Keep Your Friends Close

by Janelle Harris

  ‘Oh you have got to be kidding me,’ I grumble under my breath.

  ‘You okay here alone for a minute?’ he asks, checking his screen.

  ‘Who is it?’ I ask.

  Luke holds up a finger, and I wait as he says, ‘Hello,’ and backs out of the bathroom.

  I roll my eyes as he closes the door behind him. I don’t follow. My stomach is more settled after brushing my teeth and getting the taste of vomit out of my mouth, but I’m still afraid to leave the bathroom just yet. I sit on the edge of the bath and scroll through my phone. I’ve missed a couple of calls from the office landline, but no voicemails or texts. I call work back immediately.

  It only rings twice before I hear a chirpy, ‘Good morning. Darcy’s Dishes. Mildred speaking. How may I help you?’

  ‘Hi, Mildred. It’s Darcy. Were you calling me earlier?’

  ‘Oh my God, Darcy.’ Mildred’s tone changes completely. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Are you at home? Is Luke there?’

  ‘I’m at home. I’m not feeling very well. Luke hasn’t left yet.’

  I can hear Mildred gulping in air. ‘Is your TV on?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head as if she can see me. ‘Mildred, what’s wrong? What’s going on? You sound freaked out.’

  ‘Turn on the telly, Darcy. Quick.’

  ‘Good Morning, Ireland?’ I say, knowingly.

  ‘There’s some woman on the show. She says she knows you. She says she was at school with you.’

  ‘Tina?’ I ask, flinging open the bathroom door and hurrying downstairs. ‘They must have tracked her down. Invited her on air.’

  I turn on the television and sound encompasses the living room immediately. And Lindsay St Claire’s face burns through the screen as if she’s glaring directly at me.

  ‘Take a moment. Compose yourself. I know this is hard but, please, just tell us what is in your heart,’ Lindsay says, smiling at the woman sitting opposite her. The woman has long blonde hair and thick-framed glasses and neither seem to sit naturally on her.

  I shake my head. It’s not Tina. In fact, I have no idea who the woman is sitting haggard on the couch where I sat just days ago. The on-screen text reads, ‘Elizabeth Casey – school friend of Darcy Hogan’. But I don’t recognise the name. I’ve never known an Elizabeth Casey. I do, however, recognise Lindsay’s tone, the one I know she reserves for when she’s live on air. And I can’t tell if she cares about her guest or the story. Part of me suspects she cares about both.

  Elizabeth Casey recounts episodes from my schooldays in front of the cameras as effortlessly as if it all happened yesterday. She tells the nation she was at school with me and Gillian and Tina. She was a couple of years below us, apparently. Her face is scrunched up and wrinkled and she looks years older, but it’s the thin orange band stretching from one side of the screen to the other that I’m focused on. I notice now it’s updated with incoming tweets and Facebook messages.

  I went to St Peter’s. I was very happy there. A great school.

  Darcy and Gillian were in my year.

  #StPeters

  ‘What’s happening?’ I ask, barely able to breathe. ‘What is Lindsay doing?’

  Mildred doesn’t reply.

  ’My schooldays were some of the happiest of my life,’ the woman on the couch says. ‘But then Darcy Hogan came to our school and ruined everything. She thought she was better than everyone else.’

  ‘Maybe she found it hard to settle in. Sometimes shyness can be misconstrued,’ Lindsay says.

  ‘There was nothing shy about Darcy,’ Elizabeth says. ‘She fought with the chef. She made his life a misery until the canteen took meat off the menu almost completely. She encouraged the girls to start sneaking into the boys’ dorms even though it was expressly forbidden—’

  ‘Well now,’ Lindsay cuts across her, shifting as if she’s suddenly uncomfortable in her chair. ‘Isn’t that what teenagers do – push the boundaries? I doubt Darcy was the first girl at St Peter’s to have a boyfriend.’

  ‘Do you know this woman?’ Mildred whispers, startling me. I forgot I was still holding the phone to my ear.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Darcy? Are you there?’

  I take a breath. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I don’t remember her,’ I say.

  ‘Is any of this true?’ Mildred asks.

