Since it wasn’t possible for the school to send out guides to some parents but not others, the “Wakefield Hall Etiquette Guide for Students” was retired from circulation after just one year. One year too many for me, but a whole lot better than having the wretched thing go out to every new girl at the start of the autumn term for the rest of eternity.
Nowhere in the guide does it say I posed for the photos. And since I wasn’t a pupil at Wakefield Hall then—it was assumed I’d stay at St. Tabby’s until I was eighteen and went off to university—my grandmother firmly overrode my objections by saying that nobody at the school would ever identify me.
And they probably wouldn’t have. After all, at fourteen I was still a skinny girl with her hair in plaits. A big difference between me then and me now, nearly seventeen, with boobs and hips and a bum (all a bit more sticky-out than I’d like, but I’m learning to live with them).
If someone as twisted and sneaky as Plum hadn’t got her sticky fingers on it, my secret would almost certainly have been preserved.
“Knees together when you slide out of a car, ladies! That way no one can tell if you’re wearing a thong or nothing at all!” comes Plum’s high-pitched drawl, easily audible though I’m on the other side of the common-room door. “Personally, I think she’s wearing granny pants, don’t you? Or gym knickers. Big brown gym knickers to preserve her maidenly modesty! Because she’s definitely a maiden, don’t you think?”
A round of tittering laughter greeted this salvo of comic brilliance. Bracing myself—Taylor behind me, both of us having just sprinted up the main stairs of Pankhurst dormitory—I push the door open and step inside.
Jase thinks you’re gorgeous, I tell myself for courage. The handsomest boy you’ve ever seen thinks you’re gorgeous and wants to kiss your face off. Be strong.
But the scene inside is even worse than I imagined. Plum has practically thrown a party to celebrate her discovery of the Wakefield Hall etiquette guide. Almost all the common-room chairs have been arranged in two half-moon rows, and the chairs are full of girls. Their backs are to me; they’re all facing the cleared area, the open space in the center, where the last chair is placed. As if it’s on a stage.
And Plum’s performing. She’s sitting on the chair, knees squeezed tightly together, feet in the air, halfway through copying the large black-and-white photo in the guide, which she’s holding in one hand, high up and facing out, so that everyone in the room can see it as clearly as possible.
It’s me, in the terrible, stomach-turning “How to Exit a Car with Grace and Dignity” section.
Plum turns her head and spots me standing there. I have to give the cow some credit for her nerve; she doesn’t look at all taken aback at having the object of her mockery walk in halfway through her act.
“Scarlett! How fortuitous!” she exclaims, dropping her feet to the ground, her heavily mascara’d green eyes opening even wider. “I mean, you’re the expert on this whole etiquette subject, aren’t you? Come over here, will you, and show me how to keep my legs together? It’s something I seem to have a little problem with from time to time, but I’m sure it isn’t an issue for you!”
Sycophantic titters greet this latest sally. Everyone turns to look at me, craning their necks over the backs of their chairs. And I realize with horror that it’s happening all over again.
Plum and I were at St. Tabby’s together, up till last summer, when I was asked to leave because of all the media attention surrounding Dan McAndrew’s death. I was just another insignificant student who did gymnastics after school almost every day and stayed well away from the ruling clique of girls, because any attention they gave me would definitely be negative.
While Princess Plum—beautiful, rich, and socially from the top drawer—was the supreme ruler of all she surveyed. She was so influential that girls copied her slavishly, hoping to win her approval and avoid being on the receiving end of her sharp tongue.
But St. Tabby’s was one of the smartest, most socially important girls’ schools in England. When Plum got expelled and sent here instead, I really hoped that her particular brand of mean-girl nastiness wouldn’t work as well at Wakefield Hall, where brains are valued much more highly than the number of times you’ve been in Tatler that year.
Clearly, I was wrong.
Because every single head turned to me looks like an amateur version of Plum.
