by Tanya Byrne
When I caught my breath, I held my hands up. ‘Scarlett, please. I’m cold and tired and my feet hurt. I can’t argue with you any more tonight.’
‘I came to apologise, actually,’ she said, her arms crossed, and I know it was an effort for her to say something like that. I guess Dominic did, too, because he told me that he’d wait for me by the pillars and started walking up the road.
When he was far enough away, she took a step towards me, her arms still crossed. ‘You drive me nuts, Adamma, you know that, right?’
I stared at her. I know it was as close as Scarlett Chiltern got to an apology, but I still wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
‘I know you’ve never done this before, Scarlett, but you should know: telling someone you’re trying to apologise to that they drive you nuts? Not an apology.’
‘You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?’ Her gaze narrowed and when I returned the favour, she threw her arms out. ‘Fine. I’m sorry.’
I continued staring at her for a moment or two, then gave in with a huff.
‘See?’ I arched an eyebrow at her. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’
‘It actually physically hurt, Adamma,’ she said with a theatrical sigh.
When she pouted, I had to fight a smile, and I kind of hate that, how the line between wanting to slap her and hug her is usually only a sentence. But she knows that, too, I think. She knows that line better than I do, it’s her catwalk.
‘But don’t you feel better?’
‘No. I still don’t like Orla.’
I could feel myself losing my temper again. ‘All of this for a boy? You said all of those nasty things about Orla because of a boy? Really, Scarlett,’ I snapped, and I didn’t realise that I was looking over her shoulder at Dominic until I told myself to stop.
‘A boy?’ She blinked at me, then threw her head back and laughed.
I didn’t know what was so funny until she nudged me with her hip and God help me, I want to kill her sometimes, but then she does something like that.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ I told her, nudging her back and she grinned.
We hugged wildly, giggling and grinning like a couple reunited after the war, and when we turned to walk back up the road towards Dominic, she said, ‘You have to do me a favour, though, Adamma, you have to stop being so bloody perfect all the time. I can’t decide if I love or hate that about you. You make me feel like shit.’
I elbowed her in the side. ‘I’m not trying to.’
‘Well, stop.’ She elbowed me back. ‘You’re making me look bad.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I have a reputation to maintain, Adamma –’ she paused to flick her hair – ‘and here I am, apologising and trying to be a better person. Olivia will be thrilled.’
‘I won’t tell her, I promise.’
‘Don’t tell her what I said about Orla, either. She’ll beat me to death with Mum’s copy of The Female Eunuch.’
We walked the rest of the way, chuckling, but just before we got to the stone pillars where Dominic was waiting, she looked at me. ‘I don’t mean everything I say, you know,’ she said with a shrug, and I almost laughed.
That’s the trouble.
2 DAYS AFTER
MAY
I’ve never lied to my parents before. I mean, I have, of course. I’ve told white lies, I got it half off lies and I promise there won’t be any boys there, Papa lies, but I’ve never lied like that. I’ve never been unable to look them in the eye when I told them.
Mercifully, my father was too pissed at DS Hanlon to notice and after giving me another thorough telling-off about talking to the police without telling him, he and my mother told me that they didn’t want me to miss any more classes and headed back to London. As soon as they did, I got my other cellphone out of my tuck box and called him. It went straight to voicemail, which it always does now, so I left a message telling him to meet me in the prop room at the end of the day. I went back to my room to check my phone at lunch, but when he hadn’t replied, I felt a slow curl of dread and instead of heading to the prop room at 3 o’clock, I went to the car park and, sure enough, I saw him getting into his car.
I had to run, otherwise I would have missed him. He must have heard me, feet splashing in the gravel, because he looked up. When he saw that it was me, his face hardened and there was a moment – I saw it, I’m sure – when his gaze flicked to the door of his car as he wondered if he could get in before I got to him.
‘Adamma,’ he hissed, one hand still on the car door. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’ve been calling and calling,’ I said, breathless.
‘I left our phone at home.’
‘You never leave it at home.’
‘I know,’ he said lowering his voice as his gaze darted around the car park. ‘But everyone’s been on high alert since the appeal this morning; I was worried someone would see it.’
That made sense, but it still didn’t make me feel better.
‘But aren’t you going out of your mind? Don’t you want to know what happened at the police station earlier?’
‘Of course, but not here. Please.’
As if on cue, a car rolled past and I humoured him, taking a book out of my bag and handing it to him.
‘Let’s go somewhere,’ I pleaded when he took it, nodding at his car.
‘Now? School’s kicking out and you want to go somewhere now?’
‘Please. I need to speak to you.’
I was so dizzy with panic I could barely get the words out and I think he was too, because when he opened the book and pretended to leaf through it, his hands were shaking. ‘Not here,’ he said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear him. ‘We need to be careful.’
‘But what about Paris this weekend? We’re still going, right?’
He looked up from the book. ‘What? Now? We can’t. Are you mad?’
‘But—’ I started to say, taking a step towards him, but before I could finish, I heard someone say his name. He looked over, giving them a nod and a smile, then muttered something about Thomas Hardy at me before giving the book back.
