Boarding School Girls Page 3

  ‘I really am late for Maths,’ he says as I shut the door behind us. He no longer sounds very emphatic.

  ‘I know you are,’ I say as I unbutton his shirt.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, but it’s Applied, which you know is my weakest…’

  I push him onto the bed and kiss him across his collarbone and down his chest. He inhales sharply, and soon he’s stopped talking about Maths. And, more importantly, his mother.

  * * *

  When I stand up to head for the nearest mirror, Jack pulls me back onto the bed.

  ‘I’m out of time,’ I say apologetically. ‘Maybe we could revisit this later?’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean that. Can’t we just talk for a minute?’

  ‘Of course.’ I sit carefully beside him, twisting my hair back into its grips as neatly as I can with only the window as a reflection.

  ‘Your hair looks pretty when it’s a mess,’ he says, trying to tug it down.

  I swipe his hands away before letting him draw me close so that my head rests in the hollow beneath his collar bone. He smells like cinnamon, his bare skin soft and warm, and I almost allow myself to close my eyes and stay there, listening to the rhythm of his heart.

  Then my phone vibrates – it’s in my bag across the room but I have a sixth sense when I’m needed – and I brush him off. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  He doesn’t reply until I’m reaching for the door handle. ‘Do I take it that dinner’s off?’

  I shrug. ‘Tonight’s just crazy for me – you know what the start of term is like. Libby will reschedule for next week.’

  ‘It won’t be my mother’s birthday next week.’

  I blow him a kiss as I open the door. ‘You should have cleared it with Libby first. You know I have a bad memory for details.’

  He mumbles something that sounds like I did, but I’m already too far away to return for clarification. Certainly time spent with Jack’s mother is intensely precious to me, but I tactfully steer clear of her when her birthday is imminent, just as I do my own mother. Proximity to the youthfully exuberant can only serve to intensify the agony of the ageing process.

  * * *

  I arrive in the Common Room to find the Starlets in our favourite seats. The popular sofas are positioned underneath a large mural depicting vanity, and no one else, other than our opposite numbers in the Stripes, ever dares sit here. The debate is over, and, judging by the prominence with which she’s displayed a pink crocodile-skin bag on the table, I guess Libby won for me. She’s unequalled at eliciting a swift denouement to any problem. The bag, which was designed by Cassidy’s father, is actually fake at my behest, but Cassidy is a good secret-keeper and you’d never know that it didn’t once swim green and free in the Nile.

  Madison moves to give me the chair facing the reflective French windows while Phoebe sends a nearby non-Starlet – a civilian with hair so lank and unmemorable that we refer to her by number only – to fetch my morning mimosa.

  ‘What have you been doing all this time, Siena?’ asks Madison.

  Libby looks up from the floor plan she’s studying. ‘Can’t you guess? There’s only one activity that messes up Siena’s hair like that.’

  ‘Horse riding?’ blurts out Cassidy. She bites her lip immediately, because horse riding is considered to be such a reminder of Romy that Libby has banned the words as well as the activity. The other Starlets didn’t argue, especially after her eye-opening presentation on the effects of dressage on the thighs, but then none of them is overly keen on animals anyway.

  Libby narrows her eyes. ‘Really, Cassidy. Isn’t it obvious what Siena’s been doing? Or should I say whom?’

  Recently Libby has started to complain that she ranks second to her boyfriend Tristan’s keen interest in synchronized swimming. While his aquatic social life is flourishing, she’s increasingly intolerant of successful relationships.

  Madison giggles. ‘You and Jack are terrible, Siena. Didn’t Mrs Denbigh just keep you after class to warn you about that behaviour?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, pleased to be given this palatable excuse. ‘But it’s no wonder that she resents my romantic life when she’s locked up here like a nun all year round.’

  ‘We should set her up with someone.’ Cassidy’s eyes gleam. ‘A toy boy, like the new synchronized swimming instructor, would be very on-trend. She’s feisty, despite being so old. Perhaps she could even teach him a thing or two.’

