Chapter 10
Emma
Jacob Wiley was born in Glasgow and is a Scottish singer-songwriter.
I stare at the letters until they blur as my eyes start swimming.
Not that that matters—I know every line of his Wikipedia entry by heart.
I’ve read it often enough. Probably too often to be good for me, but what can I say?
If your only source of information is a web page that, in theory at least, any random person can edit however they like with just a few clicks, it’s easy to get paranoid.
There could be something new, so I have to look.
Every day. Several times on some days. That’s just how it is.
Even long after I ought to be asleep. I’m sooo tired, but even after almost a week at Dunbridge, everything’s so new and exciting that I can’t get any rest at night, no matter how exhausted I am.
There’s too much to think about. My dad, Mr. Ward, Grace, Isi, Henry—especially Henry and his freaking smile.
He’s got dimples too and it’s just not fair.
I’d like to ask him what he meant by “See you around, then.” I should have asked him for his number again.
Or would that have been inappropriate? He only wanted to give it to me so that I could find him at lunchtime.
Which still makes no sense, but obviously I haven’t dared ask him about that either.
Whatever. Whatever . . . I have to think about something else. I have to get some sleep. But the bed still doesn’t feel like it’s mine, and it’s too quiet here. All I hear is the occasional glugging from the old water pipes in the wall or some nocturnal animal outside.
Do the teachers stay at school over the weekend too?
Maybe I could look for Mr. Ringling tomorrow and ask him subtle questions about my dad.
Or should I try Ms. Barnett first? She’s sure to be here.
But I don’t even know what I want to know.
To be honest, I know nothing at all. All I can do is lie here, next to my laptop, reading these sentences that I know by heart.
Life
Jacob Wiley grew up in the Hillhead area of Glasgow.
He began to play the guitar and piano at the age of five.
Wiley attended Dunbridge Academy, where he was a member of the school choir.
He left school at the age of seventeen, without completing his A levels, to tour as a support act for the band The Vagabonds.
It’s all there. The title of his first single, the dates of his first solo tour. That he lived in Germany for a few years. As a support act to a different band. You can read it all on the internet.
Wiley’s second marriage was to the Puerto Rican singer Camila Soler, and the couple lived together in Sacramento, California. After their divorce, he moved back to his homeland.
That may be true, but it’s not the whole truth. Properly speaking it ought to say something like: Prior to this, he had an on-again, off-again relationship with German lawyer Laura Beck. They have one daughter together, Emma Wiley, who barely knows her father and wonders to this day why he left.
But it doesn’t.
Those words have been in the Wikipedia edit pane a few times, typed by me, the blinking cursor mocking me. You haven’t got the guts, don’t kid yourself. You’re not part of his life. Deal with it. If he wanted you in his life, you’d know about it.
Sometimes I hear his voice in my head. Promising to take me with him the next time he goes on tour.
He sounds seriously euphoric. I must have been about seven at the time, and I didn’t doubt him for a second.
I still believe him to this day. Believe that one day Jacob Wiley, my dad who doesn’t want anything to do with me, will turn up, stand there with his guitar slung casually over his shoulder, and say, Time to go, Emma. Come on, the tour starts tomorrow.
You’d think at some point that would all stop. That you’d eventually forget someone’s voice after you hadn’t seen them for years.
But the problem is that if your dad’s a singer, you can’t forget his voice.
It’s all too easy to open Spotify or, on really bad days, YouTube.
Then you can see him too. And then you can start looking for similarities.
Until your head aches and your eyes are burning, whether that’s from the harsh light of the laptop in the darkness, or from the tears.
And then you google the boarding school he went to and imagine what it would be like to go there and find out more.
Because the Facebook messages and emails you sent him have gone unanswered.
Because you don’t want to make a fool of yourself by asking your mother.
Does she still have his mobile number or anything?
Just leave it. That voice in the back of my mind is getting louder and louder. You’re running into trouble here. And maybe that’s true, but let’s face it, running’s the only thing I’m any good at.
There’s a knock from somewhere, which makes me jump. My mouth is dry and my laptop screen has gone black. Seems like I did drop off after all. What’s the time? It’s not time to get up, is it? No, it’s still dark outside and . . .
