The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  ‘Are you sure Freya was talking about my mother?’ I whisper. I feel ice cold.

  ‘Yeah. Definitely. She was laughing, saying sometimes you have that manic look in your eye as well.’

  At last she registers the look on my face because she starts to look afraid.

  ‘But I’m sure it’s not true. About your mother, I mean,’ she says hurriedly. ‘I was quite shocked, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Verity was laughing, saying that she had always realised something was wrong with you.’

  ‘Was she now?’

  ‘But of course, Verity’s an idiot. Doesn’t know what she’s talking about half the time. But she is your Deputy Head Girl, so I’m sure she’s great.’ Sally finally realises she’s gone too far and is all tied up in knots, unsure of what she should be saying and who to trust.

  ‘I need to think.’ I sit down. We are both silent and I tear little rips into my blue folder.

  ‘OK.’ I stand up. My head hurts. The pain is spreading through my jaw and up my scalp and I remember Freya, pulling that clip through her hair and it all fits into place. What Sally’s telling me. I’m beginning to see small hints, clues in Freya’s past behaviour that mean I think Sally’s got it right. And although I’m in shock, the seed of an idea forms in my mind. This idea, this cunning. I’m going to use Sally Aylsford’s information as a little warning to my friend Freya. I will publish this prize-winning gossip in The Lens. It’ll be anonymous. I won’t name Freya. Won’t tell everyone exactly what she’s done. Hints, of course, yes. A little message from me to her. Tell anyone what happened that night, Freya, and I will tell everyone what you’ve done. Everything that you’ve done. After that, she won’t dare, dare say a word. I will be safe. I will get into Oxford, things will go on as normal. The brilliance of it all feels like a smack in the face.

  ‘Send me a letter,’ I say. ‘Put it all in a letter. Anonymous. And put it in my pigeonhole and I’ll decide what to do.’

  ‘And Mrs Allen and Oxford?’

  I turn to her so fiercely, she leans back.

  ‘Just do it.’

  2014

  I’ve told work I’ll be back from my compassionate leave in a few days. I’ve told the crew of my plans, although there are a few more things I need to check up on: Mother’s probate, her will and all her clothes and jewellery. Despite not having spoken to or seen him since I left the funeral, I call Father and ask him to help me clean out her room. Neither of us have stepped foot in there for, what, fifteen years? He doesn’t mention my behaviour, just says he’ll be along after work and so I head back home, where I’ll make a start.

  By the time he arrives, I’ve stuffed ten black sacks full of clothes – vintage gowns, fur coats and the newer stuff with designer tags still attached. The room is a tip. The dust is making my eyes water and I’ve got flakes of old paint on my clothes from where I’ve brushed up against the walls. I can smell gin on Father’s breath.

  ‘Can’t do this sober,’ he says.

  ‘Didn’t you think I might have to?’

  ‘Sorry about that. You’ve got a stronger stomach than me.’

  Father unearths three pairs of knickers that are inexplicably covered in talcum powder and two pairs of diamanté heels, one black and one grey, that have both been used as ashtrays.

  ‘Good God, Josephine,’ he says, sitting on the bed. ‘Good God, what is this? Why couldn’t we help her?’

  ‘Well, you did your best. As much as you could with your job.’

  He looks up and frowns. ‘Do you mean . . . Do you think I wasn’t there enough?’

  ‘No. I think you . . . I think you did what you had to do. She had people looking after her.’ I look over and he is using a black silk shirt to wipe his eyes.

  I’m embarrassed for him and don’t know where to look, so I get down on my hands and knees and crawl under the bed. The mattress sags in the middle and I’m forced to prop it up from underneath with a pile of books and magazines. There are photographs, diaries, three suitcases of God-knows-what and piles of pills, scraps of powdery paper, razor blades – some rusty, some still in their packets. I pull them out and ignore the noises Father is now making. The photographs are of the three of us. There’s one where we are pulling faces; there’s me on his shoulders; Mother looking like a fifties housewife, thin and perfect, making a cake and pulling a dainty pose for the camera; all of us on a boat in Battersea Park and, finally, one of me and Mother holding hands. There are later ones of her, puffy-faced and sleepy. I take one where she’s holding my old one-eyed teddy bear in her arms and stuff it into my pocket.

