by Kylie Key
The press were brutal. Mercilessly brutal.
The tabloid headlines read like clickbait:
Drowning on royal estate after night of binge drinking.
Body found in pool while party goers danced.
Boy drowns while viscount and friends party.
All of it was untrue.
William had been under water less than a minute.
We hadn’t been binge drinking. William had had one cider, Niall probably two. Simon and I were onto our second beer, Thomas and Jayden only one.
Thomas and Jayden had been swimming laps, both in their underwear. They’d stripped out of their clothes on that cool October night. It was the reason Simon, Niall and I hadn’t gone in—the water far too cold for us.
“You’re mad,” we’d laughed, as they’d raced each other in lengths, and then picking up the dive sticks that Niall was tossing in.
None of us took much notice when William dived in to retrieve the glow-in-the-dark sticks. He’d flung off his jacket and jumped in clothes and all. William was a strong swimmer, part of the school’s medley relay team—backstroke was his specialty. They tussled under the water for a while. Those of us on dry land weren’t really watching, we were talking about football. The conversation always came to football at some point, teams, the league, players, stats, our allegiances all different.
No one could remember who noticed William below the water. But seconds passed as we assumed he was faking it. Pretending to be drowning.
If you could steal back moments, turn back time...it was then. If someone, anyone, had noticed he was in difficulty, if we’d dragged him out of the pool only seconds earlier, we might have saved William.
If only...
If only...
THE CUTTERS OFFERED me a choice of several bedrooms. Their large single story house sprawled in a U-shaped design. I said I chose my bedroom for its courtyard view, but really I wanted to be as far as possible away from Shelby and Grant’s room.
Nightmares didn’t come every night, but when they came there was noise. That’s what Mum said—she’d heard my thrashing and cries. Though, possibly it was because she too hadn’t slept a full night since it had happened. No one had. Still, I didn’t want to wake the Cutters—nightmares were something you couldn’t control.
My parents were hounded by the press. Lord and Lady Langley were condemned for allowing a bunch of boys to party at their estate unsupervised; we weren’t partying, just hanging out before we went back to school after mid-term break. And Chester had been home. And apart from William and Jayden, we were all eighteen and drinking legally and responsibly.
But the press didn’t want to know that. The stories were scathing, my parents were labeled as villains, and my mother was heartbroken.
William’s parents flew in from Hong Kong and stayed with us. There was no ill-will toward anyone. We were awaiting the coroner’s report, but it was likely William had suffered an asthma attack in the water, probably brought on by diving into the cold water. It had been hard for anyone to remember when we’d last seen him puffing on his inhaler.
We had a service for William and his family returned home, and a week later we were all back at boarding school, expected to keep a stiff upper lip, the typical British trait. We had to project steely stoicism, forgetting that our group of friends was now reduced from six to five. Emotions had to be suppressed as we got back to attending classes, chapel services, play rehearsals, and sports training, the world continuing to turn, and the sun rising and setting with never-ending regularity, all without William.
I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t hide my tears, my distress, my sadness.
And I couldn’t bear the abuse directed at my family.
I KNEW IT WAS GENERAL chit chat, Mrs Bloomfield asking me about life back in England, interested in what had brought me here and how I liked things, but I found myself trying hard not to resent all the questions. I mean, I was well versed on Alex Lord and his reason for being an exchange student, but there were certain things that triggered me. Mrs Bloomfield’s innocent comment about the opulence and privilege of the royalty in general grated me. She wasn’t to know that they were often callously targeted by an overzealous press always looking to sell tabloids. My upbringing and good manners meant I maintained a polite demeanor and bit my tongue.
I looked forward to taking Blaire home, to having a chance to chill and relax, because she felt like the one person who I could truly talk to, who I could be as-close-as-possible to the real me, Alexander.
“Yeah, so that went better than I thought,” Blaire said, as she buckled herself into the truck. She’d waited for me to walk to the correct side before jumping in the passenger side, testing me I suspected. “The Blonde Brigade were actually nice.” I laughed at her nickname for Chloe and Olivia. “I mean, they said that Queen Rebecca looks down on them because they’re cheerleaders. I didn’t know that. Chloe and Olivia seem pretty popular.”
I didn’t reply. There were so many trivial things that kids got hung up on and most of it was unimportant. That’s something I’d come to realize—popularity, status, the brand of clothes you wore. So, so petty. It didn’t matter.
Especially if you were dead.
“I’m glad Chloe and Olivia wanted to make costumes,” Blaire was saying, “and Lily’s Mom is so cool. And that butterscotch brownie was the best.”
I liked that she was chatting, but girls gossip went over my head. And I’d thought Blaire was different, that she didn’t care about fitting into a clique, or hanging with the popular kids.
“Hey, how’s your mother?” I asked, “Will you go back home over Christmas break?”
“Oh.” She noticeably paused, making me think I was being too nosy. “She’s the same,” she said, “and I’m not sure yet.” She quickly changed the subject. “So, what age can you drive in England?”
I told her 17, and she went into a huge spiel about the specifics of gaining a licence here, each individual stage, which was odd because she didn’t have a car.
