The Exclusives

by Rebecca Thornton

  Freya’s pulling out the picture of her daughter again. She’s looks at it and then quickly shoves it back into her bag.

  ‘So that night, when you said you wouldn’t take anything. Or just half a pill . . . I went to get you a drink.’

  I know what’s coming next but I have to hear Freya tell me herself.

  ‘I . . .’ She breathes, a controlled, steady breath which judders into a cry. ‘I put some stuff in it,’ she says.

  ‘What stuff?’ I already know what she’s talking about, but I’m biding time to process the blaze ripping through me.

  ‘That night. I took loads of pills. But as I said, I was pissed off you wouldn’t go all out with me. So I crushed some pills up and put them in your drink.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two. Maybe three?’

  I remember the drink now – the sweet fizz of the Coca-Cola, followed by a bitter, stringent taste blossoming around the back of my throat. Trying to cough away the taste and then, soon after, the prickling of my scalp, the blood warming up my veins.

  ‘So that’s why I was too . . . to do anything?’ She turns and nods. The light bounces off her hair. Silence. A bird trills and the sun gleams.

  I want to ask why she’s waited to tell me all this until now. Why she didn’t tell me before we talked about everything. But the crushing sensation across my chest has returned and I can’t talk. It’s even more painful, given the conversation we’ve just had, the level of closure we reached. I hunch over myself, squeezing away the pain. It goes soon after. I’m thinking back to that night and, when I do, I can’t say I’m that surprised about what Freya’s just told me. I think, deep down, I had always known she had done something like that. There was something not quite right about how paralytic I had been. I wonder how things would have turned out if I had been sober. I think back to how I hadn’t been able to control myself. How I had not even been able to stand up to stop those . . .

  She’s looking at me, eyes pleading and she’s reaching again for the photo of her daughter.

  ‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘Don’t use your daughter here.’

  Freya bites her lip and puts the photograph back. Looks at me again.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Josephine. It’s something I haven’t been able to forgive myself for. All this time later, it plagues me, every single day. I’ve felt trapped with it ever since because it’s always with me. With every movement I make. That guilt. The happiness of Evie, I keep thinking I don’t deserve it. Don’t deserve her, for being such a bad person for what I did.’

  Freya’s ripping up bits of tissue, rolling them up and putting them on the bench beside us.

  ‘I did actually try and tell you. You know that? I tried to tell you the next morning. You wouldn’t listen though. I wanted to get us the morning after pill, but you wouldn’t even let me look it up. I thought that was so risky, by the way. So stupid. I’m not trying to avert any blame. Or excuse what I did. Not at all. What I did was a horrendous, awful thing to do that I’ll live with to the day I die. But if you’d talked to me that day after, instead of shutting me up . . . instead of closing down, we might have reached some sort of closure earlier on. Do you see? I felt so, so alone. I couldn’t talk to you, let alone anyone else, and you just didn’t seem to care.’ Freya’s really sobbing now. Her eyes are shining, tears catching the sunlight. ‘Do you know what I thought?’ she says. I shake my head. I don’t know anything anymore.

  ‘I thought you were so lucky. I thought you were the luckiest person in the world. To be able to act as though nothing had happened. To seem unaffected by what happened to us. I used to think nothing could hurt you at all.’

  I don’t say anything. I want to say to her if she hadn’t been so stupid, I could have prevented all of this happening, I would have been sober, we would have been fine. But I can’t, because how can I tally up that one act against all the others I committed myself? We are in a web, she and I, so interlaced with recriminations you can no longer tell where it first began to be spun.

  ‘Could it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes it could.’ The pain gives way to a throbbing tiredness.

  She breathes out heavily. ‘Why, how could you have not talked about it then? I needed you so badly. I know it’s your way of dealing with things but wasn’t I important enough to you that you felt you could help me? Help yourself too? We could have gotten through it together.’

  ‘I told you,’ I say. ‘I told you just now. It was all to do with my mother. All that stuff.’