‘I’ll call you,’ he said through his teeth, turning to get in his car.
I panicked, my heart racing as I reached for the door with my hand before he could get in and close it. ‘Why does Scarlett have a disposable cellphone?’
He looked at my hand, then at me. ‘What?’
‘Why does Scarlett have a disposable phone?’
‘How should I know?’
I stared at him as I waited for my heart to settle, but it wouldn’t. And I love him – I love him – so I should have left it, but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t.
‘It’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? That we have the same phone.’
He straightened and turned to face me, the car door between us.
‘Come on, Adamma, this isn’t like you. Just say it.’
‘Fine.’ I lifted my chin and took a breath. ‘Are you seeing her as well?’
He didn’t flinch. ‘We have a history, you know we do, but no, I’m not.’
I waited for my heart to settle, for it to make me feel better. It didn’t.
I think he knew that, because he frowned. ‘Do you believe me?’
I hesitated as I looked over his shoulder to see a guy walk past carrying a cricket bag. I waited until he was out of sight, then let go of a breath.
‘Hey.’ He reached around the car door to squeeze my hand and it was nothing – not the hug I needed, the kiss – but it was enough to bring me back. I looked at him, my heart rattling for a different reason as he smiled. ‘Do you trust me?’
I arched an eyebrow. ‘I don’t trust her,’ I told him and he smiled.
I fo
rgot that it was Tuesday and swimming practice started early, so I was late and I had to do forty lengths, which was a relief; I needed the distraction, especially when I realised that Olivia wasn’t there, her red and white spotty towel not on the hooks with the others in the changing room. But even after a two-hour practice, my brain was still jumping in all directions, like a bird flying from rooftop to rooftop, so before dinner, I asked Mrs Delaney if I could go for a run. I was already in my running gear, which, with hindsight, was a little presumptuous, but she seemed more anxious than put out. I thought she was still recovering from what had happened at the police station this morning, but when I told her that I was going to Savernake Forest and she started playing with her wedding ring, I realised that she was nervous.
‘Just to the gates and back, Miss Okomma,’ she said, zipping up my vest and giving me a look that made something in my chest feel too tight.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mrs Delaney scared.
As I was jogging down the path towards the Green, I met a group of Lower College girls shuffling down it towards the library. I stepped out of their way and onto the Green and when they watched me do it, bumping into one another as they did, I felt my whole body tense as I realised that it was more than the usual awe of watching an Upper College girl who is allowed to walk on the grass. They were staring.
I pretended not to notice, but I felt a sudden weakness in my legs as I continued across the Green. I’d hoped it would pass, but it’s been happening all day – the whispers, the stares – ever since I got back from the police station, and while being talked about at Crofton is something I’ve come to accept since I fell out with Scarlett, I don’t think it’s something I’ll ever be used to. So I ran and ran, all the way to Savernake Forest. My legs were shaking by the time I got there and I was tempted to stop when I got to the mossy stone pillars at the entrance, but I kept going.
Every morning, the forest gets greener, the skeletons of the trees filling out with new leaves so bright, they look freshly painted. Today it smelt fresher too. I know green doesn’t have a smell, but if it did, it would smell like Savernake Forest in May – sharp and crisp and new, like green apple peelings.
Last week, the ground beneath the trees erupted with thousands of bluebells until the forest floor was Monet-painting purple, just like he said it would be. They were so beautiful that I swooned the first time I saw them, their bell-shaped petals, heavy with dew. But this afternoon I didn’t look at them, I just ran and ran, up the uneven road towards the gates. Keep going, I told myself when finally I saw the shape of them in the distance. I don’t know why I turned my head, how I saw the flash of green between the pencil-thin trunks of the beech trees, but I did and I stopped.
I knew, before I approached it, before I saw the thick back bumper and the muddied tail light. But I had to stare at it for a few moments before it registered.
The Old Dear.
I stumbled towards it, approaching it with my hands up as though it was a rabid dog that might go for me. I hesitated before I looked inside and it took a few attempts before I was brave enough to peer through the dirty window. It was empty except for a half-empty bottle of water and an A to Z on the passenger seat and I let go of a breath. I don’t know what I had expected, whether I thought she’d be in there, but I could feel my heart throbbing as I took a step back and reached into my pocket for my cell.
‘Buffy,’ Bones sighed, answering on the second ring. ‘I’m sorry about this morning. Hanlon has a thing about Crofton kids,’ he babbled on while I tried to catch my breath. ‘She’s worked on too many cases that have fallen apart because Daddy’s a QC that I guess she just assumes the worst and—’
‘Bones!’ I didn’t mean to shout, but I had to make him stop.
‘What? What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve found her car.’
189 DAYS BEFORE
NOVEMBER
Ever since Orla told me what happened to her, it feels like I’ve been holding my breath. I hold my breath if I hear someone crying in the shower or if I pass a huddle of girls in the dining hall, heads stooped and whispering furiously, and I do it every time I reach for my phone to check the news. I hold my breath and think, This is it. He’s done it again.
