Amelia Westlake Was Never Here

by Erin Gough

  But Edie is unmoved.

  I try again. “I swear I had no idea Will Everhart was going to kiss me,” I say with feeling. “She led me into that storeroom on spurious grounds.”

  Edie looks unconvinced and even a little hurt. “How do you even know her? I hear she’s a total freak.”

  “Eccentric, maybe—” I say, faltering.

  She sticks her hands into her pajama pants pockets. “You’ve got to stop collecting strays, Bubble. They’re a waste of time. You and Arthur are both the same. You know it drives your mother crazy.”

  I feel a flash of irritation. I try to stay focused on the reason I am here. “You’re the one I want to be with.”

  “Really.” Edie regards me coolly.

  “We’re perfect for each other.”

  “How so?”

  I think about it. “Both of us are academically successful. Both of us are superior sportspeople. We are equally ambitious, too, don’t you think? Not only that, we have a very similar worldview.”

  “Similar in what sense?”

  Apart from the fact I am clinging to a tree, this is beginning to feel very much like a job interview.

  I outline our underlying optimism. Our firm belief that we can make a difference in society. Not that we’ve ever talked about sharing such a belief. Not in as many words.

  Surely Edie cares about making a difference, though. She puts on functions for refugees. Surely that means she is a good person.

  Now she leans a little farther out the window. Her ponytail flops forward over her shoulder. “Bianca Stein is a killer player, you know.”

  I readjust my grip on the trunk and the bark squeaks. “What’s her backhand like?”

  “At a rough guess? Twenty-three percent more effective than yours.”

  Ouch. “Please believe me when I say I never want to see Will Everhart again.”

  Edie rubs her hairline, where I can see the beginnings of a bruise. I remember the massaging she was doing earlier. “You were having a bit of trouble, when I knocked on the window?”

  She looks uneasy. “Just preparing for the National Public Speaking Competition, that’s all.”

  This is my chance. “You know I could help you with that. I could do notes for you on debate cards like I did for SpeakOut.”

  She regards me shrewdly.

  “Bianca Stein might be the best player at Tawney this year,” I continue. “But she can’t win the doubles if she’s up against you and me, not even if she manages to find another first-tier player to play with. And with me as your public-speaking coach, you have a good chance of winning the National Public Speaking Competition as well.”

  Edie gets the look she gets when she’s decided to smash an overhead from the baseline: a risky shot, but when she pulls it off, deadly. “Fine. If you agree to help me with this speech, consider it a deal.”

  I am back in the game. There is only one more thing to square off. I have to make clear to Will Everhart exactly where we stand. I was so muddled with cold earlier. If it means driving out to her house, so be it. I am up for the trek.

  I arrive at her place a little after eight. The Everharts’ flat is at the back of the complex: a small, freestanding, cottagey building set beside the garden. A hedge of lillypillies grows under the front window. Next to the door is a potted fig, neatly trimmed. Other than a length of dangling gutter and some fairly horrid aluminum windows it is all rather, well, lovely.

  “I want to let you know that Edie and I are back together,” I say when Will opens the door. “Just so you know. All’s well that ends well and all of that.”

  She has her hands tucked into the pockets of a plain green hoodie, and Ugg boots on her feet. She looks cozy—even cuddly—not that that is at all relevant. She knocks an Ugg boot against the step and it makes a hollow sound. For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. “That’s great, Harriet. I’m pleased for you.” She sounds tired.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I’m glad I didn’t, you know, ruin things too much for you.”

  “Me too.”

  “It’s good of you to drop by.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “See you after the holidays, I guess.” She begins to close the door.

  “Yes, see you then,” I say, lingering. The driveway looks horribly dark. The lamp on the porch is giving off such a welcoming light.

  Will looks at me in that wry way she has. She takes her hands out of her pockets. “Unless you want to come in?”

