by Lulu Taylor
As she headed for the staircase, a man put his hand on her arm and stopped her. She looked up at him, startled. He was a stranger, but something about his face made her feel quite odd, as though she knew him. He had dark hair cut short and a tanned face with strong, prominent features – his nose looked like it might have been broken once or twice – but it was his piercing eyes that really stood out, ice-blue against his tan. Those eyes were staring at her now with an expression that was a mixture of reproach and accusation, and he was unsmiling.
‘I saw that. What the hell do you think you were playing at? Look at the state of that poor girl.’
She stared back at him. He was older than she was, his dark hair showing grey at the temples, and he wore an excellently cut dinner jacket that showed off his broad shoulders. ‘She deserved it!’ Octavia cried hotly. ‘You don’t know what she said.’
He frowned, a furrow forming between his eyes. ‘Throwing water over someone is not the way adults deal with their disagreements. In fact, I would say it’s the action of a spoiled child.’
She gasped angrily. Who was this man, and what gave him the right to talk to her like this? ‘You don’t know anything about it,’ she replied fiercely. ‘She asked for it. I’m glad I did it.’
For a moment he looked almost disappointed in her, then his expression turned grim. ‘I see. Well, I know a hissy little tantrum when I see one. You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m going to find someone who can get a towel for that poor soaking girl.’ He turned his back on her and strode away, leaving her breathless with anger, as she watched him disappear into the crowd.
‘Hey, Octavia!’ cried an eager voice behind her. She turned and saw Jasmine Burlington smiling broadly as she approached. ‘We saw what you did. It was pretty cool.’
‘Really?’ The adrenaline rush was disappearing. All Octavia could think about was what the stranger had said. Am I really a spoilt child?
Rosie came up on Jasmine’s heels. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘We hate Radcliffe. She’s, like, sooo lame. I loved what you did. Everyone’s talking about it.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have done it,’ Octavia said, flushing. She knew that man had been right – it was childish to chuck water over someone. But how dare he talk to me like that?
‘Are you crazy? It was great. Like, performance art. I filmed her screaming her stupid head off on my phone and it’s so going up on YouTube tomorrow.’ Jasmine grinned at her. ‘We’re desperate for a smoke, so we’re all going back to Charlie’s flat. Wanna come?’
Octavia looked at them, feeling happier. They were so edgily glamorous, Rosie with her strange hair and bee-stung lips, Jasmine with the tattooed roses snaking over her icing-sugar-white skin. ‘Yes, please,’ she said, putting Gerry and his plans to whisk her off to Annabel’s out of her mind. ‘I’d love to.’
11
There was a knock at the door. Flora lifted her head. She was still lying in her bed even though she’d been awake since five o’clock in the morning, just staring into space and remembering what had happened the previous night at the party. She’d recovered from her panic attack and had clung to Vicky for the next couple of hours, trying to avoid all the people who wanted to congratulate her on the event and introduce themselves.
Then she’d begun to feel that one pair of eyes was fixed on her, as though someone were observing her closely, staring hard at her, watching her every move. She’d felt that familiar crawling sensation tingle across her back, the one that always came with the onset of nausea in her belly. Vicky had been chatting on about something while Flora had frozen. Her breath had started coming short and fast, her heart began racing and panic whirled about inside her like a small tornado, growing in size and strength. She moaned quietly, but Vicky didn’t hear.
Then she saw it: a flash of red and a shimmer of gold epaulettes. It moved through the crowd, the colour as bright as blood in all the black and white. The red flickered into view and then out again.
He’s here, she thought with a dull sense of dread. He’s come here. I’ll never get away.
Possessed by cold horror, she felt herself lapse into a dream-like state. As if in a trance she turned and began walking towards the entrance. She had passed the foyer and the cloakroom and was just leaving through the great carved doors when Vicky caught up with her.
‘Flora … Flora, where are you going?’ she’d said, astonished, grabbing her cousin by the arm.
