The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  ‘Sure,’ he says, frowning. ‘Thanks.’

  The only way she knows he’s finished his coffee is if she’s been watching us. I don’t want to cause a scene whilst Father is here, so I vow to find her when he’s gone. He leaves half an hour later, patting me on the arm and handing me a rolled up copy of The Economist from his briefcase. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Keep this going.’ He points to his temple.

  ‘Bye. Thank you.’ I practically push him out the door and, when he’s gone, I run around the building, trying to find this girl.

  She’s nowhere to be seen until I go into the day room and she’s there, lying on a beanbag with her legs up on a chair, head tilted back into the sun, her throat exposed and her teeth jutting out slightly and I’m brought back to the Greenwood Hall dining room, eighteen years ago, and I was right all along.

  I sit down on one of the wooden chairs, waiting for her to look up from her book. When she does, she looks up at me, breaks out into an enormous grin and says, ‘Josephine Grey. Well, well, well. I thought it was you. Then when Rosemary called your name in therapy, I thought hmmmm. Is it? Isn’t it? And then I saw you with your father today and, well, obviously everyone knows who he is. You look totally different. Much thinner.’ She sucks her cheeks in, hanging her arms, limp, by her side, in an impression of a skeleton, then she throws her head back and laughs and laughs and laughs.

  1996

  ‘Josephine. You have to tell me all you know. The Head Governor is outside, waiting to talk to you. You’ve got three minutes to tell me exactly what is going on.’ Mrs Allen is staring at me. Her voice is calm but I can see her chest rising up and down.

  ‘I don’t know anything, Mrs Allen. I gave the proof copy to Verity, without the “Guess Who?” piece about Freya in it. And when the magazine was published, it was there.’ My life is on the line here, I can feel it. But aside from a small tremor in my left hand, I remain composed: shocked but calm like a Head Girl should be.

  Mrs Allen is scribbling down notes and I’m suddenly terrified Mrs Cape’s going to tell her that I was trying to get one of the pages ripped out before distribution. I will have to find her after this, straightaway, and somehow get her to keep her mouth shut. And then I remember Pete and I realise I have to tell him too.

  ‘Right. So you say you gave the proof to Verity Greenslade. What time was this?’ says Mrs Allen.

  ‘Hmmm, ten to nine?’

  ‘Yesterday morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she took it to the printer’s? Just her?’

  ‘No. Sally Aylsford too. She had asked to be involved.’

  ‘She asked to be involved?’ Mrs Allen sits straighter. She is looking at my Head Girl badge.

  ‘Yes.’ I say, quickly. ‘She just wanted something to say on her CV that would look good. I told her if she did a few things for me, a few odd jobs here and there, I would put her name on the magazine credits.’

  ‘And did you? Put her name on the credits?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Right. So you can tell me honestly now that you had absolutely nothing, nothing, to do with this “outing” of Freya and this teacher? Because we need to know. We need to know who did it and so we can find out if this rumour is just a rumour, or whether it is true.’ She looks at me. ‘Because not only is Freya’s welfare of paramount importance but we’ve got the school’s reputation to consider. The Good Schools Guide. All of that.’ Mrs Allen takes a huge breath. ‘Freya is not saying a word. We can’t get her to speak at all. And she hasn’t told you anything at all? You being her best friend? You must know something?’

  ‘Well, we haven’t really spoken much lately.’ I lean forward too. ‘Busy. You know?’

  Mrs Allen nods. ‘I mean yes. Of course. You’ve had an awful lot on your plate, what with The Lens and everything. Universities. Mocks.’ Then it hits me that if anyone finds out Freya and I have been fighting, I’ll be incriminated.

  ‘Yeah. We really haven’t spoken that much at all because of all of that.’ I’ll have to think of a way around that too and my head is buzzing with all of it. God, what a mess.

  Mrs Allen is now reaching across the table for my hand. I’m so surprised I let her take it.

  ‘I think my daughter would have grown up to be like you,’ she says. I know Mrs Allen had a daughter once. Died when she was eight. Hearing her say this makes me feel under pressure. Uncomfortable. I don’t know how to act so I’ll live up to her expectations. All I’ve done has been to make you all proud of me.

