She stopped dead. Half the class had swivelled round in their seats and were eyeing her with a mixture of astonishment and outright hilarity.
‘All right, Caitlin, you’ve had your joke,’ Mrs Cathcart said wearily. ‘Now would you please give us the facts about the picture. When was it painted?’
‘Um – quite a long time ago?’ Caitlin ventured.
‘For heaven’s sake, girl – how come we gave you a scholarship?’
Caitlin felt a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on her, waiting for her next faux pas. Get this wrong, and she’d be labelled an ineffectual wimp and the cool set would be closed to her for ever. Even Summer, who normally kept her eyes down and worked like a swot, seemed to be egging her on to say something more incriminating.
‘I guess because I’m pretty ace at drawing; because my photographic portfolio was wacky and off the wall and because when I’m a top designer, it won’t matter a toss whether I know when some stupid man obsessed with fat women was born!’
For a moment you could have heard a pin drop. Mrs Cathcart’s ample breasts heaved in unison, her poppy red lips pursed together and Caitlin just knew that she had totally blown it. She’d be expelled before she’d even started and then her family would be able to smile in satisfaction and say it was all for the best and she should have kept her feet firmly on the ground.
‘All right, point taken!’ Mrs Cathcart smiled despite herself. ‘You’re right – well, up to a point, anyway. You do have tremendous artistic talent, and there’ll be plenty of opportunities for me to drum some of the finer points of art history into you. A task which will clearly take some time. In fact – you’ve given me an idea.’
A groan rippled round the room.
‘Her ideas always mean hard work for us,’ said Izzy. ‘Thanks a bunch, Caitlin.’
‘An assignment,’ Mrs Cathcart began.
‘You can’t – it’s practically the end of term!’ Bianca protested.
‘We’d never have time to do it justice,’ Izzy added emphatically.
‘It’s a holiday assignment,’ Mrs Cathcart replied smugly. ‘I’m calling it Art in My Imagination and . . .’
‘We don’t have holiday assignments,’ Summer burst out. ‘When we had Mr Brington, he never gave us anything to do after the end of term.’
‘Did he not? Well, I do,’ said Mrs Cathcart, smiling calmly. ‘As I was saying, I want you all to seek out one piece of art wherever you go on holiday this summer and let it speak to you – the way Caitlin, however misguidedly, let The Three Graces fire her imagination. Paint, draw, photograph anything and everything that the original painting or sculpture leads you to think about. Make up stories, poems . . .’
She beamed round the room, clearly chuffed at her own inventiveness.
‘And then I want you to find out where the artist really got his inspiration – myths, legends, unrequited passion – and compare the two. Should be fascinating.’
‘Oh, riveting,’ muttered Bianca, as Mrs Cathcart turned away and packed up her laptop. ‘Like she really thinks I’m going to find a load of art galleries in the Maldives. Get real.’
The Isle of Wight isn’t exactly spilling over with masterpieces either, Caitlin thought.
‘I’ll expect a portfolio from each of you at the start of next term,’ Mrs Cathcart concluded. ‘Good morning, ladies!’
‘I shan’t know where to begin,’ Caitlin moaned as she made her way to lunch with Bianca, Summer and Izzy. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘It could be quite fun,’ Summer mused.
‘It could be quite fun,’ Bianca imitated. ‘Compared to what? Watching paint dry?’
‘Compared to spending the whole holiday . . . oh, forget it!’
‘Go on,’ Caitlin urged.
‘I said, forget it!’ Summer turned away and stomped over to the food counter.
‘Is she OK, do you think?’ Caitlin asked anxiously, watching as Summer grabbed a tuna salad. Falling out with one of the few friends she’d made would not be a good idea right now, and secretly she thought Summer fascinatingly mysterious.
‘She’ll be fine,’ Izzy replied confidently. ‘She’s like that – starts to tell you something and then clams up like she’s hiding a state secret. I guess it’s – well, you know, what with her father and everything.’
‘What about him?’ Caitlin asked eagerly.
‘Well, there’s a rumour going round that he’s got – hang on, she’ll hear us,’ Izzy muttered, and then raised her voice as they caught up with Summer. ‘Hey, how about we hit the shops after school? You up for it, Summer?’
Summer shook her head.