  I follow her along a short and narrow hallway, past a coatrack, a stacked umbrella stand, and a crowded bookshelf. On the shelf a stick of incense is burning, filling the hall with the scent of sandalwood. At the end of the hall is a small living room and inside it, a woman perched on a couch watching television with the sound turned down, holding a glass of wine.

  “Mum, this is Harriet.”

  Will’s mother puts the glass down. She stands up and hugs me, which is a little awkward given we have never met.

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” she says, smiling. “Will’s told me nothing about you, but then she never tells me anything, so that’s no surprise. You dropping by makes me sorry I have to go out.”

  “You’re going somewhere?” I ask, eyeing her full-length bathrobe.

  “What a surprise,” says Will, not sounding at all surprised.

  “Don’t worry,” her mother says to me. “I’m sure Miss Sarcasm here will look after you. She might even offer you a cookie if you ask her nicely.”

  Will blushes, which is more of a surprise than anything. She moves into the kitchen and takes a packet of Tim Tams from a corner cupboard. “You eat these, Harriet?”

  I nod.

  “We’ll leave you to get ready, Mum.”

  I follow Will back across the living room and down the hall. We reach the front room.

  Her bedroom.

  This was possibly a bad idea.

  She leads me through the door, held open by a pile of art books like the pile in the storeroom.

  Why am I suddenly thinking about the storeroom?

  A wooden easel stands in the corner. A framed Prado poster hangs crookedly above the bed. Will eases herself onto the mattress and leans up against the headboard. “You can sit wherever you want,” she says, opening the cookies.

  I perch carefully on the edge of the desk. “I like your mother.”

  “I think she likes you.” She looks amused.

  “I mean it. My mother’s not friendly that way.”

  Will looks like she’s going to say something but doesn’t. She holds out the cookies.

  I take one and peer around. On her desk stands a shadow box filled with trinkets—toy cars, vintage buttons, a miniature cactus in a pot. On the wall are dozens of postcards, clippings, and photographs—so much swirling color! Will takes a bite of her cookie, her brown eyes gazing at me. Her voice is low, almost a murmur. “Come and sit up here. You’ll be more comfortable.” She nods at the portion of the mattress next to her.

  “I don’t know.…” Now I’m the one blushing. Why am I blushing?

  The mattress dips with my weight, and she falls lightly against me, her arm against mine. Heat blooms on my skin like a flower. Will glances at the open door. Does she want me to say something? I can hear the close rhythm of her breathing. I am aware of the rise of her chest. I stare at a crumb of chocolate on the corner of her mouth and suddenly feel disoriented.

  What was the question again?

  chapter 25

  WILL

  This is the state of things: Harriet is killing me. Preppy Harriet with her perfect teeth and her perfect hair with more shine than a jar of honey. Sports star Harriet with her breath that smells of peppermint and her skin that smells of peppermint and her peppermint-smelling legs that are long and toned from all that tennis.

  Her arms, too, are tennis-player arms. Then there are her Tawney Shield tennis-player shoulders. So much about her is Tawney, and Tawney is everything I’m against.<
br />
  So why can’t I stop thinking about her?

  There is so much about Harriet to dislike—her pretentious vocabulary, her French-polished nails, her sockettes. But as much as I try to dislike them, somehow I love how much I hate them. And it makes things worse.

  Is this what Mum meant about differences making things interesting? Nothing about this situation makes sense. Harriet herself makes no sense. Ever since the storeroom, there’s been no correlation between what she does and anything she says. Asking me to leave and then driving to my house. Saying she’s back with Edie and then spending two hours loitering in my bedroom. Nothing happened—not a goddamn thing—but what does it matter? Every time I see her I crash deeper into madness.

  So it is that two days after her evening visit I’m halfway up the path to Harriet’s front door again. I don’t even have a game plan for when I get there. All I know is that I have to see her. I’m like a junkie risking life and limb for the sake of another hit. I push a bamboo frond aside and, lo and behold, there’s Nat Nguyen ambling toward me.