  ‘Sort of,’ I say, ‘but she’s twisting it. That’s not how it happened. She’s making me sound like a bitch.’

  I take a deep breath as Elizabeth continues. ‘The worst part was when Gillian went missing.’

  ‘Gillian Buckley,’ Lindsay says as she reaches out to place her hand on this stranger’s knee. ‘I can imagine. It must have been so hard for all the pupils at the time.’

  Elizabeth scrunches her eyes and looks upset, but no tears fall as she says, ‘No one said anything at the time, but we all knew what Darcy did—’

  The screen goes blank and I find myself holding my breath. When colour returns it’s a generic message about technical issues.

  ‘They cut her off. Did you see that?’ I ask, guzzling air as if my lungs are constricted and I can’t fill them as much as I need to.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mildred asks. ‘Should we be worried?’

  ‘I’m not really sure,’ I say, but I realise as the words tumble past my lips that I’m lying to myself as much as to Mildred, because I know who is hiding under Elizabeth Casey’s fancy glasses, heavy make-up and glossy hair: Tina. And I am worried. I’m incredibly worried. I need to know what Tina was going to say. What was so terrible or slanderous that Lindsay cut her off air mid-sentence.

  Lindsay appears on-screen again. She’s smiling and apologising for technical problems but there’s uncertainty in her eyes. When the camera zooms out it reveals that Elizabeth is gone and the text at the bottom of the screen has changed. It says:

  Green fingers? Coming up next . . . how to keep your rose bushes in top shape this summer.

  ‘Join us after the break when we’ll be chatting to this year’s winner of Beautiful Gardens,’ Lindsay says, the apples of her cheeks rounder than usual as she tries hard to appear chipper. I turn off the television and I tell Mildred I won’t be in the office today. And she’s not surprised. She tells me to take it easy and not let all this media stuff get to me. I hang up and make my way slowly back upstairs.

  ‘There you are,’ I say, finding Luke sitting on the edge of our bed.

  I want to tell him about Lindsay’s show but I cut myself off before I begin. He looks worryingly washed out, and for someone who is usually so broad and strong he seems small and almost helpless suddenly.

  ‘Who was on the phone?’ I ask as Luke stares at his screen.

  He looks up and exhales. ‘Oh, eh, just Mildred.’

  ‘Mildred?’ I say, as I glare at my lying husband with narrow eyes.

  ‘Um. Hmm,’ he says, sitting on the edge of bed to slip his legs into his work trousers.

  ‘Work Mildred?’

  Luke stands up and shuffles his feet into his shoes, bending to tie the laces. ‘Well, yeah, honey. How many Mildreds do we know?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘How many do we know?’

  ‘Okay. I’m late for work,’ he says, standing tall once again. ‘See you later, honey. Rest up today, yeah?’

  I swallow hard. ‘Yeah. See you later.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  DARCY

  Monday 7 September 1998

  The wheels of my uncle’s car rumble over the stony driveway. It’s long and winding with tall birch trees lining each side. And it feels much more like driving into a fancy hotel than a secondary school. When we finally pull up outside the main door of St Peter’s boarding school I instantly feel like I don’t belong here. And I don’t. I would still be at my old school if my parents hadn’t died in a car crash during the summer. My dad, being a frugal restaurateur, had a trust fund set up in my name to take care of me in
the event that anything ever happened to him or my mother. I can’t help but feel he jinxed us with his over-planning. My sense of resentment is overwhelming. Irrational as I know it is, I can’t forgive my parents for dying and leaving me alone with my only living relative. My father’s older brother, Tommy – a bachelor and an asshole. Tommy has made no secret of how pissed off he is not to see a penny of my father’s money.

  The decision to enrol in St Peter’s wasn’t a mutual one. Joining a new school is never easy. But joining as a senior two years away from Leaving Cert. is unbearable and I just know I’ll never make friends. Still, it’s better than living in a rural cottage with my uncle, constantly reminded that my parents’ death is an inconvenience he could do without.

  ‘Here we are,’ Tommy says, getting out and walking around the front of his car to open my door like a perfect gentleman. ‘I hope you make lots of new friends, Darcy.’