Plum’s hair is pulled loosely up on her head with an elastic; all the girls with long-enough hair to imitate her are wearing theirs in a similar style. Their eyelashes are mascara’d just like Plum’s, their lips glossed like hers. Now that I get a good look at the room, I can see that Plum’s lounging outfit of skinny-fit T-shirt, flannel pajama bottoms, and furry slippers has been reproduced, as closely as possible, on every girl present. Her wrists are encircled with bracelets made of big silvered glass beads, which she’s been wearing nonstop since she came back from the Christmas holidays, and most of the other girls have tried to copy them, buying versions as close to Plum’s originals as they can, but, of course, not quite succeeding.
In the space of just a few weeks, Plum has managed to create a whole new army of Plum-bots.
Complete with matching jewelry.
The only person who hasn’t succumbed to Plum’s brainwashing is Taylor, who promised me that she’d stand quietly by my side during this confrontation, unless I gave her the signal to use her amazing intimidation skills. Although when I glance at Taylor, who is standing with her arms crossed over her chest and grimacing at Plum as though she’d strangled Taylor’s dog, I realize she doesn’t have to say anything in order to put the fear of God into someone. Taylor is, quite frankly, toughness personified.
Which is why I’m grateful that she’s in my corner.
“Give me that,” I say, marching round the rows of chairs, advancing on Plum and snatching the etiquette guide out of her hand.
“But, Scarlett!” Plum mimes shock, one hand to her mouth. “You can’t take that away. Without it, how will we all learn to be properly behaved young ladies?”
“It’d take more than an etiquette guide to teach you that,” I snap.
Plum’s eyes narrow into slits.
“You were nothing at St. Tabby’s,” she hisses. “Nothing. And then you got invited to one party—one!—and a couple of boys noticed you, mainly because you were just fresh meat, and you got your head swelled almost as much as your ridiculous, fake-looking boobs!”
There are gasps from the rows of spectators at this round of insults. All the girls are leaning forward as if they were at the circus and we were doing life-threatening stunts.
“Oh, just go and buy yourself a Wonderbra,” I cut in. “Honestly, it’s tragic how obsessed you are with my boobs. Maybe if you didn’t starve yourself you’d have some of your own!”
More gasps. Plum tosses back her head theatrically and glares at me.
“I do not starve myself,” she barks.
“No, you’ve got other ways to keep skinny, don’t you?” I snap back. “Ways that don’t work for poor people, right?”
Lizzie Livermore, sitting in the front row, claps her hands over her mouth in shock that I’ve brought this up. Lizzie has always been a Plum-bot, even before Plum landed at Wakefield Hall. Insecure, fashion-obsessed, and very, very rich, Lizzie hangs out with Plum and her clique in London, buying her entrance to their smart party set by using the credit cards her father gives her instead of the attention she really wants from him.
Ever since Plum arrived here, Lizzie’s run around after her like a yappy little dog. And Lizzie knows exactly what I’m referring to, the reason Plum had to leave St. Tabby’s. Plum’s best frenemy, Nadia Farouk, posted a video clip on YouTube of Plum snorting coke and saying that “dieting is for poor people.”
I may have gone too far, however. Plum practically hisses like a snake at this.
“At least I haven’t killed anyone!” she says furiously, pointing one manicured finger at me.
Bu
t I can tell from the malign expression on her face what she’s about to spit out, and as soon as she opens her mouth I’m saying equally loudly, covering her words:
“Outside! Now!”
I can see that no one expects Plum to obey. There are more gasps of surprise as, reluctantly, she pushes back the chair and stands up.
Damn. I’m in trainers, and Plum towers over me. It was a lot easier to face off against her when she was sitting down. No girl who isn’t as tall and slim as Plum herself would be comfortable in her skin standing next to Plum. I feel as squat and stumpy as a pillar. In the dark glass of the window behind us I see our reflections, and I wince at the comparison.
I can’t compete with her in looks, either. I’m pretty enough—with my dark wavy hair, blue eyes, and pale skin, I’m a dead ringer for the Wakefield women in most of the family portraits. But Plum’s photogenic, chiseled cheekbones, perfect straight nose, and mesmerizing green eyes put her way beyond mere pretty, securely into the “beautiful” category.
