CHAPTER TWO
A lock of cop-per hair cir-cled the shower drain.
I froze, as though per-fect still-ness would undo it some-how.
It was thick as a rope, long as a tree branch, and it swirled and ed-died in the wa-ter like sea-weed on a tide.
I ran my fin-gers over my sham-poo-lath-ered head in dis-be-lief. Sure enough, there was a bare patch of scalp at the base of my skull where it had been coaxed free. A shud-der rolled through me like a clap of thun-der.
Over the sum-mer I had lost a few strands—a thin rib-bon from above my ear was the worst of it—but noth-ing like this. Noth-ing that made my cheeks burn with dread. Noth-ing that left me so qui-etly dev-as-tated.
My great-aunt had suf-fered from try-popho-bia. It was il-log-i-cal, on the face of it, the way she re-coiled from hon-ey-combs and pomegranates as though in mor-tal dan-ger. As a child I found it en-ter-tain-ing, this ut-ter ir-ra-tional-ity. What harm could clus-ters of small holes do to her? But as I grew older, the more I un-der-stood the fear was some-thing an-cient and evo-lu-tion-ary. It was in the sin-is-ter im-ages those holes con-ju-red up: taran-tula eyes and black mold, poi-sonous snake scales and deathly dis-eases.
That was how look-ing at the cord of hair felt: as though my sub-con-scious mind knew some-thing dark and threat-en-ing lurked be-neath the sur-face. Some-thing vis-cer-ally fright-en-ing.
Shut-ting off the shower, I tried to quell the panic surg-ing in my chest, but it was no use. The wa-ter drained, but the hair re-mained coiled around the plug-hole, lank and de-feated. Grab-bing it in a fist-ful of pa-per tow-els, I dumped it in the bin be-neath the sink and cov-ered it with a pur-ple tam-pon wrap-per, ashamed of the fact I was shed-ding in bru-tal clumps.
Would it be con-tained to a sin-gle sorry patch? Or would I slowly shed it all un-til not even an eye-lash re-mained?
Ten min-utes of re-search into alope-cia over the sum-mer had told me there was no cure.
My sin-gle dorm was crypt-cold away from the steamy heat of the en-suite shower, and I crossed to the white-arched win-dow to pull it shut. The cam-pus grounds rolled away from Aber-nathy Hall like a bolt of emer-ald silk. At the foot of the lawn was a kid-ney-shaped lake pa-trolled by vi-cious swans, next to which was a small, rot-ting boathouse painted flaky white and sky blue. Be-yond the glassy wa-ter lay a dense wood-land of birch, holly and hawthorn, and above the canopy was the dis-tant Ed-in-burgh sky-line, smudged by a low haze.
As I blot-ted my hair dry with a towel—flinch-ing at the slight-est fol-li-cle tug—a sense of fraud-u-lence set-tled over me like the mist over the city. What if I didn’t de-serve to be here af-ter all? What if I’d only got into Do-rian be-cause of my name and my beauty?
What would hap-pen if I lost one of those things?
Davina had been of-fi-cially cast as Lady Mac-beth. The an-nounce-ment went up a few days af-ter the au-di-tion.
I was one of the three witches.
Throw-ing on a white Givenchy shirt-dress in broderie anglaise and a cream cash-mere sweater, I padded through to the com-mu-nal kitchen I shared with three other drama stu-dents. It was a high-ceilinged room with tall, bright win-dows, bare white walls and Vic-to-rian tiles of black, cream and ter-ra-cotta.
My room-mates Catalina and Maisie sat on stools at the dark wood break-fast bar, but Fraser was nowhere to be seen. The space was al-ready homely, thanks to Catalina. Her menagerie of green plants spilled from the win-dowsills onto the coun-ter-tops, and Kil-ner jars of cof-fee and sugar were lined up next to a vin-tage tea ket-tle. An as-sort-ment of Gen-tileschi prints hung op-po-site the win-dows, cast in slat-ted day-light, and the row of book-cases were al-ready over-flow-ing—Mu-rakami next to Agatha Christie, a Lord of the Rings spe-cial edi-tion next to the com-plete Sher-lock Holmes col-lec-tion.
Catalina was brew-ing a car-da-mon-scented tea in a sil-ver in-fuser, chat-ting about a tex-tual anal-y-sis she’d need-lessly per-formed on the fourth act of Mac-beth. Maisie, by com-par-i-son, pre-ferred to dis-cuss other peo-ple.
“Ap-par-ently Davina Burns has been get-ting a lit-tle too friendly with Pro-fes-sor Dr-ever,” Maisie said, slick-ing red pol-ish on to her fin-ger-nails. Her blonde hair was French-plaited, and she wore a match-ing white sweat-shirt and jog-ger set with fluffy pink slip-pers.
