Isla
Isla
Isla sat at the desk in her bedroom, eyes glazing over the chapter of a chemistry textbook she was supposed to read before the start of term in eleven days’ time. It seemed surreal that in less than a fortnight she would return to Collingswood, take up her post as Head of School, begin the final two terms before sitting her A-level exams. It was only six weeks since the start of the summer holidays but it felt like a lifetime ago: a time before her pregnancy, before the abortion, before Andrew unceremoniously dumped her. Before her life began to unravel.
Picking up her phone, she opened WhatsApp, entered her archived messages. Not a single communication from Andrew for two weeks: nothing since the evening of their last meeting, after she’d stormed away from him when he had ended their relationship.
I know you’re hurt and angry, but I really think it’s better for both of us if we can part on good terms. I’m truly sorry it’s had to end like this, but I do honestly believe that, in time, you’ll see it’s for the best. For now, I’ll do my utmost to stay out of your way for as long as possible to make this easier on you. But it’s not going to do either of us any good to lash out. I know you’re upset, but telling anyone what’s happened really isn’t the answer. I know right now you think it would make you feel better, but do you really want your mum to find out? Or your school friends? Or your teachers? How do you think it’ll impact your uni reference if everyone knows what’s gone on between us? It won’t only be Nicole, Nathaniel and Jack that you’ll hurt. You’ll be hurting yourself too, and your mum. I don’t think you want that, not really. Let’s try to be grown-up about this. I promise you, in a year’s time, this will all seem like a distant memory.
Isla re-read the message, throat tightening with a compound of emotions: hurt, anger, resentment, impotence. Humiliation at her gullibility, self-loathing for her na?vety. Memories taunted her of how, during their relationship, she had, on occasion, indulged the fantasy that perhaps Andrew would leave Nicole, perhaps they would set up home once she’d finished university. Perhaps they had a future together.
Instead, she now realised, their relationship had been nothing more than the indulgence of Andrew’s clichéd midlife crisis. She felt used, exploited, discarded. The foolish participant in a tawdry fling. And yet, however much she hated Andrew for the way he had treated her, it was nothing compared to the abhorrence she felt about herself.
She thought about those times he had driven by and given her a lift, and she had known, deep down, it was an unlikely coincidence that he just happened to be passing. She thought about the first time he had kissed her, a voice shouting in her head that it was wrong, dishonest, immoral. She thought about those afternoons lying in a hotel bed, suppressing her feelings of guilt about what she was doing, about the carousel of loved ones she was hurting. How she had consciously quashed her fears as to what would happen – how perceptions of her would change, how her reputation would be destroyed – if anyone found out.
Isla laid her head on the desk, closed her eyes, tried to squeeze the memories from her mind. Tried not to think about all the lies, the duplicity, the untruths she had told.
Her phone buzzed, and she swiped open the screen, found a message from her swimming coach.
Hi Isla. Just checking in to see how you’re doing? Do you think you might be okay for training this week? With the nationals so close, every day really is crucial. Hope you’re keeping up the exercises. Let me know how you’re getting on.
Guilt hounded her at the thought of the excuses she had given as to why she’d skipped training for the past fortnight: first, a phantom tummy bug, then a sham shoulder injury. The same lies replicated for her coach, her swim mates, her mum. She knew there was no medical reason why, two weeks after the abortion, she shouldn’t be swimming. She just didn’t want to. The thought of it made her squeamish, sloshing around in water so soon after what had happened. It was irrational, she knew, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that it would be wrong for her body. She’d go back when school started; she just needed a bit more time.
There was a gentle knock on her bedroom door.
‘Can I come in?’
Isla swallowed, lifted her head from the desk, instructed herself to behave normally.
‘Course.’
Her mum opened the door, stepped inside. ‘How’s the studying going?’
Isla forced herself to smile. ‘Okay.’
‘Well done for getting on with it. Perhaps you could have a word with your sister, see if some of your conscientiousness might rub off on her. She’s done none of the holiday reading she was set.’
