The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  ‘Who found her?’ whispers Mrs Allen. ‘That was Mrs Kitts . . .’ she says, and her eyes light up. ‘Mrs Kitts,’ she repeats. She nods her head very slowly and opens her mouth.

  ‘Mrs Kitts. Who would have thought . . . it’s her, isn’t it? It all makes sense now. Pushing me to put Freya forward for the Anne Dunne Scholarship. I had my reservations about that but she was adamant. Hounded me until I agreed. She found Freya after she . . . God. Mrs Kitts. All this time.’ She’s not asking me. And for a brief moment it all crystallises in my mind too and I accept it. That Freya had kept it all a secret from me. That of course it was true. That night, before the club, she was so adamant that she no longer fancied Guy. She was holding that secret then, I know it. That funny look in her eyes when I asked her if she was excited about seeing him and I wonder what else I didn’t know about my friend Freya. What else she kept from me. ‘Are you going to ask Verity what happened with The Lens?’ I’ve got to appear as normal as I can, from now on. That means focusing on my work, focusing on getting into Oxford.

  ‘Yes. At some point. We’ve got to wait for Freya to make a recovery, though.’ Mrs Allen is now calling Mrs Pownall.

  ‘Mrs Pownall, if you could come here, quickly, please. We’ve had further developments . . . No, absolutely nothing concrete so no need to call the police just yet . . . OK, many thanks. See you.’ I open my mouth then shut it.

  Curiously, I’m so certain that Freya will pull through that I don’t give her a second thought. The idea that anything could happen to her is so . . . so . . . wrong that I simply will not accept it. Mrs Allen hangs up, still looking at the phone.

  Father arrives that afternoon. He has driven himself, which is unheard of. His features look pinched, his shirt is crumpled.

  ‘Josephine,’ he says. ‘Where’s Freya?’

  ‘She’s in the hospital.’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Rollo. He’s flown back from South Africa this morning. He’s hightailing it to the hospital now. What happened?’

  ‘She tried to kill herself.’ Somehow, my voice comes out totally normal. ‘What about Leon?’ I ask, regretting how insensitive I sound. Father doesn’t seem to care, or notice.

  ‘Not sure. Last I heard he was staying with a friend. Good God. What are we going to do?’ Father sits on the bench outside Mrs Allen’s study and puts a red cashmere jumper next to him. I sit down and pick it up, putting it on my lap like it’s a little baby. Underneath the sleeves, my fingers are pressed together so tightly I can feel the blood flooding to the tips.

  ‘Why has Mrs Allen called me down here?’

  ‘Because they think she tried to kill herself . . . because of me.’ I watch Father’s face as I say this. As I say the word ‘kill’, he goes red, then the blood seeps from his features. Saying the words out loud makes all this easier to deal with. They sound so absurd, coming out of my mouth that the whole thing turns into a farce in my head. But then, there’s a strange, invisible force around my neck, as though I’m being garrotted and it takes me a moment to realise I haven’t breathed for a long time and I start to choke.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘Want some water?’

  ‘No, thanks. Just swallowed the wrong way, that’s all.’

  ‘Why did she do it?’ He’s now taking off his watch and putting it back on again. ‘Is she going to be OK?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s very ill.’

  ‘What am I going to say to Rollo? His daughter tried to kill herself? My God. He’s arriving soon. He said he didn’t know any of the details. Just got a call from Mrs Allen telling him to come back straightaway. Suicide, Josephine. She’s not yet eighteen? Josephine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened? Quickly. Before Mrs Allen gets here. She’s gone to get Verity.’

  ‘It seems Freya was having an affair with Mrs Kitts,’ I say, hoping this will deflect from the suicide note.

  ‘Mrs Kitts? Your housemistress?’

  ‘Yes. But it hasn’t come out for definite yet, so don’t say a word.’

  ‘And?’ Bizarrely Father looks totally unperturbed by this piece of information.

  ‘And then something was published in The Lens.’ I look at Father to see if he has any recognition of my editorial triumph. Testing him.

