Stella Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  To my parents

  ‘Behind the furthest end of the brewery, was a rank garden with an old wall; not so high but that I could … see … that Estella was walking away from me even then. But she seemed to be everywhere … She had her back towards me, and held her pretty brown hair spread out in her two hands, and never looked round, and passed out of my view directly … I saw her pass among the extinguished fires, and ascend some light iron stairs, and go out by a gallery high overhead, as if she were going out into the sky.’

  Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

  Prologue

  Everyone wants to hear a story about an underdog, don’t they? A kid with a stammer getting a recording contract; an ex-con winning the lottery. The public’s sympathy might always lie with the underdog rather than the deserving winner, but, even so, I won’t try to deceive you. I’m not an underdog. Far from it.

  Our English teacher, who preferred dreary Jane Eyre to the more interesting Holden Caulfield, told us that the best narrators are trustworthy and easy to empathize with. Luckily for you, reader, he and I never saw eye to eye on that concept. As a narrator, Jane Eyre I’m not. In fact, rather than trying to win you over, I’m immediately going to alienate you, and here’s why.

  I have everything. If this were fiction, I couldn’t be the heroine, because with no obstacles for me to overcome there would be no plot. I’d be underused as a secondary character; the cheerleader who briefly makes life miserable for the rightful heroine. I wouldn’t even get to die at the end. I’d instead become comically overweight, be (deservedly) cheated on by my footballer boyfriend or fail my exams. But my life, needless to say, isn’t fiction.

  The first thing you should know is that I’m seventeen. See, you’re already alienated. You think I’ve got the best years of my life ahead of me; that none of my problems could possibly be worth reading about. You know what? You’re probably right.

  I’m blonde, of course. Blondes evoke less sympathy and have shorter shelf lives than brunettes. If you don’t believe me, think about it. It was Jo March we cared about, not vain little Amy; Elizabeth Bennet, not sensible Jane; Laura Ingalls, not pious Mary. I have long hair, which I can straighten or leave to dry curly, and my eyes are blue and abnormally large. They are widely considered to be my best feature; in fact they leave such an impression that I have to go light on the mascara, and eyeliner wouldn’t make me popular with other girls at all. I’m extremely petite – and I don’t expect to grow any more – and effortlessly thin. My teeth are straight, without the train-track hell from which some kids my age have yet to emerge. I have a great dress sense, and everything suits me; so much so that shopping doesn’t interest me. Well, not very much.

  Have I lost you to a fit of envy? I imagine not. Looks are one thing, and brains are another entirely. People are usually forgiving of one or the other. But, aside from my physical attributes, you should know that I’m clever. Exceptionally so. This isn’t ghostwritten, let’s make that clear.

  I’m also popular, partly because I’m good at sport. This is important: I’m not sure why, but I’m glad I struck lucky because PE is actually a form of organized bullying. At my school everyone has to take part in Sports Day every summer, even if they’re fat, or unpopular, or uncoordinated. There isn’t a corresponding event in Physics where you get booed if you can’t do kinematic equations, but that’s only one reason why being a geek doesn’t pay.

  I attend boarding school, and home life seems some distance away from my existence at Temperley High. School is an ecosystem all of its own, where outside rules just aren’t relevant. As a Sixth Former I have my own room, which is a relief as my girlfriends – there are six of us, and we’re called the Stars, for obvious reasons – often bore me rigid. The dormitories the younger students share are supposed to help homesick people settle in: some kids cry about being away from home, which is a strange reaction. It may not be Malory Towers, but it’s not a workhouse either. You can get away with murder if you know how to play it, and I do.

  You won’t be surprised to hear that boys love me, and as my school is mixed there are plenty of them around. Boys have noticed me for a while now, and continue to do so whether I invite their attention or not. And don’t start thinking I could have any boy except the one I really want or anything lame like that, because there are no exceptions.

  You’ve met someone like me before. If you’re at school, I’m making your life hell. If you have a job, I’ve got the promotion you deserved. If you have a boyfriend, he’s wishing you looked like me. You may hate me, but surely you know by now that life isn’t fair. I can’t help being perfect any more than you can help being, well, flawed.

  Can you trust me? Maybe not. And can you empathize with me? I doubt it. But, even so, have I lost you to a story about an underprivileged child who becomes a concert pianist? Of course not. People love stories about the underdog, and, despite everything I’ve said, you still think that’s what I am. Poor little rich girl, you think, as if I’m hiding deep-rooted insecurities or the scars of a difficult childhood. Perhaps I’m about to tell a story of growth and redemption in which I lose my good looks and channel my inner beauty to become a better person. Every story needs a character arc, after all. Is mine going to be painful? That’ll show me, you think.