Catalina blinked be-hind enor-mous tor-toise-shell glasses, vis-i-bly be-mused. She’d been dis-cussing al-ter-na-tive in-ter-pre-ta-tions of the love po-tion, and Maisie’s ten-dency to de-rail con-ver-sa-tions with child-ish ru-mors was jar-ring.
“Oh. I hadn’t heard that.” Her ac-cent was un-der-pinned with a sub-tle Span-ish warmth.
She im-me-di-ately went back to the text-book she was read-ing, but Maisie didn’t take the hint. “She’s been stay-ing be-hind af-ter class a lot, and Por-tia Bianchi said she saw her leav-ing the other night look-ing ‘flushed.’” She threw ex-ag-ger-ated air quotes around the lat-ter word, her tone a con-spir-a-to-rial hush.
“No won-der she got Lady Mac-beth,” I grum-bled. I didn’t be-lieve for a sec-ond this was the rea-son, but it made me feel a lit-tle bet-ter to imag-ine a world in which I was un-justly robbed of the role by a girl who couldn’t even show up on time.
Too late, I re-al-ized I’d for-got-ten to slip into the pol-ished Pax-ton per-sona. I forced a twin-kle into my eye, a pep into my tone, a gen-tle arch into my back, and added, “I’m kid-ding. Her au-di-tion was flaw-less.”
Maisie prac-ti-cally glowed with self-sat-is-fac-tion—some-one had given her the re-ac-tion she wanted. “I also heard that she got caught shoplift-ing when she was younger. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
I opened the cup-board and pulled out a rose-painted teacup. My room-mates all had sen-ti-men-tal mugs—tacky photo-mem-o-ries and cheesy slo-gans from mums and un-cles and old school friends—while I had a set of flo-ral Emma Bridge-wa-ters with zero per-sonal mean-ing.
At the sight of Catalina’s open packet of cook-ies, my stom-ach growled like a feral thing. But I never ate break-fast: a small test of willpower I made sure to win ev-ery morn-ing. Over time these rules I set for my-self had be-come more re-stric-tive, more se-vere, like the rib-bons of a corset con-stantly pulled ever tighter.
You have to wait un-til mid-day to eat. If you can just make it to eleven, you can have an-other cof-fee. An ap-ple at three. Diet Coke at four.
You can last a few more min-utes. A few more hours.
My mum main-tained her su-per-model body with-out even try-ing, but for me it took sig-nif-i-cantly more ef-fort. I reached in-stead for the or-nate sil-ver cafetière I’d bought in Paris dur-ing last year’s fash-ion week.
“What did your mum say about you not be-ing cast as Lady Mac-beth?” Maisie asked. “I bet she was livid.” She put on a pre-ten-tious ac-cent, the ex-ag-ger-ated vow-els scrap-ing at me like the shrill metal-lic screech of sharp-en-ing knives. “‘The dean will be re-ceiv-ing a let-ter any day now.’”
I laughed light-heart-edly, but my heart sank. “Bold of you to as-sume my mother knows how to write.”
In truth, I hadn’t spo-ken to my mum since I’d sent her my room-mates’ names. I was afraid to tell her that I didn’t get the lead, and more than a lit-tle hu-mil-i-ated. Not be-cause she’d be dis-ap-pointed—am-biva-lence was far more her style—but be-cause my pride couldn’t take the ad-mis-sion of fail-ure, es-pe-cially af-ter I’d told her the lead was all but mine. Es-pe-cially af-ter she’d told me she was proud of me. That it was a won-der-ful achieve-ment. I couldn’t bear to have those long-chased sen-ti-ments with-drawn.
“What’s it like, hav-ing such a fa-mous par-ent?” Maisie asked, screw-ing the lid back onto her pol-ish and blow-ing at her clawed nails.
“It’s all I know.” A care-ful, prac-ticed an-swer. I ad-justed the low messy bun at the nape of my neck. The bare skin be-neath felt ten-der and ex-posed, as though a scab had just been torn from the top.
“She came to Do-rian too, right? Back in the day?”
I nod-ded, spoon-ing dark-roast cof-fee into the French press and top-ping it with wa-ter from the re-cently boiled ket-tle. “She dropped out af-ter the first year, though.” I ran some quick men-tal cal-cu-la-tions, try-ing to re-mem-ber how much of my mother’s messy his-tory was pub-lic do-main.
Paus-ing her fore-fin-ger over the para-graph she was read-ing, Catalina looked up, blink-ing twice in rapid suc-ces-sion and push-ing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Why? That’s so sad. Pass-ing up an op-por-tu-nity like this.” Her auburn curls fell to her shoul-ders, swept back from her olive face with a sage-green claw clip.