‘No thanks,’ she replied. ‘Ludo’s got tickets for a jazz concert – sorry.’
She pushed past them and headed for a table in the far corner of the dining hall.
‘Who’s Ludo – her boyfriend?’ Caitlin asked.
‘Boyfriend? Summer? Hardly!’ Izzy retorted, grabbing a cheese and tomato roll. ‘If you ask me, there’s something seriously not right with her.’
‘What do you mean, not right?’
‘She’s not into boys,’ stressed Izzy. ‘Or at least, in the whole two years she’s been at Mulberry, I’ve never seen her with one. Is that odd or what?’
‘You mean, she’s . . .’ Caitlin hesitated, not quite sure how to put it.
‘I’m not saying that,’ Izzy said. ‘But she never drools over fit guys in magazines and she’s not very sociable – I mean, she never throws a party or has anyone back to her place or anything. She’s a real loner. She won’t even commit to coming out with us lot on Saturday night.’
‘So who’s this Ludo?’ Caitlin looked suspiciously at what passed for lasagne, before taking a jacket potato and a scoopful of coleslaw and heading over to Summer’s table.
‘Her brother,’ Izzy said with a shrug. ‘She’s got two – Freddie, who’s dead cool and Ludo, who isn’t. They’re twins, although you’d never know it. Apparently they’ve both been bumming round Europe on a gap year, lucky sods.’
‘Hardly bumming in Ludo’s case!’ Summer looked up as they reached her table, apparently recovered from her fleeting fit of pique. ‘Freddie’s the bumming expert – most of the time Ludo’s been at Casa Vernazza, learning the ropes.’
‘Casa what?’ asked Caitlin.
‘Oh – it’s our house in Italy,’ Summer replied, nibbling on a black olive. ‘We’ve got this vineyard in Begasti – it’s near Monterosso and it used to belong to my grandparents. Freddie’s not remotely interested, so Dad’s got it into his head that Ludo will take it over one day.’
‘You own a vineyard? That is so amazing!’ Caitlin gasped, anxious to restore normal relations. ‘Just like that movie – what’s it called? Under the Tuscan Sun.’
‘It sounds a lot grander than it is – it hardly makes any money at the moment. It is lovely, though – well, it was until . . . Hey, is that the time? I’ve got to dash – piano lesson.’
With that she pushed her half-eaten salad to one side and almost ran out of the room.
‘She is so lucky,’ breathed Caitlin. ‘Just imagine living in Italy, surrounded by all that history and art and romance.’
‘Like I said, Summer doesn’t do romance,’ said Izzy. ‘Talking of which . . . what time shall I come to yours on Saturday?’
CHAPTER 2
‘Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.’
(Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey)
‘OH MY GOD, IS THIS YOUR BEDROOM? I’VE NEVER SEEN anything like it.’
Izzy flopped down on Caitlin’s bed and gazed at the sand-textured walls, midnight blue canopy over the bed and the candle sconces on the wall.
‘Do you like it?’ Caitlin asked eagerly. ‘I did it all myself. Needless to say, the parents can’t stand it.’
She had been relieved to get Izzy upstairs at last, and out of the clutches of her mother who from the minute Izzy arrived had been plying her with questions, food and ins
tructions in equal measure.
‘So, Isabella, dear, your mother does know you’re here, doesn’t she? I know what you young people are like for dashing off . . .’
‘Now, dear, a little carrot cake? Homemade, of course, and all organic and GM free . . .’
‘Isabella, dear, I wouldn’t sit there if I were you – the cat was sick on the cushion this morning and I haven’t got round to washing it . . .’
At that, Caitlin had grabbed her friend by the wrist and dragged her up the stairs, cringing inwardly at what she was sure Izzy must be thinking. Although Caitlin had not as yet been inside Izzy’s house, driving past it had been enough to give an idea of the lifestyle to which her friend was accustomed – it was an elegant, three-storey Regency town house, overlooking the seafront at Brighton, with ironwork balconies and bow windows and a general air of being a property just waiting to feature in some lavish period movie. Whereas the Old Parsonage would have been the ideal choice for one of those make-over programmes that have architects and designers throwing up their hands in horror at the enormity of the task before them. To Caitlin’s artistic sensibilities, it was an embarrassment – a mish-mash of uncoordinated colours and styles, every room cluttered with objects that her mother assured her she could never part with even though they appeared to have no practical or aesthetic use whatsoever.
