Isla
Isla
‘It’s none of your business. Just stay out of it, okay?’
Isla glared at Callum, furious with him for shining a light on the mess her life had become.
‘I’m worried about you. You’re just... you don’t seem very happy. You’ve been like it ever since we went back to school. What’s going on?’
Callum’s voice was kind, gentle, and somehow that made it worse. She didn’t deserve his concern. She didn’t deserve anything from him, given the way she’d treated him. She wouldn’t blame him if he never spoke to her again.
‘I’m fine.’
‘But you’re not. You know you’re not.’ Callum paused. ‘What’s wrong?’
Isla shivered despite the warm September night. She looked at Callum, leaning against a garden wall, part of her wishing she could tell him everything, another part of her knowing, unequivocally, that she couldn’t.
For the past month, she had barely slept. Every waking moment she had felt on high alert, waiting for all the ugly truths in her life to emerge. Waiting for Nathaniel to tell everyone she’d been sleeping with his dad, anticipating the moment her life imploded. Every time she walked into the sixth-form common room, she was convinced people were whispering about her. Every time she returned home at the end of the day, she expected to see her mum at the kitchen table, face contorted with disappointment, her friendship with Nicole destroyed because of what Isla had done. Four weeks since Nathaniel told her what he knew, and now a part of Isla wondered if she wouldn’t rather he just publicise it, get the horror show over and done with, like the swift removal of a plaster, instead of this horrible, nauseating suspense as to what he might say, to whom, and when.
From Meera’s house across the road came the gentle thud of music. Isla wished she hadn’t come to the party, wished she’d stayed at home, got an early night. She needed to be at the pool at the crack of dawn, knew how important her training was given her absences over the summer, but she’d wanted to do something normal, wanted to feel normal. She’d thought coming to the party would reconnect her to whatever it was she had lost. It was over six weeks since the abortion; she should, she was sure, be feeling okay by now. Instead, she was plagued by a persistent sense of being removed – distant – from everyone around her: family, friends, teachers, swim mates.
‘Isla?’
Turning back to Callum, she shook her head. ‘I’m okay.’
‘You’re clearly not.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m guessing it’s to do with him . I’m assuming it’s over?’
Heat blazed in Isla’s cheeks. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’
‘Jesus, what a scumbag.’
‘Just leave it, okay?’
‘You know you’re better off shot of him, right? He’s a total fucking shit, taking advantage of you like that.’
Isla’s hand swung through the air without her having any conscious awareness of it. It wasn’t until she heard the crack of her hand against Callum’s cheek, felt the sting in her palm, that she realised what she’d done.
He recoiled, took a step back, brought a hand to his face.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Are you okay?’
He stared at her in silence.
‘Here, let me look.’ Isla reached out to check his cheek, but he took another step back, shook his head.
‘Just leave it.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I just...’ She searched for words to explain what was going on in her head; how, just a few months ago, she felt as though her life was like a well-organised cabinet in which everything had its place and she could find whatever she needed right away. But then a chain of events had shaken it up so badly that it was now in utter disarray: thoughts and feelings jumbled in a clutter of emotional chaos. But she couldn’t find the words to articulate any of that without divulging more than she dared.
Callum was silent for a few moments before turning and walking away.
‘Don’t go, please.’
He raised a hand in the air, called over his shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself, Isla.’
Isla watched as he left, rounded the corner, and disappeared out of sight.
A shriek of laughter came from Meera’s house, and Isla looked across the road, checked she was alone. She didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to speak to anyone. She couldn’t face going back to the party. Couldn’t face going home, either. Leaning against a wall, she pulled out her phone, opened WhatsApp, went into her archived conversations even as a voice in her head screamed at her not to. But the part of her bent on punishing herself scrolled down to the thread with Andrew, opened it, began to read: back through time, back to the beginning, to the message that had started it all.
Hey. Great to chat earlier. Any time you need a lift, you know where I am. I want to do everything I can to support a future Olympian. x
She scrolled up, one message at a time, the missives getting more personal, more intimate, as the days went by. And then, there it was, the message that had taken things to the next level. The message she knew she should have deleted immediately, put an end to it before it could begin.
Isla, I’m about to go out on a limb here, and I sincerely hope I don’t live to regret it. I can’t stop thinking about you...
She read it in full, the message that had led to their first planned meeting, their first kiss, the beginning of something that should never have started. Scrolling further, she read message after message, outpourings of infatuation and desire that she had mistaken for love. Hungrily, she ingested them all as though they would fill her up, nourish her, instead of leaving her empty, bereft and achingly lonely.
And then she reached the final message, the nail in the coffin of their relationship: a relationship she had thought was solid, real, only to discover it was made of nothing more than teenage fantasy.
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...
She read it again, so engrossed in her own misery that she did not, at first, notice the SUV pull up beside her. It was only as she clocked the abrupt cutting of the engine that she became aware of it. Looking up, she saw darkened windows preventing her from seeing inside.
Fear scuttled across her skin. Her hand slipped into her bag, found her keys, clutched her fist around them. She turned, began walking swiftly away, back towards the party. Behind her, a car door opened, and she quickened her step.
‘Isla.’
She looked round, took a moment to compute who had spoken, so unexpected was their presence.
‘Jack?’ Relief washed over her. ‘What are you doing here?’ She registered the car, the open driver’s door, Jack standing beside it. ‘Did you drive that? Whose car is it?’
