The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  At breakfast, it’s all I hear about: in the queues, at the table, when we take our trays to the kitchen. Chapel is supposed to be at eight thirty every morning but it’s been put forward to eight twenty, because of the announcement.

  I think about lagging back but decide to face things head-on. There’s a scrum to the chapel doors, the noise peaking then falling silent as a large group of girls from the year below rush to the yellow paper, pinned to the cork board. There’s a few gasps and the crowd turns around, hunting for someone. Gracie sees me and my stomach swoops expectantly, but she doesn’t react. Then I see Freya coming down the hill and someone shouts to her.

  ‘Freya! Quick, quick! The Anne Dunne, you’ve been nominated!’

  Freya breaks out into a sharp walk and a massive cheer erupts. Freya? I think. Freya?! She’s undoing her hair from the messy bun on her head and she’s now running. Opening out her arms like she’s scored the lacrosse goal of the century and she’s the old Freya again. Luminous, hair flying, smiling. She’s all over the grounds, swooping and whooping and, out of nowhere, Verity appears, and takes her hands and they dance around like two wood nymphs, screaming and shrieking.

  Verity can afford to be excited that the other nominee is Freya; after all, she is really no competition whatsoever, and then I slow down and realise that Freya being nominated is the best thing that possibly could have happened. For me, at any rate. She will be so distracted, so busy studying, she’ll totally forget about telling anyone what happened. Bring it on, I think. It’s almost worth taking myself out of the game so she has more of a chance. Let her and Verity fight it out, but then I remember why I am doing this in the first place. Why this is so important. And she’s there, in my head, arms all skinny and cut and that smell of almonds and the devil that chases her. Then it comes to me that no one has congratulated me. Surely I’ve been nominated? But girls are flying past me and no one has said a word. How could this happen? How?! I ball my hands into fists by my side and bite the inside of my cheek, releasing iron and warmth into my mouth.

  The girls next to me are swept away with Freya’s pleasure and everyone is still cheering as she makes her way down to chapel. I look round to see if anyone else thinks her nomination is strange but no one is with me – everyone seems genuinely pleased and, although I’d always been quite happy with only Freya in my life, this gives me a sensation of loneliness. That no one, not even my own mother, would ever find my achievements this exciting.

  I’m meant to be leading prayers today but I can’t face it. Everything starts blurring. I have not been nominated. You will cope, I think. How? Get a hold of yourself! Then someone walks past me and claps me on the back. ‘Well done,’ they say. I smile. It’s a third-former, whose name escapes me but I recognise her from choir.

  ‘Well done?’ I reply.

  ‘Yes. Well done!’ She points to the chapel door and I realise that, of course, I have been nominated and that for all the other girls, it was totally expected and that is why no one has bothered to congratulate me. I walk through the chapel doors, sliding my vision towards the paper. There it is:

  NOMINEES FOR THE ANNE DUNNE SCHOLARSHIP

  VERITY GREENSLADE

  JOSEPHINE GREY

  FREYA SEYMOUR

  I breathe out, eyes blinking in gratitude to see my name there and then I start to calculate. Verity I expected. Freya, though? I still can’t make head or tail of it. Mrs Allen reads out the notice again during the service. She asks us all to stand up so she can read out our names. Verity Greenslade – polite clapping and a few whoops. Josephine Grey – the same and then Freya Seymour is called and I can feel the noise tingling through my legs. They’re cheering for the underdog, I reassure myself.

  ‘If you three could sit down now and please come and see me after chapel. Well done to you all again.’

  I make my way, alone, to Mrs Allen’s study. She is by herself in the yellow-painted room. There’s a draught coming from somewhere, even though I’ve shut the door.

  ‘Josephine.’ She points to the chair opposite.

