Before I get to my desk I’m compelled to go to Mother’s room. I dump all my stuff by the front door and shout for Father but no one is at home.
Her room is strangely warm, at odds to the rest of the house. I take off my jumper and collect the rest of her things, the stuff that Father and I didn’t get round to sorting. I jam them in a pile in the corner, breaking bits of china from dusty bowls and mugs as I go. I throw half-torn up books onto the pile, along with all my mother’s junk: her old make-up, shreds of old clothes, trinkets – rusting toy aeroplanes from flea markets, dog tags, dull brooches with the pins bent all out of shape. I run downstairs, bring up some bin liners and shove all the stuff in as fast as I can, cutting my hands as I go.
When I finish, there’s blood seeping down my arm. I’m taken back to when it all happened, the morning after, when my head had started bleeding over breakfast. A little trickle worming its way down my arm. I remember not being able to work out what was ketchup and what was blood. Tasting it. Metallic, salty, sweet, all mixed into one. I start to heave.
The next thing I know, I’m overcome with a sense of foreboding, like I’ve been hooded, pre-execution style. It’s so frightening, so overwhelming, that I go and search for my Xanax but can’t find any. The Valium is useless, hasn’t done a thing, even though the two I took earlier should have kicked in by now. I go and ring Dr McKinnie, on her private line, and request another prescription.
‘Slow down, I can’t make out what you are saying. I can’t hear you,’ she says. I say more stuff to her but she is still telling me I’m making no sense and that I must breathe, breathe, breathe. I can hear her sucking air into her lungs. ‘Like that,’ she’s saying. I tell her, or at least I think I do, that I’m coming to see her, straightaway.
1996
The magazine flat plan is all done and The Lens is nearly ready to go to print. I’ve spent hours poring over text and photographs, perfecting the layout with the editorial team.
‘No mistakes,’ I tell them. I remind them that I’ve managed to interview the Prime Minister so we cannot afford to have anything go wrong. The Prime Minister for heaven’s sake and I’m hoping it will make mainstream news. It’s definitely the best edition yet and I’m ecstatic. After this, no one will remember Verity as the Anne Dunne Scholar. Freya’s going to be silenced once and for all and I will go back to normal – I will be what people like Mrs Allen expect me to be. No more mistakes.
It’s Monday lunchtime. The weekend had gone by in mad preparation, with me having to rewrite at least three pieces and gather up leftover profile pictures. I have to run through everything with Verity, since she’s meant to be helping me edit. Not that she has done anything so far. She’s shown little interest in any of the editorial, only telling me about her weekend at the lacrosse competition at St Margaret’s.
‘We won, with me shooting the winning goal,’ she says at our final run-through. ‘So, Margot comes in, knocking her lacrosse stick on some poor girl’s legs and . . .’ I wonder why she is bothering to speak to me after everything that’s happened. Has she forgotten? Or is she feeling guilty? Whatever, it’s all a bit strange.
‘Verity, would you like to read over this editorial? You can read all but the last pages, as you know. Tradition says that only Head Girl can look at those.’ I’m referring to the ‘Guess Who?’ section, which still hasn’t gone in.
‘No. I’m sure you’ve got it all in hand,’ she says. And then I think something is really strange. Normally, Verity would be looking over my shoulder, desperate for any chance to point out my mistakes. ‘Do you really need that extra comma?’ she would be saying. But then, I realise she couldn’t care less about the magazine, or the ‘Guess Who?’ section. And then it hits me how this is going to work.
‘Verity?’ I say.
‘I forgot to mention. I’m really rushed tomorrow. I know that you and I were both meant to be working on this thing together, weren’t we?’
Verity pulls her neck muscles tight. ‘Yes. I’m sorry . . . I . . . I’ve been a bit rubbish, haven’t I? It’s just not really my area of interest. Or expertise.’
‘No worries at all, but obviously your name is going in the front as Deputy Editor. So if you could at least take the final proof tomorrow to the printer’s, it would be amazing. I would appreciate it enormously.’