‘That’s because there’s nearly two weeks before school actually begins.’ Clio appeared in the doorway, face contorted with irritation.
‘Clio, you’ve had six weeks to read two books for English and you haven’t even opened them yet. How are you going to read two entire novels in eleven days?’
Clio raised a disdainful eyebrow. ‘I’m nearly sixteen. You don’t need to nag me about my homework.’
‘I’m not nagging you. I’m just saying that you could take a leaf out of Isla’s book and get on with your holiday work. You don’t have much time left.’
For a few seconds, Clio said nothing, simply eyed their mum with a withering expression. ‘I’m sure you’d have been much happier if you could have cloned Isla and got two perfect daughters, but I’m afraid you’ll just have to make do with me being such a colossal disappointment to you.’
Clio turned around and slammed Isla’s bedroom door behind her.
Isla’s mum sighed. ‘Why is it that in every interaction with Clio, I always manage to say the wrong thing?’
‘You don’t. She’s fifteen. She’s just figuring out her place in the world.’
‘You were never like that at fifteen. I never had to remind you to do your homework, and you’ve never looked at me with contempt like she does. I just don’t know how to get through to her when she’s so angry all the time.’
Isla swallowed against a familiar pressure constricting her throat: the perception of her as a perfect teenager, who never felt angry or frustrated, anxious or exhausted. Who never felt beleaguered with homework and training and the expectation of achievement at every turn. The assumption that she spun effortlessly all the competing plates in her life, that she never wished the world would pause, just for a day or two, and let her step off the relentless treadmill.
She shrugged. ‘We’re all different. Clio’s fine. She just needs to find her own way.’
Her mum placed a hand on Isla’s back. ‘I hope you’re right. Anyway, how’s the shoulder feeling? Any better?’
For a brief moment, Isla was overcome by a desire to tell her mum everything. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. To confess there was nothing wrong with her shoulder, that there had never been a tummy bug. To confide in her everything that had happened over the past five months: Andrew’s manipulations, her own stupidity, the betrayals, the deceptions, the profusion of lies. The pregnancy and the abortion and the emotional turmoil since. The certainty that a termination had been the right thing to do and yet the waves of profound, overwhelming loss ever since. Moments of grieving for something that had never truly come into being.
But then she looked at her mum’s face – at the trust, the love, the unshakeable belief that Isla would never do anything to disappoint her – and she felt the truth close in on itself like the petals of a waterlily. It was as though she could see, frame by frame, what would happen were she to tell her everything; her mum’s perception of her swinging one hundred and eighty degrees from good to bad, trustworthy to deceitful. From kind to callous, thoughtful to selfish. And even though a part of her was desperate not to be alone with her secrets any longer, the thought of her mum’s reaction – the unalterable, permanent change in her mum’s opinion of her – forced her to close the door on the truth.
‘It’s a bit better.’
‘That’s a relief. It’s such bad timing for you, straight after that tummy bug. I know Paul’s keen to get you back to training as soon as you’re ready, but just don’t rush, okay? I know you’re desperate to be ready for the nationals, but if you push yourself too early, you’ll only do more damage.’ Her mum leaned forward, hugged her, and Isla tried to suppress the sense of her own unworthiness.
‘Dinner will be at about half seven, okay? I’m doing a Sri Lankan curry – it’s a recipe Nicole recommended.’
Isla tried to conceal her discomfort at the mention of Nicole’s name. She imagined them all – Andrew, Nicole, Nathaniel, Jack – sitting around the kitchen table, eating homemade Sri Lankan curry, the picture of the perfect happy family: laughing, joking, exchanging stories of their day, while Isla had been holed up in her bedroom, wondering how her life had spiralled out of control within the space of a few foolish months.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Her mum kissed the top of her head before leaving the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Tears pooled in Isla’s eyes. An image of her dad suddenly slipped into her mind: at the helm of their boat, steering them out of Chichester Harbour, across to the Isle of Wight.