  Libby shakes her head before I can note that Mrs Denbigh is emphatically not Diego’s type. ‘We don’t have the capacity to take on any more aid work right now. I could perhaps schedule it into September, if the charity safari doesn’t come off.’

  Libby is our social secretary, but in reality her role is even greater than that. Our lives are so high-octane, even without factoring in our academic commitments, that we’d never fulfil our charitable potential without her expert management.

  ‘Are we ready for tonight?’ I ask. ‘Just tell me on a need-to-know basis, because I’m not interested in the details.’

  ‘Are you sure, Siena?’ asks Libby. ‘Logistically this is a little complicated, and I’d hate for you to…’

  ‘Really, Libby,’ I interrupt, rolling my eyes. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to follow what’s going on.’

  ‘Does it have to be fortune-telling?’ Cassidy looks ashen. ‘And does it have to be in the tower? It’s going to be so … dark up there.’

  ‘Fortune-telling was the root of Romy’s crime, Cassidy,’ Libby says patiently. ‘The tower was the scene of Romy’s crime. Hence the punishment.’

  She hands her a box of candles. ‘You can count these; it’ll settle your nerves.’

  ‘Cassidy’s not supposed to think about the occult,’ Madison says as Cassidy continues to tremble. ‘We can’t risk her being sectioned again, especially right before London Fashion Week. We won’t get Frow tickets without her.’

  Madison raises a good point, because Cassidy’s father’s high-end handbag line is responsible for most of our Frow access, and I’ll need as much coverage as possible as I seek a wedding dress designer.

  ‘Get on with it, Cassidy,’ says Libby. ‘We’ve a big night ahead of us.’

  ‘Fortune-telling isn’t real,’ whispers Madison behind her hand. ‘Romy was just good at faking it.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ says Libby alertly. ‘You think there’s another explanation for her accurate predictions, such as correctly foreseeing rain on the night of Winter Formal?’

  ‘Romy watched the Weather Channel,’ murmurs Madison. ‘Rain was forecast.’

  ‘She predicted that Cassidy would fail her Maths GCSE, and she did,’ Libby says triumphantly. ‘Would you care to explain that?’

  ‘The prediction condemned Cassidy to failure,’ Madison shrugs. ‘She never stood a chance.’

  ‘How about prophesying my balanced and fulfilling relationship with Tristan? I’d never have targeted him if it hadn’t been for that.’

  I wait for Madison to point out that this was merely a cruel joke on Romy’s part, but thankfully she doesn’t go that far. ‘Fine,’ she sighs. ‘There’s no other explanation.’

  Libby loves psychic phenomena, and Romy’s excellent track record, along with my endorsement, has her convinced that she’s the genuine article. It’s ironic that the very talent that secured Romy admission to the Starlets aged twelve was the same that ejected her four years later.

  I drum my hands restlessly on the chair arm and then stand up. ‘Aren’t you coming to watch swimming practice?’ asks Phoebe. ‘The boys’ January diets haven’t been enforced yet, so their Speedos will be really tight.’

  ‘Not today,’ I say regretfully. ‘I’m having a manicure. I won’t be back until this afternoon.’

  ‘You could have told me,’ huffs Libby. ‘Now I have to rebook your midday detention, and you know I’m already working on a plea bargain with Mr Tavistock.’

  ‘It’s an emergency.’ I hold out my hands as pro
of.

  ‘It certainly is,’ Madison says in horror. ‘What on earth happened to you?’

  Whipping out her phone, Libby photographs my artfully ragged cuticles at close range. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll show him this. It should buy us a few days.’

  Our Citizenship teacher Mr Tavistock is duty-bound to detain me every time I miss his lessons, and I’m currently in arrears. Judging by the hairiness of his own palms, I’m not sure that he’ll empathize with a cuticle-based emergency.

  I air-kiss each Starlet before heading for the door. Madison is holding a healing crystal to Cassidy’s temple as, pale and shaking, she counts and re-counts candles, and Phoebe is patrolling to ward off unwanted civilian attention. At times like this we’re a well-oiled quintet, and yet I can’t surrender the feeling that we’re a sextet rendered incomplete.

