and how I’m going to try to get around my mom. I realize that I’m talking a lot.
“What about you?” I ask, trying to even things up.
“What about me? Dad’s a sultan; Mom’s a whore. Lived all over, but they’ve dumped me here for now.” She pauses as she finishes her glass. “A bit of stability so I don’t fuck up my exams and miss out on Oxbridge.” She pours another, and I notice there’s a second bottle waiting in an ice bucket behind her. I’m about to take a sip but put my glass back down. After two glasses I’m already feeling the effects, and if I carry on at this speed I’m going to be trashed.
“So, how did you meet—”
“Jamie? Some charity gala thing. While this fat old biddy was making a speech about wonderful Jamie raising lots of money for them by climbing a mountain or some shit, he appeared behind me, whispering how he wanted to do unspeakable things to me.”
“Did he?” I say, not really sure what I’m asking.
“Some of them.” She shrugs. “Most of them, actually. But never all the way.”
“Really? You haven’t?”
She shakes her head. “He won’t admit he loves me. That’s my demand. He can’t say it. He says he doesn’t care, that he’s not some slobbering teen desperate to get laid. But I know it drives him crazy when there’s something he can’t have. He’s had it easy all his life, and then I come along and I’m difficult.”
“Do you want it to be difficult, though? I mean, shouldn’t a relationship be easy? Just hanging out and making each other laugh and stuff?”
“And getting married, and having kids, and losing ten years while you’re covered in baby puke and putting on weight till you sit at brunch talking about little Oscar’s stupid entrance exam because that’s all you’ve got in your awful boring life? Difficult is fun. It means there’s passion. You almost hate them, but you’ve never wanted anything more.”
I shift in my chair, and it feels like the champagne bubbles are going up and down my legs. She fills up my glass, then fixes me with her wide brown eyes. “One thing. Just don’t kiss him.”
I give a nervous half laugh. “Um, okay … I didn’t—”
“He’s got this thing,” she says. “He can make you come just by kissing you.”
I shift again and cross my legs. It’s not the champagne this time.
“So,” says Cleo, leaning back again, the intense moment past, “what about you?”
I look down at my glass. “Nothing very exciting. There was this one guy—my ex.”
I trail off, a hot, tense feeling gathering in my chest. I swallow.
Cleo leans closer with her chin on her hand. “Yeah?” she says softly.
There’s a lump in my throat, but I push the words out. “He was kind of a dick when we broke up.”
She puts her hand on mine and smiles sympathetically. Her skin feels impossibly smooth, and her nails are perfectly manicured. “Let it out,” she says. “You’ll feel better.”
I look at her. I find it really hard to say any of this stuff. Even Gabi has to coax it out of me. But for some reason, maybe because Cleo’s a stranger and doesn’t know Kieran, I feel the words forming, ready to leave my mouth.
I start talking. I tell her everything. The stuff that only Gabi knows. While I do, the champagne flows. There’s something else as well: I have this weird urge to impress Cleo and be taken into her confidence. She has this intense way of looking at you, of making you feel like you’re the only person she’s interested in. Even though I know she probably does it to everyone, it still works. I know she’s running the show, confidently drawing out words and feelings I haven’t spoken about in forever, and casually revealing intimate details about herself to make it seem like a conversation. And every time she does, I get this thrill.
“So, that guy. Not good. But what do you think about when you masturbate?”
I choke on nothing, which she probably doesn’t find particularly normal. It makes my eyes water.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t. How do you know what you like if you’ve never done it to yourself, or imagined it?”
“No, I mean, yeah, I have, but …” I swallow and try to will my face not to turn bright red.
She fixes me with a knowing look. “Do it more. And better. Spend time on it. Use things. Not just a thirty-second fumble and you’re done.”
This is possibly the weirdest pep talk I’ve ever had. But the excitement of talking about something I never talk about, despite Gabi’s best efforts, is burning in my chest. “O-okay.” I laugh, holding up my empty glass. “I promise.”
She laughs. “Good.”
I try to focus on the clock on the wall. It’s a quarter past midnight. “I’m getting picked up soon.” I look back at Cleo and the room lurches.
> She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.” She grabs my phone out of my bag. “What’s your stepdad’s name—Johnny?”
“Jeff. Wait, what are you doing?”
“Jeff … am … staying … over …,” she says as she types.
“No!” I try to snatch the phone back.