Almost every night for the past few weeks, she had dreamed of her dad, and almost every morning she awoke to the painful remembrance that he was gone. Some days, it felt as though her grief was as intense as the first few weeks after he died; an unquenchable yearning to see him, speak with him, be held by him.
Her phone buzzed with a message, her heart sinking as she saw Nathaniel’s name on the screen.
Are you free to meet up?
Isla instructed herself to act normally; not to act like a person who had recently been dumped by Nathaniel’s dad.
Why? What’s up?
She watched, waited, as her phone indicated that Nathaniel was typing.
There’s something I need to talk to you about.
What is it? I’m in the middle of chemistry prep.
I can’t say. It’s about Callum. Meet me outside the café in the park in 15 mins?
Isla felt a wave of dismay at the prospect of having to hear Nathaniel rail against Callum yet again.
In the fortnight since the abortion, she’d been plagued by regrets about her break-up with Callum. There were moments when she could not believe she had been so rash, so foolish as to end their relationship for the sake of a man who had proved himself so unworthy of anyone’s love. There had been times – fleeting, at best – when she’d imagined her and Callum getting back together, of them picking up where they’d left off, of her pretending that the past few months never happened, like tearing out the unwelcome chapters of a book. But she knew it was nothing more than a fantasy. She would never forget the way Callum had looked at her the day he saw her emerge from Andrew’s car, or the expression on his face whenever he had seen her since: disappointment, disillusionment, disbelief.
The last thing she wanted today was to hear yet more of Nathaniel’s animosity towards Callum. But she’d manufactured so many excuses to avoid Nathaniel lately, and it least it would give her a reason to postpone her chemistry reading.
Taking a deep breath, she tapped out a response.
Sure. See you in a bit.
‘What’s up?’
Isla approached Nathaniel, leaning against a tree outside the café, his bike propped up next to him.
‘How’s the work going?’
Isla feigned a smile, felt it strain in her cheeks. ‘Not great, to be honest. Can’t quite find the motivation.’
Nathaniel raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Isla Richardson not feeling motivated? That’s got to be a first.’
Isla felt herself blanch at the arch tone in Nathaniel’s voice. She forced a shrug. ‘I guess there’s a first time for everything. Anyway, what did you want to talk to me about?’
Nathaniel eyed her for a few seconds, and Isla could hear her friends’ voices echoing in her ears.
Doesn’t it creep you out, the way he’s always watching you?
It’s weird, the way he waits for you in the common room like a faithful puppy.
You know he’s borderline obsessed with you?
‘Remember I told you about seeing Callum and Yasmin together?’ Nathaniel paused, chewed at his thumbnail. ‘I saw them again. There’s definitely something going on.’
Isla allowed herself a beat. After everything that had happened over the past couple of weeks, the possibility of a relationship between Callum and Yasmin was the last thing she wanted to think about.
‘Aren’t you upset?’ There was a note of challenge in Nathaniel’s voice, as though he wanted – needed – to provoke a reaction.
‘Why would I be? What Callum does is up to him.’ Even as she said it, she was aware of a twist of jealousy; not just about Yasmin – she still didn’t quite believe that to be true – but for the knowledge that, one day, Callum would hook up with someone else, and Isla would have to live with the fact that she had ended their relationship – a relationship with someone good and kind, who had loved her, respected her – to pursue a fling with a man who never really cared about her at all.
And then it suddenly struck her that if Callum and Yasmin were getting close – platonically or otherwise – perhaps Callum would break his promise: perhaps he would tell Yasmin about her affair with Andrew. Even the thought of it made her feel nauseous.
‘Yasmin’s not Callum’s type. If they’re hanging out, it’s because they’re friends.’ Isla could hear the defensiveness in her voice, wished she could have restrained it.
A small, satisfied smirk curled the corners of Nathaniel’s mouth. Isla was struck by a stab of dislike of him, a perplexity as to why she had defended him all these years.
‘They weren’t just hanging out. They were having lunch – just the two of them – in the garden of The Hope and Anchor. He was all over her.’