“She was scouted for mod-el-ing.” There were also the twin pil-lars of de-pres-sion and ad-dic-tion for her to con-tend with, but I couldn’t say as much.
Maisie leaned for-ward on the break-fast bar, fix-ing her hazel eyes on me so in-tensely that I had to look away. “Do you know who your dad is?”
Ah, the gos-sip-rag sub-ject du jour. My mother’s pub-li-cist had “ac-ci-den-tally” dropped a pseudo-hint to drum up ex-cite-ment for Peggy Pax-ton’s up-com-ing mem-oir, Life Be-tween the Lines. Ghost-writ-ten, of course, but sure to be a best-seller. Ev-ery-thing my mum touched turned to gold. Ev-ery Vogue cover she graced, ev-ery record she sang on, ev-ery fea-ture film she cameoed in.
Ev-ery-thing ex-cept me.
Keen to shut the topic down, I sim-ply said, “Nope. And I don’t care.”
A well-trod-den lie. Deep down, the ques-tion of my fa-ther had al-ways gnawed at me. I’d spent most of my child-hood fan-ta-siz-ing about a warm, joc-u-lar man who’d throw me over his broad shoul-ders and call me kiddo. A dad who’d teach me to tie my shoes and make mud pies and fix bro-ken bike chains and roast the per-fect chicken.
But my mother had al-ways in-sisted it would do me more harm than good to know who he was—and why he didn’t want any-thing to do with us.
“Are we bor-ing you, Catalina?” Maisie asked with a chuckle, but the laugh-ter was brit-tle.
Catalina had started read-ing again, and sighed at the in-ter-rup-tion. She looked up re-luc-tantly. There was a rec-tan-gu-lar bulge at the waist-band of her vin-tage jeans—an in-sulin pump. She pulled her chunky taupe cardi-gan tighter around her-self. “Sorry. I’m just not into gos-sip, un-less it’s a crit-i-cal part of a Dun-geons salt-and-pep-per hair, a coarse beard, a tweed jacket and navy-blue tie. His mid-dle-aged eyes were crin-kled, and there were per-ma-nent com-mas etched around his mouth.
Davina was the other.
Black pixie-cropped hair, pa-per-white skin, leather jacket, bal-le-rina limbs.
I re-mem-bered what Maisie had said back in the kitchen: She’s been stay-ing be-hind af-ter class a lot.
Some strange in-stinct told me to back into the build-ing and watch from a dis-tance. Sus-pi-cion burned in me, along with some-thing al-to-gether shame-ful and self-serv-ing.
In-dig-nance bucked like a steed in my chest.
What if the role re-ally had been mine to lose?
I re-mem-bered how Lazar wanted to end the au-di-tions with-out Davina, only for Dr-ever to in-sist they wait five more min-utes.
As they sat in the car, Davina was hard-faced, fix-ing Dr-ever with her idio-syn-cratic glare. He shook his head, one hand clasped over the top of the steer-ing wheel, star-ing un-see-in-gly ahead.
For a few mo-ments, noth-ing hap-pened. Nei-ther spoke. Nei-ther moved an inch. Still, I had the cu-ri-ous sen-sa-tion of in-trud-ing on a pri-vate mo-ment—some-thing at once charged and vul-ner-a-ble.
I don’t know what made me pull out my phone and open the cam-era. I don’t know what made me press record. I don’t know what I was ex-pect-ing to see, or what I was in-tend-ing to do with it.
Yet when Davina leaned in and kissed Dr-ever on the stoic cheek, I caught it all.
The kiss was al-most noth-ing; a feath-ery brush. But it looked like some-thing.
Just as I took a step for-ward to get a clearer shot, Davina drew away from Dr-ever, opened the car door and stepped her long legs out. She slammed it shut with-out a back-ward glance at the pro-fes-sor, and when her gaze lifted from the pave-ment her eyes fixed on me.
My stom-ach lurched as vi-o-lently as it had watch-ing my hair cir-cle the drain.
From the look on Davina’s face—equal parts fear-ful and fu-ri-ous—she knew ex-actly why my phone was cra-dled in my out-stretched hand.
She stormed over to where I stood rooted to the cob-bled pave-ment, her fea-tures mor-ph-ing from ma-lig-nance into faux amity. Be-hind her, Dr-ever re-versed out of the al-ley and back onto the nar-row road that looped around cam-pus.
Davina stopped a few feet away from me, curl-ing her red-slicked lips into a crooked smile.
“Penny, isn’t it?”