‘Of course,’ she gushes. ‘Absolutely. Anything to make up for you having done all the hard graft. And thank you. For putting my name on the front. That’s decent. Kind. When you know I haven’t really been there. So yes, of course I’ll take it to the printer’s.’
‘Do you want to go through the final proof now? Together, with me? So you can see what’s gone in? Whether you want to change anything?’ I know her answer though before she says it. It’s why I’ve asked the question. Verity looks at her watch.
‘Well, I’m so sorry but . . .’ And I know now that she will never, ever bother looking through the final proof before she hands it in tomorrow.
‘Oh, that’s absolutely no problem at all. As long as you just tell me it’s signed off now . . .’
‘OK. Sign off done.’
‘Excellent,’ I say. ‘Excellent. And one more thing. You’ve got to promise me to show no one. Not Freya, not anyone. I’ll meet you at ten to nine tomorrow by the school gates and give it to you. I’m going to send Sally Aylsford with you to make sure no peeking. OK?’
‘Josephine . . . I’m not going to look, I promise.’
‘Swear?’ I try to keep my voice light; I don’t want her to become suspicious.
‘I swear.’ Can I trust her? Obviously not but at least Sally will be there to keep a check.
‘OK, well I told Sally she could go anyway. She’s been helping me out with some stuff and I said she would get a name check in the magazine if she did some odd jobs for me.’
‘Right then. Am I free to go?’ Verity asks, bored now.
‘Sure.’ Verity gets up to leave the room and, when she’s nearly out the door, turns towards me.
‘I think you’ve done a great job. I really do.’ I can see she doesn’t mean it, since she barely knows what has gone in but something doesn’t sit right about her niceness. The effort she’s making with me. The neck muscles sticking out further than usual as her grin begins to take on a maniacal look. I don’t have time for it. I put away all the papers in my editorial file and, tucking them under my arm, I go for tea.
I see Sally Aylsford in the queue. She’s looking sweaty. We walk into the dining room together, past Mrs McCready, who checks our names in at all meals.
‘Sally. Come here.’ She bounds over, wiping her face with her sleeve.
‘Right. You’re going with Verity tomorrow morning to the printer’s. Ten to nine. Meet her at the school gates. I’ll be there too. Make sure she’s holding the proof copy all the way there. Do not let her give it to you for one second,’ I say. ‘Go on. Repeat what I’ve just told you.’
‘I’ve got to meet Verity tomorrow at ten to nine. School gates. Do not let her give me the proof copy to hold, even for a moment.’
‘Do not be late. Even if someone’s having a heart attack, do not be late. OK? If you muck this up, I’m pulling your Oxford application. And no letting Verity look at the final draft. OK? I’m pretty sure she won’t. She doesn’t seem remotely interested. But if she tries, tell her you’ll tell me . . . Got it?’
‘Pinky swear.’ This time, I take the little finger she’s offered and link it with mine.
‘Pinky swear,’ I sigh.
I’ve called a meeting after tea with Mrs Allen, in her study. She’s wearing her home clothes, something I’ve never seen before. Thick black corduroys, with a quilted coat. She’s got a scarf wrapped around her neck that’s a dark purple. It washes her out.
‘You look . . . different,’ I say. ‘Nice.’
‘Thank you. Sit down. How are you? Coping alright? Application done, so we just have to wait and hear now.’
�
��Four or five weeks. Deadline closes quite soon.’
She nods. ‘So, what did you want to talk to me about?’
Mrs Allen steeples her fingers and is expecting me to say something important. Instead, all I’ve got is Sally fucking Aylsford’s plea case.
‘Mrs Allen, I think you might have made a mistake with Sally Aylsford.’
‘Mistake?’
‘Yes. With her Oxford application. I think she could do it. She’s been saying how hard she’s going to work.’
‘Is this really what you wanted to see me about?’
‘Yes. But . . . I just think she’s got something else to her . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, I’m not sure. There’s a creativity there. A spark. Something. I think she just fell at that mock.’
‘Fell? Dear, you can’t just “fall” at Oxford University. It’s not for people who “fall”. ’
She’s called me ‘dear’. Something I’ve only ever heard her use for the likes of Laila Hickman, who was always struggling to keep up with absolutely everything. I take a deep breath and play what I think will be my winning card.
