Chapter 9
James
Percy’s parked the Rolls right outside the main entrance to the school.
He’s leaning against the car, phone in one hand, cap in the other.
There seems to be more silver in his dark hair every day.
As soon as he sees me, he slips his phone away, puts the cap back on again, and straightens up. Not that he needs to, as well he knows.
I run down the steps, and people are only too willing to scatter out of my way.
Apparently, I look about as grim as I feel, thanks to the bloody events committee.
I should have just kept my mouth shut, kept my Victorian party idea to myself.
The thought of the to-do list the others came up with at the end makes me sick.
If I were to throw this party at home, I could delegate the whole thing to our staff, and I wouldn’t have to lift a finger.
But in this instance, I am the staff, as Ruby’s raised eyebrows made clear.
And there’s a whole term of meetings like that to come. On top of which, I’m not even allowed to train with the others on the lacrosse team.
This is definitely not how I planned my last year of school.
By the time I get to the car, all I want to do is throw myself onto the back seat, but before I can get in, Percy takes me by the arm.
“You don’t look exactly cheerful, sir.”
“Your perceptiveness astounds me, Percy.”
He glances uneasily from me to the car door. “You might want to rein your temper in slightly. Miss Beaufort is not in a good way.”
At once, I’ve forgotten the stupid events team altogether.
“What’s happened?”
Percy looks uncertain, as if he isn’t sure how much he can tell me. In the end he takes a step closer and speaks quietly: “She was having a conversation with someone just now. A young man. It looked more like an argument.”
I nod, and Percy opens the door so that I can get into the car.
It’s just as well it has tinted windows.
Lydia looks awful. Her eyes and nose are bright red, and there are dark gray tearstains down her cheeks.
She’s never cried as much in her life before as in the last few weeks, and it makes me livid to see her like that while knowing that there’s nothing I can do about it.
Lydia and I have always been inseparable.
If you have a family like ours, there’s nothing for it but to stick together, no matter what.
I can barely remember a day when I hadn’t seen my twin sister.
I get a weird feeling in my chest if she’s in trouble, and it’s the same the other way around.
Our mother says that’s not unusual for twins, and, when we were little, she made us promise that we’d treasure that link all our lives and not endanger it lightly.
“What’s up?” I say, once Percy’s started the engine.
She doesn’t reply.
“Lydia…”
“None of your business,” she snaps.
I raise an eyebrow and look at her until she turns away and stares out of the window. I guess that’s the end of our conversation.
I lean back and look out too. The trees flit past us so fast that they just make up a blurry mass of color, and I wish Percy would slow down. Partly because the thought of home makes me feel ill, but mostly because it would give me more time to break Lydia’s silence.
I’d like to help her, but I have no idea how.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve done all I could to find out what happened between her and Mr. Sutton, but she always just shut me down.
I shouldn’t be surprised. We may be inseparable, but we’ve never discussed our love lives.
There are some things you just don’t want to know about your sister—and vice versa.
But this time, it’s different. She’s devastated, and the only other time I’d seen her in this kind of state was almost exactly two years ago.
And then, it nearly destroyed our entire family.
“Graham’s losing his shit,” Lydia suddenly whispers, just when I’d stopped expecting it.
I turn back to her and wait for her to go on. My anger at this jerk of a teacher bubbles up yet again, but I push it down. I don’t want Lydia to shut me out any more than she’s already doing.
“I’m so scared that Ruby will tell Lexington,” she croaks.
“She won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?” I can see the same doubt on her face that I felt about Ruby the first time I met her.
“Because I’m keeping an eye on her,” I reply after a while.
Lydia doesn’t look convinced. “You can’t run around after her the whole time, James.”
“I don’t have to. She’s on the events team.”
Lydia looks surprised now, and I give a wry smile.
It’s good to see the way the tension seems to drop from her shoulders—not entirely, but a bit, at least. After a while, she says quietly: “I’d totally forgotten about the events team. Exactly how shit is it?”
I just growl.
“Have you spoken to Dad?” she asks cautiously.
I shake my head and look out of the window, just at the moment that the Rolls-Royce comes to a stop. The facade of our house—practically a stately home—towers over us, the dark sky hung with heavy clouds, a reflection of both my mood and what lies ahead of me.
