The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  ‘Yes, yes of course. I mean, yes of course I know. Not that you need to give me a helping hand.’

  ‘Great. So about the latest scandal specifically, if that helps.’ It does and I’m back on track but I don’t perform to my best. My answers are vague and I’m half shivering. Freya and Verity are there when I walk out. Freya’s still laughing but there’s a glint of guilt in her eye. Her meanness is the worst thing that’s come out of all of this. Freya always used to pull me back if she thought I’d upset someone. ‘How was it?’ Verity asks, lightly.

  ‘It was good. Thanks.’ When everyone on the list has finished their interviews, Mrs Kitts comes and sits in an empty space next to Freya.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Fine. Good,’ Freya replies.

  ‘It was really good,’ Verity says, giving me a sideways glance.

  I can barely breathe. Shall I say something? Her word against mine. But then I realise they’ll ask why I didn’t say anything at the time, which makes me complicit. We spend the next couple of hours writing up essays on our blind news item and when the last of us finishes, Mrs Kitts comes and rubs each of us on the shoulder as she collects our papers.

  ‘Phew. Finished. Well done, girls. Pizza?’

  ‘Sure, Jenny,’ Freya replies and then double blinks, ‘Mrs Kitts, I mean.’ Verity gives her a confused look but I am too sick with what just happened to take it all in.

  We file to the car and go for food and sit, waiting for the hours to pass to find out who will be crowned with Anne Dunne’s blessing. I look at Freya and see she’s smuggled bits of pizza into the napkin beside her. She’s always been sanguine about her eating, even after her mother died, but judging by the size of her at the moment, I’m pretty sure that pizza will go in the bin. She tries to put a small piece in her mouth, as Mrs Kitts talks to her but her hands are shaking and she keeps missing. She gives up and I see her throw it on the floor. Verity is inhaling great lumps of cheese, masticating from side to side.

  I don’t know why Freya set me up in the interview. Or went along with Verity. As an isolated incident, I could probably handle it. But coming off the back of mocking my mother in chapel, something has to be done. I think back to Sally, the way she told me about Freya pulling crazy faces. The image distorts to my mother, all blank-eyed and twitchy with drugs and the betrayal hits me twice as hard. I wonder what else she is capable of. Whether she’ll tell someone just to spite me. And Verity, Verity hating me for being Head Girl, hating me for God knows what else. The way she’s eating is making me feel utterly nauseated and by the time I’ve cut up my mouthful of food, by the time the tangy tomato sauce nips at the back of my tongue, I’ve already worked out The Lens headline that will bring Freya down, so no one would believe her if she said anything anyway. And now, after this, Verity is going down with her.

  2014

  ‘Why would a letter from your mother scare you so much?’

  Dr McKinnie smells so clean and fresh it makes me think of apple orchards and meadows. It’s almost hypnotic but I keep bringing myself to, with the image of Mother’s snaky writing.

  ‘Don’t you get it? She’s writing that I’m going to turn into her. I’m going to get ill. I’m like a ticking time bomb. Can’t you see?’

  ‘OK, Josephine. Listen, can you start again? Start from the beginning.’

  I take out the note and start reading. Just one paragraph at first. I’m too ashamed to read the rest. Dr McKinnie doesn’t know what to say.

  I let her grapple for the right words. She goes and gets me a glass of water from a black ceramic jug on the white table next to the door. There’s a purple orchid in a slim white vase. She sets the water next to me and sits back down, pulling her chair further towards me.

  ‘This doesn’t mean you are going to get ill.’

  ‘I know. I know she can’t categorically say for sure. But she can sense it. She was very intuitive, Mother, very lucid in her darkest moments. She knew, or felt things that no one else did. And anyway, even if I can’t take this as gospel, it’s like my soul has become the repository for her own fear, her own terrors. Her hallucinations. It’s all me. I’ve caused her sickness.’ I look down and read the note again.

