by Rebecca Reid
‘It’s OK,’ she said to the back of Georgia’s head as she burrowed into Lila’s shoulder. ‘We’ll sort it out. She’s an employee. We pay her wages. She’s not going to make any more trouble for us. Did you ask your parents about the room?’
Georgia looked confused. ‘What?’
‘Did they say they’d call about moving dorms so we’re all together?’
The incredulity on Georgia’s face told Nancy that she had said the wrong thing. ‘No, Nance, I didn’t. I didn’t interrupt my mum when she was crying about my brother going to an actual fucking war zone, to ask her to ring up and get our dorms changed.’
Georgia’s hysteria wasn’t going to get them anywhere. ‘I told you, I’m going to sort it out,’ Nancy said, trying to stay calm. There was no point in rising to Georgia’s silliness. ‘But we need to present a united front. My parents are going to call. So are Lila’s. We’re getting our room back.’
Lila’s eyes snapped away from hers, and with a rush, Nancy saw what had happened. ‘You didn’t ask yours either, did you?’
Lila at least tried to look ashamed of herself. ‘Clarissa said she’d sign the slip and not tell my dad about the smoking. I didn’t want to push my luck.’
Nancy had called her parents earlier. She had calmly discussed what had happened – that she and her friends had gone for a walk and found a packet of cigarettes on the ground, and now this new teacher was trying to assert dominance by making an example of them. Her mother had agreed that it was petty and unfair. Her father had told her he would complain about the dormitory immediately, noting that she had been talking about that room for years, and what incentive was there to stay on at a school like that into sixth form if it didn’t come with any benefits? Someone of Nancy’s academic calibre could get a place at Henrietta Barnett or St Paul’s, without a moment’s trouble. Fairbridge Hall should be happy. They should be grateful to have her.
‘So neither of you asked your parents?’ she repeated, frustration swelling in her chest. ‘Thanks for telling me.’
Lila slid off the windowsill and stood up. ‘My parents aren’t like yours, OK?’
Georgia was playing with her nails, head down. ‘Mine think if they make a fuss I’ll lose my scholarship. It’s different for them.’
Pathetic. It was like neither of them even cared that this was their penultimate year. They’d be gone before long. She’d be at Oxford, of course, and Georgia probably would too, assuming she could get her act together. But there was no way Lila was getting in, so, come next year they’d be scattered across the country. Why was she the only one who cared enough to try and give them a perfect last few terms together?
She got to her feet. This was ridiculous. They needed to take things into their own hands.
‘I’m going to speak to her.’
‘What?’ Georgia looked worried.
‘To Brandon?’ asked Lila, who at least looked excited. Lila loved a good fight.
‘Yes. Come on.’
Lila got to her feet. For a moment Nancy thought Georgia was going to argue, but she didn’t. Her face was impassive as she got to her feet.
‘What are you going to say to her?’
‘I’ll be nice.’
‘As if,’ snorted Lila.
‘I will. I’m just going to explain it to her. She’s new, and she probably isn’t aware, but she needs to respect the system. Sticking Lila in that room with disgusting Heidi and Jenny isn’t going to make them friends. We pay her salary. She has to listen to us.’
‘You can’t say that to her,’ whined Georgia.
‘I know I can’t,’ said Nancy. ‘I’m not stupid.’
‘We should come up with a story,’ said Georgia, fiddling with her hair. ‘Tell them we need to keep an eye on Lila because of her mum and everything. Sorry, Li.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Lila. ‘But she didn’t buy it before, with the smoking. I don’t think she’ll buy it now.’
‘Well, let’s say it’s because of Nancy’s eating then. They’re shit scared she’ll stop again.’
Georgia was right. The best thing to do would be to bring up that little black spot from the third year and act as if getting the right bedroom was the only way she’d be able to avoid a slip back into trouble. A complete lie, obviously. She was fine. Totally fine. It had been years. But a useful option. Yet something about it felt wrong. As if she would be cheating. She didn’t want to beat Miss Brandon by using her trump card or telling a lie. She wanted the little bitch to realize that she couldn’t play God with their lives. She was new, and she needed to learn. Nancy wanted to be the one to teach her that lesson.