  I’ve never seen Nat amble in all my life. She’s more inclined to march swiftly, dictator style. Seriously, what’s going on with her? And what’s she doing at Harriet’s house?

  Nat ambles to a halt in front of me. “This is unexpected.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Really, though. I’m surprised to see you. I heard Harriet and Edie are back together.”

  Natasha “finger on the pulse” Nguyen. Of course she’s heard. It crosses my mind to ask her which leg, left or right, the premier puts through his underwear first in the mornings.

  “I guess I assumed the storeroom thing was a one-off.” She says it so matter-of-factly, like the “storeroom thing” is no big deal. Like I could have kissed the president of Russia and it would be of total irrelevance to her. Like we didn’t spend last term doing our own “storeroom thing” in the newsroom.

  Let her think she knows what the “storeroom thing” is all about, I decide. It’s better than her knowing the truth about Amelia Westlake, not to mention the other truth: That Harriet is the tune stuck in my head. That every waking thought I have is shadowed by the thought of being with her again.

  Deflection seems the preferable approach. “Aren’t you even going to apologize for the appalling piece in your gutter press?”

  Nat shreds a bamboo leaf with her fingers. “I’m a journalist.”

  It’s a callous response, even for Nat. “That’s your answer?”

  “We stumbled on to a good story. We ran with it.”

  “Stumbled? That’s a funny way to describe sending Duncan out to corner us.”

  “Duncan was picking up some items of his that he stores there. He can’t store them at home because his parents are ultra conservative and wouldn’t approve. He found you guys by pure chance. What were we supposed to do? Our circulation numbers depend upon those gossip pages. And our existence depends upon our circulation numbers.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I snap. “It’s a bloody school paper, Nat. Circulation numbers have nothing to do with it.”

  Nat shrugs. “Then I knew that a piece about you and Harriet Price would be something people would want to read about. Come on. What kind of a professional would I be if I let my friendship with you get in the way of breaking a story?”

  “A nice one?”

  That makes her chuckle. “You still haven’t answered my question. Are you and Harriet a thing?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It was a moment of madness, that’s all.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Nat asks.

  “I could ask the same thing of you.”

  Just then a flock of swallows explodes out of a nearby tree. I hear footsteps on the timber path. Arthur Price appears wearing black jeans, a Teengenerate T-shirt, and gardening gloves. He’s carrying a pair of pruning shears. “You’re still here!” He puts the shears down and gives Nat a squeeze. “Hey there, Will!”

  I wait for Nat to throw off his hand, but she doesn’t. Instead, she kind of nuzzles into his neck.

  I stare at them. “You two are…?”

  Nat coughs. Arthur grins.

  So that explains her strangely pleasant demeanor these past two weeks.

  Nat’s face suddenly clouds. “Hang on.” She turns to Arthur. “How do you know Will?”

  “We met a few weeks ago when she came around to see our band rehearse before the gig,” says Arthur.

  This is not good.

  Nat frowns. “What gig?”

  “The one Harriet invited you to at Deep Fryer,” says Arthur. “The night we met, remember?” He nudges her playfully.

  Surely Harriet never told Arthur she invited Nat. I hope to God she didn’t.

  “Your sister didn’t invite me to that gig,” Nat corrects him. “I thought she did at first, but in fact we just ran into each other on our way there.”

  “Oh. My mistake,” says Arthur.

  I breathe out in relief.

  “It’s just that I remember…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

  There are more footsteps. Harriet emerges from between two plants in her tennis whites, her racket case slung over one shoulder like some Golden Hollywood–era goddess off to challenge Grace Kelly to a game. God, I worship her.

  Seeing us, she slows. “Hello.”

  “Hey, sis,” says Arthur. “Look who’s here!” He nods in my direction.

  Harriet turns a deep crimson. “I’d love to stay and chat,” she says with an attempt at breeziness. “But I’m just off to Tawney practice. With Edie,” she adds pointedly.