  Josephine, Josephine. I saw it that day you had the row with your father about some political thing or other. There was something there, in your eyes. Something that I saw in my own eyes before I got ill. I’ve seen it from when you were young. It’s in you. The move of your hand. Your pale face, your soul. You are me. I am you. Don’t you ever wonder why Father is always at work? Why he’s too scared to look at you sometimes? Can’t bear to be around you? And me? We have something in common there! It’s because he knows what life has in store for you. It’s not pleasant. It’s not pretty. I know. But soon I won’t. I’m going to save myself from any more. And one day, I promise you, you’ll have to do the same. It’s frightening, to have to live like this. But you will be OK.

  ‘Really?’ Dr McKinnie says. ‘You believe someone can have that kind of power? To make someone become a paranoid schizophrenic? Can’t you see? She wrote this when she was ill. She’s bringing her fears alive on the page.’

  ‘I know. But I am her fear. Her own daughter. I’m making her fearful.’

  ‘No, Josephine. She loves you. Don’t forget that. She might be incapable of expressing it but remember, where there’s love, there’s fear.’

  I make a noise which sounds like a snort. Dr McKinnie hands me a tissue.

  ‘And what about this girl, Freya?’

  Why is she bringing her up now? Does she know her? Is she wheedling out information from me?

  ‘That’s OK. I’m hiding from her.’

  ‘Hiding?’

  ‘Yes. Hiding. I mean, I’m . . . she’s everywhere.’ I start to laugh because I can’t really articulate myself properly and Dr McKinnie is making more notes and tap-tapping on this tiny little iPad she has.

  ‘Josephine, do you think you might need a rest?’ she says.

  ‘A rest?’ I’m laughing again and hiccuping.

  ‘Yes. A rest. I think you’ve been through a lot. Your arms, you look as though you’ve been scratching them.’ I look down and she’s right. My arms are covered in red marks. I have no idea where they came from.

  ‘Are you trying to section me? See? You do think I’m like my mother, don’t you?’ I swipe her iPad onto the floor. Dr McKinnie doesn’t move. She reaches out and touches my arm in a strange act of compassion. I look down at the black screen on the floor and then back at Dr McKinnie’s face. She’s nodding at me, saying it’s OK. I want to ask her if I really just did that but at this point, I’m too scared. ‘No. Not at all,’ she soothes. ‘I just think you need a break.’

  1996

  I don’t have much time to dwell on what happened at the scholarship interview. The next morning, I’ve got a half-hour phone interview with the Prime Minister for The Lens. Mrs Kitts has allowed me to use the private phone in her study. Thankfully, I don’t see Freya to put me off my stride. Just thinking about her actions yesterday focuses my energy and the interview ends up going brilliantly. He says he remembers me well; he’s chatty at first, asking about school and other things my father must have mentioned. Then we start discussing more serious issues and we rally back and forth for far longer than the allotted time frame. I end up with pages and pages of notes which I hug to my chest as he starts to wind up the interview. The Lens is going to be stellar this year. Unbeatable, I think.

  ‘I so enjoyed our discussion,’ he says as I start to say goodbye. ‘Your father should be proud. Perhaps you could come and work for me one day.’

  After he hangs up, I sit quietly for a moment, so happy that I am almost stunned. Working for the Prime Minister. Could anything be further away from turning into my mother, fretting anxiously, a paranoid wreck?

  My joy is interrupted by one of the younger years waiting for me outside Mrs Kitts’s study as I leave. She passes me a handwritten note.

  Pleas
e be at my study straight after lunch, for the Anne Dunne Scholar announcement. Mrs Allen.

  ‘Thank you for bringing this to me, Diana. You can go now.’ I wave my hand at the timorous Upper Fourth girl and she runs off. After eating, I make my way, alone, to Mrs Allen’s study. Freya and Verity don’t look at me when they enter the room. Freya strides in, all airy and breezy, although I can see her lip twitching and Verity’s squeezing a piece of Blu-tack in between her fingers. Mrs Allen isn’t giving anything away; not that she ever does.

  ‘Girls, thanks for coming. I won’t make this too long,’ Mrs Allen says. ‘Firstly, we’re all really proud of you for having been nominated. It was no easy feat.’ I look at Freya, watching to see if she at least has the dignity to look ashamed. She’s sitting on the edge of her seat with her hands all bunched up in her school skirt. Think of who you’ve just interviewed, I tell myself.