I really don’t want to be standing next to her with everyone else gaping at us. I swivel and walk quickly past the rows of girls, heading for the door. Though I double-take briefly as, acknowledging Lizzie with a swift nod, I see who’s sitting next to her: a girl called Susan, who’s in my Latin class. Tall, blond, and willowy, Susan is one of the prettiest girls in school, but has always been shy and seemingly uninterested in her appearance. Now, with her white-blond hair pulled back from her face, her thick lashes mascara’d and her near-invisible eyebrows penciled to light brown, she’s a total knockout.
She could give Plum a run for her money in the beauty stakes, I think savagely. Hope Plum doesn’t destroy her for it.
“Want me to come with you?” Taylor asks.
I shake my head. “Just keep an eye on everyone else, okay?”
Taylor nods in agreement, then scans the group for any interlopers who might want to follow Plum and me outside.
I stalk out into the corridor and down to the far end, by the fire door, an isolated spot where no one can sneak up on us and eavesdrop. Plum walks as haughtily down the corridor in her fluffy slippers as if she were strutting down a Milan catwalk. Behind her, Taylor exits the room and leans against the wall, making sure that everyone else stays inside the common room.
“Wherever did you find such a butch bodyguard, Scarlett?” Plum says sarcastically.
I have to admit, Plum has nailed Taylor’s posture. Taylor is wide-shouldered from all the pull-ups she does, and her equally muscly arms are folded across her chest. She could easily pass for a bouncer if she shaved off the shaggy dark hair that’s falling into her eyes. Plum made the comment loudly enough for Taylor to hear, and I see Taylor’s thick dark brows pull together in annoyance; though she’s resolutely nongirly, she hates it when people comment on her looking mannish.
That’s the trouble with Plum. She’s incredibly talented at homing in on people’s weaknesses, inserting the knife tip to test for flinching, and then twisting it deep. The best thing to do is ignore these comments, but right now I don’t have the mental fortitude to remind myself of that.
“You crossed the line,” I snarl.
“Ooh! Dramatic! What are you going to do?” Plum retorts. “Go running to your grandmummy?”
I’ve got no choice but to call her bluff.
“Sure,” I say immediately. “I’ll go and wake her up right now. Do you want to come along with me, or wait till tomorrow to get your trust fund access frozen?”
Plum narrows her eyes at me. “You bitch.”
She takes a step toward me, her fists clenched.
“Pot, meet kettle,” I say coldly, staring up into Plum’s eyes, not flinching for a second. Plum may be a lot taller than me, but she’s just a skinny minny. After all my years of gymnastics and now my workouts with Taylor, I’m much, much stronger than my curvy physique suggests.
I could take Plum in a fight with one arm tied behind my back. I’ve already had a physical encounter with her once, at St. Tabby’s, and I won that very easily. I glare back at her, telling her with my eyes and my posture not to put her hands on me. I see that she’s reading the message loud and clear.
“This is far from over,” she says angrily, turning on her heel. “Get out of my way,” she snaps at Taylor as she advances, raising her hand, bracelets jangling, to push back a stray lock of her hair. Taylor actually steps aside for her almost deferentially, which surprises me. Plum is acting like a princess, but I didn’t expect Taylor, of all people, to obey her haughty commands.
And just as Plum sweeps majestically past Taylor, she throws over her shoulder at me: “I’m going to find more copies of that etiquette guide and make you a total laughingstock with the entire school. I’ve got nothing else to do in this bloody boring hellhole but make your life a misery, Scarlett Wakefield!”
Oh God. Nowadays all I seem to do is put out one fire after another. I shiver. Because I know that cow means every word she says.
three
A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE
“What did you mean about her trust fund?” Taylor asks as we walk back down the staircase of the Pankhurst dormitory.
I look quickly at my watch: ten minutes till curfew. Just enough time to fill her in.
“I promised my grandmother not to tell,” I say. “But now it’s all blowing up, it’s stupid for you not to know.”
“Anything to do with Plum, I ought to know,” Taylor says immediately. “Information is power.”
I nod. She’s absolutely right.
So I tell her what happened in my grandmother’s study a few weeks ago, when Plum arrived at Wakefield Hall.