  ‘Why did no one clear this out before?’ I ask.

  Father doesn’t respond, just takes the photo I’ve handed him of the three of us and presses it into his stomach.

  Next suitcase. There’s the clink of random medicines Mother used to stockpile, in case of full-blown war which, according to her, was always around the corner: little bottles of potions and lotions that would ensure our survival. There’s a third, full of papers and letters and diaries.

  ‘Look,’ I say, flicking Father’s elbow. He moves himself up off the bed and squats down beside me. I don’t think I’ve seen her writing for more than ten years now, but I always remembered it as elegant, not spidery and illegible like this. There are pages and pages, none of it making any sense.

  Father and I are both entranced. For four hours we flick through the documents, trying to find any clues, any insight into Mother’s mind. Nothing. And then I find a piece of paper that is fresh. The blue ink is still bright and the date mark on the top is from last year. I cast my mind back and it’s the same date as the last time I saw Mother before this visit. I was in London, giving a presentation on our excavation findings. She had been recently discharged from hospital, fit to go home after her meds had been readjusted for the fourth time that year. She had seemed less hollow, there was almost a shine of vibrancy about her. She wore a gold bracelet and, for once, her eyes had some depth to them. She had even asked about my dig, laughing when I told her about how I had nearly missed my plane. And then I had had a drink and a row with Father about something – and it’s coming back to me now, the way she had looked at me. I had thought, at the time, that it was a look of love and protectiveness. Thinking about that look now, her eyes, dancing around in those fragile, yellowy sockets, it hits me that instead, she was very, very frightened.

  I pull out the paper and read. I read and read again and again and I can’t work out if I am reading the words correctly, so I pass it to Father, who looks at the writing that he recognises so well; the curious way that the As change shape every time they are written, and a look of confusion crosses his green eyes and he looks at me, absolutely terrified, blinking like someone’s about to poke a knife in his eyes. I don’t look back at him. We read again. Both of us. We read the words, over and over, until they fumble in our brains, and Father reaches for a cigarette even though he’s promised he will never smoke in the house, and in my head, I’m already going through the conversation I’ll be having with Dr McKinnie tomorrow and I’m going to have to beg work to give me some more time off because at this rate, I won’t be going back any time soon.

  1996

  So Sally Aylsford is in possession of Freya’s secret. Who else has she told? I wonder. I’m guessing no one, if she wants my help with Oxford. Two days pass and I keep checking my pigeonhole for a letter from Sally for the ‘Guess Who?’ section. On Friday afternoon, just as I’m giving up hope, there are three anonymous letters, all of them written in block capitals. The first is about one of our girls who has apparently been kissing one of Eton’s fellow drama students after weekly rehearsals. Great. I know who that is, I think.

  There’s a slip of paper that suggests that our Head of Art has been snogging the Head of Drama. Boring. Everyone knows that too. And lastly, there it is. The letter from Sally. It is entitled: EXCLUSIVE: Freya’s Dirty Little Secret and signed off: Best Wishes, Oxford
Candidate.

  I scan through it and see details that I don’t really want to know. The image of Freya sliding a tortoiseshell clip through her hair keeps jolting through my mind and I still can’t work out why Freya wouldn’t have told me. Should I really be doing this? But then I come to my senses. An ugly voice inside questions whether half the reason I want to make this public is bitterness that Freya kept this from me. But then I remember what’s at stake. Sorry, Freya, but you made me do this. It’s for your own good. Yours and mine.

  There’s only a week left until the first edition of The Lens will be mocked up. I shunt the plan to the back of my head, for fear that I’ll change my mind. For now, I have to concentrate on the Anne Dunne Scholarship interview, which is in four days. This is what truly matters.

  When the time comes, it’s a freezing cold Tuesday. Freya, Verity and I get together after breakfast. We’ve been instructed by Mrs Kitts to meet her outside Main School so she can drive us all down to London, where we’ll meet the interviewers.