  ‘The Lens. What you wanted the PM for?’

  ‘Yes. The PM.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well I sent the proof copy to the printer’s and when it came back it seemed to have a piece about Freya. About her affair with Mrs Kitts.’

  ‘Written by?’

  ‘I have a few ideas. But it was there out of the blue. Ridiculous really. And then Freya tries to commit suicide. Left a note, blaming me. God knows why,’ I say, quickly, in the hope this will somehow allow me to move on to his next question.

  ‘Blaming you? What? This is all too absurd. I can’t understand it. What’s going on? You’re her best friend.’

  I don’t know where to start with his line of questioning, so I keep quiet. I can hear the click of his watch strap over and over.

  ‘Blaming you?’ he says again, staring at me. I can’t bear to look back at him.

  ‘Yes. I have no idea why. I hadn’t even seen her for ages. Perhaps she was a bit . . . confused about what was going on? Not in the right frame of mind,’ I say.

  ‘Sounds like it. We’ll find out anyway. Don’t worry. In the meantime, who else knew about the affair?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ I can’t quite bring myself to admit to him that Freya hadn’t told me about it, so I swiftly change subject. ‘But I’m pretty convinced I know who’s to blame for all of this.’ I turn to look at him, gaining traction in my little speech.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Verity.’

  ‘Who’s Verity?’

  ‘My Deputy.’

  ‘And why do you think it was her?’

  Oxford. Oxford. It’s got be Oxford. Perfect. I’m perfect and not like Mother.

  ‘Because I gave her the proofs to take to the printer’s and it didn’t have the section about Freya in it. She’s guilty. No one else could have got to it.’

  ‘Right. OK. Well don’t worry. We’ll get this sorted. Sounds like it’s got totally out of hand here.’ I want to hug him for not questioning me further. For believing me.

  ‘So yes, The Lens was good this year. The PM interview was great,’ I say.

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes.’ He’s distracted now, looking at his watch.

  ‘What’s the time?’ I ask, although I’m not in the least bit interested.

  ‘Twelve twenty. I’ve got a meeting at four.’ With a sick feeling I realise Father doesn’t believe, or disbelieve me. He’s just in a hurry to get back to work.

  ‘How’s Ma?’ I try.

  ‘She’s fine. Fine.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Is she at home at the moment?’

  ‘Yes.’ End of conversation. We sit for twenty minutes, me looking at the clock, Father tapping the chair. Finally Mrs Allen calls us in when Mrs Pownall arrives.

  ‘Mrs Pownall.’ She guides her hand towards Father. ‘This is Mr Grey, Josephine’s father, who has kindly agreed to come and speak to us.’

  ‘Mr Grey,’ says Mrs Pownall, as though she’s at a cocktail party. She’s wearing even more ridiculous clothes today – a frilled rah-rah dress that looks like something a cheerleader would wear, not a lady who’s in her fifties. ‘Thanks for joining us today. I know you are a busy man.’

  ‘That’s quite alright. No problem at all.’ The edginess has all but disappeared. Father is now on form. The jacket comes off, but then he notices the crumples in his shirt and he puts it back on again. He sits up straight.

  ‘Now, Mr Grey. I’m sure Josephine has filled you in but there seems to have been a bit of a commotion going on.’

  ‘Yes. Josephine has indeed filled me in, haven
’t you, J?’

  Mrs Allen makes a funny noise – a cross between a donkey’s haw and a snort. She runs her fingers through her hair and looks at him.

  ‘Right. Well we’ve got Mrs Pownall here waiting to ask a few questions. We would like to keep it in the school for the moment, just while we investigate. I’m sure you understand. Obviously there are these rather distasteful rumours, plus the awful events of last night. I understand you and Freya’s father are very close.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Great. Well he’s currently on his way back from South Africa, so we’ll expect to see him shortly. Last I heard he had just landed.’ Mrs Allen gives Father a big smile. He smiles back and she puts a hand to her collarbone. ‘Oh,’ she tinkles.