Being summoned to see my grandmother is always a nerve-racking experience. Even when she wasn’t the headmistress of the school I attended, she was extremely intimidating. Now it’s a double whammy. Whether I’ve done something wrong as a granddaughter or as a pupil, it’s Lady Wakefield (which she insists I call her during term time) I have to answer to.
And somehow, whenever I get a message telling me I have to go to see my grandmother, I always assume that it’s because I’ve done something wrong.
This time, however, was unprecedented. Someone had certainly done something wrong, but, for a blissful change, it wasn’t me.
Plum was sitting opposite my grandmother, a scowl on her face, every inch of her body expressing an overpowering wish to be as far away as possible. The weird thing was that I actually felt a rush of sympathy for her. She looked exactly how I felt every time I was in my grandmother’s presence. For once, Plum and I had something in common.
“Scarlett, I have taken the unusual step of calling you in,” my grandmother said, her enunciation, as always, exquisite. “This matter directly concerns you, as you may imagine. Please sit down.”
I pulled up a straight-backed chair and obeyed, crossing my legs at the knee and folding my hands in my lap, the way Lady Wakefield considers proper for well-brought-up young ladies.
“Plum, sit up properly like Scarlett is doing,” my grandmother said firmly. “I take it you were never taught deportment at St. Tabitha’s?”
“No, we weren’t,” Plum said sullenly, sitting up and shooting me a nasty glare.
“No, we weren’t, Lady Wakefield,” my grandmother corrected her. “We are strict about manners here at Wakefield Hall, as you will find.”
I couldn’t help but be proud of my grandmother, the way she was effortlessly turning Princess Plum, who had teachers at St. Tabby’s jumping to obey her whims, into a sulky sixteen-year-old girl being told off for slouching. With her sleek silver hair, her bright blue eyes, and her perfectly chosen twinset and pearls, my grandmother, sitting behind her desk with absolute authority, was making it more than clear who was in charge. I had to admit that it was strangely comforting.
“Scarlett,” she continued, “I have agreed to take Miss Saybourne here as a student at Wakefield Hall under certain strict conditions. Some of those, naturally, considering the circumstances unde
r which Miss Saybourne was asked to leave St. Tabitha’s, involve restrictions on her personal conduct agreed upon by herself and her parents, and do not concern you.”
In other words, Plum was under lockdown to make sure she didn’t get her hands on any illicit substances or corrupt anyone else’s morals. I wondered before why my grandmother had agreed to take Plum on as a pupil; she must have found the whole YouTube video scandal incredibly shocking. But looking at her then, at the severity with which she was regarding Plum, I realized in a flash of revelation what her motivation was for admitting wild-child Plum to the highly respectable confines of Wakefield Hall.
My grandmother really loves a challenge.
“But,” she went on, “it would be foolish to ignore the fact that you and Plum were together at St. Tabitha’s when the unfortunate incident occurred with that poor young man.”
This was such a magnificently understated way to refer to Dan’s death that Plum turned her head to stare at me incredulously, as if saying, Did you hear what she just said? And I raised my eyebrows fractionally, acknowledging her in an equally silent reply, Yes, this is Lady Wakefield in action. Scary, eh?
Plum and I were actually on the same side for a fleeting moment. Wow. Double weirdness.
“Plum has given her word that she will neither refer to that incident in general, nor associate your name with it in particular,” my grandmother proceeded elegantly.
My eyebrows shot up as far as they could go. Right. Plum’s “given her word.” I remembered a story I read about a Hollywood producer who constantly misspoke and once said a verbal contract wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. Well, as far as I was concerned, Plum and verbal contracts shouldn’t ever exist in the same sentence.
But Lady Wakefield was far ahead of me.
“This undertaking,” she added, staring hard at Plum, “consists of a formal document signed by her and her parents, as she is legally a minor. They have agreed, as a condition of my accepting Plum as a student, that should she break this oath in any way, they will immediately block her access to her income from her trust fund, which is under their control.”
Scarlet Wakefield 03 - Kiss In The Dark Page 2