  ‘Mrs Allen.’ We sit in silence, both understanding the lack of need for small talk. I sit up straighter, clear my throat. After five minutes, three of which Mrs Allen spends flicking through a sheaf of papers, Verity rushes through the door.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she declares, grandly tapping her watch. ‘Just had to quickly get my lacrosse stick ready for the match. Today it’s us against St Cats. I’m Captain today because . . .’ Mrs Allen sighs which Verity mistakes for displeasure. ‘Oh, I’ve left the lacrosse stick just outside don’t worry . . . it’s clean . . .’

  ‘That’s quite alright, Verity. Just please sit down,’ Mrs Allen throws me a look. A tiny lift of her eyebrows and I give a small smile, which Verity notices.

  ‘Oh and Freya’s just on her way,’ she goes on, looking at me. Her mouth curls up in a smug little knot. ‘She’s just gone to the loo. Ha! Sorry, that’s probably too much information.’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’

  My brain swells with the mention of Freya, until my thoughts are interrupted by her running through the door.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Allen,’ she puffs, adjusting her tie. ‘Late because, well . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, Verity’s filled us in beautifully. Sit down and we’ll get on with things.’

  Freya sits down; doesn’t even acknowledge me. Just looks at Verity and squeezes her fists together in a show of excitement. Verity kicks her stubby little legs up and down in response. They are like two toddlers being offered a chocolate.

  ‘Right, well as you know, the Anne Dunne Scholarship is up for grabs. The three of you have been put forward by the teachers’ vote, and so I’d like you all to go for it, if you are interested?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ we reply. Verity is now sitting on her hands. She then shifts her chair further away from me, towards Freya.

  ‘We would be honoured,’ I say, attempting to distract Mrs Allen from noticing.

  ‘As you know, there are three other schools trying, each with three candidates having been put forward. I suspect, or hope rather, that it will go to one of you.’

  ‘What do we have to do for preparation? I mean . . . like, will we have extra lessons and stuff?’ asks Verity.

  ‘No, no nothing like that. The scholarship is all done on natural ability and general knowledge, so you can’t really prepare too much, other than brushing up on your current affairs and getting a good night’s sleep.’ Verity is now picking a bit of fluff off Freya’s jumper.

  ‘You will be interviewed by Oxford’s admissions department and that will take place over the course of two hours. You’ll then be asked to write a short essay on a current news item, blind, by which I mean you won’t know the topic or question beforehand. Obviously.’

  Freya raises her hand. ‘But what if it’s about something totally random? I mean, something we’ve never heard of?’

  ‘They’re not out to get you. But we deliberately chose you three because you have a broad knowledge of things.’

  But Freya doesn’t. She is always complaining about it and how she wishes she knew more about international affairs. So why her? There’s something so odd about her nomination. It worries me but, at the moment, I can’t quite work it out.

  ‘Right. So your interviews. I’ll let you know when they come back to me with specific times but you’ll be driving up to London with Mrs Kitts.’ We all nod and Mrs Allen looks up at the large oak grandfather clock by the door. ‘Right. Time for lessons. Please work hard. Don’t disappoint me.’

  Mrs Allen holds her arm towards the door and we all get up and walk towards it. Freya and Verity link arms and I wait for Verity to turn around and give me a ‘look’ but she doesn’t even bother, too busy are they screaming and kicking their heels together.

  The next few days I don’t really speak to anyone. I’m busy sorting out Head Girl admin: who’s going to be representing the school for the Big Debate, implementing a n
ew Young Enterprise Scheme which will take the form of pupils swapping schools for a week, typing up notes for the next School Announcements, keeping staff informed of any relevant notices, drafting up pieces for The Lens and, all this time, a little metronomic tic occurs in my brain.

  Freya and Verity, Freya and Verity.

  Then I think of Verity’s mouth puckering up with pleasure and I think of how Freya feels about this. Then a whole host of other thoughts enter my brain: what if she tells Mrs Allen what happened that night? Will she speak to me again? How can she be friends with Verity Greenslade? And then the upset disappears and is replaced by the most phenomenal rage. It tornadoes through me, whipping up my blood and organs until they feel as though they are shaking inside of me. I can’t sleep with it and I can’t eat with it and it’s still distracting me from my work and that makes it even worse. Because then I won’t get the scholarship and it will go to Verity and there really would be nothing more awful.