She wriggles out of my way and bats at my hand. I sway on the stool, and the room spins a bit. I reach my hand out to steady myself and accidentally put it in the ice bucket. “No need for lift …”
I go for the phone again, but she puts her hand on my face and pushes me back, finishing the text with the other hand. “Thanks! And, send.”
“He’s going to be so pissed off,” I say, but I can’t help laughing. Sure enough, the reply comes through. He’s been waiting up; this is inconsiderate, etc. The letters are going a little blurry. Cleo bites her lip in mock worry. “Sorry.”
I get a wave of confidence (or it could be nausea) and toss the phone aside. “Whatever. He should know that lots of other people—even other teachers—don’t go to bed at nine on a Saturday.”
Cleo laughs, encouraging me to keep going with the random crap that’s falling out of my mouth.
“He’s a geek and a loser.”
Cleo grabs my hand. “Come on. Into the devil’s lair.”
Chapter 12
I can see flickering lights up ahead as I stumble toward the pool house. Cleo’s dragging me forward forcefully, which is fortunate, really, because otherwise I would probably veer off into the pool and drown.
As we get closer, it looks like the pool house is glowing. Between the pillars are three floor-to-ceiling doors, all wide open and flinging light onto the water. Inside is an open-plan kitchen and living room with a stone floor, white walls, and arching wooden beams forming the roof. I spot two doors along the back walls that are closed but must lead to the bedroom and bathroom. There are people sitting in groups everywhere, and Jamie holds court from a mahogany armchair surrounded by girls. He watches us, but Cleo leads me to the other side of the room where two girls are sitting.
“This is Nish and Effy,” Cleo says. “They’re lesbians.”
“Oh, good,” I say and mentally kick my brain.
“They’re my only female friends. Every other girl in here is trying to sleep with my boyfriend.”
I try to look at Nish and Effy, but really all I see are outlines of hair and a glittery headband.
From then on everything happens in flashes, a series of images and clips of conversation. For a while I am on a sofa talking to a guy with a mop of wavy red hair. I’m saying, “You’re William?”
“I’m Willem,” he assures me.
“William,” I tell him.
“Will-em.”
I shake my lopsided head at him. “No, no. That’s not a real name.”
He melts away and then I’m by the side of the drinks table and a guy with spiky black hair leans over to whisper something in my ear and at the same time puts his hand on my butt.
Cleo appears and rescues me. “Hands off, cretin.”
I blink and suddenly I am sitting on the steps outside. I’m with a guy who possibly just told me he’s named Toby and has a friendly smile and lots of curly hair. He’s smoking a joint and I ask for some, telling him, for some unknown reason, that I do it all the time. Just a tiny bit has my head swimming and fiery tingles racing through my hands and feet. The next thing I know, I’m poking the boy and showing him my hand. “Toby, Toby, my finger’s on fire!”
A hand grabs the back of my dress and pulls me up. Perhaps it’s Jamie. Perhaps he’ll kiss me.
It’s Cleo. “Come on. We’re dancing.”
My eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness after sitting by the lights around the pool. Drum and bass music reverberate through the floor, and bodies all around me are moving in a blur. There’s Cleo’s face at the center, and we start moving. For the first time in a long time, I’m doing crazy dancing and I don’t care. And then Cleo’s hands are on my face. She pulls me forward and our lips meet. I can taste the alcohol on her mouth, which spreads through my body, and I kiss her back.
“A little attention-seeking, even for you.” His voice comes from behind me.
Cleo pulls back and smiles at him, triumphant. She drops her hands back down to her sides and I stumble backward, into his hard chest.
“Oh, dear. What would the pot washer say?” His jaw is level with the top of my head. I slow my breathing down. I need water.
“Okay!” he shouts, almost giving me a heart attack. “Turn off this drivel.” And he’s gone from behind me. A moment later the music cuts out and there’s the scratch of a record starting. It’s something classical and dramatic.
As the conversation dies and people gradually start to look at Jamie, I use the pause to go to the sink and get water. Jamie looks over at me, and I feel good that I’m not immediately jumping to attention. I try to saunter back over like I don’t really care what he’s going to do, but I keep a hand on the kitchen counter to maintain my balance, because I think the sauntering will probably lose its effect if I fall on my face.
Jamie sits back in his chair. “You look like you’ve just learned to walk.”
I try to think of something funny and biting to say, but my brain is mostly full of swirling, so I just roll my eyes. Cleo sits on the arm of Jamie’s chair, and the girl who was previously on the other arm scuttles away. I sink down to sit on what I realize too late is not a chair, but a footstool.