  She must see the expression on my face because she says, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Just wanted to let you know that I’m keeping my eye out for you.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Allen. I appreciate it, I really do. And I’ll try and do my best to please you.’

  ‘Right. Best call the governor now. Mrs Pownall. OK? She’s going to investigate a bit further. Put some feelers out and find out what’s been going on. If this is just silly gossip or we need to do something more serious about it. Which, obviously, I’d prefer not to do.’

  ‘OK, Mrs Allen.’

  Now I know Mrs Allen is rooting for me, I feel much more confident in telling Mrs Pownall what happened. This can still be cleaned up, today’s news tomorrow’s chip paper and all that, I tell myself, but it sounds hollow even to my ears.

  ‘Mrs Pownall, please come in,’ says Mrs Allen, waving her hand towards an empty chair. A tall lady with cropped, dyed blonde hair enters the room. She’s wearing a very inappropriate skirt, tartan like she’s imitating a young girl in uniform. She checks the chair twice before sitting, as though she’s expecting to find it covered in dirt. She asks me over and over to tell her what happened.

  ‘I told you, three times,’ I say, looking at Mrs Allen then Mrs Pownall, who keeps scratching her head with horrible, long, spiky red nails. ‘I gave the proof copy, without the “Guess Who?” section about Freya to Verity Greenslade and Sally Aylsford. They took it to the printer’s together. That’s all I know. I know nothing else.’ Mrs Pownall is busy writing things down.

  ‘So. Can I just clarify? You know nothing. I’ve spoken to a few of the other girls already. And they seem to think this . . . thing between Freya and the teacher is probably true.’

  ‘I have no idea what went on. As I told Mrs Allen, I’ve been really busy.’

  ‘Right. And so, let me ask you this. Did anyone else have the proof copy before you gave it to Verity and –’ she checks her notes ‘– Sally Aylsford?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Look, if this is some prank you need to tell us now. Then it’ll all be over quickly. So let me ask you again – are you sure you didn’t have anything to do with this?’

  ‘I’m completely sure.’

  Mrs Allen looks at her. She’s starting to get cross.

  ‘She’s answered your question.’

  ‘Right. Good! There’s a lot more I need to do. To ask. This is just the beginning, so please be available for when I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, thinking that if this is her line of questioning, I’m going to be just fine.

  ‘Can you call in Verity next, please?’

  I’m relieved. I’ve got time to find Sally and tell her not to say anything.

  ‘Sure. I’ll find her. She’s just outside.’ I leave the room and Verity is outside, sobbing; she doesn’t look at me as I approach.

  ‘I didn’t do it, you know,’ she says, still looking at her feet.

  ‘Really? Well you had the proof last. Didn’t you? Just remember what you did to me with the scholarship. People won’t trust you if they know about that, will they?’

  I’m risking a lot but Verity says nothing. Just wipes her nose with the back of her hand and I leave to find Sally and can’t believe for the life of me that I’m lying to absolutely everyone. It’s getting too big to control but I mustn’t think of that or I’ll panic completely. But then I realise first I should tackle the issue of Mrs Ca
pe, so I make a quick detour. When I find her, she’s reading Woman’s Weekly under her desk and eating Garibaldi biscuits.

  ‘Ah, Josephine,’ she says.

  ‘Mrs Cape. I’ve just had word from the Prime Minister,’ I say breathlessly, not bothering with pleasantries. There isn’t time. She sets down her biscuit, looks up at me.

  ‘He’s specified that you – he actually referred to you by name –’

  Mrs Cape’s eyes are jelly in their sockets.

  ‘– that you must never, ever allow anyone to find out they were trying to cover up part of his interview. It might, you know, have an impact on future policies and the safety of the country. All that kind of thing. You know?’ I sound ridiculous, talking about the safety of the country, whilst we are cocooned behind these four walls and I know I have to shut up right now before I lose total control, even though Mrs Cape looks petrified.

  ‘Really?’ she says. ‘You mean, the PM, knows my name?’

