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They passed a red and white church buried in the hillside, momentarily bathed in the gold of the headlamps before retreating to its shroud of darkness. By the side of the road was a box, lit by a lone, uncertainly flickering candle: a shrine for a child, tipped from a crumbling precipice. The motion of the car, winding and turning, rising ever higher, began to lull Lori to sleep.
When she woke, the moon was high and bright in the sky. The car was rumbling along a bumpy track and Lori realised her head must have been resting against the window, for it was this motion that roused her. They were in the middle of nowhere. On either side what looked like orchards, clusters of trees whose fingers brushed questioningly as they passed. At the foot of the drive was the dark shape of her grandmother’s house, bordered by the shadowy outline of an olive grove, and a single lamp glowing in the porch.
She thanked the driver in Spanish and heaved her bag from the trunk. She watched as his red taillights disappeared, listening to the silence of a depth and quality entirely new to her.
There was no sound coming from inside and when Lori knocked it seemed to disturb the sleeping hills. She began to wonder if anyone was in when, eventually, a light came on. The slow patter of footsteps approached, accompanied by a wet snuffling.
When the door opened, something quick and small rushed out and Lori felt a damp nose attacking her legs.
‘Pepe!’ the old woman chided. ‘Come back here. Tsk!’
Lori petted the dog as it sniffed enthusiastically at her knees. Corazón watched her, the old woman’s ancient, pale face cracked by the lines of time and the losses she had known: she had dressed in black since her husband, Lori’s abuelo, passed fifteen years before. Even in the dim glow of the porch her eyes sparkled with happiness.
‘Loriana. Querida, my darling.’ She held her arms out, eyes brimming with emotion.
They embraced, Lori clinging lightly because holding Corazón was like grasping a bundle of sticks and she didn’t want to break them. She told her hello and her grandmother touched her face, her mass of wild hair, and kissed her forehead.
‘Has crecido!’ she marvelled, taking her hands. ‘You have grown. Te heche de menos, Loriana; I have missed you.’
Inside, Corazón boiled a pan of water and gave Lori a cup of sweet, hot liquid that smelled of herbs, and a bowl of vegetable stew that through her hunger and fatigue tasted incredible. Pepe the dog darted between her legs, begging for food and attention. They spoke about Lori’s journey and her memories of Spain (what Corazón called her ‘home country’), and why she had come back here. While Lori didn’t go into detail about her strained relationship with her father, she suspected Corazón knew more than she was letting on.
Despite being over ninety, her grandmother was shrewd. Lori didn’t know if it was the tea and the soup, or her exhaustion, or arriving in Spain after dark, but she soon found herself opening up, telling her about her stepsisters, the way she missed her mother, her hopes for the future—and finishing up with Rico, the killing and the arrest. She didn’t tell her about Diego Marquez, or the stranger with the accent, or what had happened afterwards … This was a secret she kept close, a fragile form she couldn’t yet be sure would survive definition.
The old woman listened patiently, nodding sagely once or twice.
‘I am glad you have come,’ Corazón said at last. ‘Important things will happen to you here. I feel it in my bones.’ She looked down at Pepe. ‘Don’t I, chiquita?’
Lori went to her room a little after midnight. It was humble, just a single bed made with floral linens, a small square closet and a wooden desk. On the desk was a lamp, the only source of light, which cast a pale yellow glow and was not enough to read by. At the head of the bed was a finely carved crucifix. The ceiling was sloped, with thick black beams running across it, and the floor was scratchy and cool beneath her feet. An old rug covered a portion of it.
She opened the window. The catch was stiff and she wondered how long it had been left unused. The air was balmy and still. Outside was what appeared to be a yard, though it was difficult to tell at this time of night. Mountains in the distance, darker than the air that held them, stared back, old as time. Lori drank the air in through her nose, fragrant and sweet.
Whenever she pictured the man in Tres Hermanas, she experienced a nagging throb deep inside, delicious and frightening. She had been feeling it on and off for hours, and it kept coming back, stopping her from sleeping and making it hard to eat. Was this what people called love? How could it be, if she didn’t even know his name?
The moon was full, a white outline in the inky sky. Lori leaned out, imagining that somewhere, wherever he was, by some trick, a hole in the sky, it would mean they were looking at each other.
The dragging sensation in her belly returned. She closed her eyes. Her heart quickened. She tried to picture him, not too hard else the image fell away like shattered glass. She tried to hear him, but could not conjure his voice. What was happening to her? She felt possessed, under a spell, the back of her neck tingling in that spot where his fingertips had touched, the accuracy of it, the assurance, how he knew what she wanted and how he was going to give it to her.
