The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  It’s three thirty now. ‘OK. Thanks. I’ll see you there. Whereabouts are you?’

  ‘Sloane Street. Not far down from Harrods. Number 765.’

  I hang up and think about sneaking around Toby’s flat, looking for evidence of his girlfriend. The mother of his baby. In the end, worried by what I may find, I don’t.

  Instead, I lie on his sofa, the Afghan throw scratching my skin but I am too tired to throw it off. I keep thinking of Mother’s coffin, and about her lying inside. Her toenails, of all wretched things. When I can bear it no longer, I get up and nearly kick myself when I remember I don’t have any money. I could get Father to book a taxi on his account, but I still can’t bear to ring him. I can send a text? But the guilt prompts me into total inaction – the guiltier I feel, the more paralysed I am to do anything about it. So I run upstairs and rifle through Toby’s things to see if there’s any change lying around. Toby’s always been careless about his money and I leap on a twenty pound note that’s lying on the side table by his bed. Reminding myself to tell him, I get dressed in yesterday’s clothes, the dirt and stench a reminder of death and the funeral, and run out the door.

  When I get to Sloane Street, my hangover has gone. It’s been a killer but the shine on the doorknob of the doctor’s surgery, the grand, carved wooden door slightly open and expectant, shames me into feeling nearly normal.

  ‘Come in, you must be Josephine,’ says the lady behind the desk. ‘Are you covered with your insurance?’

  ‘Insurance?’ I remember from Toby’s note that it’s a private surgery. ‘Oh, I . . . No, I’ll be paying . . . can you invoice me?’ I feel like a total fraud. Ridiculous. My pockets jangling with change from Toby’s stolen twenty pounds.

  ‘Of course.’ She gives me two forms, and says she will let me know when Dr McKinnie is ready. I take a seat on one of the green leather chairs, breathing in the expensive smells of Jo Malone candles and wood polish. I lean my head back into the reassuring cushion and suddenly feel so weary I begin to nod off. The receptionist taps me on the shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me, sorry to disturb you, but Dr McKinnie will see you now.’

  ‘Oh, oh right.’ Disorientated and heavy-limbed, I shuffle to where she is pointing. ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  When I open the door, I’m really shocked to see a woman. Berating myself for the assumption, I sit down before introducing myself. I stand up again, reach over to shake her hand, which is heavy with semi-precious rings.

  ‘Josephine, please, please sit.’

  Dr McKinnie, or Diana McKinnie, as I can see on the headed cream paper on her desk, is beautiful. Perfectly plucked dark brows set off a face that is both angular but soft. Her hair as well is blow-dried in curls around her shoulders. There’s a tiny beauty spot just above her lip and she’s wearing a light-blue mohair jumper that I want to stroke. Her beauty feels like a betrayal. Has Toby sat here and pondered her? I become aware of the smell of my clothes, the itchiness of my unwashed scalp.

  ‘Thank you, thank you.’

  ‘Now, Toby rang and said you would come in. Would you like to explain a bit about what’s going on?’

  ‘Sure, I’m . . . well, my mother just died.’ I don’t know what to say next, so I pick up a pencil from the desk. It’s green and gold-embossed, and reminds me of Harrods. Dr McKinnie, Sloane Street.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear about that. When was this?’

  ‘Last week. She was mentally unwell for as long as I have known her.’ Dr McKinnie looks up from her paper. ‘Paranoid schizophrenia,’ I say, as matter-of-factly as possible.

  ‘Right. And how did she die, may I ask?’

  ‘Too many pills. Aspirated on her vomit, then contracted pneumonia.’

  ‘Josephine, would you like the heating on? You’re shivering.’

  ‘No. I’m OK, thank you. I’ve actually just come to see if you would prescribe something for me. To help me sleep. I’m getting these flashback-type things . . .’ As soon as I’ve said it, I can see Dr McKinnie pick up pace with her writing. She thinks my grief has triggered hallucinations like Mother and I hastily backtrack. ‘I mean, nothing bad, just repetitive, boring stuff.’

  ‘Boring? Like what?’

  ‘Nothing to do with my mother. Just to do with stuff from the past. Maybe in part triggered by her death.’ I want her to think I’ve thought about it, that I’m on it, that I’m not so severely ill that I don’t have control over my mental faculties.