  She leans back, contrite. ‘I know. It’s really helped, seeing you, having you explain that to me. I’ve got to spend time recalibrating my whole idea about that time. Think of your viewpoint. Think of how much stuff you were going through too. And how differently we felt about that night. I can see it now.’

  ‘I don’t think we did, underneath,’ I reply. ‘Underneath it all, Freya, underneath the things we did afterwards. I don’t think we felt differently at all.’ I look at her and, as I’m saying those words and making that admission, she’s reacting to me as the old Freya would. She’s looking affectionate and her nose is all red and there’s a kernel of the old friendship there.

  ‘It’s good to hear you say that.’ Freya wipes her nose. ‘Really good. I feel like I’ve got some semblance of you back. All those good memories of us growing up together, like sisters, they were obliterated by how we both behaved straight after what happened. But knowing you felt it all too, that makes it so, so much better. That I wasn’t mad, that I wasn’t completely alone.’ And there’s something about the way she says that, about being alone when I have been so alone for nearly two decades, that I feel my body buckle and my arms are around her and I let her put her arms right back around me and she tells me it’s OK and that it’s over.

  We sit like that for a few minutes. Then she gasps and looks at her watch and says that it’s already two o’ clock and we’ve talked right through lunch.

  ‘I thought we’d only be here for a bit,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t imagine us going through all of this.’

  ‘Me too.’ She’s resting her head on my shoulder.

  ‘Did you ever want to see anyone again? From school, I mean?’ she asks, lifting her head up and smiling. The old Freya.

  ‘No. I won’t be going to any reunions soon that’s for sure. But I’m less fearful about the old memories being dredged up now we’ve seen each other. What about you?’

  ‘Nah. Not particularly. I never really spoke to anyone again after everything,’ she says. ‘Apart from Verity. Mrs Kitts wrote to me at home a few times, to say sorry. If that had been now, she would have been hung, drawn and quartered, wouldn’t she? I guess they had nothing to go on.’

  ‘Was that serious then? You and Mrs Kitts? I can’t believe you kept that from me all that time.’ I try and fail not to sound bitter, all these years later.

  ‘Well, no. For me it was just comfort. And she seemed so . . . together. Like you but not quite so unyielding.’ She gives a rueful smile. ‘Looking for the right things in all the wrong places. The last time she wrote to me years ago, it was four pages long. Memories. Her and me. She was more damaged than I was.’ Freya’s biting her lip again. ‘I didn’t tell you on purpose, by the way. The whole Prefect, Head Girl thing was beginning to happen. I didn’t want you party to anything that serious. Smoking and stuff . . . fine . . . but that . . . you could have been in real trouble if they’d known you were aware of what was going on. If it came out and they questioned you.’

  ‘Really? That’s the entire reason you didn’t tell me? To protect me?’ I think of all the hurt her not telling me had caused me, when all this time . . .

  ‘Really,’ she says. ‘I thought about telling you for ages. Thought I had given you some hints but I guess it was too random for you to just guess.’

  And this makes me feel worse for not protecting Freya when she needed it most. I let her kindness settle over me.

  �
��It was Sally who told me, by the way. About you and Mrs K.’

  ‘Sally? Oh . . . that makes sense, now. You and her. The Lens.’ We are chatting like we’re in her bedroom once again, lying on her duvet and gossiping as if we are talking about other people, which in a way, I suppose we are.

  ‘How’s Leon by the way?’ I try keeping my voice casual.

  ‘He’s well. In America as I said. Music A and R. He discovered loads of people. That big boy band that sang that song, you know the one that came out over Christmas. Bang bang di bang.’ I raise my eyebrows and laugh. Freya laughs too.

  ‘He’s separated. Married that girl Rosie, do you remember her? And she couldn’t have kids.’ My heart nearly dies at what could have been.

  ‘I can put you two back in touch if you want?’ she says. ‘He would love to hear from you. He always had a soft spot for you.’ I don’t know whether she’s joking or not.

  ‘Ha,’ I say. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What about you?’ she asks.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘What happened after you left school? I always used to try and find you on Facebook and then Verity told me she had read about your dig.’

  ‘How did you find me by the way?’ I ask. ‘It scared me so much. I got rid of our . . . my old email address. The one we set up together.’