A little while later, Lori shrugged on her white cotton nightdress and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold and slightly damp, but the heat from her skin soon warmed them up. She was tired past the point of being able to sleep, and lay with her eyes open, staring into the black. The pillows released an old, musty scent.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty. She could not sleep. Each time she came close, something woke her: that hot feeling, again and again, in her stomach. After another half-hour, she sat up and flicked the lamp on. The room was as it had been only now it seemed brighter, sharper, as if she was looking at it with renewed vision. She returned to darkness and lay back.
Faintly she became aware of the swell of her chest as she breathed. She realised her nipples were hard against the cotton of her nightdress. A jolt rushed through her and she raised a hand to touch herself. She ran her fingers across her skin, over the material at first and then underneath it, feeling the softness of her breast. The tingling sensation in her gut was stronger than ever, calling her down, telling her what she must do. Exploring the lines of her own body, she trailed her hand over her stomach and parted her legs, releasing a gasp as she met the surprise of her own wetness. She tilted her hips up, her breath lowering to something wilder as she ground against her own touch. Lifting her knees and spreading them, she stroked gently till she discovered a spot so sensitive it whipped the air from her chest. She pictured him lowering his head, in the way she had heard men did, and as her fingers slipped in and around she imagined it was him, exploring her with his tongue, tasting her, wanting her, what would have happened had the kiss gone on, in that car, across the leather, against the windows. The fire was raging now, flames licking down her legs to the tips of her toes and racing to the blinking lights behind her shut-tight eyes till a great blinding wave crashed over her and every fibre in her body surged. She arched her back, meeting the point of ecstasy. Unable to move, she let the current pass through her, shaking, trembling, shivering.
Recovered, Lori dressed and padded down the dark corridor to the bathroom, where she vigorously washed her hands. She saw her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were darker than they’d ever been: total black, the most basic of colours.
Shame washed through her. What had she done? She had heard about people who touched themselves … It was wrong; it was dirty; it was sinful. She scrubbed at her fingers and splashed cold water on her face, before killing the light and returning to her bedroom.
The next time she closed her eyes, she fell instantly asleep.
16 Aurora
St Agnes School for Girls was a massive, austere building in the heart of England’s Lake District. Grey, bleak and circled with turrets, it resided next to the slate quarry from which it had been built. Aurora thought it the ugliest, most miserable thing she had ever seen.
Her chauffeur-driven car wound up the imposing gravel drive, rounded a stone figurine with its roots submerged in a stagnant oval pond, and deposited her at the main entrance. Immediately she lit a cigarette, smoking moodily while she figured out what to do. She’d get expelled, that was it. There was no way she was staying here longer than a week. What had her parents been thinking? Clearly they had never laid eyes on this shitfest: all she had to do was send a picture to Tom and she felt sure her father would remove her at speed. He would never consent to her suffering. She’d turn the tears on for her first call home and then it would be over.
A woman with a grey bob was bustling across the drive. Grey, grey, grey—even the sky here was grey. How fucking depressing.
‘Can I help you?’ she demanded in a clipped English accent. She had a little moustache tickling her top lip and a mouth tight as a dog’s ass.
Aurora blew smoke in the woman’s face. ‘I’m new,’ she said, enjoying how her brash accent made the lady wince. She spoke louder to make the most of it. ‘Name’s Aurora Nash.’
‘We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.’
‘What do you want me to do, camp in a field? I’d like you to show me to my room and then I want a phone call.’ This was just like getting arrested—only it looked as if this cow wasn’t going to be won round with a sob story and a reapplication of Clive Christian No. 1.
‘We do not permit our girls smoking,’ said the woman. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
Aurora pulled on her cigarette. ‘Not really.’
Plucking the stick from Aurora’s hand, the woman tossed it to the gravel and ground it out with a steel-toed boot.
‘Hey!’
‘I am Mrs Durdon,’ she said briskly, ‘your housemistress. From now on you will do exactly as I say—or you’re going to wish you’d never set foot in this school.’
‘No kidding,’ Aurora muttered grimly.
‘Come with me.’
Mrs Durdon led the way through the main doors, a scowling Aurora loping behind. She was all too accustomed to spoiled teenage girls needing taking down a peg or two. The international ones were the worst. Here they had them all: princesses, heiresses, daughters of sheiks and oil barons, and, her least personal favourite, the brats from America with famous parents. Glimpsing the girl out of the corner of her eye, she sensed this one would spell no insignificant amount of trouble.
Aurora wondered why no one was offering to take her bag. Where was the doorman? Instead she had to drag her impractical Louis Vuitton wheels behind her as they entered the hall. Grave portraits of headmistresses-past glared down at her from their frames on the wall; an enormous fireplace sat cold and unused beneath a great black hood; doors peeled off from the space, most of them closed. There was a disgusting smell like soup.
‘You’ll meet the Head this afternoon,’ said Mrs Durdon as she mounted the staircase. ‘I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.’