  As I reach the end of the corridor I check that no one’s around and then I double back, crossing the courtyard at a run.

  Chapter Six

  Romy

  The stables are always deserted at this time of day, but, as I open the creaking door and enter the gloom, I still hold my breath as if doing so will render me undetectable. The smell is exactly the same as I remember; of wood and straw and January air, a hollowness that’s always chilly whatever the weather. I wrap my arms around my chest for warmth as I run across the floor, my chin tucked firmly into my sheepskin collar.

  My stall, complete with neatly stacked straw, is exactly as I left it a year ago. The door swings ajar to reveal an unnaturally bare floor, and the walls, stripped of tack, are depressingly grubby. In fact, no one appears to have been here since the day I left for France, when my father stormed in to remove my horse and everything associated with him.

  I sit down inside, closing the stall door so that only strips of the room are visible through the slats. ‘I’m sorry, Star,’ I whisper as a band of despair tightens around me. ‘I didn’t choose this.’

  That horse was supposed to teach you responsibility, my dad raged in handwriting that left deep grooves in his embossed paper. You shouldn’t be surprised to hear that I’ve had him sold.

  Now I realize the futility of my hope that he was bluffing in those desultory letters, and jealousy stabs me as I imagine Star living with a new owner: a child who loses interest in him as swiftly as she does her Christmas presents, or a teenager as selfish and entitled as some of the girls in this school.

  I rest my head on my knees until the ache is replaced with an odd absence of feeling, and then I notice a glittering shape beside my foot. I pluck it and hold a tiny yet unmistakable gold star between my fingers, letting it flutter away as the main door swings open.

  Siena’s presence is always detectable, even when she can’t be seen or heard, so I know she’s there before her Ralph Lauren boots sound on the earthen floor and her golden hair flashes in the beam of sunlight that’s impossibly followed her inside. She’s been warned a million times about riding safety, and yet I’m not surprised when she leads her stallion Pip out of his stall without reins or a saddle. Unsupervised, she always rides bareback – barefoot if she can get away with it – and never wears a helmet unless Mrs Denbigh forces it onto her head.

  What’s the point of freedom if you’re weighed down with precautions? she once said.

  She’s halfway across the paddock by the time I reach the doorway, but Pip is pure white, no doubt to attract maximum attention to their partnership, and her hair has come conspicuously loose from its fastenings. A haze of tiny gold leaves, of which she seems to have an endless supply, encircle her like a force field as her ribbon flutters away, and her hands are woven into the horse’s mane as she leans into his ear to urge him onwards.

  My memory of riding is so enmeshed with Siena that I’ve tried not to think about it, but now I remember the exact sensation; a thrill that’s been buried beneath suspension and punishment and a father who shouts What in God’s name were you doing? without once listening to the answer.

  It’s easy to imagine competing for the lead as I surrender to the lulling gallop. Siena is laughing, and so am I, even though she’s beating me. She never laughs this way – excited and unselfconscious and loud – when we’re with the other Starlets, and, as she and Pip vanish into the distance, I wonder if that laughter has been entirely suppressed by worshippers and boy dramas and ball gowns. It doesn’t matter, because Siena does whatever she chooses and no one else bears any relevance to those choices. It’s debatable whether she has any memory of these moments at all.

  * * *

  I force myself out of the stables before she returns, summoning the courage to walk back into school. The Sixth Form Common Room is the last place I want to enter, full as it always is with Starlets and Stripes, but, surrendering to the inevitable, I walk inside.

  My face burns as the humming voices halt, and a hundred eyes swivel from me to Libby and back again.

  ‘Disgraceful,’ Libby proclaims in a clarion tone from the Starlets’ seats that dominate the room like a club class lounge. ‘Does this school have no regard for its students’ safety?’

  The voices strike up again, repeating my voice in waves. The Starlets crowd around Libby as if she needs a guard as I head at speed to the safer refuge of the Student Council’s corner. Relegated to a group of hard chairs beside a draughty doorway, our Head Girl and Boy huddle over cups of hot chocolate, deep in conversation.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ I ask.