  ‘Right. So I heard from the examiners that you were all particularly impressive. A couple of things that cropped up. Verity, they were very impressed with your knowledge of government policy. Freya, they loved your take on what you would do if you were PM. Highly original, said their notes.’ Freya lets her hand drop from where she’s been scratching her neck, and smiles. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Don’t look so surprised.’

  ‘And Josephine, they said you managed to debate very well on new policies.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Allen.’

  ‘No, thank you. It must have been a tiring day and now I can put you all out of your misery.’

  Mrs Allen takes off her glasses and raps her knuckles on the desk, in an obvious attempt to buy time. And from this tiny movement, I already know what she’s about to say.

  ‘Verity,’ she says, but she is looking directly at me. ‘You are the new Anne Dunne Scholar.’

  ‘No way!’ She high-fives Freya. The walls constrict, along with my heart and lungs and I want to run. To escape the vacuum of shame. I palm the heat in my cheeks, something that has only happened once before, last summer, when Freya’s brother, Leon, saw me undressing in the Cornish pool house. ‘Well done. Your application to Oxford will be withdrawn as you already have automatic entry with the Anne Dunne. You’ll still have to get your A levels, though, so don’t rest on your laurels. Well done again, all of you, for being put forward and best of luck with the rest of your applications.’

  We all leave Mrs Allen’s study and I offer my congratulations to Verity. She gives me a long stare. She tries not to smirk and Freya, Freya, who looks so thin, so blank, so wretched, finds it within herself to smirk at me too. Mrs Allen sends me a handwritten note two hours later, delivered by one of the first-formers, during a games lesson: Come and see me for tea. Four o’clock, my study. Mrs Allen.

  It’s five to four and I rush down, still wearing my lacrosse outfit: a short, pleated blue skirt and a white Aertex shirt. I don’t even care that it’s about minus two degrees outside.

  ‘Mrs Allen,’ I say, walking in before she’s told me to come in.

  ‘Josephine. Sit down, sit down.’ Mrs Allen takes off her glasses and taps one of the arms on her desk.

  ‘Don’t let this affect your performance.’

  ‘My . . .?’

  ‘Your performance. As Head Girl. As one of the best students Greenwood Hall has ever seen. If I’m honest, I’m not quite sure what happened. I was relying on you to win.’

  I look down at my feet. ‘So was I.’

  ‘It’s disappointing. But they were obviously looking for something specific. Eagerness, perhaps.’

  ‘I don’t know what happened,’ I say, thinking, I know exactly what happened.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to make a big announcement about it. I think everyone would have been expecting it to be you so we’ll keep it relatively low key, shall we?’

  ‘Mrs Allen, I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing.’ For a minute, just for one minute, I had thought about letting everything out; the horrors of that night, the argument with Freya, Verity. I know if one word slips out of my mouth now, I’m in danger of changing everything. Maybe Mrs Allen would help? Then I realise she is not built for that. Mrs Allen is about success. The righteous manner of the Greenwood Hall girl, the loyalty to the school and well . . . achievement. If I change the nature of our relationship, I fear my own success will be over for good. I am her Head Girl. She expects nothing less from me than my utmost all. Dedication. Loyalty. Power. Results. With this in mind, I shut my mouth and look down.

  ‘I’m going to be fine,’ I say.

  Mrs Allen takes off her glasses, puts them in her case; snaps it shut. ‘That’s what I thought. Now say no more. Just go back to work and forget this ever happened.’

  I go to the phone box in Main School and call my father on reverse charge. The school is quiet, everyone’s on tea break. For once, he comes straight to the phone.

  ‘I thought you should know, before you hear from Rollo.’ I swallow back the words, unable to continue.

  ‘Josephine? I can’t hear you very well. Speak up.’ I clear my throat and tell him what happened with the scholarship, how I hadn’t performed my best. How Mrs Allen had been shocked. ‘She was really surprised,’ I say, hoping this softens his disappointment.

  ‘Well, I must say. I am quite surprised too. Did you work hard enough?’ he asks.