  ‘Oh, when I got a response from your old email saying it was no longer in use, I rang your house and spoke to Amy. I got hold of your father a couple of times and hung up. Eventually Amy replied. I knew she was still with you. Or that someone would have been. She cried when I told her who it was. Said she had missed me so much and that I had been like a daughter to her and a sister to you. I made her promise she wouldn’t tell you that I had been in touch. Don’t get angry with her, J.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m relieved it wasn’t more sinister, frankly. I spent all that time looking over my shoulder, thinking you were somehow watching me.’ We both laugh again.

  ‘So go on,’ she says, ‘tell me. Tell me what you’ve been up to in those years we didn’t see each other. Did you go to Oxford in the end? What happened?’

  I sit and tell her everything, not knowing if we’ll ever fully rekindle what we once had. I don’t mind, though. We did good things today. We recaptured the good memories, came to terms with the bad. And there’s a part of me that still loves her. Always will. The beauty of her.

  1996

  The minute we are allowed back to school I decide to blitz my work. For the past two days, I’ve been revising all day and all night. The school takes on a studious air before our mocks, quiet and self-important. There’s total silence round the corridors. All I can hear are the rustle of books and nibs, pawing at blank pages. Everyone makes their own timetable and daylight holds no sway. Heads down, no eating. Everyone’s nervy.

  ‘Work hard, do all you can,’ says Mrs Allen in chapel that morning. ‘This school prides itself on academic achievement and so I expect all of you to fulfil your ambitions both here and afterwards. Make us proud. Make yourselves proud.’ Limbs twitch, eager to get back to books.

  My first History exam is later that day and I’ve memorised the entire curriculum textbook, and read a whole load else too, which I hope will stand me in good stead. The exam goes well. Hints of panic drip into my brain but I steel myself against them. Panic can wait, I tell myself. My body is totally fired up, but to the onlooker I am calm. I can’t stop thinking about Freya and the fact she should be here.

  It’s another two days until we are all gathered again: me, Verity, Sally, alongside our parents. A meeting has been called to determine our fate.

  I’m early and wait outside Mrs Allen’s study for ten minutes. I inhale, stand up tall and unpin my Head Girl badge from my jumper. The gold edge has kept its shine and the pin is still sharp. It’s left two holes in the wool.

  Head Girl.

  I breathe on the badge, misting it up and rubbing it until there’s no fingerprints, no smudging to be seen. I repin it to my jumper, threading the badge through the same two little holes.

  Whilst I’m waiting, Caroline Dawes, a freckly, energetic fifth-former, comes to pin up a note on the door of Mrs Allen’s study.

  ‘Your meeting,’ she says to me. ‘Mrs Allen’s asked me to pin this up on her door. It’s been moved to the Mann Library. It’s still starting now . . .’ She looks at her watch. ‘Well, in a few minutes at least. Mrs Allen’s study’s being repainted and everyone’s in lessons at the moment,’ she explains, looking at my face.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say and make my way to the library.

  Soon after, Verity arrives along with her parents and then Sally. My father is last, looking unshaven and red-eyed. I feel bad that he’s had to come all the way here when he’s probably had to cancel a load of meetings just as General Election fever is about to start. He presses his keys down onto the nearest wooden table. He smiles at me then Mrs Allen and I can see his chest rise. He slides his hand down his stomach, straightens his tie and sits down.

  ‘All, thank you for making the effort to attend today’s meeting,’ says Mrs Allen looking around the room. We’re seated on wooden chairs, apart from Mrs Allen, who is on a big green velveteen armchair.

  ‘We’ve got three governors with us today.’ I’ve barely noticed the other people – all women – in the room. There’s Mrs Pownall; a round, short-haired lady with huge, red glasses who keeps picking fluff off her black and white dress; and a small, blonde woman, probably in her early forties, who looks like she can barely contain her glee at being important enough to attend.

  ‘Now tea? Coffee?’

  Everyone nods.

  ‘Mr Grey?’

  ‘Tea. Please.’