“So, you can drive?” I asked her.
“Uh,” she mumbled, “Yeah, I can.”
“Does your Great Aunt let you drive her car?”
“I haven’t really asked. Oh, it’s a left turn at this stop light,” she said, gathering her bag at her feet, like she was keen for another quick getaway.
“I remembered,” I said, not sure why the vibe had changed. Was that how girls were? Chopping and changing like the weather? “So, do you want me to pick you up tomorrow? For rehearsal?”
“Uh, I should be okay,” she said in a rush. “Olivia might come and help with the costumes and I’ll probably go to Lily’s first so she can try on hers, y’know?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“Thanks for the ride,” she said. I hadn’t even turned into her street yet. But it was obvious she had no intention of lingering. Is that what made my heart sink? Blaire had seemed like the most genuine girl I’d ever met, someone I could connect with, someone I could open up to, but now she was brushing me off. “I’ll see you at rehearsal.”
“Is it because of the makeup?” I asked, as I stopped at the intersection.
“Huh?”
“The zombie makeup is a turn-off?” Lily had given me a cloth to wash off the lipstick around my mouth and chin, but I was well aware that I had dark shadows around my eyes.
“No,” she said, “you’re still the cutest zombie. It’s just that instead of one costume to make, I’ve now got three. I’ve got so much to do.”
I nodded again, not wanting to show my disappointment. It was true, she had a lot of sewing ahead and I was probably being a bit needy, but the emptiness, the waves of despair and disbelief had come back, triggered by Mrs Bloomfield’s conversation. That William was never coming back, would never again strum his guitar and sing out of tune, would never come into my room snacking on a cup of noodles. Would never achieve his dream of studying engineering at Cambridge.
At th
ese times, River Valley felt like a million miles away from home. And I cursed the decision to be here; yes my parents wanted to protect me from the scandal, but did I need protecting? Life was harsh, it was unfair, that I’d already learnt.
“Thanks again,” she said as I pulled up to her Great Aunt’s little house. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She clutched at several bags and unbuckled.
Kiss me again, I wanted to say, Stay and talk and hold me and make me forget about everything for a little while.
But I said, “Good night, Blaire.”
She smiled and for a second I thought I’d get my wish...but she was gone.
THE NEXT DAY I COULDN’T get out of bed. Like, literally, no desire to move from the coziness of my blankets. I told Shelby I had a headache and she kindly brought me drinks and pain medication and food.
I told myself I’d get up for rehearsals at 2 o’clock, but I was Zombie Number 8 and my attendance wasn’t vital. It was ironic; I was putting in my best zombie performance but no one was getting to see it.
By the time I read the messages on my phone it would have been too late to make the twenty minute drive into school. Both Blaire and Lily had asked where I was. And there was a second one from Blaire: Mrs D wants us all for an extra rehearsal tomorrow at 2. Only a week to go till showtime!
My heart surged with a tiny ray of light, the only one in my dark day. I was about to reply that I’d be there, but a phone call came from my father. It was midnight back home, and there was a weariness in his voice that was now the norm.
We usually chatted about general stuff, school, study, the Cutters, the weather, the animals. But Dad bypassed all that and went straight into, “Alexander, I don’t want you to worry, but Mum’s going to go away for a few days. Just till Christmas.”
Well, first, it was more than a few days until Christmas, it was a week and a half away, and Mum had never left her beloved horses for that amount of time.
“She’s going to stay with Aunt Jane.” Mum’s sister lived on the south west coast, not far from the seaside, but typically Mum was not a beachy person and she would hate it after a day or two.
“I should come home, Dad,” I said. “I shouldn’t be over here.”
“No, Alexander, you need to stay there,” he said.
“Mum needs me,” I cried, though it was more likely that I needed her.
“Alexander, things are dying down, it’s blowing over. But we need to stick to the plan. Mum just needs this time away. It’ll do her a world of good. If you come back too soon, the press will pick it up again.”
“How’s Thomas? Have you seen him?” Out of my friends, Thomas was the one who lived closest, his family’s house was in the next village from ours.
“He’s doing okay,” Dad said, “but he’s been coming home every weekend.”
That showed he wasn’t doing okay. We weren’t weekly boarders; we spent the whole term at school, only going home in the longer breaks.
All of us had gone back to school the week after we held a service for William. You would have thought we’d find strength in each other, that the shared tragedy would have bonded us on a new level. But we were all overwhelmed by grief. And I, for one, was consumed by guilt. It wasn’t something that could be fixed by a few sessions with the school counselor.
So many regrets. Of not looking in the pool earlier. Of not noticing William wasn’t moving. Was I too slow in calling for Chester? Would removing William’s boots have helped? Why on earth did he double knot his laces?
And then the press got hold of the story and were pursuing us like we were animals. Camped out at the school, at our home, my parents hounded. Mum and Dad were unable to even make a trip into the village without reporters and cameras flashing in their faces.
They started to hang around the school too, and for my own good it was suggested I go home for a while, wait for it to die down.
So I did,
but it didn’t.
That’s when the plan came into action. I don’t even know who instigated it. I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t open for discussion. This was one time where I would do what I was told and not ask questions. And with the toll it was taking on my mother, her grief profound, her guilt immense, I knew I needed to comply.