‘Great,’ Aurora mumbled. She was tired of lugging her stuff. ‘Where’s the elevator?’ She stopped and leaned against the wide mahogany banister, folding her arms.
Mrs Durdon was revolted by the word. ‘We do not have a lift, I’m afraid. If you can’t manage, leave your things down here and you’ll have to come and collect them piecemeal.’ She eyed the suitcase, bursting at its seams. If there were drink or drugs in there, the school would soon rinse them out. ‘We’ll need to organise you a trunk. That … bag is hardly suitable.’
Aurora didn’t know what a trunk was but it sounded far from hot. ‘Can’t you get one of your staff to carry it?’
A frigid smile. ‘This way.’
Upstairs, a door opened and a gaggle of girls came rushing past. Aurora had to back up to avoid being slammed into.
‘Girls!’ Mrs Durdon boomed. ‘No running in the halls! ’
Giggling among themselves, the girls slowed their pace, arms linked as they vanished into what appeared to be a dining room. Aurora caught a glimpse of long regimented tables: as the heavy door opened a massive waft of the soupy smell came rushing through to greet her.
‘Don’t they have their own clothes?’ asked Aurora, grossed out by the grey skirts and shapeless jumpers. So unflattering!
‘That’s the school uniform,’ Mrs Durdon confirmed. There was a carpeted corridor at the top of the stairs. Several doors down, she stopped. ‘And this is your dormitory.’
Aurora raised a hand. ‘Wait a second,’ she said. ‘First, I’m not wearing some dumb uniform. I’ve got a fashion line to protect. And second, I am not sleeping in a dormitory. I demand a private room. I’m sure my dad paid for one, so I’d appreciate you taking me to it, please.’ She lifted her chin.
Mrs Durdon was amused. ‘All girls share dormitories,’ she said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
When the door opened, Aurora knew categorically and absolutely that she would never get used to it. There were at least ten beds in here! It was like some ghastly hospital room. Where was she going to put all her clothes? A small closet parked by each mattress wasn’t going to come close. What the fuck? What was this place?
‘Uh-uh, no way,’ said Aurora. But Mrs Durdon was charging down the central aisle between the beds until she stopped by the one closest to the window.
‘This one is yours,’ she said smugly. The revelation of the dormitories was always her favourite bit. Aurora Nash wore a look of sheer horror. ‘I’ll find your guide—we assign every new student here one—and she will help you unpack your suitcase. Once you’ve settled in you can meet Mrs Stoker-Leach.’ She departed without another word.
Aurora felt like bursting into tears. She missed LA, she missed her dad; she missed the glittering ocean and the warm sunshine. She even missed Farrah and Jenna. How had this happened? How did she end up in this raging dump? She stormed to the window and gazed bleakly out. It had started to rain. Down below, girls in navy blue skirts ran pointlessly around a hockey pitch and a fat Games teacher with pasty legs blew a harsh whistle. Beyond the school gates, the severe, rugged line of the hills stood cold and immovable, trapping her, forcing her into this unimaginable situation. Did anyone seriously live here? Never mind the castle-slash-orphanage-slash-prison she was expected to reside in, but the whole freaking place was abysmal. All she had seen on the drive up was endless motorway going into hills, hills and more hills. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could exist here in Dullsville and not want to shoot themselves between the eyes after about five minutes.
In the quiet deadness of that empty dormitory, Aurora felt acutely alone. Fine, it was kind of her fault for getting into trouble, but hadn’t her parents gone a bit far? Wasn’t this total abandonment? Didn’t people get arrested for this kind of neglect?
She could see her reflection in the pane, distorted as the rain pooled and slithered and ran in rivulets down the glass. They looked like tear drops.
Fuck it—she wasn’t a crier, and this place wasn’t going to make her one.
All she needed to do was come up with a plan. Fast.
Her guide was a girl called Fran Harrington, Queen Dork of Dorkdom. She had mouse-coloured hair and the most boring face Aurora had ever seen—in fact it was so boring it didn’t even merit description. Her personality was boring, too. Everything about her was boring. Everyone in the whole school was boring. The world was boring. Aurora was bored, bored, bored. She craved California and lamented the parties she was missing; the guys she was missing. She was desperate to fuck. The frustration! That was another matter entirely.
A week had passed since her arrival and she was learning a few things about St Agnes School for Girls. First, it didn’t matter how boring everyone was because they’d never need worry about acquiring a personality: all the students were daughters of shipping magnates, government officials, royalty … In comparison, being Tom Nash and Sherilyn Rose’s kid meant squat. Second, they were all suck-asses and never seemed to do anything even remotely rebellious. The girls she shared a dorm with were mostly English and called things like Camilla and Verity and Poo-Poo. Third, the teachers seemed to hate her. They were all ancient with bad breath. The only decent one was Mr Faulks, who taught Chemistry and was reasonably sexy if you looked at him through squinty eyes, but the one time she’d attempted to flirt with him had backfired when she’d got her substances confused and caused an explosion in one of the research chambers. Fourth, Mrs Stoker-Leach was a total witch. No surprises there. Was it possible for someone with that name to be anything but?