  ‘He does. He’s asked me to make sure it’s all kept quiet. It’s really, really important no one finds out. Some of the interview wasn’t meant to come out at all but it has now and the main press will use some of it. They’ll be able to get their PR team to sort it out but it’ll be much, much worse if anyone finds out they tried to pull it. Are you with me?’ Mrs Cape nods. She’s terrified. ‘Of course. If it’s for the safety of our country and all that . . . Anything. You tell the PM I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Thank you so, so much,’ I reply, almost wanting to laugh at her earnest expression and the fact she’s fallen for this. ‘And please. Again, Mrs Cape, I don’t think anyone will ask but please don’t tell anyone I’ve asked you to keep quiet on this. It’ll be a disaster if you do. But I’ll make sure he writes to you with a signed note, shall I? Make it out to you? Or is there anyone else?’

  ‘Yes, ooh can you do that? Of course you can, thank you. And you have my word. I won’t say anything to anyone.’ I leave the room, ready to run to Pete and tell him the same thing. I turn to say goodbye once more and she’s eating an entire Garibaldi biscuit, whole. I pray that she won’t open her mouth and destroy this whole house of lies. I turn to go and find Sally. She’s at the front of Main School, looking strangely calm.

  ‘Sally,’ I say, not bothering to wait for her to talk. ‘They’re talking to Verity now. Don’t say a word. Just tell them what happened. You went with Verity to drop the proof off at the printer’s. Don’t give them any more information than they ask for. That’s all they need to know. OK? And if you get stuck on anything just say you can’t remember or something. Alright?’

  She looks calm still. Happy, even. It’s beginning to unnerve me and I wonder whether she’s heard anything I’ve been saying.

  ‘Sally?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got you,’ she says. For good measure I remind her about Oxford.

  ‘Listen, we’ve sent off your application, so if you get an interview, you’ll hear pretty soon. So just be onside with me, OK? Let’s do some coaching soon.’

  ‘OK, Josephine. Thanks.’

  ‘OK, good. You’re being called in next to speak to Mrs Allen and Mrs Pownall – she’s one of the governors. I’m going back up to the house. Can you come and find me afterwards and let me know what happened?’ She nods and with a small smile walks off. When I get back, the house is very quiet, even though there are lots of people milling around. To avoid them I go to sit in the sixth-form study, as if I’m ready to do some revision and preparation for next week’s interview, rather than desperately trying to get some peace so I can have a minute to just think. This will give me time I so need to try to foresee any hitches and, more importantly, work out how the hell I’m going to play them.

  2014

  Gracie Lovell gets up to hug me. I back away. Her leering face reminds me of the time at school when she tried to find out why Freya and I were arguing, all false sympathy and concern. And that girl she always used to hang about with, Marge someone-or-other.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Wasn’t going to kill you or anything, was I?’ She laughs. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  I sit on a wooden chair and, although she’s a connection to Freya, it doesn’t feel too alarming. She was never particularly good friends with either of us at school. She’s changed a lot; I would never even have recognised her at first glance. Her eyes have become hooded, her chin sticking out, defiant against the weight of life. She’s got a fine, straight nose, freckled and slightly snubbed, which I think I used to envy for its tomboyishness.

  ‘Mother,’ I say. ‘She died and I, well, you know . . .’ I don’t ask her what she’s in for but she’s keen to proffer me her life story.

  ‘School. I think it actually ruined me,’ she says, without giving any thought to what I’ve just said, or what will come out her mouth next. ‘The success, the pressure. Everything. Didn’t set us up very well, did it? I thought everything was so cut and dried and I would leave, become a lawyer or a doctor. And then I did leave, got married, husband cheated and I realised what I really wanted to do was set up an arts and crafts shop. Something like that. But by then it was too late and I had two kids to look after. School fees to pay. Cheating husband was made redundant. All that stuff. So I came in here. Work are paying,’ she says defensively. I will her to breathe.

  ‘Investment banking,’ she says, as though I showed any interest. ‘Do you see anyone?’ she asks. She’s wearing a white caftan top – the type we used to go crazy for at school – with penny-sized yellow stains on the sleeve and leather strings that she keeps winding around her finger.