  ‘Mrs Balfour, please could you ask everyone what they want to drink and do the honours?’ The blonde governor looks crestfallen at being asked to serve.

  ‘Right,’ Mrs Allen says. ‘As you all know, this meeting has been called as a last-chance saloon. Mr Seymour has instructed us to have it; he believes that one of you girls is responsible for what happened in The Lens and thus what drove Freya to her suicide attempt. So, one last chance for your daughters –’ Mrs Allen taps out a rhythm on the desk ‘– to tell us all what they know. Anything. And if none of you confess to anything, we’re going to probably have to take punitive action against all three of you. Depending on what’s said at this meeting, of course.’ She looks up, daring anyone in the room to challenge her. ‘We are, of course, in a difficult position where none of these girls can be proven guilty. They all had a hand in The Lens prior to publication but, apart from that, we have no proof. Only their word. But at the moment, there was no one else involved in the whole thing, so it’s likely they’ll have to take a collective hit.’

  None of the parents say, or do, anything, apart from my father, who is standing up, very slowly.

  ‘Mrs Allen, excuse me for interrupting, but I will not have my daughter used as a scapegoat so this whole affair is kept quiet and buried. Mr Seymour will not use our children in return for his child’s salvation, or whatever he’s looking for. Do you understand?’

  ‘Mr Grey, please . . .’

  ‘No pleases. Our daughters’ whole careers are at stake here. Their futures, Mrs Allen. Isn’t that what you pride yourself on as a school? Setting your girls up for their futures? If that’s the case, you’d better take it upon yourself to do just that, before I call in my lawyers. Do I make myself clear?’ My father doesn’t look around the room for approval, for reassurance. Doesn’t need it. I catch Verity’s mother bobbing her head up and down and Sally’s father shifting in his seat as though he wants to say something too, annoyed that my father got there first.

  ‘I am extremely proud of my daughter.’ Father is getting louder. ‘Head Girl, an offer from Oxford, she’s had a stellar education here at your school and I will not let some silly little girl’s affair with a woman twice her age affect it.’ Mrs Allen, I can tell, agrees with him.

  ‘Mr Grey. Th
ank you for that. If you could sit down please,’ Mrs Allen barks. ‘If we could get back to the matter in hand. We need to hear one last time from the girls if they have anything they want to say, before we . . . that is, me and the governors, decide what to do. I would like each of you to take some time, think about what it is you want to tell us, if anything. Let’s take a few moments, shall we? Let’s reconvene here in five minutes.’ Sally’s parents both leave the room. Verity has started to cry. Her mother leans over her talking in a babyish voice, telling her she’s the best girl in the world and that nothing will change that. I’m trying to work out in my head what to say but I keep wondering if something will incriminate me. Keep it simple, I tell myself. Just as we are all settling back down for the meeting Mrs Cape enters the library, holding a huge batch of post.

  ‘Mrs Cape, sorry, we’re having a meeting here,’ says Mrs Allen.

  ‘Oh terribly sorry, Mrs Allen. It’s your office and all. Your study, I mean. I don’t have anywhere else to sort this lot. Might you let me sit in the staffroom?’

  ‘Of course, that’s fine. You know the code? Ah actually, Mrs Cape. I have a request. As I said, we’re just having a meeting. A confidential one. I’ve just remembered I said I would make it all official and present it to the rest of the governors in our next meeting. Could you make yourself useful and type it up? And can I trust you that none of this goes any further?’

  ‘Absolutely, Mrs Allen. I’ll write shorthand notes and type it up afterwards. Secretarial college – that went to waste!’ Mrs Cape grimaces. I’m starting to feel uneasy.

  ‘Great. Apologies for this, everyone. Shouldn’t take long,’ says Mrs Allen, waiting for Mrs Cape to collect some paper and a pen.

  ‘It won’t. I’m good. Just watch.’ Mrs Cape wiggles her fingers around the room, smiling at everyone until her gaze stops at my father. She recognises him, it’s obvious. Recognises him from the news. Her eyes light up in that way when people see him in the street and want to stop him but are too embarrassed. She looks down and blushes.