  ‘Would you like to tell me about them? See if I can help?’

  ‘Oh, nothing too much. Just that . . . I once nearly killed a girl. And I think it might be coming back to haunt me.’

  There’s a brief pause as she digests this, her pen stops moving. ‘Right,’ she says, kindly. ‘Do you want to tell me any more?’

  Shame punches my stomach.

  ‘Well, it’s not that I exactly nearly killed her. But she nearly died because of me. And she was my best friend.’ I halt at this.

  ‘Please carry on. I’m listening.’ And because she doesn’t look at me, I begin to do something utterly uncharacteristic of me: I talk.

  I tell her an abridged version of the events with Freya – the drugs and ensuing fallout – and mention that she’s been in contact, wanting to see me again and that I’ve said no.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Just . . . Just. It’s difficult.’ Then I look around and see pictures on her desk and the wall. Kids, smiling husband, the whole perfect unit. I look back on my own life, the mistakes I made . . . the consequences. ‘Anyway.’ I stand up. ‘Could I have a prescription, do you think? Oh and I need the . . . the morning after pill, so that as well. Please. I’ve actually got to get moving.’

  ‘OK, I’ll write you a note for the pill. And what else would you like?’

  ‘Xanax. Anything.’

  ‘To help you with anxiety?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’ I start picking up my bag and she motions for me to sit back down.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’ I feel my cheeks flush and Dr McKinnie gets up and puts the fan on.

  ‘Would you like to come back and see me next week?’

  ‘Ah, no. No, thank you.’

  ‘Well, I’ll prescribe you a few pills for the short-term. Any more and you’ll have to come back here.’ She looks directly at me, eyes all wide with concern as though I’m about to take a massive overdose.

  ‘I’m cautious. I mean, come on, I’m not going to . . .’ Then it strikes me that I’ve just told Dr McKinnie the cause of my mother’s death. ‘Fine,’ I back down. I can easily cancel. ‘I’ll come next week then.’

  I keep silent, don’t want to disturb her from finishing that damn prescription, which I snatch from her and stuff in my bag.

  ‘Wait . . . Josephine?’

  I stop. The intimacy of her calling me by my first name is nice, at first, followed by a flare of irritation at the presumptuousness. ‘What?’

  ‘Josephine, if it’s OK, I’d like you to make the appointment now, with me.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So, it’s Tuesday today. How about the same time next week? Is that convenient?’

  ‘I’ll probably be back in Jordan by then actually, so perhaps before then.’

  She hands me a card. ‘Ah. Jordan. I’ve got some cousins there. What is it that you do?’

  ‘Archaeologist.’ I don’t want start any small talk, I just want to get out of here now.

  ‘Great. Bet you get to see some amazing stuff. Anyway, Tuesday, a week today. Is that OK? Say, eleven o’ clock?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lie.

  I’ve got the prescription. I’ll sleep well. Get the plane back to Jordan in a couple of days. Back to the dig. Will tell all my colleagues not to let on to a soul that I’m there. Won’t see Freya. There’s absolutely no excuse for me to be away, now Mother has been disintegrated into ash. Go back to normal.

  I’ll be damned if I ha
ve any reason to see Dr McKinnie ever again.

  1996

  It’s been another two weeks since the scholarship announcement and I still haven’t spoken to Freya. All the girls know something is deeply wrong. No one says anything but I detect it in the brittle energy, the falter before anyone talks to me, the slight incline of the head to see if anyone else is watching; judging them for interacting with me. Freya’s got the edge in terms of popularity but as Head of School, the girls are still petrified of putting a foot wrong with me. There are some who try to talk me into telling them what’s wrong. Gracie Lovell, sidling up to me after History, pretending to be concerned for my welfare. I catch her holding a finger up to her lips to Marge Bell before she turns to me with a shit-eating grin on her face. I don’t say anything, just reply that I have to get going with my coursework. I see her shrugging to Marge, who nervously pulls her bottom lip to one side.