  I know the loving uncle act is for the principal’s benefit, although I’m not sure why Tommy bothers – it’s not as if he’ll be back to visit. The principal stands in front of the main doors. I recognise him from the school brochure Tommy gave to me after the decision that I would attend St Peter’s was made. And as the principal watches us with a strained smile, his arms folded across his chest, I get the impression he sees this kind of falsity a lot.

  ‘Welcome to St Peter’s, Darcy,’ Mr McEvoy says. ‘I know you will be very happy here.’

  My smile is equally strained. Tommy takes my suitcase out of the boot, and my heart aches as I stare at the compact rectangular box on wheels that contains my entire life.

  ‘Right. Good luck,’ Tommy says, setting the case down at my feet.

  ‘You’re leaving,’ Mr McEvoy says, walking down the intimidating granite steps to join us.

  Tommy nods. ‘Have to get back to work.’

  His lie hangs in the air for a moment before the principal says to me, ‘How about a tour of your new school?’

  I look at my case which I know is heavy and I don’t reply. Words seem hard to form, suddenly.

  ‘Do you like tennis?’ Principal McEvoy asks. ‘We’re hoping to have new tennis courts out the back – soon as we have the funding. In the meantime, there’s a swimming pool in the basement, if you fancy a dip. And—’

  My eyes glass over as the engine of Tommy’s car starts and he drives away without looking back.

  Principal McEvoy places his hand on my shoulder and says, ‘Try not to worry, Darcy. Your experience here will change your life. I promise.’

  ‘It really is a great school,’ someone with an English accent says, and I look up to find a ridiculously handsome boy coming down the steps towards us.

  His floppy blond hair bounces as he walks and he drags a hand through it, guiding it out of his eyes. His uniform is pristine and emphasises his height and broad shoulders. I guess he’s about my age and I find myself hoping he’s in my class.

  ‘Luke Hogan,’ Principal McEvoy says, his smile growing a fraction crooked. ‘What are you doing out of class?’

  Luke’s emerald eyes gaze into mine and I wonder if my cheeks are as flushed as they feel.

  ‘Where is Tina Summers?’ Mr McEvoy asks. ‘Have you seen her? I asked her to welcome Darcy in.’

  ‘Darcy,’ Luke says, raising a flirtatious eyebrow.

  Principal McEvoy puts his hands on to his hips. ‘Mr Hogan!’

  ‘I have no idea where Tina is,’ Luke says, and for a moment I believe him, before I see the naughty twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Fine,’ Mr McEvoy says, straightening. ‘Since you’re here perhaps you could show Darcy around, while I locate Miss Summers.’

  ‘Sure.’ Luke shrugs and his grin is so contagious I find myself smiling back.

  ‘No getting any ideas, Mr Hogan,’ the principal warns, wagging a finger.

  Luke’s shrug is followed by a nod.

  ‘I’m sure you can understand the school has strict policies about boy and girl interaction, Darcy,’ Mr McEvoy says, and I quickly realise this is a lecture. ‘We encourage friendships, of course. But relationships? Absolutely not. And as for funny business?’ He pauses to glare at me and then Luke. ‘Well, I don’t think I need to say much about that, do I?’

  Luke smirks and it’s hard to keep a straight face as I really, really hope Principal McEvoy doesn’t elaborate.

  ‘You’ll be getting your timetable this afternoon,’ Mr McEvoy says to me, ‘and you will see that you and Tina have some overlapping classes. I’m sure she’ll be a great guide, and friend to you here at St Peter’s. Now, if you’ll excuse me I must find out where she is.’ He turns and heads off down the corridor.

  ‘While Mr McEvoy is, eh, busy, I’ll introduce you to some of the other girls,’ Luke says, picking up my case as if it’s not uncomfortably heavy. ‘I mean girls you might actually want to be friends with,’ he adds, whispering as his lips brush against my ear.

  My eyes are wide.

  ‘Well c’mon, then,’ Luke says, making his way up the sweeping granite steps.

  I follow like a loyal puppy.

  ‘Don’t look so scared,’ he says, glancing over his shoulder to check that I’m tagging along. ‘Most of us know what it’s like to be dumped here by a relative.’