  Don’t count on it.r />
  Chapter One

  Caitlin Clarke

  By the time it was clear to me that, in high school at least, popularity and notoriety were one and the same, I was powerless to reverse the effects of either.

  The cards and gifts by my bedside, the anxious visitors and my buzzing cell phone made it clear that I wouldn’t be returning to anonymity any time soon. It was too late by then anyhow: on the night I should have beaten Stella Hamilton to become Head Girl of Temperley High, I was having jagged glass splinters removed from my face (they tell me I was under for that bit but I swear I felt it) and learning, as the blessed anaesthetic wore off, that not all my classmates had been as lucky as I had.

  Lucky was such an overused word that I felt like screaming whenever I heard it. I was lucky to be alive. I was lucky to have fallen onto smoking rubble rather than the concrete paving seventy feet below. I was lucky I only had three broken bones. I was lucky I wouldn’t be permanently scarred.

  I wasn’t ungrateful; of course I understood what I’d escaped. But sometimes, as I lay in that creaky, uncomfortable bed, having my blood taken three times a day and waiting for my leg to knit itself back together, being left behind didn’t seem so lucky after all.

  Not that I knew any of this when I started Temperley High halfway through Junior Year (or Lower Sixth, as they would call it). Back then I had no idea girls like Stella Hamilton even existed. Campion Hall, my prep school in Manhattan, was pretty normal – a school where we didn’t wear a full face of make-up every day of the week; where we didn’t select our classes based on the number of boys in the group; where we didn’t choose the shortest skirt we could find for Gym (from Baby Gap, if necessary) and wear it doggedly throughout the year, even in the snow. And although my memories of Campion might be slightly idealized in the wake of events that followed, I’m sure we didn’t backstab each other in the variety of ways I witnessed, and sometimes participated in, at Temperley High. We couldn’t have, because Campion students tended to survive beyond graduation.

  * * *

  ‘Your mother and I have some news,’ announced my dad one November evening. ‘We’re moving to England.’

  ‘Who is?’ I asked, looking around the dinner table. ‘All of us?’

  I already knew that he and my mom were having problems (the fights, which I usually tried to ignore, had reached fever pitch in recent months), but I wanted to hear him say it.

  He looked wary. ‘No. Your mother and Charlie will be staying here.’

  ‘Are you getting a divorce?’ I blurted out.

  My little brother Charlie looked at me, startled, and I could have kicked myself, even though it wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t raised the subject in front of him, or caused the marriage to fail.

  Dad nodded as he explained, in words that I understood but Charlie couldn’t, that divorce was imminent, but they still loved us and respected each other a great deal. Mom was looking daggers at him and I wasn’t convinced by the mutual respect part.

  We were eating chicken – a soggy take-out that Mom always picked up on the housekeeper’s night off – and I chewed a piece of meat until it was elastic, because the motion prevented me from crying. I gave Charlie a supportive smile that wobbled, patting his cheek before turning my attention back to my parents.

  ‘Why do I have to move?’ Dad was a litigator and was losing me in the finer points of their proposed separation. Not that I didn’t care, but it made sense that I was most interested in my own fate. ‘Why can’t I stay here?’

  He sighed. ‘You’re the reason I’ve decided to make this move, Caity. I’m not entirely happy with the education you’re getting—’

  ‘Why not?’ I said, knowing I sounded defensive. ‘I get straight As! I’m the class librarian! I make honour roll every week! How can you not be happy?’

  ‘I know all that,’ he said. ‘And we’re very proud of you. We just feel –’ I looked at Mom for support, but she shrugged helplessly – ‘that you’re becoming introverted.’

  My dad was English, so it stood to reason that he believed a British high school education was the best in the world. He went to some big private (except he called it public) school where the Prefects beat him and made him build fires for them and he was convinced it was all character-building and nurturing. But it was still hard to believe he wasn’t satisfied when I had the highest GPA at one of the best schools in the county.

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I persisted.

  I hated sounding pathetic, but I could never figure out how to please him. Most fathers would have been happy with a daughter who got perfect grades, went to church and only socialized with boys he had pre-approved.

  Mom finally stepped in. ‘Nothing’s wrong with you, Caity.’

  She sounded upset, as if my dad had deviated from a prepared statement, and she broke off for a second to bite a stubby fingernail, as she always did when she was anxious.

  ‘Your dad just feels – we feel – that Campion isn’t giving you the edge that great Colleges like Yale will be looking for.’