  However, aside from the weird atmosphere, I’m coping well, I think. The busy routine of the day-to-day has settled the events of what happened with me and Freya and, on the surface, everything is calm. That is, until one night, I’m woken up to Eleanor from my dorm, holding her arms around my neck and then pushing my shoulders into the bed. ‘Shhhh, shhh, you’re OK,’ she’s saying. I can’t reply, her thumbs are digging down into my windpipe. ‘You were shouting in your sleep and doing this weird jerky thing with your arms. You were saying all this stuff, about dancing? Freya? So weird. Something . . . whatever it was, it woke me up. I was scared.’

  ‘Shhhhh,’ I say.

  I try to grasp the edges of my nightmare but all I get are flashes of blood, sticky drips of it rolling down Mother’s arm and the image shifts. The blackness around Freya’s neck, which melts into slime and congeals into the blood from Mother’s wrists. ‘I’m alright. Must have been exam fear.’ I try to laugh but the sides of my throat are stuck together.

  ‘Do you want me to get Mrs Kitts?’

  ‘No of course not. I’m fine. Thanks.’ The shadows of passing cars turn sinister and I wonder if this is where it began with Mother. ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine.’ I squeeze my arm, really, really hard and sink back into the warmth of the bed. It’s only five minutes later, when Eleanor has heaped herself back into her duvet and my heart relaxes, that I realise I’ve wet myself. I wonder how I will get the sheets washed and back without anyone noticing and wait at least an hour, lying there until I am sure everyone is fast asleep before I act and, of course, there’s no one to help.

  Freya’s always told me I have to be more open to other friendships. ‘Not everyone’s bad,’ she used to laugh. ‘It’s not that,’ I would say. ‘I just don’t want people asking about my family.’ With no one else to really talk to, I try to see a flipside to the solitude – to use it as an opportunity to work. Firstly, The Lens: the initial proof needs to be in next week. I’ve called an editorial meeting in Mrs Allen’s office. We run through the features, interviews and articles and I ask Dorian Marchmont, a Lower Sixth, to co-ordinate the first edits.

  ‘Can those of you who’ve written opinion and features please leave me a headshot picture in my pigeonhole,’ I say, looking around the room.

  ‘I think that’s pretty much it. I still haven’t got any good stuff for the “Guess Who?” section, so please can you make sure you get something by Friday? That gives you two days. Come on, girls, I know you can do this. Gracie, you’re always on the pulse – get me something by then?’ She nods her head in a show of enthusiasm.

  ‘Thank you everyone. End of meeting. See you all next week and don’t forget head shots and “Guess Who?”. If you don’t have a photo then go and see Mrs Bloom, who’ll do a quick snap for you and get it developed. See you next week then.’

  Everyone leaves the room, except Sally Aylsford, who is waiting for me as I pick up my blue folder. Please don’t try and talk to me, I think. Sally is in my year, in Larden House, and she’s ‘quite’ everything. Quite funny, quite clever, quite sporty. But there’s something I also find quite irritating about her. I haven’t worked out what it is yet but I think it’s to do with her jaw. Or lack of it and the way it makes her look timid. With her red eyes she reminds me of a myxomatosis rabbit.

  ‘Hello, Sally.’

  ‘Hi,’ she says, pointing at a chair. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No, no go ahead.’ Christ, I think.

  ‘Mrs Allen won’t let me try for Oxford.’ I nod and thumb through the papers in the folder.

  ‘She says she doesn’t think I can do it.’ I look up and lean my ear towards my shoulder. ‘It’s because I got that C in my History mock.’

  ‘Oh.’ A C? I want to say. I keep quiet.

  ‘Yes. Quite. My dad has gone mad at me. Like, really, really mad. I thought he was going to hit me.’

  ‘Oh.’ I pull a grimace, which feels insincere even though I actually do feel sorry for her. I’ve heard horrible stories about her father. Families are always a hot topic at school – thank goodness no one knows about mine.

  ‘Can you do anything? I’ve only got a few weeks until the application deadline. I’ve written the essay, though. So I can do it. I know you probably handed yours in ages ago, but there’s time. I know there is.’ She pulls at the sleeve of her navy blue school jumper.

  ‘Do anything? Like what?’

  ‘Well, like ask Mrs Allen if she’ll change her mind?’

  Of all the things I’m going to ask the headmistress, this is not one of them.