Flora had stared back at her, only half recognising her. ‘Home,’ she’d said blankly. ‘I’m going home.’
‘You can’t just walk out into the street!’ Vicky had cried. ‘You’re wearing half a million pounds worth of diamonds, for one thing! Come on, if you want to go home, we’ll call Steve to collect us and I’ll go with you.’
Flora had obediently let Vicky take her home, feeling as though half of her were in a nightmare that only she knew about, while the other half continued to try and function in the world where everybody else was.
Vicky, evidently worried, had given her a hot drink, helped her take off her Halston dress and made sure she got into bed.
But sleep had not come easily, and then only for an hour or two.
The knock at the door sounded again, a little louder this time. ‘Flora?’ Vicky said from the hall. ‘Are you awake?’
Flora said nothing. She waited until her cousin had gone away, and then laid her head back down on the pillow, staring dry-eyed into the dim light of her bedroom.
She went downstairs much later, sloppy in jeans and an outsize sweatshirt, her hair scraped back into a ponytail.
Vicky was just walking across the hall as Flora came down the stairs. She looked up and saw her, her expression instantly relieved. ‘Oh, there you are! Did you sleep okay?’
Flora looked at the floor. ‘Sort of,’ she mumbled. ‘Is Octavia around?’
‘Still asleep, I’m afraid. I don’t think she got in until pretty late. Come with me, and we’ll get some coffee. Would you like some breakfast?’
Flora followed Vicky to the dining room where breakfast things were still laid out, even though it was almost noon. Vicky phoned downstairs for coffee and fresh toast, and when it came persuaded Flora to eat some with a good dollop of marmalade on top.
She did feel better when she’d had something to eat, and a cup of strong coffee. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, she thought. Why do I feel so listless?
‘Have you finished?’ Vicky asked. Flora noticed that her cousin’s eyes were sparkling and that a smile of anticipation was playing around her lips. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Surprise,’ Vicky said mysteriously, and beckoned Flora as she stood up. ‘Come with me.’
She got up, her curiosity pricked, and followed Vicky upstairs. They went up three flights to the storey above Flora’s room. She hardly ever came to this floor though she spent a lot of her time in the room at the top of the house, watching television or learning to use the computer Vicky had installed for her there.
Vicky led her along the corridor to a closed door, then opened it with a flourish. ‘There! Go in.’
Flora walked past her into the room beyond. It was very bright with French windows leading on to a small balcony, the long windows letting in the light. In the middle of the room stood an easel, a chair, and a stand that held palettes and brushes. On a table by one wall were pads of paper in all colours, sizes and textures, as well as boxes of crayons, pastels, pencils and charcoals. A large open box revealed tubes of watercolour paints in an endless variety of shades. On the other side of the room, Flora noticed a sink and some cupboards.
‘For washing brushes,’ Vicky said with a grin, following Flora’s gaze. ‘And over there is an iPod docking station so you can listen to your music while you paint. There’s a radio too.’
Flora shook her head, amazed. ‘Did you arrange all this?’
Vicky nodded. ‘Yes. Do you like it?’
Flora was lost for words.
For the first time in a long while she felt the stirrings of something like pleasure. At last she said, ‘I love it.’
‘Good.’ Vicky looked delighted. ‘That was the idea.’ She pointed at the bookshelves near the windows. ‘Lots of how-to books over there. Manuals and guides to painting – just in case you’d find them useful.’
Flora smiled, her spirits lifting by the second. ‘I want to get started right away!’ she said, excited.
‘I’ve got some details of art courses as well. There’s an art school not far from here that offers lessons in watercolours, pastels, all sorts of things.’
Flora’s smile faded. ‘Oh … I’m not sure about that.’
‘You don’t have to decide now,’ Vicky said gently. ‘Have a play, do some painting and then see how you feel.’
Flora went to her cousin and gave her a hug. ‘Thanks, Vicky, this is a wonderful surprise, it really is!’