“How would you describe me in three words?” Alistair asks over the music thumping from my sound system. He’s sitting on the sofa, huddled over his phone, his blond curls falling into his face, and looks up aslant at me over the screen.
I’ve been mixing us each a gin and tonic and bring the glasses over to the sofa. Not looking up, Alistair holds out his hand and takes one.
We’re on our third now, and I’m finally getting the fuzzy feeling in my head that I’ve been waiting for the whole time. Now I can forget that the others are at lacrosse training. And above all, it suppresses the memory of the last two hours. My father’s voice has faded to a dull whisper.
“How about ‘highly oversexed bitch’?”
Alistair grins. “Very true. But modesty will probably get better results.”
I drop onto the sofa beside him with a laugh. I can’t shake off the feeling that he’d had a drink or two already when I texted to ask if he wanted to come over. Apparently, he’s not quite as unfazed about being suspended from the team as he’s letting on.
Either way, he burst into my sitting room and announced that he’s going to steer clear of Maxton Hall guys from now on and have a closer look at “that online dating shit.” His broad grin suggested that he didn’t mean it entirely seriously and that he’s only setting up a profile because he’s bored.
But I know him well enough to know that it’s more than just a joke. He’s had it with Maxton Hall guys because they’ll only make out with him in secret. Unlike most of them, Alistair’s been out for two years now—much to the displeasure of his arsehole parents, who practically cut him off.
If he finds someone online who doesn’t make him feel like a guilty secret, I’m all for it. Especially as I could really do with a distraction from my own problems right now.
“Does it have to be exactly three words?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Then…‘nice guy, lacrosse, sport, seeking hot dates, blah-blah.’?”
He grins crookedly. “Blah-blah, right.”
I slide over to him slightly, spilling some of my G&T out of my glass and over my hand. I swear and wipe it off on my jeans, then look at Alistair’s phone. His draft profile makes me laugh out loud.
“What?” he demands.
“Liar! You’re nowhere near six-foot-one.”
He sniffs. “I am.”
“I’m a bit over six-foot, and you’re at least two inches shorter than me, bro. Take four inches off that and you’ll be closer.”
He digs his elbow in my ribs and more booze lands on my fingers. “Spoilsport.”
“OK, OK.” I take three big swigs from my glass and put it down on the table. Then I pick up my laptop off the coffee table, open it, and start searching for vaguely reasonable profiles.
Inviting Alistair over was just what I needed. He got his driver to bring him round right away and since then, he’s done nothing but take my mind off things—and not asked a single question.
“Oh, God,” I murmur.
Alistair makes an inquiring sound, bending over to look at the screen.
I turn the laptop toward him slightly. “I was looking for inspiration for your profile description, but I wish I’d never clicked on that link now. Seriously, who writes ‘In an ideal world, I’d get with my twin, but as I’m an only child, you’ll have to do’?”
Alistair hoots with laughter. “I can’t be arsed anymore. I’ll just put ‘18, lacrosse, open to everything.’?”
“Nah, mate,” I say, shaking my head. “?‘Open to everything’ is just asking for dodgy messages.”
He just shrugs. A minute or two later, he adds, not looking up from his phone, “Elaine was asking how you were.”
I raise an eyebrow but don’t answer. This is the first time Alistair’s broached the subject since Wren’s party, and I can’t tell from his voice whether or not this is a serious conversation.
“She’s worried about your young, fragile heart and wanted to know if you still think about her often.”
OK, definitely not serious then.
“As if,” I reply. I doubt that Elaine’s wasted a single thought on our night together. More likely, it’s Alistair who can’t let it go because I’ve roused his brotherly protective instincts.
“I still can’t believe you shagged my sister.” He shakes his head and makes gagging noises. “Couldn’t you two get engaged at least? Then I could deal with the whole thing better, I think.”
I grin and box him on the shoulder. “If I ever get engaged, it certainly won’t be to help you sleep better at night.”
Alistair sighs in mock despair. Then he holds his phone out to me. “Well, can you at least help me decide which picture to use?”
He shows me two: one where he’s topless, lying on a lounger with his arms linked behind his head, and another in black-and-white, of him in a suit, a selfie taken in a mirror.
“The one on the lounger,” I say. “You’ve got too much on in the other one.”