  I queue by the phone that night, in the Upper Sixth corridor, to call home. I am desperate to make this call but there are three other girls before me. I tell them I have to go first because of an emergency. They all step back and one of the fifth-formers, who shouldn’t be using the sixth-formers’ phone anyway, gestures towards the handset. ‘Go for it. All yours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, frowning. They’re all still standing there, though, and I tell them to wait outside in the corridor until I’ve finished.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, of course.’

  I’ve only got twenty units left on my phone card, so I don’t have much time. The phone rings and rings but finally she answers. She falters a bit when I say, ‘Ma,’ as though I’ve called her by the wrong name.

  She’s very slow and, if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought she was drunk. ‘Yes,’ she says, quietly. And then something that I can’t hear. ‘Ma, can you speak up?’

  The line goes silent – I must have woken her up and she’s fallen back to sleep. ‘Ma, I would love to talk to you.’ I sit there for five minutes, until the phone becomes slippery under my chin and starts beeping. Three units left. I sit, letting my ribcage expand and shrink. I shut my eyes against the flurry of girls that race past me on their way to supper. I try to let it all wash over me.

  2014

  It must be around five in the morning: the dawn light presses the day onwards. I’m lying on a bench in St James’s Park. I’ve still got my phone and the small black envelope clutch bag that I took to the funeral. There’s nothing in it except a fiver, some vanilla-flavoured ChapStick and a set of house keys. I like to travel light but today, the emptiness of my bag is unsettling. And then I remember I had my wallet. I do a quick check around me but it’s gone. I lie still for a few minutes, heavy with dread at the unfolding day, until it crosses my mind that I can be seen by buses, people going to work. Imagine if someone I knew saw me sleeping on a park bench? I leap up, but then, stunned by my headache, I sit down and throw up in between my legs. Has it really come to this? You buried your mother yesterday, I tell myself.

  I use the fiver to buy a McDonald’s which I cram into my mouth, its salty deliciousness energising and heavenly. The last time I ate a McDonald’s was probably eighteen years ago, with Freya. A night out where we had a competition to see who could eat the most chicken nuggets. Freya had won, pouching her cheeks with at least six in one go.

  I swallow down the last of my breakfast muffin and remember that my Oyster card was in my wallet. With no battery on my phone, I have no way of calling anyone. I start walking and walking, with no destination in mind. My brain is not processing anything properly – thoughts clunk around in my head, and nothing seems very real – like I’m in some sort of parallel universe. It’s only a hangover, I tell myself. By this time, everyone’s walking to work, streams of people coming towards me. It’s overwhelming and I have to get somewhere quiet. By now, I’m miles from home and the only person whose place I know I can go to lives a fair walk away. I end up doing it anyway, even though it makes me feel stupid. Going to someone who has been my main inconsistency. Right now, though, he feels like my only stability.

  I find his street. He lives in a small, basement flat in a Victorian mansion house. What if his girlfriend, or whatever she is, is inside? Before I allow myself to think much further, I ring the doorbell. He appears pretty much straightaway, coffee in hand and then I remember he’s always up by about four thirty every morning, scouring the day’s news sites and pitching new article ideas.

  ‘You’re shaking,’ are Toby’s first words, pulling me inside. He doesn’t question what I’m doing there, for which I’ll be forever grateful. The flat is comforting. There’s a huge world map in the hallway. It’s curling at the edges and smells of old paper. I lean my face towards it and press my nose into the fading black lines. We go inside and he passes me a glass of water.

  ‘Got anything else?’ I ask.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just not water.’

  ‘Just drink that then I’ll see what I’ve got.’

  I tuck my legs up on the sofa and he pulls a scratchy, red Afghan throw over me. An hour later and neither of us have said much.

  ‘You’re still shaking,’ he says, looking at his watch. Then I lean over and retch into my hands. Nothing comes up but I retch again and again, folding myself up into the foetal position.