‘I’m just glad to see you happy,’ her cousin said. ‘Now, I brought a jam jar from the kitchen especially. Shall we fill it up with water and get you started?’
12
Octavia moaned and tried to open her eyes but they felt gummed shut and virtually dry. Her mouth was dry too, and her tongue felt as though it was stuck to the roof of her mouth. She winced as pain crashed through her head.
‘Oh God, what’s wrong with me?’ she asked herself pitifully. From her bed she could see her reflection in the cheval glass by the window, and she was a wretched sight. Her hair was a bird’s nest, her eyes were rimmed with smudged mascara and her complexion was a nasty grey colour. Last night’s dress lay abandoned on the floor, her shoes scattered nearby.
She glanced over at the clock. It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Well, that was no surprise. It had been nearly 10 a.m. when she’d arrived back, thanks to Vicky sending the driver to collect her once someone had managed to tell Octavia the address.
Octavia groaned and collapsed back on her cool Egyptian cotton sheets. This was a hangover, she knew that. She had thought that her slightly fizzy head the day after her twenty-first had been a hangover. It was nothing compared to this, she thought, wondering how she would summon help. She was desperate for a drink of water and her pounding head was demanding an aspirin.
She tried to think back over the previous evening. How had she ended up feeling so grim? Oh yes, of course. The after party. She had thrown that water over Amanda Radcliffe – well, the horrible woman had deserved it for mocking Flora like that – and then Jasmine and Rosie had spirited her away. She’d left without even saying goodbye to Gerry. He’d be terribly hurt. But really, they hadn’t given her any choice because within moments she’d been in a cab heading for a flat in Belgravia where a load of grungy young people were hanging out at the after party.
‘These days you can’t relax in public,’ Jasmine confided, as the taxi whizzed smoothly round Sloane Square. ‘Everyone’s got camera phones. If they’re not taking pics of you, they’re filming you. Then they phone the papers, and the next thing you’re in the gossip columns or even front-page news. I mean,’ she raised her eyebrows, ‘we can’t so much as smoke a joint without people making a fuss. And it can get much, much worse. A friend of mine got dropped as the face of a handbag company after some waster took her picture when they were doing some speed, and sold it to a Sunday newspaper. She lost, like, hundreds of thousands. Such a bummer.’
‘And they take your picture as well?’ Octavia said, surprised.
Jasmine gave her a curious look. ‘Haven’t you heard of us?’
Octavia shook her head.
Jasmine wrinkled her nose in surprise. ‘How weird. We’re always being papped, aren’t we, Rosie?’
‘Yeah,’ she drawled. ‘It’s a nightmare. I hope Charlie’s got some Grey Goose in. I’m dying for a drink.’
‘You’ve probably heard of my dad,’ Jasmine went on, ‘he’s a famous record producer. That’s why the newspapers are interested in what me and my brothers get up to … because we’re famous by association. I’ve always had my name in the papers, I’m kind of used to it now. And Rosie’s a model, for, like, really cool, edgy fashion designers, aren’t you, Rosie?’
She nodded and sighed as though that was a really big drag for her.
‘So that’s why we need after parties. So we can do our real partying in private, with people we can trust not to grass us or film us or whatever.’
The bright young things at the Belgravia flat were welcoming to Octavia but without too much interest in her: after all, beautiful, rich young girls were the norm in their circle. The main thing, it seemed, was to have fun, and that meant drinking – huge cocktails of vodka and pomegranate juice were pressed into their hands as soon as they entered – dancing, and taking drugs. At least, that’s what Octavia guessed was going on, why there were several people lying on the floor looking completely zoned out, and several more dancing manically with a crazed energy, though she didn’t notice anyone actually taking anything. But then, she had no idea what taking drugs looked like: her experience was limited to paracetamol, Lemsip and cough medicine.