‘This is all a bit – well, Addams Family, isn’t it?’ Izzy queried doubtfully, eyeing the gargoyles stuck to the bedroom wall and black ceiling with coloured bulbs hanging in clusters.
‘It’s Gothic,’ Caitlin explained enthusiastically. ‘It goes with the view. See for yourself.’
Izzy jumped off the bed, walked over to the window and shrieked.
‘Oh my God, Caitlin – that’s so spooky! How can you sleep with all – well, them out there?’
She stared with a mixture of horror and fascination into the neighbouring churchyard, lined with yew trees and scattered with headstones in varying stages of decay.
‘You get used to it,’ Caitlin assured her. ‘It’s haunted, of course, but most of the time––’
‘Haunted? You mean – you’ve actually seen a ghost?’
‘Not seen, exactly,’ Caitlin admitted reluctantly. ‘More sort of heard them, and felt them. I’m a Scorpio you see and we’re very intuitive––’
‘And particularly talented at letting your imagination run away with you!’ The door burst open and Caitlin’s mum strode into the room, wearing bright orange rubber gloves with a none-too-clean apron covering her ample figure. ‘Take no notice of her, Isabella dear––’
‘Mum, I told you, she likes to be called Izzy,’ Caitlin interrupted. ‘And would you mind not eavesdropping on my conversations?’
‘But Isabella is such a pretty name.’ Mrs Morland sighed, ignoring her daughter’s request. ‘Listen, Jamie’s just phoned – he’s on his way back from that car auction. Thrilled about some spare part he’s found apparently – and he’s bringing a friend with him. Your father’s going to attempt to barbecue––’
‘Don’t tell me Jamie’s bringing a girl back!’ Caitlin gasped in mock astonishment, more to wind Izzy up than because she actually thought it was even vaguely possible.
‘He didn’t go into the gender, dear,’ Mrs Morland remarked dryly. ‘But why shouldn’t he? It would be nice to see him with a steady, sensible sort of girl.’
‘That rules you out then,’ Caitlin whispered to Izzy as her mother left the room. ‘So, come on, what about this party of yours?’
Although she was trying very hard to sound laid-back about the whole idea, Caitlin was pretty buzzed up at the thought of Izzy’s seventeenth birthday. She couldn’t believe how lucky she’d been, getting in so quickly with someone who was clearly the Queen Bee of her year; and even though she knew that it was, at least in part, only because Izzy saw her as a fast-track route to Jamie, she intended to milk it for all it was worth. Izzy was her passport to high society – and high society was where she knew she belonged.
‘I don’t know,’ Izzy said. ‘Last year I had a Bedouin and Belly Dancers, the year before that was Jungle Drums . . .’
‘You mean, it’s going to be fancy dress?’
‘Sure – all my parties are. Only I’m running out of ideas.’
‘Ghosts and ghoulies?’ Caitlin suggested, rapidly trying to think of a costume that wouldn’t cost her an arm and a leg to get hold of.
‘Get a life,’ Izzy retorted. ‘I’m hardly going to look sexy wrapped in a sheet. I want to be alluring, smouldering, gorgeous . . . You do think Jamie’ll come, don’t you?’
‘Not if it’s fancy dress,’ Caitlin had to admit. ‘Getting him out of oil-stained jeans is hard enough. Trust me, I know.’
Izzy looked crestfallen.
‘But he has to come . . . well, I mean, it doesn’t really matter, but––’
Her final words were drowned beneath the sound of scrunching gravel and squealing tyres in the lane behind the privet hedge at the bottom of the garden.
‘What on earth . . . ?’ Izzy flung open the window and peered out just as a stocky guy clambered out of a silver Mazda. ‘Who the hell’s that?’
At that moment, a second car, backfiring wildly, drew up by the gate.
‘Well, that one’s Jamie – you can tell by the noise. And you’re safe. His mate’s clearly a guy.’
Caitlin grinned at the look of relief on Izzy’s face, a look which was followed by a dash across the room to Caitlin’s huge pewter-framed mirror.