Another knock. Someone’s at my door. I get goose bumps as I walk barefoot over to it. I’ve left the window open a crack, as I do every night, and the ancient wooden floorboards are freezing. They feel almost damp to the touch.
I’ve only just opened the door a tiny bit when a figure pushes its way into my room. It takes me a full three seconds to recognize Tori, who holds her index finger warningly to her lips and shuts it behind her.
“Phew.” She sighs. “I was seriously scared that Ms. Barnett would catch me.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask. My voice sounds rough and I clear my throat.
“I haven’t got your phone number,” says Tori, to my surprise.
“So you came knocking on my door in the middle of the night to get it?”
“Course not, but it means I can’t WhatsApp you. I need to get Olive to add you to our group. She’s the admin.”
“Tori, what the hell . . . ?”
“Sorry, sorry. I know it’s late. But you have to get dressed.” She smiles mysteriously. Before I can reply, she claps her hands quietly. “Spur-of-the-moment midnight party, lovely lady!”
“What?”
“God, you’re as dim as Sinclair when you’ve just woken up. Come on, we’re meeting Olive on the stairs in five minutes. Put a warm jacket on. It’s freezing out there.”
“You’re not serious?” I say, even though Tori’s face is so excited she clearly means every word of it. I run my eyes over her. Yep. She’s wearing jeans and sneakers and has a jacket over her school hoodie. Her long coppery hair is tied up in a crazy bun.
“The dress code only applies in the daytime,” she says, winking at me and pushing me over to my wardrobe. “Come on, come on, hurry up.”
“Isn’t this against the rules?” I ask, opening the cupboard.
“Course it is. But if anyone catches us, we’ll just say that I was feeling ill and you were helping me get some fresh air.”
I can’t help laughing. Tori sits on my bed, frantically messaging a WhatsApp group, while I slip into jeans, a jumper, and my jacket. She’s kind enough to leave me time to brush my teeth before shoving me out into the corridor.
I hold my breath as we walk down the hall.
When we reach the staircase, she pulls me over to the right-hand side.
She flattens herself against the wall, and I copy her when I spot the motion sensor above the door.
It’s only once we’ve got down the first few steps that Tori audibly exhales.
Halfway down to the next floor, we bump into Olive and a couple of other girls in our year.
I recognize Inés and Salome from my English class, Amara from my tutor group, and two other girls whose names I can’t remember.
Olive gives us a wave. Her eyes skim impatiently over me, and I suddenly wonder if she minds Tori bringing me along.
I decide not to worry about it and just follow the others downward.
We cross the small inner courtyard in the darkness, then go through two gateways.
I’ve lost all sense of direction by the time we get outside the walls.
It seems like we can’t be seen from the school now—and are out of earshot too, because the others start giggling and talking quietly.
The night is chilly and I’m glad of my jacket.
I’m about to ask Tori if this midnight party is happening outdoors but then we head toward the greenhouses I’d seen earlier from the running track.
There’s a light on in the furthest of them, and soon I’m following the rest through the door.
It’s warm, even though there are several broken panes. I guess this one is out of use, because instead of plants, I see a muddle of odd chairs and a load of people partying. There doesn’t seem to be any more risk of being overheard—the music is loud, and so is the laughter.
“We’re far enough from the main buildings here,” Tori explains as she catches my eye. “We’re miles from everything apart from the gardener’s house, and Mr. Carpenter’s as deaf as a post.”
“That’s not true,” says Salome, stroking one of her many tiny braids out of her face. “I’m sure he knows exactly what goes on here. But he won’t say anything so long as nothing gets broken. And the other greenhouses are strictly off limits.”
“So’s alcohol,” remarks Sinclair cheerfully. He’s heading toward a boy who looks amazingly like Tori. His red hair is a touch darker than hers.
“William,” Tori informs me. “My—”
“Little brother?” I suggest, and she nods.
“Did lover boy remember the wine?” Sinclair asks Will, nodding at a dark-haired guy in black boots and a biker jacket who looks the exact opposite of a boarding-school pupil.