Thinking back on it now, I can’t even remember getting on the plane. I know Shelby Cutter welcomed me with open arms at the airport, but the days leading up to my departure, the rushed arrangements were all a blur.
Jet lag, Shelby and Grant said, when I had no desire to get out of bed those first few days in River Valley. I’d never flown for eight and a half hours before, and then there was a three hour drive after that, so I guess it could have been.
I wanted it to be because I didn’t want my parents to worry about me in a country far away. And I didn’t want to think about Niall’s trembling hand and William and his lifeless body and the wet boots that I couldn’t untie. Or Chester and Thomas counting to thirty. Thirty compressions, two breaths...would I remember that? If there was ever a next time, would I remember how to clasp my hands together, pump on someone’s chest and count to thirty?
“So, you’re doing okay?” Dad asked. “Everything’s good there?”
In the scheme of things, they were. I wasn’t needing to look over my shoulder, my parents had relieved me from the pressure of dealing with the ugliness that came with being nobility. I’d been given this opportunity to step away from the viciousness, to continue with normality and I needed to appreciate it. I was lucky that I’d gotten out of that toxic environment.
“Dad, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.”
“Right, I’ll call in a day or two,” Dad said, “and Mum will call when she gets to Aunt Jane’s. Alexander, I miss you, son.”
“I miss you too, Dad.” So much for the stiff upper lip. As weird as it might sound, if you could name one good that had come from this tragedy, it was that my father was now expressing and showing his affection. It had been unheard of before this. He’d had a strict, traditional upbringing, old-fashioned by today’s standards, and much of it had been imparted on Victoria and me. Mum had been the one who had shown all the love. Maybe it had been witnessing the fragility of life, a tragedy on our doorstep, but it had brought us closer, even if we were separated by an ocean.
“Okay, love you son” he said, and my eyes welled up.
“Love you too, Dad.” I sniffed after I’d ended the call, and was about to toss my phone down, but I remembered Blaire’s text, hoping it wasn’t my no-show that had made Mrs Dornan arrange an extra rehearsal.
I replied: Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you there
On after thought, I sent another one: Do you need a ride? I could pick you up
And then I made myself get out of bed, and went to help Shelby in the stables.
Chapter 13
I’d stayed up until midnight sewing Lily’s outfit, adding the fur trim the next morning. Margaret cut the material for Chloe and Olivia’s costumes. Olivia texted me about ten times to check how I was going, so I invited her over for a fitting.
Knowing I’d been up late, she kindly brought me a coffee, which I desperately needed. Working so intensely, my eyes blurred and my glasses felt like a giant weight behind my ears. I took them off and rubbed my eyes.
“You’re pretty, Blaire,” Olivia said. Hastily, I shoved them back on, terrified that she would somehow recognize me. “Have you thought of straightening your hair? I could do it for you, if you like.”
“Uh, it dries my hair out,” I said feebly.
“What about contacts? Have you tried wearing contacts?” There was a genuine desire to improve my image.
I wrinkled my nose and adjusted my glasses. “Uh, I have sensitive eyes,” I said.
“That’s a shame,” she said. “You smell nice.”
“Thank you,” I said, hoping it was a compliment of my perfume.
“Hey, did Alex ask you out?”
“What? No!” I said.
; “But Chloe says he likes you.”
I shrugged. I’d deliberately been evasive with Alex when he’d dropped me home last night. It had taken all of my self control, a case of following my head and not my heart. Getting close to Alex would be complicated, so I had to keep him at arm’s length, better to keep him firmly in the friend zone. Besides, he was only here for a few months; heartache was guaranteed if I fell in love.
Fell in love?
What was I thinking? Gah, I’d kissed him once in a state of panic, and now the L word was fluttering in my brain.
“What kind of buttons do you think you’d like?” I said, indicating to the table top where I’d spread out a pile of buttons. “And there are more in the tin if you can’t find any.”
Olivia must have gotten the hint that there was nothing to talk about concerning Alex, and she sat down and sorted through the buttons. Like me, she found it fascinating to look through the different kinds.
Lily came over shortly after to try on her elf dress. At that stage Margaret was teaching Olivia how to hand stitch a hem. Olivia was so different to the first impression I’d had of her. Her Mom was a hairdresser, hence her blonde highlights, and she’d joined the cheerleading squad when she’d had to give up gymnastics. She had no qualms in telling us her Mom hadn’t been able to afford the coaching and competition fees. She had acknowledged that we had the same phone and neither of us had a car, so I guessed she thought we were kindred spirits in terms of our financial situations.
She also had no qualms in asking Lily about her scar. I’d googled a cleft lip because I’d wanted to know more about it. But Lily appreciated Olivia’s forwardness, telling us how she was born with a hole in her top lip which was fixed by surgery when she was three months old.
Olivia had been shocked and was inquisitive. “How did it happen?”
“The doctors don’t really know. My lip just didn’t fuse together properly when I was in the womb. I guess it’s just one of those things,” Lily said pragmatically. “There was no history of it in our family.”