‘No. We’re not doing that. We’re doing it my way.’
‘What makes you think she’s going to listen to you?’ asked Lila.
‘She will,’ said Nancy, as they tramped down the stairs towards the front office. ‘If she doesn’t listen, she’ll regret it.’
Nancy raised her hand and knocked on the white door, her knuckles stinging as they hit the wood.
‘Come in,’ said the voice.
Nancy pushed the door open. It was wrong to see that woman sitting in her housemistress’s place. Everything was the same, the green carpet, the rows and rows of books, the big white cupboards with all their labelled medications. But she looked wrong. She was too young, and too shiny. Her face was smug. Unlined. Not knowing how old she was irked Nancy. There could only be six or seven years separating them. Somehow, knowing exactly how many years it was seemed important. Like it would help Nancy better sum her up.
‘How can I help?’
Nancy pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.’
Miss Brandon shifted in her chair, leaning her elbows on the desk. ‘Oh?’
‘Yesterday. Before term started. I think you might have the wrong impression of me, and my friends.’
‘And what’s that?’
Nancy smiled. ‘We don’t get in trouble. Not usually. We like to toe the line. We’re all pretty set on going to good universities, we love the school. That kind of thing, it’s just not us.’
Miss Brandon said nothing, so Nancy went on. ‘Now I’m totally aware that we messed up. I shouldn’t have been carrying cigarettes. It’s something of an adjustment, coming back to school, having been at home for so long.’
‘I can imagine that would be a strange transition.’
‘Did you go to boarding school yourself?’ she asked, knowing the answer. No one with an accent like that could possibly have been publicly educated.
‘I went to grammar school.’
Nancy feigned sympathy. ‘I think it’s so sad that they’re losing support. Grammar schools are so important.’
‘You think so?’
Wrong-footed, Nancy went on. ‘Well, they provide a wonderful education based on merit.’
‘And you think that’s important?’
Nancy wasn’t sure what to say. This woman was not reacting like she was supposed to. She brushed her hair behind her ears and took a deep breath.
‘Miss Brandon, you must be hugely busy, so I’ll get to the point. I think there was some confusion about our room allocations. We had been promised the three-person room at the back of Reynolds. We’ve been waiting for it for years. It’s quite important that we’re with Lila, we’re sort of like her family now.’
Miss Brandon said nothing, appearing to be considering her next move. Nancy appraised her figure. Her legs were long, her arms thin and her fingers, studded with gold rings, were long and slender. It was a far better body than she deserved. Nancy doubted that she had much use for it.
‘The other girls didn’t want to say anything?’
‘They feel the same way,’ said Nancy, resenting the implication.
‘But you came in to talk to me?’
‘I think they’re a bit intimidated, with you being a new teacher and all.’
‘Perhaps they don’t share your feelings?’ Miss Brandon raised her eyebrows high
and her eyes sparkled just a little. She was taunting Nancy.
‘They do.’
‘Do you often find yourself speaking for them?’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘Watch your tone, Nancy.’
She had to keep calm. She must not explode. She must not let this woman get to her.
Nancy held her hands up. ‘I apologize.’
Miss Brandon sat back down at the desk. ‘I will tell you the same thing that I told your parents. The room allocations are final. We will take note of any requests for when everyone changes dormitory after the autumn term. If your behaviour has been adequate, I will consider putting all three of you together. But for now, why not let Lila enjoy her new room-mates? Changing things up is good. You should be doing the same. It’s not healthy to be stuck in one small friendship group for the whole of school.’
Nancy took a deep breath. This bitch wasn’t getting it. ‘I’m doing my Oxbridge prep, Miss Brandon. I have an incredibly full schedule. I’m doing five AS levels. I don’t have time for the drama of new friends. I need a solid support system around me.’
Brandon was smiling now. ‘Amazingly, that’s exactly what your parents said to me. Almost word for word. But surely even a busy girl like you can make some time for a bit of chatting with other girls in your year.’
‘If you’ve spoken to my parents you’ll be aware of how strongly they feel that my education shouldn’t be disrupted.’