  I stop walking. Insulted.

  Luke shrugs. ‘I saw your dad drive away. He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.’

  ‘He’s not my father,’ I say, folding my arms defensively.

  ‘Orphan?’ Luke says, and I know it’s a statement, not a question.

  I swallow hard and allow myself a brief moment to miss my parents. ‘Yeah. You too?’

  ‘I have parents.’ Luke smiles, oddly brightly, considering. ‘They’re just dead to me.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I say, horrified that anyone would admit something like that out loud.

  ‘They’re not bad people. More the type of people who should never have had a kid. They dump me here for three quarters of the year while they travel the world, come back and wonder why we’re not close.’

  ‘Oh that’s, erm . . . Well, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ Luke starts walking again. ‘I’m not. I was serious when I said St Peter’s is great. I love it here. You will too.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  GILLIAN

  Friday 28 June 2019

  It’s all over the news today. The man found in the Wicklow Mountains has been identified. I can’t scroll through my phone or flick on the TV without seeing his photo. Apparently, despite the body being purposely mutilated to make identification difficult, he had a distinctive birthmark on his wrist and one of his staff identified him. Although I don’t remember ever seeing this mark. I like to think it’s something I would have noticed. It’s sad, really, that with all his success and power, in the end it was an employee who noticed he was gone.

  Noise carries through the ceiling overhead. The people in the house above my flat are walking around. Laughing occasionally. They’re simply being present, but right now I resent them. There’s just already so much noise inside my head I wish they’d go to work and leave me in peace. Today will be hard enough without my mind aching too.

  The kitchen countertops are littered with various newspapers, scrapbooks, scissors and glue. I gather everything up and stack it to one side. The mess reminds me of my schooldays and how hard I found it to never have any personal space. I hated that place! I don’t bother to look at the newspaper cuttings. It’s probably something about cold cases or CSI or something. It’s creepy. Sharing a house is so not me.

  I make some coffee and pour it into a takeaway paper cup that’s showing clear signs of being reused too often. Glancing myself over in the mirror, I decide I look professional and not like I’m trying too hard, and I leave the flat. My timing is unfortunate and I open my flat door just as the couple who live overhead are descending the steps.

  ‘Morning,’ the guy says, his arm casually draped over his girlfriend’s or wife’s shoulders.

 
‘Hope you’re settling in well,’ the girl says, reaching the bottom of the steps before him. She sidesteps out from under his arm.

  I like her accent but I can’t quite place it. Polish, maybe. Her platinum-blonde hair is scraped back in a high ponytail and her bright-blue eyes are striking. He reaches the bottom step immediately after and they stand side by side staring and smiling at me. He’s decidedly average in comparison to her and I wonder if he knows he’s punching well above his weight. I don’t have time for small talk but they’re clearly waiting for me to say something.

  ‘Yes. Good. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m Eddie.’ He extends his hand and I shake it. ‘This is Kimberly,’ he adds, tilting his head towards her.

  ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m Gillian.’

  ‘I’m sorry to rush,’ Eddie says, clipped as he leans in to kiss Kimberly on the cheek. ‘But I’ve only got three minutes to make my bus and what’s the betting it will be early today. It was lovely to meet you.’

  ‘Bye, baby,’ Kimberly chirps as he dashes away.

  ‘Are you on your way to work, Gillian?’ she asks, her eyes dropping to my business suit.

  I nod. ‘Are you off to the gym?’

  She runs her hands over her super-tight, fitted training top coupled with bright Lycra yoga pants. ‘Sort of.’ She smiles. ‘I’m a gym instructor. But I do try to sneak in a cheeky workout when I can.’

  ‘A multitasker,’ I say, and she blushes. ‘Well, it’s been so lovely to meet you,’ I continue. ‘And, I hate to rush, but I’m afraid I really do need to be on my way. I have an important meeting this morning . . .’

  ‘Say no more,’ she says, beginning to jog on the spot. ‘Eddie’s always running late too.’

  I’m not running late, I want to clarify. But I simply smile and accept the insult I know she didn’t mean.