  ‘Hello,’ I say as I walk up towards Mrs Kitts’s dirt-streaked green Fiat Panda. Freya opens her mouth, just a margin, and I think she’s going to say something, but she gets a warning look from Verity. I straighten out my Head Girl badge and pull down my jumper. None of us are wearing coats. Mrs Kitts rushes up ten minutes later.

  ‘Quick, girls, sorry I’m late.’ She wipes her nose and climbs into the car. Her heels get wedged in the door frame.

  ‘Oh gosh. Ridiculous shoes,’ she says.

  ‘They’re nice,’ says Freya, quietly. She opens the door and folds herself into the front seat. Verity and I sit at the back, me pressed against the door, as far away from her as I can possibly get.

  ‘So, girls, are you all prepped? Been reading the papers?’

  ‘Yes,’ Verity and I say at the same time. Freya keeps quiet.

  ‘Are you all nervous?’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. We’re all just tired, I think, aren’t we?’ Verity leans forward and pats Freya on the shoulder. Mrs Kitts looks at Freya, eyebrows dipping.

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping great,’ Freya replies, looking at me from the rear-view mirror. She looks awful. Her blonde hair has lost its glossy sheen and her face is pale. Even her freckles seem faded. She’s lost weight and the red patch of skin on her neck has started to climb down her shoulders.

  It’s not just her face, though. It’s a funny, empty look in her eyes. The usual green sparkle has been replaced by a dull flatness. Her mouth as well is set in a permanent crooked position, as though she’s forcing a smile. Maybe it is really getting to her after all, I think and then dismiss the thought. Sally’s ‘Guess Who?’ entry rolls through my mind and, looking at her, I can’t ever imagine she would do something like that. I sit up straight and stare outside at the passing streaks of muted green and grey. I have no time to be vulnerable about her before the interview, especially given what I now know.

  ‘You look tired too, Josephine,’ Mrs Kitts says.

  ‘I’m fine. All great, thanks.’

  ‘Good. Well just remember, girls, this will all be over in about five hours. I’ve been instructed by Mrs Allen to take you all out for pizza afterwards, so you can relax.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got to get back Mrs Kitts,’ I say. ‘I’ve got some work to do, and The Lens.’

  ‘Now, listen, Josephine. It’s not often you have much fun. I insist. We’ll make it quick and, anyway, we find out tomorrow morning who’s won the scholarship so I want to treat you all before the announcement is made.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Verity sits up straight.

  ‘Tomorrow. Of course. Don’t forget it’s automatic entry into Oxford so they’ll need to let whoever wins know before the normal admissions process begins. There’s probably loads of admin stuff that needs to be done too, for the next stage, so they’ve decided to tell everyone right away. So are you all set then? I think they’re going to ask you all broadly the same thing, so you have equal footing. So don’t worry if you don’t know the answers now, you can’t change anything. Alright?’

  Mrs Kitts smiles first at Freya then glances backwards at us. Verity looks at me out the corner of her eye. No one speaks for the rest of the journey. London is coming into view, the grey buildings jostling for space. Verity’s legs have been jiggling up and down for the best part of an hour, driving me mad. We draw up to a car park in Victoria, where it’s started to drizzle.

  ‘Right, girls, come on. Are you all ready? Just remember why you are all here. Because you are brilliant and you’ve been chosen as the best students that Greenwood has to offer. Now do your very best. I’m sure you all have your own reasons to want the scholarship, so keep those in mind. We are all rooting for you. Don’t forget, we want someone from Greenwood to win!’

  Mrs Kitts looks at all of us as she wraps up her little speech. She adjusts the belt on her pleated green skirt and gives me a small wink. Freya sees and slams the car door shut. Mrs Kitts draws her hand to her breastbone and jumps. I’m left to walk behind, whilst Verity slides over to Freya and the pair link arms. The London traffic slips by slowly, and it takes us a few round trips to find the entrance to the building. Freya points to a sign: ‘Anne Dunne Interviews’, with a makeshift arrow in highlighter pink. We walk towards it, greeted by a small lady, with orange hair and rose-frosted lipstick. ‘This way. School?’ she asks, wielding her clipboard.