‘I don’t want to have to ask you to watch your tone again, Nancy.’
Her lips were moving before her brain could engage. ‘My parents pay your salary, Miss Brandon. You should listen to their wishes.’
All she could do was listen as those words echoed around the room. The words that so many Fairbridge Hall girls had said in private before, but that no one – no matter how bold – ever dared say out loud to a member of staff.
Miss Brandon opened her mouth to speak, stopped herself and pursed her lips tight for a moment. ‘You’re hoping for Oxford, aren’t you, Nancy?’ she eventually said.
Nancy nodded, her eyes focused on a spot just above Miss Brandon’s left shoulder. Brandon’s unflinching calmness was unnerving.
‘Go and stand outside my office.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Go and stand outside my office until I tell you that you can go.’
‘I don’t understand?’
‘What’s confusing you? I am punishing you. Go and stand outside my office. I’d suggest you take the time to reflect on how you came to have such a terrible attitude, until I dismiss you.’
She was joking. She had to be joking. She would laugh in a moment and tell Nancy that it was all a joke, she wasn’t really sending her to stand outside the office, because she was in sixth form and no one would ever tell a sixth former to do something so humiliatingly juvenile.
‘If I have to repeat myself once more, I will be taking your comments forward to the head. I hate to think how disciplinary actions might affect your university reference.’
Nancy stood up, mustering as much dignity as she could. Miss Brandon couldn’t make her stand there, of course she couldn’t. And one little disciplinary issue shouldn’t interfere with her Oxford acceptance. But, she paused on the threshold. Imagine. Imagine if it did. If it was the reason she didn’t get in, the reason that she had to spend three years at Durham or even worse, Bristol. Nancy crossed the threshold and took a smart step to the left and leaned her back against the wall.
Miss Brandon’s office was just off the staircase that ran from the ground floor, up to the sixth-form dining room and then up to all the rooms of Reynolds House. There was no way of getting from your bedroom to the sixth-form supper without going down it. She looked at the clock. In six minutes they would come streaming down that staircase, running, pushing, sometimes sliding if no one was looking. If she was still here in six minutes, when the ancient bell started shrieking, then every single girl in Reynolds House would see her, and would know that, despite being in the sixth form, despite being Nancy Greydon who went to the BAFTAs last year, she had been forced to stand outside a teacher’s office. And if that happened – if this new bitch was stupid enough to let that happen, Nancy would not stop until she felt Miss Brandon had been suitably punished in return.
She focused on the cold of the wall seeping through her back. If she leaned back like this it didn’t look so much like she was standing here on instruction. Could she pass it off as being casual? Like she was waiting for someone?
The big hand on the clock seemed to click as it hit the six. The bell above it shrieked. Footsteps stirred. Nancy squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to pretend that this wasn’t happening, that it wasn’t real.
But it was. She could hear mounting chatter now. Laughing. Shouting. By the end of supper, everyone would know.
There was nothing else for it. Nancy was going to ruin that smug little bitch’s life.
NOW
Lila
‘We should go inside,’ said Lila, trying again to stand up. Nancy had told her to come inside, so they had to go inside.
‘You’re not going back in there until you’ve sobered up,’ said Roo.
Roo was cross. He was cross all the time but he seemed extra cross now. He was grabbing her arm and talking way too close to her face. There was a fleck of spit on his chin and he was giving her those weird staring eyes he did sometimes. The garden felt warm. Could it be warm? It was February. It should have been the fourth month. Looking down at her arms she saw that they were tight with goose pimples. Maybe she wasn’t warm. She tried to stand up but her legs didn’t seem plugged in. She stumbled backwards on to the bench, feeling the dampness of the wood underneath her legs again. Her arse was wet. Why was the bench wet? It wasn’t raining.
They used to have fun in the rain. But then, Roo used to be fun.