‘She’s asked me to coach her for the application process and thereafter if she gets offered an interview. And I’ve agreed.’
‘I see. Might I remind you about our reputation for getting girls into Oxbridge, though?’ Of course – it’s only ever about the school, how we appear. It’s what I’ve always tried to explain to Freya but she never understood; no one ever expected anything of her.
‘I know. I really think she can do it.’ There’s a silence of at least a minute. I’m trying not to hold my breath.
She stares at me, piercingly, and for a moment I think all is lost until, ‘OK then. Well she’s missed her Oxbridge UCAS application so if they’ll accept a late one for whatever reason, you can go ahead and coach her. If you do a good job I’m sure she’s got a fine chance. Are you sure you can do this? Have enough time I mean? Mrs Kitts said you’ve been a bit off pace recently. She’s worried. Thinks you’ve got too much on your plate.’
‘Too much? Not at all, Mrs Allen. I’m loving the challenge. I’m over the scholarship now. Look onwards and upwards,’ I say, reciting one of Mrs Allen’s favourite quotes. ‘I’ll have time, yes. I’ll give her an hour twice a week. Just for History. It should be enough. In return she’s going to do some admin, so actually it’ll be helping me. I’ll be going over my History notes whilst she takes some of the more menial work off me.’
‘Fine. I trust your judgement on this one. Don’t let me down.’ She doesn’t look up and I know it’s my signal to leave. God, that was much easier than I thought it would be. She trusts me so implicitly, she trusts that I can actually get this girl an Oxford interview in a short space of time.
The next morning I wait by the school gates at ten to nine. Sure enough, there’s Sally, who looks like she’s been there for hours. Her hair is pulled back into a tight, serious ponytail and there’s a sheen of sweat on the bridge of her nose. I tell her Mrs Allen’s agreed to let her apply for Oxford and that if the university accept her late UCAS form, we’ll start the coaching sessions soon, should she get an interview. ‘They will accept a late form, they will. My father will make sure of it.’ She lets out a small squeal, and then gives me a very small nudge in the ribs. Verity’s running down the path, lacrosse stick in hand.
‘Coming,’ she shouts.
‘Don’t worry,’ I shout back. ‘Take your time.’ I want to keep her onside, even though I can feel the blood trickling into my skin. Verity looks taken aback that I’m being so genial. She puffs up.
‘Lovely, J. This is going to be a great edition,’ she says, as though she edited the damn thing.
‘Right. Sally,’ I say, steadying my voice. ‘I know you wanted to go too. Are you going to give the proof to Verity to hold?’
Verity frowns. ‘She’s not two! Nor am I!’ She leans on her lacrosse stick for support. ‘I’ll take it anyway,’ she says, taking the bait. I knew she could not resist being in charge.
‘Sure. Anyway, Pete, the printer guy, is expecting you both. I rang and left a message with him last night.’
Verity skips off, holding the magazine, and it’s only half an hour later and I’m waiting by the school gates for them to return when I see two figures in the distance, both dressed in school uniform. One is doing a stupid dance and the other is waving at me, giving me a huge thumbs-up.
I spend the day alone, thinking, wondering how everyone will react to what I’ve done. Will I be able to pin the blame on Verity? Of course. I have an alibi. Sally doesn’t know what she’s got herself into. My mind starts segueing into what could go wrong and so I mentally prepare myself by creating role plays in my head. That night, I have another nightmare again and wet the bed. When the others have gone to breakfast, I rush back up and hair-dry the mattress, methodically and without panic.
During supper the next day, I find myself in the queue next to Freya, who is already holding a tray full of beef stew, rice and three chocolate puddings. She makes a big show of holding the puddings, which, judging by the size of her, won’t be eaten. I look up to the chalked blackboard and Freya’s standing next to me, breath all jagged and hot.
By the time I’ve finished reading the lunch menu, Freya is wiping her nose.
‘Josephine?’ It is the first time she has called me by my full name in years. Her voice is so quiet I have to lean forward.
‘What?’