  ‘Do you need help?’ Toby is wedging a cushion behind my back.

  ‘No. I’ll be OK. I’m fine. I just had a bit too much to drink last night.’ I can’t remember much from after the funeral, only the guy from the pub whipping off his tie, lassoing me into his arms on the dance floor and then blank. It’s a comforting blank. I feel safe knowing I won’t get those memories back.

  ‘No, I mean, professional help.’ He reaches over to a small chest of drawers next to the sofa and pulls out a packet. He opens it, pops a pill out of a silver blister and hands it to me.

  ‘Take this. Valium. You look wrecked.’

  I glug it back with some water, retch again, and turn onto my back, realising that I don’t know what happened last night and that I should probably get the morning after pill but at the moment, I’m too tired to care, or even to be disgusted with myself. Toby is taking off my shoes, which are inexplicably covered in mud and white lines, like dried seawater stains, and places them by the sofa. The pill finally takes effect and my head, arms and legs feel like they are melting into the cushions. Some reprieve.

  ‘J, I think you need to see someone. I’ve never seen you like this. Look at you, you must weigh about seven stone.’ He leans over and pinches the area above my hip bone. ‘And your eyes. They look . . . I mean, they look – you look sick.’

  ‘Toby, I am sick. I’ve been on a massive night out, my mother’s just died. You always used to accuse me of being cold and now I’m showing some sort of emotion, you tell me I need help.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s . . .’

  ‘It’s what?’

  ‘It’s just, you seem so . . .’

  ‘Seem what, exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ve seemed disconnected for a while now. In Jordan . . . At the Frontline when you did that weird thing in the audience. Now . . . you seem . . .’

  ‘When you told me you had been shagging some other girl?’

  ‘Well . . . yes.’ He has the decency to look ashamed.

  ‘This is not about you.’

  ‘I know. Sorry.’

  ‘Have you got an iPhone charger I can borrow?’ I hand him my mobile.

  ‘Sure. I’ll just get it. Stay there.’

  By the time he comes back, I’m half-asleep. I hear the click of a plug socket, the kettle going and the jolted tap of a computer and Toby, whispering into his phone. I don’t have the energy to hear what he’s saying. That afternoon, when I wake up, Toby has gone. There’s a cup of warm coffee on the table next to the sofa and a duvet has been heaped at my feet. I find a note on the floor,
next to a pair of slippers that I use whenever I have stayed over.

  Dr McKinnie, it says, alongside a nearly illegible telephone number. GP but does some therapy-type stuff and deals with life problems and will give you prescriptions. Private practice but if you need help, I’ll pay. I go and it helps. Call today. Back later. T.

  I feel strange holding on to this piece of information about Toby, like I’m inspecting his naked form whilst he sleeps. I’ve always wondered about therapy, what terrors someone would find if they looked inside my soul. Best left alone, except that now some sleeping pills or anti-anxiety medication wouldn’t go amiss.

  I crumple the note in my hand and stuff it in my pocket. Then I take it out again and get my phone from its charging point. Valium, I think. Valium, Xanax, whatever . . . just something. I switch it on and there are three text messages from Father, asking if I’m alright. The idea of apologising for leaving him in the lurch makes my limbs ache, so I vow to ring him later. Before that, I punch in the number from Toby’s note.

  ‘Hello, Dr McKinnie’s office?’

  ‘Hi.’ There’s a long pause whilst I try to work out what I’m going to say.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, yes sorry, I’d like to make an appointment. My friend, Toby, he recommended Dr McKinnie.’

  ‘Lovely, and you are?’

  ‘My name’s Josephine. Josephine Grey.’

  ‘Ah, Josephine, yes, of course. Sorry. Toby rang earlier. Said you’d ring. Of course. Come and see Dr McKinnie today if you’d like. We’ve had a cancellation actually.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes, today. There’s a free appointment at six twenty. One of the last. We’ve just had a cancellation and, of course, because Toby’s rung and all . . .’