Impatience burrowed under Isla’s skin. ‘What were you doing in The Hope and Anchor?’
Colour flushed his cheeks. ‘I wasn’t in there. I was just cycling past.’
‘If you were just cycling past, how did you see them long enough to decide there was something going on?’
Nathaniel’s eyes shifted, left and then right. ‘My chain had come loose. I was fixing it.’
The lie hung heavy in the air between them. An imagined scene slid into Isla’s head, so clear it was as if she were watching a film: Nathaniel on the cycle path that ran alongside the pub garden, spotting Callum and Yasmin; a frisson of excitement that he had discovered them together again; concealing himself behind a tree and watching, spying, to see what might transpire.
‘What Callum does is his business. It’s nothing to do with you, and it’s certainly nothing to do with me. Why are you so obsessed with whether Callum’s seeing Yasmin? What’s it to you anyway?’
There was a moment’s silence, Nathaniel’s eyes narrowing at the edges. ‘I suppose you don’t think it’s anyone else’s business if two people are fucking each other? I suppose you think it should just be their dirty little secret?’
Shock blindsided Isla for a moment. ‘Why are you being so aggressive? All I’m saying is that I don’t think it’s anyone else’s business if Callum and Yasmin are seeing each other.’
Nathaniel fixed his eyes on her face, unblinking. ‘What about if someone’s sleeping with someone else’s husband? Or someone else’s dad? Is that anyone else’s business?’
Three short questions, but in their chiselled consonants and sharp venom, Isla understood that Nathaniel knew everything.
‘I’m going—’ She turned to leave but a hand gripped her bare arm, fingers digging into her flesh. ‘Let me go.’ She glared at Nathaniel.
‘Are you denying it?’ His grip tightened on her arm.
‘Denying what?’
Nathaniel shook his head with contempt. ‘Are you denying that you’ve been screwing my dad for months?’
The words hit Isla as though she had been knocked to the ground. ‘What are you talking about?’ She sounded weak, desperate.
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘No, I don’t—’
‘For fuck’s sake, don’t lie. I know . I’ve got photographic evidence . And if you keep lying about it, I’ll post that evidence all over my socials and we can see if your precious reputation survives. Is that what you want?’
Thoughts scrabbled to find a foothold in Isla’s brain. She tried to imagine what photographic evidence he might be referring to – photos of her and Andrew kissing or holding hands or being out together somewhere they shouldn’t – but she knew she couldn’t dwell on that, that she had to concentrate on what to do, right now, to defuse the situation. ‘It’s over.’
Nathaniel eyed her with disdain. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s true, I swear.’
He stared at her, unflinching. Isla felt his eyes boring into her as though he were intent on tearing her apart, one piece at a time.
‘How long have you known?’ She had to find out what she was dealing with, what damage limitation she could feasibly employ.
‘Long enough. Enough time to know that you shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’
A memory snagged in Isla’s mind, and she tugged it until she’d managed to wrest it free. ‘But all that stuff you said... a few weeks ago... about being worried about your dad...’ Isla felt like a rabbit trapped in a snare.
Nathaniel smirked. ‘Just thought I’d test the water. See if you had any conscience at all. I told you I was worried my dad was seriously ill and even then you didn’t see fit to tell me the truth.’
‘So all those things about your mum and dad, about him being all over her...’
Nathaniel leered at her, eyebrows raised, as if challenging her to articulate any grievance about the fact that he had lied to her.
‘How did you find out?’
He laughed – a bitter, acrid laugh. ‘What, because you’ve been so discreet.’ He shook his head. ‘Whose idea was it for my dad to pick you up half a mile from school? Thought nobody would see because it was so far away? Was that your great mastermind or his?’
The derision in Nathaniel’s voice grated on Isla like nails down a blackboard. She thought about those first few weeks of her relationship with Andrew: him collecting her after school before driving them to a pub in the countryside. Their meeting place a small, residential cul-de-sac, no chance of bumping into anyone she knew on their way somewhere else.