  ‘No not really.’ I pick up her book to change the subject. ‘Any good?’

  ‘It’s OK. Can’t really concentrate on much in here. Always people coming in and out. Don’t you find? Probably not. You always could concentrate anywhere, couldn’t you? Anyway, so you don’t see anyone, did you say?’

  ‘No one from school. Anyway, no more about school. It’s all in the past now.’ I sound terser than I mean to.

  ‘Is it? That’s not what I heard,’ she replies, looking pleased at having more information than me. I don’t make any effort to ask her ‘what she heard’, although I’m dying to know.

  ‘Freya?’ she says, looking into my eyes for some sort of reaction. I get up to leave the room. ‘She’s been looking for you. Asking people things about you. Specific things. That’s why I was so shocked to see you in here. Why I followed you with your father.’ Gracie is now standing up too, crossing her arms over her concave stomach. ‘Did she manage to get to you?’

  ‘Get to me?’

  ‘What’s wrong? Why are you shaking?’ Gracie asks. She’s trying to sound concerned but she’s almost laughing. ‘What’s the matter? All this school stuff getting to you as well?’

  ‘Not at all. So long ago.’ I attempt a laugh but it comes out as a hiccup and Gracie leans forward to pat me on the back. I smack her hand away.

  ‘Josephine, are you alright? When you came in here I thought we could be friends, hang out. We never got to hang out much at school. I wanted to be friends with you and Freya but you always seemed so distant to the rest of us. How about it? We can get through our time here together?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say, desperate to get her back on to my line of conversation. ‘So, Freya, what about her?’ I manage, somehow, to keep my voice from shaking.

  ‘Ah, it’s a long story, she’s just been harassing all of us.’ She’s playing me and I wonder whether I should request a transfer of some sort. I can’t be dealing with this.

  ‘She was just asking this and that.’ Gracie’s fingering the smocking on her blouse.

  ‘Ha, if I know Freya, I know exactly what she’ll have been asking.’ I say in a light-hearted way.

  ‘Really?’ Gracie replies. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Just this and that. As you said.’

  Neither of us budge. Finally she relents.

  ‘So, after all these years we can be friends? Come on, l
et’s hang out. And then I’ll tell you what’s been going on. Everything.’

  Gracie Lovell, after all these years, holds her arm out for me as if we were about to go for class and, for the first time in my life, I take it.

  1996

  I don’t manage to find Pete before our next weekend exeat, so I spend two days at home jittery and unable to sleep. I’m safe in the knowledge that Mrs Allen is away, so won’t be investigating. Mrs Pownall, however, who knows?

  I sit in the British Library sipping at water, peeling oranges and thinking of Freya. I haven’t heard anything from her since before The Lens was published. I had kept a close eye on my pigeonhole at school after the magazine was distributed, in case she had tried to contact me but every time I had checked, there was nothing. I remember vague plans of her family going to Rome for a treat; she had even mentioned asking Rollo if I could join them. I wonder what they’ll be doing now. If Rollo was shocked at the news and if she managed to sweet-talk him into not being cross with her, her blonde head cocked to one side. My father is away, so at least I can avoid any questions from him and I feel a bit lighter by the time I arrive back at school. The first thing I do, even before unpacking, is track Pete down. He agrees to keep quiet. I tell him the same thing I told Mrs Cape before the break and he looks absolutely petrified. ‘Well, Miss Grey. I would never let this fine country down,’ he says.

  ‘The school governors might be coming to question you about it, though. But that’s about something else entirely. Just keep schtum.’

  Pete takes a step back and clasps his hands together. ‘Governors?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looks so scared I almost want to tell him the truth. Someone who knows nothing about me, my past, or the school. See what he would say and how he would react. But I can’t, of course.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asks. I smile brightly and tell him of course, that I’m great, I was just thinking about home. ‘Ah yes, tricky,’ he says. ‘Not being with your parents and all.’ He goes to his desk and opens an envelope, then pulls out a ten pound note. He presses it into my hand and tells me to buy something nice to cheer me up. When I see how genuine he is about giving it to me, I take it. When I get back to school, I put the ten pound note in a drawer and vow to pay him back one day.