  ‘So, please do go ahead,’ Father says. His eyes flicker down to his wrist. Mrs Pownall asks me why I think Freya would have written such a note. I tell her I do not know. That Freya seemed upset with the piece about her in The Lens and she probably named me because I was Editor and needed a scapegoat, or a deflection from what might get her into serious trouble.

  ‘And I have no idea how that piece got in there,’ I say.

  ‘Right. Well then, do you have any ideas who might have done this? We need to get to the bottom of this soon. Was Freya the type who . . . had . . . how do I put this . . . fixations?’

  ‘No, no, she wasn’t,’ I say, surprised by my loyalty.

  ‘And what about the note? Why would she do such a thing and blame you? Can you tell me what happened with your proof? You say you gave it to Verity Greenslade?’

  ‘That’s right. I went through the proof, which didn’t have that piece about Freya in it, and then I gave it to Verity to deliver to the printer’s.’

  ‘Right. And Sally Aylsford can corroborate this?’

  ‘Yes. She can.’

  ‘And what was Sally doing there?’

  ‘I promised her I would help her out. Give her a few things to do so she could get her name on the credits.’

  ‘I see.’ Mrs Pownall is chewing on a pen. Looking as though she’s questioning me for murder. Which, in a sense, I suppose she is.

  ‘She’s fine, Sally. I don’t think she even touched the copy when I left them both.’

  ‘You think? How do you know this?’

  ‘Because Verity took it from me and told me she gave it to the printer’s.’ I look at Mrs Pownall. Burn her with a stare and she stares back but then chickens out and looks down at her notes.

  Father has started tapping his foot.

  Mrs Allen notices and looks apologetic. ‘Right. Mrs Pownall, shall we wind this up now?’ She’s looking at Father and taps her own watch, a conspiratorial rapport between two busy people.

  Mrs Pownall is not quite finished. ‘Jill, I’ve had a chat with the other governors, and we think it might be suitable if you called in a counsellor. In case any of the girls need to talk.’

  Mrs Allen looks horrified but says yes anyway, that she will. ‘Josephine and Mr Grey, you’ve been extremely helpful. Thank you ever so much for coming down, Mr Grey. I’ll see you both out, shall I?’ We all walk out the door and, as we leave, Rollo is stepping out of a big, shiny silver car. He’s looking tanned and fat. His stride is abrupt but I can see his hands shaking as he grips on to his soft leather suitcase. He sees us. Sees Father shaking hands with Mrs Allen and stops where he is, crunching his toes into the gravel. Father strides up to him, arms open and, when he does, Rollo pulls his arm back, as though he’s about to throw a punch in Father’s face. We both step back and Rollo drops his arm. Tired. Bows his head and rubs his eyes. I don’t speak. Wait for Father to open his mouth.

  Rollo whispers to me, ‘What have you done to my daughter?’ he says.

  Father holds up his palms. ‘Leave Josephine out of this. She had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard. Mrs Kitts rang me just now. She told me about the note Freya left.’ Rollo sniffs. More as an act of aggression, as though he is inhaling energy from the air, ready to throw another punch. ‘Said you put something about Freya in the public domain?’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ I reply.

  ‘Who was it then? How can Freya have got it wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know who it was. They’re questioning Verity Greenslade.’

  ‘Verity?’

  ‘She’s my Deputy.’

  ‘Why would they be questioning her?’

  ‘She was the last person to take the proof to the printer’s.’

  Rollo nods his head. ‘Is there any reason why she would have wanted to do this to my daughter?’

  ‘Me, I think. I think she was out to get me.’ The lies are coming so easily I’ve begun to believe myself, that Verity is actually to blame. The deception feels frighteningly, deliriously exciting. Catch me out if you can, I think.

  ‘She had a thing about me. Me and Freya. Wanted to be friends with Freya. Was out to get me.’ Then I tell him about the Anne Dunne Scholarship – not all of it, but just enough to incriminate dear Verity – and his mouth opens and he stands up straight with renewed vigour and walks into the main school building.