  ‘I did. Not sure what happened.’ I haven’t got long to talk. I can hear doors slam and the echo of voices. After-school clubs start soon and I need to get out of Main School before anyone sees how much I’m shaking. Father sounds alright. Not too upset but then he tells me to wait. ‘Don’t hang up yet,’ he says. ‘I’m seeing your mother tomorrow. Was hoping to give her some good news. Have you got anything else I can tell her?’

  Freya, Verity, how dare you? How dare you be the reason I have to make this phone call? Showing me up in front of my father, Mrs Allen. Everyone else.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Yes. Tell her I’m working hard on the school newspaper. That it’s going to be the highlight for the girls and the school.’ I lean forward, ready to hang up. ‘That should do the trick,’ I say, before slowly placing the handset down.

  The next day, I see Sally Aylsford walking down the corridor. She’s linking arms with Minnie Adams. Sally is crying. God knows why. She looks up and sees me. I gesture for her to come with me.

  ‘Hang on, Minnie. I’ll meet you at choir practice, shall I?’

  ‘Sure.’ Minnie waves at me, with a big, inane grin on her face. I don’t know how to react so give a small smile and turn back to Sally.

  ‘Want to come to the Prefects’ Room?’ Sally looks thrilled and wipes away the last of her tears.

  ‘Come on.’ She holds her arm out to link it with mine but I ignore her.

  ‘Hopefully it’ll be quiet. There’s no one around at the moment, everyone’s in class or at games.’ Sally peers around the white room and plonks herself down on a dark blue sofa which is laden with toast and biscuit crumbs.

  ‘Wow. You’re so lucky.’ She points at a toaster and a cupboard full of tuck. I hand her a Mars bar, which she unwraps and stuffs into her mouth.

  ‘Right. I’ll make this quick. Bell’s going to go in about ten minutes. Milk?’

  ‘Loads.’

  ‘Have you told anyone else about this?’

  ‘No one. I swear. Pinky swear.’ Pinky swear? For the love of God, I don’t know how far I can take this conversation.

  ‘Right. And everything you mentioned last week is true?’ Sally nods her head up and down so hard I think her neck might break. ‘Right. And so if this all goes ahead, you have my word I’ll speak to Mrs Allen. In return, I want your word that I can do what I like with your “Guess Who?” entry.’ There goes the neck again.

  ‘This doesn’t come from you, OK? Whatever happens, none of this leads back to either of us. What’s going to happen, is that I’m going to be totally unaware of the whole piece. Someone will have tampered with
the final proof edition. OK? I haven’t worked out how yet. But I will, OK? I’ll work that out. And your anonymous letter. You haven’t saved it anywhere, have you?’ Sally gives a small shake of her head.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And where did you print it off?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘So no one could have seen it at school?’

  ‘Definitely not. I promise.’

  ‘Fine. Good.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, I’m just thinking.’ I hold a finger up to my lips and Sally is now on the edge of her chair. I know she is about to ruin my train of thought so I turn my back to her.

  ‘Josephi—’

  ‘Shhhh. Give me one minute.’ The bell rings so I motion for Sally to leave the room.

  ‘Wait,’ I say as she skips to the door. ‘Remember. Nothing. Not one word. Just as I have the power to get Mrs Allen to let you apply, I have the power to stop her. One word is all it will take. Just remember, OK?’

  Sally grins, gives me a thumbs-up and, with that, she’s gone.

  2014

  In all my life, I’ve never been told I ‘needed a break’. During my school days, I was always the person who could handle anything that was thrown at me. Until, of course, the events that happened with Freya. Even after that, though, I would bowl my way through the days using every second of every hour as an opportunity to do something useful.

  So Dr McKinnie telling me I needed a ‘break’ at first made me feel gratitude towards her, followed by a storming defensiveness that makes me intent on proving that I don’t need anything of the sort. I decide to hole up, do some research for our investors from my ‘sickbed’.

  Firstly, I stop off at the British Library and photocopy a whole load of articles. Stacks of them. I’m not really sure what information I’m harvesting but, when I leave, my rucksack is stuffed with paper. I catch a Tube and buy some archaeology books from Foyles on Charing Cross Road. I walk home, the weight of my purchases feels good, my emotional load balanced out by my physical stance.