It’s become a habit, I guess. I don’t even notice I’m doing it any more. This morning, I caught myself doing it again, before I even got out of bed, my lips pressed together as I waited, hoping not to hear doors opening and the excited slap slap slap of Molly’s bare feet on the floorboards as she darts from room to room, delivering the news. He’s back. He’s back. I held my breath and waited, but there was nothing, just the cranky creak of the radiators and the far off howl of a magpie.
One for sorrow.
I still held on to the breath, though, and didn’t relax until Orla and I were walking to chapel and I half-heard my name. Normally, I would have turned around to see who had said it, maybe even blushed, but when I heard Scarlett’s name a second later, I let go of the breath because it meant that nothing happened last night; the biggest news from the Alphabet party was my argument with Scarlett.
I wouldn’t usually be so cool about it; I’m not like Scarlett, hearing my name in the corridor doesn’t make me lift my chin and smile, but I could live with it if it meant that the creep who was driving around Savernake Forest hadn’t come back. Besides, the whispering waned briefly when Scarlett and I saw one another going into chapel and hugged fiercely, then started again a few minutes later when Dominic saw me and winked.
It continued right through brunch and it must have been bad because Orla noticed and asked if I was OK. I was – really – I just wanted to go to the library and finish the piece I had to file for the Disraeli about Mr Crane retiring, but when Orla offered to go for a walk, I was so surprised that I almost erupted into tears. She’s been reluctant to leave her room, let alone school grounds since the last Alphabet party, so I didn’t hesitate, the relief making my hand shake a little as we signed out of Burnham then walked together into Ostley.
Today was one of those perfect November days; tensely cold but bright, the browning leaves making everything slightly yellow, like an old photograph. Orla laughed at me as I tugged on a pair of leather gloves, her cheeks pink as she told me that it wasn’t that cold. I ignored her, huffing and making a show of fussing over my scarf before woefully reminding her that it was 31 degrees in Lagos. She conceded with a giggle, kicking at the leaves under our feet. I did it too, and I can’t remember the last time I did something so silly, the last time I kicked at a pile of leaves without worrying about what might be underneath or if I’d scuff my shoes, and it felt kind of nice. More than nice; I was happy, I realised, and so was Orla, if just for that second, before we passed under the shadow of Savernake Forest and she went rigid.
My instinct was to reach for her arm and ask if she was OK, but she wasn’t like Scarlett. We didn’t hug or play with each other’s hair or elbow one another. It always felt like there was something between us, a fence she’d let me get close enough to peer over, no more than that. So we walked in silence and when we passed the forest and stepped into the midday sunshine, I started babbling about the hockey social and asked her what she was going to wear, but she wasn’t listening.
‘You and Scarlett weren’t arguing about Dominic last night at the party, were you?’ She didn’t look at me. ‘You were arguing about me, weren’t you?’
I stared at her, hoping that she was guessing and hadn’t heard, because that was another thing I could live with: everyone thinking Scarlett and I were bickering over Dominic if it meant that Orla didn’t find out what Scarlett had really said.
‘I – we –’ I fumbled, the words fighting with one another on their way out.
She sighed and shook her head. ‘She told you about Sam, didn’t she?’
‘She—’
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ S
he interrupted with a frown, crossing her arms. ‘But whatever she told you, don’t believe her. He’s completely different when it’s just us.’ She shrugged, her voice a little higher. ‘He’s sweet. He doesn’t talk to me like he talks to everyone else. Even his smile is different. She doesn’t know him like I know him.’
I thought of Sam squeezing Scarlett’s hand at the party and it turned my stomach inside out. I didn’t know what to say so I looked away, the spent leaves under our feet suddenly louder as we continued on towards the village.
She tried to fill the silence. ‘I know he’s a bit of a bastard,’ I stopped myself from raising an eyebrow at bit, ‘but he isn’t like that with me.’
There was another moment of silence and I don’t know whether she was waiting for me to refute that, but when I didn’t say anything, she shrugged. ‘He’s no Nathan, he’s not perfect. He’s never given me flowers or a Chanel bag,’ she said bitterly, kicking at another clump of leaves. ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’
I’d heard that before, of course, heard friends question whether their bad boy boyfriends were really that bad while I smiled and nodded and resisted the urge to roll my eyes. So it’s not that I was surprised (even if I doubted if Sam Wolfe was capable of such depths of emotion), it was that I found myself nodding.
‘Perfect is overrated,’ I told her, but I wasn’t thinking about Nathan, I was thinking about him and I found myself doing exactly what she was doing: wondering if he was different with me, if his smile was different, if he spoke more quietly to me, more softly. And it’s ridiculous – insane – he and I. The moment I let myself consider it, the same thoughts darted through my head – it will never work, my parents will never approve, he’ll never be the boyfriend I need him to be – but they suddenly weren’t as loud, as certain, as I thought about all the times I’ve caught him looking at me and asked myself if it was in my head.