  ‘Rollo,’ Father shouts after him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’ll be OK.’

  He says nothing, only nods. We watch as he walks into the school and Father looks at his watch one final time.

  ‘Right. Great to see you. Don’t let this Verity girl get the better of you.’

  Is that all he has to say to me?

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘And when do you hear about Oxford?’

  Oxford. Oxford.

  ‘Interviews are still going on. After Christmas I think. I have no idea what’s going on at the moment. I just hope Mrs Allen doesn’t have to tell them what’s going on.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. I won’t let it. You just make this go away. Do you understand? You make your own history. Alright? Don’t be defeated.’ Father places his hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye.

  ‘OK? Nothing will stop you.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I echo.

  2014

  I don’t see Gracie for a few days. When I ask around, I’m told she’s still here but that no one knows why she’s keeping herself to herself. I spend this time writing letters, having therapy sessions and watching documentaries. In the silence of my surroundings, without the fear of Freya hunting me out, I start to think of Mother. The way in which I think she loved me, when she was able. I start to wish that I hadn’t been so frightened of her. That her paranoid behaviour hadn’t felt so threatening to me. That I had tried to understand it – her illness – a bit more. It was Father who once told me that, during her most paranoid times, she would often be lucid to the point of genius. I wished, more than anything, that I hadn’t been kept away from her at those points.

  Dr Anthony spends a lot of time talking about Mother with me, going through her symptoms, her feelings. It’s helpful and her memory takes on a different light. He’s a lot more receptive after speaking to me in depth. Today’s session, he asks what I had wanted to tell him in our first meeting.

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply. The thought of Gracie being in here has made me unwilling to talk. He stares at me for a few seconds, unblinking but with a gentleness in his eyes. I feel my throat relax.

  ‘It was just that someone is trying to find me. It’s all tied up with the past and . . . that’s it, really. And actually, one of your patients knew the girl who has been trying to get in contact. Gracie Lovell. She’s still here, right?’

  Dr Anthony twirls his pen and places it at right angles to his notepad. Straightens it out and then adds another pen perpendicular to that.

  ‘I can’t talk about our other patients, sadly. But if anyone’s making you feel uncomfortable, please do let me know. I can sort something out. Move either you or her to a different wing.’

  ‘No, no, she’s not at all. It’s just weird, that’s all. A constant physical reminder of the past.�
��

  ‘And what happens when you see her?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing.’ I don’t want him to think she’s having a detrimental effect on my mental state so I ask him when he thinks I’ll be ready to go home.

  ‘Do you feel any better?’ he asks.

  ‘I do, actually. It’s nice being in here.’ I look down at my clothes and realise I’m mixing up my wardrobe a bit. I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt that I would normally wear with a skirt. Something must be happening to me. Then I ask him the question that has been haunting me since I arrived.

  ‘Do you think I’m feeling better because I’m relieved Mother’s died? If so, isn’t that a bit strange?’

  ‘No. I think you’ve lived under the fear of your mother’s illness for so long that, in one sense, it’s a relief she’s gone because with her so is the threat. On the other hand, you’ll find yourself grieving for the mother you never had. Grief is complex and the reactions we have are always different, which doesn’t make them wrong or right – just right for us. Some people close down and others break down.’

  ‘Hmmm. Which one am I?’ I laugh and then I think of Freya and how she used to complain that I had no feelings. ‘Like a machine’. That very second, I find myself totally desperate to find out what Freya wants from me, and before I can betray myself I tell Dr Anthony that I’ve got to go, that I’ve got a yoga session booked and that I’ll see him soon.

  ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Just make sure you take it easy on yourself. And do those mental exercises I told you about. OK?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Thank you.’

  I walk out into the corridor of the building and make my way to Gracie’s room. It’s locked and so are the doors of her next-door neighbours. I go round the garden but she’s not there either. There’s a teenage girl sitting there reading a book by the hedge, wearing hot pants and a lumberjack shirt tied up above her belly button.