It was Tuesday afternoon. This meant only one thing: hockey with Eugenie Beaufort.
Eugenie Beaufort was a grade-A bitch. Her mother was a screenwriter Aurora had never heard of but was apparently famous in the UK. She walked around as if she owned the place, while her devoted troop of followers—weak-chinned girls who nodded and yah-yahed to everything she said—trailed her like puppies. Her dislike for Aurora seemed to be instant. Whenever they shared a lesson, Eugenie would glare at her from across the room. Whenever she ate lunch by herself in the dining room, Eugenie was gossiping and looking over, laughing and sneering with her friends. One night Aurora had found a dead spider in her bed, and some of the girls she shared with had collapsed in tinkling laughter—the next day they were sitting with Eugenie. Aurora didn’t care: they were morons. What was more, they were fakers. Eugenie was always rattling on about how she’d hung out with Prince William and Kate Middleton the previous summer on a snowboarding holiday, an acquaintance Aurora could tell was exaggerated because Eugenie went on about it in a way she wouldn’t have to if they were, like, her real friends. The stories Aurora herself could tell about the rich and famous … Whatever, it didn’t impress her, she was way over it. She doubted half the girls had even heard of some of the stuff she’d done to Hollywood’s celebrity cocks. Let them suck on that if they wanted scandal.
Aurora had never cared much for sport and wore a lacklustre expression as she changed into her Goal Defence bib.
Within minutes Eugenie Beaufort was attacking her legs.
‘Fuck off,’ Aurora told her as they locked sticks.
‘Fuck off yourself,’ Eugenie hissed. Her dark hair was plastered unattractively over her forehead. She was one of those girls to whom team sports meant everything. Winning was the be-all and end-all. Aurora was already thinking about when they could finish so she could sneak into the bushes for a joint. Maybe if she broke Eugenie’s shins she might get suspended.
‘OW!’ Eugenie howled out in pain as Aurora’s hockey stick slammed into her. She lifted her leg and clutched it at the knee, hopping up and down.
‘Oops, sorry,’ said Aurora sweetly. The fat Games teacher came panting over and blew her whistle unnecessarily close to Aurora’s ear.
‘Off!’ she blasted, red-faced and angry as she pointed to the sides. Eugenie appeared satisfied, as if being sent off mid-match was the worst fate she could imagine. Aurora didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. That was the punishment? She’d have to come up with something far worse if she was going to make it home within the month. Her phone call to Tom last week had been rushed and unsatisfactory—her father had a spa session he was loath to miss—and despite her declaration that St Agnes was worse than death row (mainly because there was no chance of a lethal injection at the end of it), her tearful pleas and impassioned begging that eventually descended into a litany of I hate you!s, he had remained firm: she was to see out her first two terms and then they would rediscuss. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.
On the bench was a girl she hadn’t seen before. She had long straight black hair, pale skin and a compact, petite body.
‘How come you’re out?’ asked Aurora moodily as she slumped down.
‘I don’t like exercise,’ said the girl, not bothering to look up. She was reading a book, and when Aurora peered over she saw it was written in another language.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, sipping from a bottle of water and crossing her legs. She thought she spied Mr Faulks loping into the Science block and adjusted her bib to reveal a little more flesh.
‘It’s a book,’ the girl said flatly. This time Aurora noticed the strong accent.
‘You’re French?’
‘Bravo.’
Aurora kind of liked her blatant lack of interest—it piqued her own. ‘I’m Aurora Nash,’ she said, sticking out her hand.
Finally the girl looked up. She was startlingly pretty, with a perfect white complexion, blood-red lips and cat-like green eyes.
‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘The loud American.’ She frowned. ‘Is your tan real?’
Aurora was unoffended. ‘West Coast sun, baby.’ She withdrew her hand and sat back. ‘You should get some.’
‘I don’t like how it looks.’
‘Thanks very much.’
The girl returned to her book.
‘Sport sucks for me, too,’ Aurora said. ‘How come you get off?’
‘I refuse to do it.’
‘Sounds like a great tactic.’
The girl flipped her book shut. ‘I am exempt from these lessons. My parents have a doctor friend—he wrote me the diagnosis.’
‘Which was?’
She shrugged. ‘Simply, I am not a team player.’
Aurora laughed with genuine amusement. ‘What are you, then?’
‘I’m me.’
She raised her left brow. ‘Does “me” get high?’
The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you imagine you can be my friend?’
Aurora pulled up her scratchy, fashion-bankrupt socks. ‘I don’t care either way.’
‘Because I’m not here to make friends.’
‘Suit yourself.’