He inhaled a deep breath before answering. ‘My mum’s.’
‘And you drove it?’ Isla’s fist relaxed around the keys. ‘Why did you do that? Your mum’ll kill you if she finds out.’
Jack stared at her: impassive, unspeaking.
‘Are you okay?’ Walking towards him, Isla saw that his hands were shaking. ‘What’s wrong?’ Reaching out, she placed a hand on his arm. Jack recoiled as though she had lunged at him with a sharp object.
‘Get off me! Don’t touch me!’
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
Jack said nothing.
‘Let me call Nathaniel, ask him to come and get you—’
‘Don’t!’ His voice sounded urgent, panicked.
Isla paused, tried to stymie the dread rising into her throat. ‘What’s going on? Whatever it is, I just want to help.’
‘I don’t want anything from you. I know what you’ve been doing... with my dad.’
The shock hit her like a tidal wave. ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice sounded thin, taut, like a piece of elastic stretched almost to breaking point.
Jack gripped the edge of the car door, knuckles white. ‘I know you’ve been... shagging him. I’ve seen photos on his phone. I know he’s planning to leave my mum for you.’
Isla felt herself flinch. ‘Where did you get that from?’ Thoughts tore through her mind, wondering if Nathaniel had finally enacted his threat to tell people what he knew.
‘I heard him, on the phone, talking to an estate agent about houses. I know he’s leaving us.’
Confusion swirled in Isla’s head. For a moment, she thought that perhaps Andrew had experienced a change of heart, that he was going to tell her he’d made a mistake, he was sorry, that of course he didn’t want to end their relationship. That he was planning to leave Nicole, buy a new house, that they would no longer have to meet in hotel rooms by Waterloo station. For a brief moment, she imagined him asking her if she could ever forgive him for his terrible behaviour. But then she recalled the patronising way he had spoken to her when he’d dumped her, the icy tone of his final message, the radio silence since. The clear indication that he wanted nothing more to do with her. And suddenly, all her fury with Andrew – for his manipulations, his lies, his subtle emotional coercion – came flooding back, and she reminded herself that she would never forgive him, even if he begged. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about—’
‘Stop lying! I’ve seen the photos on his phone. All those... pictures of you with him. I’ve seen them.’
Isla recoiled at the thought of what Jack may have seen: semi-naked photos of her in bed with Andrew, pictures that were only ever supposed to be viewed by the two people involved in them. She was incensed that Andrew had been so careless, so negligent, that he had not better protected his phone. Furious he had been so arrogant, so nonchalant as to let Jack anywhere near his mobile given the bombshell it contained.
She tried to steady her racing thoughts, but they were speeding faster than she could keep pace with. She had no way of knowing if Jack had discussed it with Nathaniel, if Nathaniel had admitted he already knew, whether they were already hatching a plan to expose her. All she knew was that she must try to salvage the situation, calm Jack down, limit the potential damage he could do.
‘Jack, your dad’s not leaving your mum—’
‘You’re lying—’
‘I’m not.’ Isla took a deep breath. ‘Whatever you heard, it’s not what you think.’
‘I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that—’
‘Stop! Will you just listen to me, please. I’m telling the truth. There’s nothing going on between me and your dad now. I promise.’
Jack shook his head, murmuring quietly to himself, and Isla took another step forward, knowing she had to reduce the risk of Jack rushing home, blurting out everything to Nicole. She couldn’t have this whole sorry mess getting out just at the point she knew it was time to move on.
‘Listen to me. Your dad isn’t leaving your mum. He loves your mum.’ She swallowed against the humiliation scratching at her throat. ‘The best thing you can do is let me take you home and forget all about it. It doesn’t matter any more.’
‘It matters to me! It will matter to my mum. I hate you for what you’ve done.’ Without allowing time for Isla to respond, Jack got back into the driver’s seat, buried his head in his hands.
Isla’s body throbbed with panic. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of the car door, held it open.
‘You can’t drive. You’re not old enough. Just think about what’ll happen if you get caught.’
‘Let me go!’ He yanked the handle of the door, pulling it against the full force of Isla’s grip.
‘Please, Jack, let me take you home.’
‘Leave me alone. I don’t want anything from you.’
With one decisive pull, he wrestled the door from her grasp, slammed it shut, locked it and started the engine.
Isla banged on the window. ‘Open the door. You don’t know how to drive. Just get out and calm down, please.’
The engine continued to rev, but the car didn’t move, the tinted windows too dark for Isla to see what he was doing inside. She clasped her phone, wondering if she should call Nathaniel, get him to come, or whether that would only make things worse. She cursed herself for having told Meera not to invite Nathaniel tonight, for not wanting him anywhere near her since he’d confronted her a month ago.
The gentle thump of a bass line emerged from Meera’s house across the street, less than half a dozen houses away, diagonally from where she stood now. She could be there in twenty seconds, could get Jules or Kit – someone she could trust – to talk some sense into Jack, persuade him not to drive his mum’s car.
Behind her, the engine revved even louder, but still the car didn’t move, and Isla wondered what Jack was doing in there, what he was thinking, how he was feeling. She knew she had to stop him driving, had to look out for him. This was all her fault, her and Andrew’s: Jack being upset, Jack driving his mum’s car, Jack being in such a state. It was all their responsibility.
Turning around, without looking back, she ran at full speed across the road.