  Nat glances between us. “Let me get this straight. You guys aren’t a thing? You’ve never been a thing?”

  “Never!” Harriet shakes her head vigorously. “We don’t even like each other!”

  In an effort to absorb this punch to the heart, I exhale slowly through my nose.

  Something appears to occur to Nat. “Art, you were going to say something about why you thought I was at the gig at Harriet’s invitation.”

  Bloody journalists. Like dogs with bones. Let it go, I will her.

  “Oh. It was just that the night Will came around…” says Arthur, wavering a little, since at this point Harriet is doing a great impression of someone choking on her own intestines, “the night Will came around you asked her, didn’t you, Harriet, whether she thought Nat would like our music?”

  “I don’t remember that,” I say emphatically.

  Arthur looks surprised. “Yeah, you do. We had that chat about Nat knowing Duncan.”

  “Hang on,” Nat interrupts, looking at me. “If you and Harriet have never been a thing, what were you even doing at Harriet’s place that night?”

  I glance at Harriet. “Um, I—”

  “And for that matter, why are you here right now?”

  Harriet opens her mouth to speak, but Nat stops her. “No. I think I’m beginning to piece it together myself.” Her eyes grow wide. “That was the same night the newsroom window got smashed.”

  I scoff. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “The person who invited me to that gig,” says Nat, a look of discovery blooming on her face, “was Amelia Westlake. Only she never showed up. When I got back to the newsroom, someone had broken in. Coincidence? I think not.” She breaks into a smirk.

  “Who’s Amelia Westlake?” asks Arthur.

  “Well you might ask,” says Nat.

  “Why are you looking at me?” I say.

  “I’m looking at both of you, actually,” says Nat smugly.

  “Now, just stop right there,” Harriet says.

  “Come on. It makes perfect sense. I’ve been working off the assumption Amelia Westlake is a single person. That’s why I ruled Harriet out. When Duncan’s uncle ran the handwriting tests and the results pointed to her, I figured he’d made a mistake. Besides, the newsroom break-in was clearly Amelia-related, and there was no way Harriet could have broken into the newsroom when she was with me
at Deep Fryer. Or so I thought.” She is looking at us with wonder and something close to admiration. “You decided, for whatever reason, that you needed me out of the newsroom. Harriet suggested Arthur’s gig as a possible lure and asked Will over to check out the band to see if they played my kind of music.”

  “This is pure speculation,” I say. “You haven’t given us an ounce of proof for this crazy theory of yours.”

  “The cartoons were my other sticking point,” Nat muses. “I could find no evidence that Harriet could draw. Obviously, Will is one of the few people in our year with the technical skills needed for those cartoons. But Will swore she had nothing to do with them. And I believed her. Partly because I didn’t think she’d lie to me. Partly because the cartoons were too witty.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, come on,” Nat says. “Tedious, drawn-out polemic is more your style.”

  “That is an outrageous and completely ridiculous—”

  “But what if you had someone to help you? Mandy Delaqua from Blessingwood, who Harriet debated in the year-ten finals, once told me that Harriet was known for making terrific jokes when you least expected it.”

  “Sounds like a complete fib to me,” I say. “No offense, Harriet.”

  “And the English-essay swap,” says Nat. “Again, Will’s connection is obvious, but I ruled you out because I was in legal studies with you when it occurred. But what if you were working with someone else who happened to have a free period?” She turns to Harriet. “You have a free period on Thursday mornings, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Harriet says shiftily.

  “I’m waiting for some actual evidence here,” I say, my voice turning shrill.

  Nat pauses. “You’re right. Actual evidence of your involvement is lacking, Will, even though the pieces fit. Even the storeroom kiss makes sense to me now. It’s a perfect alibi. But it is hard to believe the two of you could have come up with a collective idea given your historical lack of rapport. I’ve got nothing concrete to pin you down. Unless—”

  She springs toward me.

  Harriet shrieks.

  “Nat, what are you doing?” Arthur cries.