  Ambrose responds by pushing his bag casually across an empty seat, while Avery hitches her chair forward to shrink their already cosy circle. Pretending not to notice, I push my way between them as they draw back in unison, looking affronted. They maintain that they aren’t related, and perhaps that’s true, but their identical freckles, long noses and skinny frames are more unnerving than ever now that they’ve entered into an official partnership.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask brightly. ‘I’m looking forward to rejoining the Council this term.’

  ‘Rejoining?’ Ambrose says blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean joining again,’ I clarify. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘You can’t!’ Ambrose’s voice becomes a squeak and he clears his throat, ashamed of his outburst. ‘What I mean to say is … what about the incident?’

  I play dumb. ‘Which incident?’

  He sighs. ‘You know I’m referring to your attack on Liberty Horsforth.’

  ‘I’ve spent the last year being punished for that incident,’ I say. ‘You’re President of the Human Rights Society! Don’t you believe in rehabilitation and a clean slate?’

  ‘The Starlets don’t.’ Avery pats her straw-like braid and looks towards Libby and Phoebe, who are hissing to each other like conspiratorial cockroaches. ‘Libby doesn’t want you back here at all. How can you sit on the Council as a student body representative when she’s campaigning for your expulsion?’

  ‘Libby isn’t the student body,’ I try. ‘Libby is a single student. And you haven’t replaced me, have you?’

  Ambrose is studiedly casual. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Mrs Denbigh told me that my seat was still open.’ I try not to let desperation creep into my voice. What will I do if you won’t have me back? ‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

  ‘Your seat isn’t vacant through choice,’ says Ambrose. ‘The fact is that no one will take it.’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask. The Council has never had a waiting list, but it seems odd that a replacement can’t be found amongst the entirety of my year group. For all its lack of social prestige, it has benefits: responsibility for important decisions, advantages for university applications, and, I once believed, membership of a group that cares for its members.

  ‘They’re scared,’ says Avery. ‘The Starlets made it clear that they’d take a dim view of anyone following in your footsteps. No one will risk it.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ I say. ‘My seat isn’t jinxed!’

  ‘Can you offer us an explanation for what you
did to Libby?’ Avery says timidly. ‘You’re such a pacifist – we couldn’t believe you’d hurt someone so brutally.’

  ‘The evidence is conclusive,’ I shrug. ‘I pushed her. Hard. Right down the ladder.’

  ‘But why? Starlets for all time, and all that. Why would you hurt one of them? Such a high-profile member, at that?’

  ‘I was on the Council for four years,’ I remind them. ‘I was loyal. I worked hard. I was even the Head Girl-elect. Does that count for nothing?’

  ‘You have to understand our position,’ Avery pleads. ‘Council members endure enough spiritual tests without inviting an exile into our ranks. We’d never survive it.’

  ‘Is there any way I can change your minds?’ I ask. ‘Would you have me back if I weren’t an exile? If I were a Starlet again?’

  ‘Life is certainly easier with Starlet endorsement,’ concedes Ambrose. ‘But let’s face it, Romy. You have more chance of … of Jack choosing you over Siena than of the Starlets readmitting you.’

  Before I can decide whether to tell them about the Starlets’ note, Jack and some other Stripes enter the room with their usual fanfare. He’s looking for Siena, of course, and I get up hurriedly before he notices me.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ I say. ‘I’ve never let you down before, have I?’

  ‘Romy…’ says Avery. ‘Maybe it’s time for you to move on with dignity.’

  I shake my head fiercely, ignoring her kind expression. I’m not sure if she means that I should move on from the Council or the Starlets or the school altogether, but none of the possibilities bears thinking about. I’m only halfway to the door when Jack notices me, and, although I’m almost running, he’s caught my arm by the time I reach the corridor.

  ‘Jack!’ I back into an alcove and force an unconcerned smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

  He looks confused. ‘What kind of question is that? You’ve been away for a year without any way for me to contact you. You deactivated your Facebook account … you changed your email … you didn’t answer my letters … And I had to find out from Phoebe of all people that you were coming back today. I want to know how you are; what you’ve been doing; why we’re having this conversation in an alcove…’