  I turned back to Dad. ‘So where are you sending me? Your old school?’

  He shook his head in horror. ‘Good lord, no! That’s no place for a girl. I’ve found a boarding school close to London that I think will suit you. There’s a great emphasis on music, sport, drama, art – lots to get involved in.’

  ‘Boarding school?’ I whispered.

  He nodded smoothly. Mind games, I decided: trying to make me think it wasn’t a big deal. It was hopeless to argue with a lawyer and it made sense that Mom was always compliant. He was just too smart.

  ‘You know I work long hours. This way you’ll be around friends all the time rather than on your own with your head in a book.’

  ‘But I’m no good at art or music or drama,’ I said. ‘And I never get picked for any sports teams. That’s why I like school – because I can concentrate on studying.’

  My artistic attempts were less accomplished than Charlie’s and I couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying than performing on stage. Even reading book reports in class brought me out in hives.

  ‘I know you like studying,’ he said patiently. ‘And of course that’s important. It’s just that there’s more to life. I don’t want you to look back on your high school years and regret not going to a football game, or your prom, or doing a school play.’

  It wasn’t in my nature to argue back, and it would be pointless anyway. From listening in on his telephone calls (I had a phone in my room and sometimes there was nothing on cable but reruns), I knew he’d been discussing working abroad for some time. He’d made up his mind well before making me his excuse, whatever he wanted to pretend.

  * * *

  I excused myself and trudged upstairs. Our house in Carnegie Hill ran across three floors and my room even had its own walk-in closet and dressing room. I felt uneasy about these things, especially since our housekeeper Rosa had told me about her studio apartment in Woodside where her three little children shared a bed, but at least I knew how fortunate I was.

  In my bathroom I carefully washed my face and stared into the mirror. I knew what he really thought: that I was boring. My school blouse was buttoned to the neck and my skirt ended below the knee. I wore thick tights and ballet flats. I only wore mascara on special occasions and my eyebrows were bushy. Hell, even my underwear was boring. I’d never had a boyfriend and my weekends were spent looking after Charlie or studying with classmates for extra credit. I’d never assessed my life so harshly before, but, although it embarrassed me, it was secure, predictable and governed by boundaries and rules that I understood. Was that so wrong?

  * * *

  Saying goodbye to my friends and the home I’d lived in all my life was bad enough, but everything paled in comparison with leaving Charlie. He was more than my baby brother; I flat-out adored him. Mom’s research at Columbia kept her from home on evenings and weekends, and since we’d grown too old for babysitters I’d been the one to take him to school and pu
t him to bed, arrange his play dates and organize his reading chart. I took as much pride in his development as if he were my own baby, and sometimes I liked to pretend that he was.

  I loved his curly black hair and serious eyes; the gap where he’d lost a baby tooth falling off the jungle gym; the Band-Aids that peeled off his knees. How could I leave him to the kids who threw his lunch out of the bus window and made fun of his Spongebob socks? The thought of him growing up without me was agonizing even without worrying who would take my place. No one else knew our secret handshake; the cartoons we watched in bed; the prayer we said to keep the vampires away (at least I told him it was to keep them away). I cried for Charlie every day, and that was before I’d even seen Temperley High.

  Mom figured less in my grief, perhaps because she was an easy scapegoat and being mad at her made my misery easier to bear. Besides, I saw even less of her than I did of Dad.

  We left between Christmas and New Year, a dead time when Charlie had lost interest in his presents and was starting to whine about going back to school. Miserable to the core, I turned away from Mom at the departure gate. She looked tired and her dark hair was starting to go grey at the temples. Even though I hated myself for it, I wished she would try harder to look nice. Apart from her fuzzy hair, she was hardly ever out of a lab coat – or a lab, period. It wasn’t surprising that Dad had stopped noticing her.

  I clung to Charlie, kissing the top of his head and telling him not to forget me. He stared up at me, bewildered.

  ‘Please, Caity,’ Mom begged as I released him. ‘Don’t blame me for this.’

  She held my hand tightly and I knew without looking that she was crying. I steeled myself against it, because losing my brother was bad enough without thinking about her too. I shrugged and picked up my hand luggage, wishing she’d stand up to Dad. Maybe then he wouldn’t have spent the last seventeen years, and probably longer, having affairs with every woman he met. Despite a PhD and tenure at Columbia, she put up with him as if she deserved to be treated like crap. I was not going to end up the same.

  ‘Charlie needs me,’ I burst out, even though he could hear. ‘Who’s going to take care of him?’