They’d met on a photo shoot. Roo had been dating one of the models. He’d been standing around on the sidelines looking bored while she pranced around, thigh deep in a pond in Clapham, wearing a fur coat. The setup was supposed to be ‘all fur coat and no knickers’ so the model was facing away from the camera, raising the coat to show her bare arse. Lila had styled it, and the budget was tight, so she was doing make-up as well, which meant constantly reapplying foundation to the girl’s arse, which was pink from the cold. At some point, while Lila was calf-deep in water, trying to apply more without pulling the model out of the pond (where she might realize her feet had gone dead and push for a break) she had somehow fallen over, flat into the water. Her clothes were soaked, her hair was soaked, she hadn’t even known it was possible to be that cold. Everyone else had been horrified but she and Roo had laughed until they were nearly sick. He’d taken her to look for a hot drink, leaving the shoot going on. They didn’t go back. ‘I’ve left all my shit there,’ Lila had said, worried. Roo had merely laughed and said, ‘I’ll buy you new shit.’
‘You’re going to replace all of my make-up?’ she had asked. So he hailed a taxi and took her to a department store. First of all, he bought her dry clothes, a pair of soft Seven for All Mankind jeans, a warm jumper – had it been Theory? Or maybe Sandro? She couldn’t remember. And some ankle boots. Beautiful black ones with gold stars embroidered all over them. Her eyes had widened as the cashier rang them up, but Roo hadn’t blinked. He’d just handed over his shiny black card and asked her where the make-up department was. He hadn’t even seemed bored while she spent the next hour testing brushes and trying out different shades. He didn’t know how much new make-up would cost, thought Lila to herself. And he didn’t know how much she had had in her kit. The truth was, it was pretty skeletal, because her father had switched off the money tap six months before and she kept getting fired from temping jobs because temping was stupid and a waste of her time. But Rupert didn’t know that. And if he was stupid enough to say he’d buy her an entire kit, he could buy her an entire kit.
When she handed over her basket, laden with expensive mak
e-up, he looked surprised. ‘Is that it?’ he had asked. ‘I thought you’d need more than that, as a professional.’
He had taken her job seriously back then. Or pretended to, at least. These days he didn’t bother. There was no point in pretending. She knew he thought it was a sweet little hobby that she had indulged in until she became a wife and mother. Perhaps he was right. Maybe it wasn’t a proper job. It wasn’t like she’d ever made any money out of it.
He didn’t have money like that any more. Lila wished she’d known then how much poorer they would be later, how Roo’s job would go to shit because of that nasty business with a lying PA at his old office. That she wouldn’t be the next Grace Coddington. Actually, she wouldn’t be the next anything, other than maybe a nursery class rep in a year’s time. Sometimes she looked around the room at playgroup, the one she dragged Inigo to once a week because it gave her something to tell Roo she had done, and she felt a sort of mist around her. She couldn’t be like one of those women. She refused. It was too terrible a fate to consider. Imagine letting go of your body like that? Totally giving in to the ravages of time and age and fatness and not caring at all. What did their husbands think? Did they dutifully roll on top of them on Sunday morning and grope at their slack squashy breasts until they came, purely to be polite? Just to pretend that they still thought they were attractive.
Roo should be grateful. She’d made sure that that would never happen to her. She weighed herself every day. He got all angry with her when she got drunk at parties or there wasn’t any food in the house, but he’d be furious if she gained weight. After Inigo was born, Roo had pushed his finger into her lower stomach and asked how long it would take to go away. It wasn’t like there was even a question. Not ‘if’ it would go away. When.
She had considered eating again, eating properly, to punish him, to show him what it would be like to be with one of those mummies, the real ones. The ones he seemed to admire when he told her she should do more activities with Inigo and join in more and enjoy him more. But he would hate her if she did that, and when Roo was angry he was horrible. He had a skill for knowing what to say, the exact thing that would reduce her to absolute nothingness. He had come home one evening, when she was still trying to breastfeed because she had read how many calories it burned and because everyone kept telling her it was what real mothers did, and found her lying on the sofa in nothing but her knickers. Her nipple was bleeding, Inigo was screaming and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to wear clothes. The flat smelt like the ready meal she had burned earlier, forgetting to peel back some plastic. Roo had poured himself a large whisky, looked her up and down and said, ‘Sometimes I wish you had a mother to tell you what to do. Then you wouldn’t be such a mess.’