‘Can I talk to you? Tomorrow? It’s important.’ She’s looking around at the other girls in the queue, worried one of us is going to make a scene. I feel a frisson of disgust. That’s her recent modus operandi, not mine.
I raise my head, keeping silent. I can see Freya twitch. I think she’s about to beg me so I hold out a little longer. I’m still thinking of the betrayal over Mother, the scholarship. All of a sudden, Freya looks totally lost and it’s the best punishment I can think of for what she and Verity did to me. Then she makes a little movement, a small jolt where she nearly drops her tray and I can see the impact it has on her. The fright. I relent slightly and open my mouth, as though mulling over her question. Her thick, dark eyelashes are fluttering away. I think I see tears forming and, despite all that’s gone on, I am overwhelmed with wanting to reach out and hug her. To envelop her delicate frame and make things alright, like they used to be. To dissolve everything that happened. I’m also wondering what she wants; whether she wants the same thing. Freya can see I’m curious, strung up at that liminal point between yes and no and she seizes her chance.
‘You have to,’ she says. ‘You have to hear me out. You have to hear what I need to say to you.’ She’s trying to keep the pleading out of her voice but, at the last word, she falls.
‘OK,’ I say, thinking of the old Freya, how she would have already been hugging me by now, telling me to hurry up, that we had things to do, laughter to make.
‘Fine,’ I reply. She exhales with relief.
‘After tea? In the woods? Our usual?’ she says. I’m desperate to make a snide comment about how nothing is ‘ours’ anymore, but I stay quiet.
‘Fine. I’ll be there.’ She picks off a bit of chocolate sponge, puts it in her mouth and walks away. Freya is normally quite readable. At least to me. I know that the tiniest movement on the left-hand side of her top lip means she is nervous. I know that when she widens her eyes, she’s excited, waiting for something to happen. I know that when she is happy and about to laugh, she pats her stomach. She is doing none of these things. And she’s painfully thin, her little ankles rolling around in her blue school slip-ons.
There was no hatred there, just a resigned sadness, which makes me even more wary and then I think of Verity and all that weird nicey-nice behaviour and I think to myself then and there, as I’m asking for my prawn vol-au-vent, that something is desperately amiss.
2014
‘Josephine?’ Dr McKinnie says, standing aside to let me in. I walk throug
h the big wooden doors and she looks at my mouth, my nose, my hands, curled up like a newborn’s. ‘Josephine, come and sit down.’ She hands me a brown paper bag from behind the front desk.
I throw my hand at her, swiping away the bag and she forces me to sit down.
There’s no one else around. After five or so minutes, my hands unclench and Dr McKinnie asks how long I’ve been feeling like this. ‘I think, Josephine,’ she says, rubbing my back, ‘you need to seek some more help. Spend some time away. This Freya girl, your mother, it all seems too much. How about Cedars? I know you’ve probably heard about it because all the celebrities go there, but really, it’s the best place for a holistic approach.’
‘No, no, I’m not going anywhere.’
We sit in silence, Dr McKinnie rubbing my back and me wondering when she is going to let me go.
‘OK then,’ she says, ‘what would you like to do?’
‘I’m fine. Much better now,’ I reply. ‘Just came to see if you have any more medication you could please give me? Really, I’m fine,’ I say.
‘What are you scared of?’
‘Nothing. Just . . . please. Can I have some medication?’
‘Come into my office. You’ll need something for the immediate future. I’ll write you a note. Come on, it’s OK. Take my hand if you need to.’
I go with her, down the stairs and into her office.
‘Please, sit there. Would you like some tea?’ Dr McKinnie flicks a switch. I look over to the streamlined silver kettle that looks more like a miniature spaceship.
‘Milk, two sugars, please.’ I sit in silence as she makes it.
‘Here we go,’ she says, placing a black cup next to me. ‘Drink that.’
‘Do you have . . .’ I’m about to ask for some drugs then realise that I have to draw the line at quaffing pills back with my afternoon tea.
‘Listen. Can I do anything else? Honestly, a break might do you good, force you to sleep – you can talk to people, rest, therapy? I can ring Dr Anthony now, if you like?’
The Exclusives Page 15