“I like your team spirit, Beaufort.”
That ticks off the subject of Elaine for a while, and I get us each a fourth G&T. We clink glasses, and Alistair turns his attention back to his new hobby while I scroll half-heartedly through my emails.
I freeze as I see a meeting invitation from Beaufort Offices. I open it reluctantly. All it says is: Business dinner with sales management, Friday week. London, 7pm. Don’t be late.
In a flash, my good mood has vanished. An icy shiver runs down my spine as the memories of this afternoon’s row with Dad resurface.
You’re an embarrassment.
We have a reputation to uphold.
Stupid, childish boy.
I’m annoyed with myself for having flinched as he stepped toward me, hand raised, because I know better than that. Never show either weakness or fear in the presence of Mortimer Beaufort.
This meeting is a further punishment. He is perfectly well aware that it hits me harder than his words or fists could ever do.
We had a deal—while I’m at Maxton Hall, he’ll leave me out of everything relating to the business.
Making me come to this dinner is his way of telling me, “I’m in charge of your life, and if you don’t get your act together, it’ll be over before you know it. ”
Frustratedly, I push the laptop away and head to the bar. I pour a tumbler of whisky and stare into the amber liquid for a moment. Then I turn and take it back to the sofa.
Alistair looks at me. There’s no more trace of the grin from earlier on his face. “Everything OK?”
I shrug.
I wanted Alistair to come over to help me forget the stuff with my dad—not to talk about it.
Alistair doesn’t insist, just holds out his phone. “I’ve got a match.” On the screen there’s a photo of a black-haired guy with plenty of muscle.
I slump down on the sofa until I can rest my head on the back. “What does his profile say?”
“That he needs someone to care for his heart. And his dick.”
“How creative.”
“Oh. And he’s just sent me a dick pic. How about telling me your name before you show me your genitals?” Alistair mutters, making me laugh against my will.
That’s one of the reasons Alistair’s one of my best friends.
If I wanted to, I could talk to him about the stuff playing on a loop in my head.
I could talk to him about everything—but I don’t have to.
We’ve been mates so long that we’re in sync with each other, and, while we push each other’s limits, we know where they are, and we respect them.
I don’t think I could build a friendship like this again with anyone else.
“Are you hungry?” I ask after a while.
Alistair nods, and I call down to the kitchen. The encounter with Dad left me with no appetite, so now I’m starving.
While we wait for someone to bring up the food, Alistair looks at more photos of semi-naked guys, and I scroll through my blog roll on my laptop.
Apart from a few lacrosse sites and friends’ stuff, I’ve mainly been following travel blogs in the last few months.
Reading the posts and looking at pictures of far-flung countries is the perfect way to switch off.
I bookmark a few things for later—I’m not quite sober enough to take it in right now.
The school blog is saved on my list too. Only to laugh at really, but when I see the headline in my timeline, Ruby’s face pops up in my mind. My stomach gives a lurch, and I don’t know whether that’s down to my hunger, the booze, or something else entirely.
As if my index finger has a mind of its own, I click on the link.
I flick through the school events (so boring), skim articles (so unoriginal), and look at the photos, searching for Ruby’s face.
Her name is at the top of a lot of posts, and she’s mentioned in relation to all the events, but there isn’t a single picture of her.
I googled Ruby not long after Lydia told me Ruby had caught her with Sutton, tried to find out as much about her as I could.
But there was nothing. She has no social media—no Facebook, no Twitter, no Instagram—or not under her real name, anyway.
Ruby Bell is a phantom.
I keep scrolling. I’ve now searched the whole of last year and still haven’t found what I’m looking for. Whatever that may be. The longer I look, the crosser I feel. Why the hell can’t I find anything on her?
“Are you looking at the school blog?” Alistair asks suddenly.
I look up, caught in the act. Alistair’s looking grossed out. But when he glimpses the word in the little search box on my browser, his face lights up. “Oh, like that, is it?”
“What?”
His grin widens. “Wait till I tell the others.”
I slam the laptop shut. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Alistair’s answer is cut off by a knock from Mary, our housekeeper. She steers a little trolley into the room with our dinner, and I stand up, swaying slightly, to refill my glass. Now as well as my dad’s voice, I’ve got Ruby’s smug face to wipe out of my brain.