Her capacity for alcohol was very small; a few sips of her drink and she was light-headed. A few more and she could feel herself swaying and her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She asked for some water and managed a kind of Alice in Wonderland trick of drinking the vodka when she felt sober and water when she felt drunk, keeping herself fairly lucid until the early hours when she rather let go of her inhibitions and … well, she had vague recollections of wild dancing, and a group shower – everyone in their underwear – and more dancing …
There’d been a boy there, too, who had wanted to kiss her but she hadn’t let him. She couldn’t remember why she’d been so determined not to as he was rather handsome, but she’d pushed him away and given him her phone number instead.
Then the driver had come, at an hour when the rest of the world was up and breakfasting, to take her home. She couldn’t even remember getting into bed – and now she felt like shit.
But it had been worth it.
Octavia managed to pick up the phone by the bedside and ask Molly to bring her aspirin, orange juice, tea and some toast as a matter of urgency. An hour or so later, she was able to make it to her bathroom and have a long hot shower. An hour after that, she made her appearance downstairs, checking her phone as she went. As predicted, there was a message from Gerry, sounding wounded and asking where she had disappeared to. There was also a call from Jasmine saying everyone had thought she was, like, cool, and maybe they could hang out together more. Nothing from that boy … what was his name? … but perhaps that was normal.
Would he call her? Would they meet again and perhaps kiss … perhaps more … she shivered with excitement. She couldn’t wait to start exploring that side of her life. Octavia had more experience than anyone could have guessed, considering how sheltered she had been – and even Flora didn’t know how much – but she was sure that she was light years behind everyone else.
I can’t wait to catch up! I need some more experience and soon, she thought as she wandered into the main downstairs living space. One entire wall was made of smooth beach pebbles set in polished concrete and the effect was soft, warm and touchable rather than stony or cold. There was no one there, and she wondered where Flora was. Last night they’d missed their usual ritual. Octavia felt a sudden pang of worry about her sister. Flora certainly hadn’t been herself at the party. I must find her, she thought. Check she’s okay.
Just then, her phone sprang into life and she took it out of her pocket. Jasmine’s name flashed boldly on the screen. Octavia’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. Finding Flora went out of her mind.
13
When Flora put her head around the office door a few days later, Vicky started laughing.
‘What?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘I haven’t said anything yet.’
‘Look in the mirror,’ Vicky said. Flora went to the glass over the chimney piece and saw that she had a big streak of blue
across one cheek and a green smear on her forehead. ‘So I take it the studio’s a success then?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Flora said, smiling. She went over to Vicky’s desk and perched on the end of it. ‘I love it – thank you so much. But … remember what you were saying about art courses?’
Vicky nodded, looking interested.
‘Well …’ Flora took a deep breath. ‘I’d like you to book me on to a watercolour course. I love painting but I’m so ignorant. They didn’t teach us anything at Mademoiselle Estelle’s. Didn’t you say there’s an art school nearby?’
Vicky nodded. ‘There are a couple I looked at.’
‘Can we both go and see them?’
‘Sure.’ Vicky smiled. ‘I’m really pleased you want to get out of the house a bit. I’ve been worried about you staying in so much.’
‘I can’t pretend the idea doesn’t make me nervous,’ Flora said, ‘but the painting has helped me so much already.’ She grinned at her cousin. ‘It was a stroke of genius, Vicky.’
‘Good.’ Vicky turned back to her computer. ‘I’ll make some calls right now and let you know.’
I knew Vicky would be good at this job, but I didn’t realise how good, Flora thought as they sat together in the back of the Mercedes. Vicky had arranged appointments right away to visit the schools, and now Steve was driving them to the second place, this one a little further away but with a beginner’s art course that Flora could join immediately if she wanted. The first school had been very smart, with lots of ladies in pearls sitting around, learning how to make attractive little daubs. It was also booked up for another couple of months.
The second school was edgier than the first. They were shown around studios that were rough and paint-splattered compared to the immaculate rooms at the previous place. Flora glanced through a window at a life-drawing class and saw that the students were of all classes and ages, ranging from scruffy youngsters to bohemian-looking older people. The teachers looked friendly and approachable.