  ‘Greenwood Hall,’ says Mrs Kitts, wiping her nose with a lace handkerchief. ‘Cold, isn’t it?’ The lady doesn’t respond, simply ticks off our school with a stab of her pen, and ushers us in. Mrs Kitts glances back at the lady and gives us a conspiratorial shrug. Verity guffaws. We’re all directed to sit on grey plastic chairs and given water, pens and a small notepad. There are nine other girls waiting, none of whom I recognise. They all say hello when we walk in and then the room goes silent, apart from the occasional whisper of good luck. A big whiteboard lists our surnames names alphabetically, so Verity is first to go out of us Greenwood girls. She turns to Freya and gives an exaggerated thumbs-up, then looks at Mrs Kitts and holds crossed fingers in the air in mock salute. Mrs Kitts nods towards the door where the examiner is waiting. Verity skips off, clutching a plaid pencil case and a strange, greying, furry snake, which I can only assume is some type of mascot.

  After about twenty minutes, she bounces back into the room and sits next to Freya, breathless and charged up. There’s one other girl listed before me, so I’ve got another twenty minutes or so to get my brain focused. My thoughts won’t crystallise into anything meaningful whilst Verity is nearby. I can almost smell her, she’s so close. That smell that is at first sweet, blanching into a stale, almost moreish unpleasantness.

  Verity casts her eyes around the room – looks towards Mrs Kitts and the other teachers, who are all now talking amongst themselves. She scribbles something on her notebook. Her gaze pulls Freya’s eyeline down to the paper and I can’t help but look as well. ‘Israeli foreign policy’, she is writing. Dangerous ground, I think. Verity is so desperate to shore herself up to Freya, she’s willing to cheat. She sees me looking, makes a big show of covering the paper with her hands and writes something else. She and Freya both laugh like drains and my stomach turns. ‘Shhhh,’ says Mrs Kitts, holding her hand up in apology to the rest of the room. Israeli foreign policy? I can do this, I think. Each strand of policy assimilates and flashes up in my brain, along with dates and quotes. Thank you, brain, I think. Verity you still haven’t got the better of me yet.

  ‘Can I go to the bathroom, Mrs Kitts?’ says Verity. She’s balled up the paper and stuffed it under her jumper.

  ‘Of course. It’s through there, I think,’ Mrs Kitts says. I wonder whether to say anything but then I remember the other plan, which is altogether more dangerous and explosive. If I told on this cheating, it would, after all, be Verity and Freya’s word against mine. The girl who has gone before me comes out of the interview room after ten minutes, fiddling with her hair. As she shuts the door, she starts
to cry. Her teacher rushes up to her and hands her a tissue. ‘It’s OK,’ she’s soothing. ‘It’ll be better than you think. These things always are.’

  ‘Josephine Grey,’ comes a voice from behind the door.

  ‘Good luck,’ whispers Mrs Kitts.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ says the male voice. I sit down without being asked. There’s three interviewers, all men. The one opposite me starts. He keeps patting his stomach as though he’s just eaten an enormous lunch.

  ‘Right. Josephine Grey. We’ve heard great things about you. Head Girl at Greenwood Hall, I see? We’ve had a fantastic report about you from Mrs Allen.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘So, are you ready to start?’

  ‘I’m ready, yes.’

  He pulls at his ear lobe and looks at the other men. ‘Shall I go?’ he says to no one in particular.

  ‘Right,’ he says, without waiting for a reply. ‘So today, we’re asking everyone about the same thing: we’d like you to talk a bit about your thoughts on the outbreak of mad cow disease and what should have been done to prevent it. If you were PM, what would you have done and what measures would you have taken to stop it?’

  ‘About mad cow disease?’

  ‘Yes, you must have seen it in the news?’ Verity, you bitch . . . I think.

  ‘Of course, yes. I have seen it in the news.’ And heard Father talk about it non-stop.

  ‘So what’s your take on it all then?’ I’m so wrong-footed by the misinformation from Verity that I begin to stutter.

  ‘I . . . I, well, it’s very interesting because . . .’

  ‘Because?’ The fattest of the three men crosses and uncrosses his legs.

  ‘I mean . . .’

  ‘Do you know anything about this? We can give you a helping hand?’