“Please, God, let’s do something interesting,” he says to the room in general. “What do you have for me? Who’s played the game?”
A girl with frizzy hair and unfortunately large teeth springs to her feet. “I’ve got something!”
“Ah, Christina. I asked you to do something for me, didn’t I? What did I ask you to do?”
“To … to mess with Lady Michaels.”
“Now, Joseph,” says Jamie, leaning over close enough for me to feel his breath, “we don’t like Lady Michaels. Lady Michaels was awfully rude to my mother.” I feel all the eyes in the room swivel in my direction.
“I, uh, got, um, chatting to Lord Michaels,” Christina says and snorts.
“Lord Michaels. Excellent choice. He’s a sucker for a young girl’s face. Even yours, Christina.”
“I know!” Christina nods her head, eyes wide, missing the insult. “He sent me pictures of his thingy!”
She hands her phone to Jamie, who looks at it and winces. “That’s a lot to put up with for a title. Connors?”
“Yup.” A small guy with a pale, pinched face stands up and then seems to shrink on realizing he has the attention of the room. My vision is less blurry now, but I’ve got a cloud of pain churning in my head.
“Could you see to it that these pictures are uploaded to the homepage of Platinum PR? A slideshow would be nice, with captions to explain that these are images sent by the CEO’s husband to a seventeen-year-old.”
Howls of appreciation go up from the room. Connors takes the phone and busies himself in a corner at an iMac.
“Another marriage wrecked. Well done, Jay,” says Cleo sweetly.
“A cold, vacuous one,” Jamie says. “It’s her career that matters to her.”
The words are flowing past me and I can’t process them.
“You guys are weird,” I eventually manage.
Jamie looks at me, and for a second I think he’s moving his head from side to side, which would be an odd thing for him to do. Then I realize it’s my drunk brain.
Meanwhile, a rowdy conversation has broken out. Apparently the redhead, Willem, has an attractive mother, and everyone is one-upping each other with what they’d do to her. The boy with the black spiky hair is acting it out, graphically. Willem’s cheeks turn pink and he snaps, “I bet that’s what you do to your own mom.”
The black-haired guy leans in close to him. “I’m not pussy enough to let people talk about my mom that way.”
Jamie stands up. “No, Guy, n
o one talks about your mom that way, because she’s fat and unattractive. Now, could you all go home? I want to go to bed.”
I steady myself on the footstool. Now to try to get myself to the servants’ quarters, ideally without waking up any guests and definitely without waking up Julia. As the crowd leaves, Guy is muttering something, and I catch the word “sister.” Jamie does too, and he watches him leave. I see a flicker of something in his eyes that is sharp and not like his usual bored expression.
“You can stay here,” he says to me.
I start to protest, but he interrupts by throwing me a blanket.
“Keep your pants on. I meant on the sofa.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Then, by all means, take your pants off.”
“Give her some pajamas, Jay,” says Cleo, emerging from the bedroom wearing a white negligee that comes down only to the top of her thighs.
Jamie tosses me a bundle of clothes, which I unravel into a T-shirt and some boxers. I go to the bathroom and get changed. Looking at myself in the mirror, I get a vision of me standing next to Cleo. Her light brown skin sets off the startling white of the silk resting on it. She almost shimmers. I have very attractive gray skin and a slightly cross-eyed look from the alcohol. At least, I hope it’s the alcohol and I don’t usually look like I recently died.
I lie down on the velvet sofa, and wrap myself in the blanket with my head on a ridiculously soft cushion. The room is still spinning slightly, and I know I’m going to feel awful tomorrow.
I force myself to get up again. If I don’t have another glass or two of water, there’s no way I will be able to work. The stone slab floor is freezing on my bare feet. When I get to the sink, my eye catches some movement to my left.
Jamie’s bedroom door is open, and I can see the top half of his bed. He’s lying back, wearing just his boxers, and reading a book. He has his knees bent and one hand behind his head. His chest rises and falls, and my eyes are pulled toward his toned stomach, following a line of hair that leads down to the top of his boxers.
He’s got a small frown of concentration. I want to call over and ask what he’s reading, but then I see Cleo. She comes crawling up between his legs and grips the wrist of the hand holding the book. She pushes his arm back so that both his hands are above his head, and the book falls to the floor. She puts her face close to his, about to kiss him, but then moves down again, her lips brushing over his neck, chest, and stomach and stopping at the top of his boxers. Then she comes up again, doing the same thing, and Jamie’s back arches.