The reality dawned on Isla like a lightbulb switching on above her head. ‘You were following me?’
Heat flooded his cheeks, and all at once it became clear to her. Nathaniel’s crush tipping into an obsession. Nathaniel following her – for how long before her relationship with Andrew, she had no way of knowing. Nathaniel watching her get into his dad’s car. Nathaniel knowing everything, right from the very beginning. ‘You have, haven’t you? You’ve been following me for months?’
He wiped the embarrassment from his face, replaced it with self-righteousness. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say? You’ve been screwing my dad, and all you care about is whether I’ve been following you?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you coming out of that fucking hotel every Thursday night. You and him. Did you really think nobody knew?’
He spoke with such hatred that, for a few moments, Isla couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. And then she remembered that day, on the train, on her way back from seeing Andrew: Nathaniel stepping out onto the platform beside her. His excuse about getting his bike fixed; how, when she had asked him about it a few weeks later, he seemed to have forgotten. Now, she realised, he must have been following her every Thursday for weeks: stepping into a different carriage on the same train to Waterloo, following her from a distance to the hotel where she met Andrew, waiting outside for two or three hours, following her home again afterwards. The thought of it made her feel queasy, sullied, violated.
‘You literally have no shame, do you? You waltz around pretending to be so perfect, like butter wouldn’t melt in your fucking mouth, when all the time you’re nothing more than a... a whore. Do you get off on fucking men old enough to be your dad? Needed to find a father figure because your own dad’s dead, so you thought you’d fuck mine?’
There was something familiar in the cadence of Nathaniel’s malice, something Isla knew she had heard before: a similar level of misogyny, hatred, bile. And then it hit her. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘It was you who sent me all those anonymous emails.’ The thought of it – the thought of Nathaniel, whom she’d known her entire life, with whom she’d been friends for as long as she could remember, writing such horrible, hateful things to her – made her flesh crawl.
‘So? It wasn’t as if any of it wasn’t true.’ He glared at her defiantly, challenging her to contradict him. And she could see, in that moment, the depth of his anger: the painful sense of inadequacy, his fury that she had chosen Andrew over him. His unmitigated resentment that she had never found him remotely attractive, that she would not have dated him in a million years.
She felt her voice strengthening. ‘It’s over between me and your dad. It would be pointless telling anyone. It would just hurt people for no reason.’
‘Hurt you , you mean. Hurt your precious reputation. Don’t want people thinking you’re a slut? You should have thought about that before you fucked my dad.’
‘It wasn’t like that. He pursued me , for god’s sake. It wasn’t like I went looking for a relationship with him.’
Nathaniel’s mouth curled into a contemptuous snarl. ‘Yeah, right. You’re pathetic, you know that? People have a right to know what you’re really like.’
Fear tightened around Isla’s throat. ‘Please, Nathaniel. I know you’re upset. But there’s nothing to be achieved by telling anyone now.’
‘Isn’t there? I think there’s a lot to be achieved.’ He hissed the words at her, small particles of spit erupting from his lips. ‘Did you ever stop to think for one second about my mum? Or my brother? Or me? Did it bother you at all , the shit you were causing my family?’ He glared at her. ‘You shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’
The venom in Nathaniel’s outburst – the knowledge of how much damage he could do – floored Isla for a moment. But then a self-preservation instinct kicked in and she knew she could not allow herself to be near him any longer.
‘I’m asking you, for everyone’s sake, not to tell anyone. I know how much you want to punish me, but believe me, I’ve been punished enough already. It’s over and there’s nothing to be gained from anyone finding out. All that’ll happen is a lot of people will get hurt, most of all your mum. She’s the one whose life you’ll destroy if you say anything. So just think about that, please.’ She turned around, began walking away, instructing herself to put one foot in front of the other.
‘You won’t get away with it. I won’t let you.’
Nathaniel’s anger trailed after her. But Isla did not look back, would not face any more of his vitriol. She kept walking, through the park, towards the exit, trying not to imagine the litany of repercussions should Nathaniel follow through on his threat.