  ‘I’ll try,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ I get ready to leave the room.

  ‘Because I can help you make The Lens the best one yet. I’ve got something that will make your “Guess Who?” section really quite explosive.’ She stops me in my path and I can smell onions on her breath.

  ‘Oh, thanks so much. I appreciate your help,’ I reply.

  ‘No. Really, I can.’

  ‘I’m sure you all can. My father got me an interview with the PM. Of course it’s going to be the best one yet, with or without your “Guess Who?” entry.’ I frown.

  ‘No. I don’t think you quite understand,’ she says. A hardening in her voice makes me stop.

  ‘I’ve got something big.’

  ‘Big?’

  ‘Yes. Really, really big,’ she says, folding her arms.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like I told you. Something that will make the “Guess Who?” section the most talked about Lens piece the school has ever seen.’

  ‘How?’ I say flatly.

  ‘I found out yesterday when I left the San. Remember I left English that day? Well I had a pretty high temperature.’ I don’t recall but I nod anyway.

  ‘I found out then.’

  ‘Found out what?’

  ‘Do you promise this goes no further until we work out what to do?’ she asks. I nod again.

  ‘Swear? It’s probably illegal, for one thing. I mean, if the papers found out, the whole school will be on the front pages. I mean, I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.’

  ‘Saw what? Spit it out.’

  ‘Well, if you must know, it’s about Freya.’ A fountain of nausea rises up my stomach.

  ‘Go on,’ I say carefully. Sally leans forward and whispers in my ear, her hot breath warming up the hairs on my lobe.

  ‘Freya? Sally, come on,’ I laugh but doubt snakes through me. ‘Freya? If anyone would know something as monumental as this about Freya, it’s me. Don’t you think? She’s my best friend. If you think that’s true and I don’t know about it, you must be . . .’ Sally looks down, inhales. Reinvigorated, she steps closer.

  ‘I know you two are best friends. I know how exclusive you are. How you tell each other everything. How your friendship is totally impenetrable. But I’m only telling you what I saw. And what I heard. It’s true. Every word.’ For a moment, I wonder if Sally’s trying to come between us. Whether she has some weird motive or jealousy over Freya’s and my friendship. Then I see her jaw frozen, her eyes un
moving from mine, and I can tell she’s not lying to me. But I just can’t accept it. Not the nature of what Sally’s told me, even though if it’s true, it would be the most explosive thing to ever have been contained in the walls of Greenwood Hall. It’s the fact that Freya held this back from me. How long could she have kept this a secret? How long had she known? I could have reconciled myself to this if it was something that had happened after our night out. But it wasn’t. It was obviously happening all the time whilst Freya was calling me her best friend. My mind’s going at high-speed, remembering things Freya said, did. Trying to connect them to what Sally’s just told me and, although I can’t seem to make sense of it, something resonates. A flash of something.

  After all that’s gone on in the past few weeks, it’s this that makes me the most tired. I’m exhausted. I have nothing left. And then Sally interrupts the blanket of fatigue that hovers over me.

  ‘I normally wouldn’t have told you but I want something from you and, of course, I know she’s been bad-mouthing you to everyone, so I thought you might be willing to help.’

  ‘Bad-mouthing?’

  ‘Yes. Bad-mouthing,’ she repeats.

  ‘Freya bad-mouthing is like everyone else’s compliments,’ I laugh.

  ‘What? That you’re like the devil incarnate? Without a soul?’ Freya always says that kind of thing to me and I’m often inclined to agree, but then Sally takes a breath and what comes next is much worse. ‘And that you are like your mother. Hateful, bitter, angry, cold. “Mentally damaged”. ’

  I look at Sally and I know for sure she’s not lying. About any of it. Freya, Freya – the only person who knows about Mother’s illness, for her to say those things . . .

  ‘How do you know this?’ I laugh again but something is happening to my insides. They are collapsing.

  ‘I was sitting next to her and Verity in chapel the other day. Verity was laughing when Freya was doing these weird impressions of your mother.’ Sally uses her fingers to pull her eyes down and starts rocking back and forth. I am perfectly still but inside I am recoiling so tightly, it feels as if my insides are contracting into one large mass.