‘Don’t you dare mention the party!’ Izzy insisted, flicking her hair behind her ears and peering critically at her flawless make-up. ‘I’ll kind of introduce the subject subtly when the moment is right.’
She paused, and turned to face Caitlin.
‘That other guy he’s with – does he look fit?’
Caitlin peered out of the window again as car doors slammed and the garden gate swung open.
‘Average,’ she reported. ‘Arms too long, and he walks a bit like an orang-utan . . .’
‘Arms? You are just the strangest person . . . what’s his butt like? I go for backsides in a guy.’
‘Can’t see, he’s gone out of sight,’ Caitlin replied. ‘Pretty cool car though. Anyway, I thought it was Jamie you’re after.’
‘I am not after him,’ Izzy protested, glancing out of the window. ‘I’m just . . . oh, never mind. Let’s get down there – like, now.’
‘You? What the hell are you doing here?’ Izzy stood stock-still in the door of the kitchen, gawping at the stocky guy with sandy-coloured hair and a generous mouth who was leaning against the breakfast bar, picking from a bag of crisps.
‘I don’t believe it, it’s Muffin!’ the guy exclaimed in amazement.
‘Don’t call me that!’ Izzy hissed, glaring at him.
The guy grinned from ear to ear and thumped Jamie on the arm.
‘So this is your mystery girl!’ he said and turned to face Izzy. ‘He’s been going on and on about this mate of Caitlin’s––’
‘Tom, shut it!’ Jamie flushed scarlet and avoided Izzy’s now-smug smile.
‘Well, you don’t have to worry about getting the inside track on her,’ Tom said with a laugh, ignoring his embarrassment, ‘because there’s nothing you need to know about Izzy Thorpe that I can’t tell you!’
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ Izzy snapped.
‘Come off it! I lived with you off and on for three years,’ Tom replied. ‘I’ve seen you drunk, throwing tantrums – and who gave you your first proper kiss?’
Izzy’s face turned scarlet.
‘Lived with . . . ?’ Jamie began.
‘Tom’s my mum’s godson,’ Izzy explained, throwing Tom a look of pure disdain. ‘His parents were overseas with the Foreign Office, and we got lumbered with him in the holidays because his mum and mine are old school friends.’
She turned to Jamie, her expression lightening.
‘How come you know one another, anyway?’
‘Gap year,’ Jamie mumbled, viewing the floor tiles with some interest. ‘Sailing in Australia.’
‘Sailing? Oh, that is so my thing,’ Izzy enthused.
This was news to Caitlin and judging by the disbelieving smirk on Tom’s face, he wasn’t convinced either.
‘Anyway, don’t listen to a word Tom says,’ Izzy burbled on. ‘He loves to wind people up. So, how was the car auction?’
‘Ace!’ Tom butted in before Jamie could reply. ‘I bought a dream of a car – goes like the wind. OK, so the paintwork needs a bit of touching up and––’
‘And the rest!’ said Jamie, laughing. He opened the fridge and tossed a can of Pepsi at Tom. ‘I still think you paid way over the odds – I mean, it’s ten years old and you’ll never get more than twenty-five to the gallon . . .’
‘What’s all this about a kiss?’ Caitlin muttered to Izzy, as her brother and Tom embarked on a boring conversation about fuel consumption and carburettors.
‘I was just a kid,’ Izzy replied hastily. ‘I only went along with it because I needed to improve my technique; he was on the spot, and had a car – it was before I developed any kind of good taste in men.’
Caitlin glanced at Tom, but although he had clearly overheard Izzy’s remark, he seemed totally unfazed by it.
‘I like to think I taught her all she knows,’ he teased. ‘Except how to change a tyre in the pouring rain.’
‘Oh, you are so witty!’ Izzy retorted sarcastically.
‘Well, now, isn’t that lovely?’ Caitlin’s mum, who had caught the end of the conversation as she came into the kitchen clutching a bowl of strawberries, smiled happily at everyone. ‘You’re all getting to know one another.’
‘And maybe you and I could get to know one another better!’ Tom’s words were the merest whisper in Caitlin’s ear as he moved to shake Mrs Morland’s hand, but there was no mistaking his hand on her bum. She glared at him, trying to ignore the little frisson of excitement that shot through her body, and stepped hastily to one side.
Summer of Secrets Page 2
