Scarlet Wakefield 01 - Kiss Me Kill Me (3 page)

“Having fun, Plum?” he asks cheerfully. “Si, all right, mate!”

He leans over to grab Simon’s hand and do one of those funny twisting handshakes that boys seem to consider so essential. I always thought his eyes were gray, but now I realize that they’re just as much green as gray, the color of a lake in winter, and so thickly fringed with dark lashes that it almost looks as if he’s wearing mascara. His dark-brown hair is falling forward in a silky wash over his forehead. I long to reach up and push it back.

Dan McAndrew is six feet tall, with wide shoulders and long legs. He’s on the school cricket, rugby, football, and tennis teams. He plays violin in the school orchestra, and he’s on the debating team. He’s as handsome as the lead singer in a boy band. He’s always got a ton of friends hanging round with him.

Plum is rearranging her hair, smoothing it out with her fingers, frowning crossly at Dan for having messed it up. She shifts along the stone lip of the fountain, pointedly turning her back on him, facing Ross instead.

“God,” she mutters, “he’s such an oaf sometimes.”

I’m watching her, amazed that anyone could actually complain about being touched by Dan McAndrew, when I hear him say “Hi,” and it takes me what feels like hours to realize that he’s talking to me.

I look up and meet his eyes. Then I faint. But just for a fleeting moment. I get such a quick grasp on myself that I don’t think anyone but me noticed that I actually lost consciousness.

“Hi,” he repeats. “I don’t think we’ve met, have we?

I’m Dan.”

It’s all I can do to get any words out at all. I can barely remember my own name.

“I’m Scarlett,” I manage.

“Great name,” he says appreciatively. “It suits you.”

“Really?”

I must be goggling at him. I’ve always felt that Scarlett was a real curse of a name. In my eyes, you either have to be a redhead or fantastically beautiful, like Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind, to be called Scarlett.

I’m not a redhead. My hair’s medium brown, not particularly interesting. And let’s just say that we can rule out the fantastically beautiful part as well.

But Dan McAndrew is smiling at me, his gray-green eyes are sparkling. At least I can tell that he’s not setting me up for a fall, saying something nice just to see if I’ll believe him, before cutting the ground out from under my feet.

Which means  .  .  . which means  .  .  .

Behind his shoulder I see Ross clicking at a Zippo lighter that isn’t working. He shakes it angrily, and tries again. No go.

“You try, mate,” he says, chucking it to Dan. “You’ve got the magic touch.”

“Do something, Ross!” Plum adds petulantly. “I’m dying for a ciggie.”

Dan shakes the Zippo, gives it one sharp tap on the fountain’s edge, and flicks the wheel. It catches.

“Thanks,” Ross says, taking it from him. “Here you go, Plum.”

He bends toward her, lighting the cigarette that she dangles at the end of her fingers, making him come into her space, do all the work. I admire her technique. Ross lingers a little too long, staring at her beautiful profile, before he sits back again.

“Plum, you shouldn’t smoke,” Dan says, sitting up again. “And you shouldn’t either, Ross. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, stop nagging, Dan. You’re worse than my bloody mother,” Plum snaps, not even looking at him.

“Yeah, Dan, pack it in,” Ross agrees.

Dan’s forgotten about me for the moment; his attention has been drawn elsewhere, and I have to admit, I’m almost relieved. Having Dan McAndrew look at me, really look at me, his gray-green eyes focusing on mine, was so intense I had trouble breathing. I’m grateful for a respite.

“Sorry about making you cough,” Simon says to me.

I don’t have any problem looking at Simon, because I don’t fancy him. He’s pink and white, like a Battenberg cake with yellow icing on top, which is his hair. His eyelashes are so pale yellow that they practically disappear into his face. He’s staring at me intently, but I can’t quite remember what he’s referring to.

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say.

He clears his throat. “Um, are you coming to the party on Saturday?”

This is way too much for me.

“I don’t know anything about it,” I confess. No point pretending to be cooler than I am.

“It’s at Nadia’s,” Simon says. “Her parents are away.”

“Her parents are always away,” says Venetia, giggling.

“I’m beginning to believe you don’t actually have any parents, Nadia!”

I sneak a glance at Nadia. She’s frowning and biting her lip, so cross with Venetia that she’s forgotten to care about messing up her lip gloss.

Venetia’s too insensitive and busy laughing at her own joke to notice that she’s upset Nadia.

“When are we going to have a party at your house, Venetia?” Plum says with a little smile.

This must be a nasty dig, because Venetia stops laughing so suddenly it’s as if Plum has flipped a switch in her back. Having dealt with Venetia, and underlined her power in the process, Plum gives Nadia a single swift glance, which seems to encompass me, and sits back on the fountain step, looking smug.

“Yeah, come to the party, Scarlett,” Nadia says. “Everyone will be there. You’re not doing anything else Saturday night, are you?”

I shake my head, though it’s a lie. I was supposed to see a film with Luce and Alison. This is a whole series of betrayals, I realize, not just the one. I feel terrible. But I also feel incredibly excited that I’ve been invited to Nadia’s party. I’m so confused I don’t know what to think.

“Great,” Simon says enthusiastically. “That means you’re coming, right?”

I nod.

And then I look up at Dan, hoping he’ll be as enthusiastic as Simon. He meets my eyes and smiles at me, and my heart turns over.

Hah. Little do I know that by the end of that longed-for party, I’ll be looking back and yearning for the chance to take back that nod. To rewind this entire encounter, like running a DVD backward on fast speed, as I get up, walk backward down the path, seemingly followed by Nadia, cross the road backward (not too safe, that, but I don’t get knocked over), reach my friends, and press Stop and then Play again—and change the outcome. To say to Nadia, “No, thanks, I won’t come and hang out with you if Alison and Luce can’t come, too.”

But by the time the party ends, it’ll be too late.

Dan McAndrew will be dead.

And it’ll be me who killed him.

JEANS GO WITH EVERYTHING

You can only worry about what’s going on at the time. That’s one of life’s weird ironies. Because so many times afterward, you look back and think, God, that’s what I was fussing about? Talk about a total lack of proportion! I’d give anything to go back in time and be dealing with those tiny little issues, instead of the great big problems I’m wrestling with now.

But hey, welcome to the wonderful world of hindsight.

Because I don’t know right now that I’m being set up. I don’t know that Dan McAndrew is going to die at that party. All I do know is that I’m obsessed with two worries going round and round in my head, and (because I can’t see into the future) they seem like the two most important things in the world, like an eclipse blocking out the sun, so I can’t focus on schoolwork, gymnastics, anything but them: (a) Will Luce and Alison ever forgive me? And (b) What the hell am I going to wear to Nadia’s party?

I’m horribly ashamed to admit this, but the second question is the one that’s bothering me more. And I know what an awful person that makes me. I should feel terrible about turning my back on my friends like that, and I do. When I think about Alison and Luce, and the fact that they’re sending me to Coventry at the moment—not speaking to me, not looking at me, basically pretending I don’t exist—I get an awful sinking feeling in my stomach.

And when I think about the party, I feel like sick is rising in the back of my throat. Why on earth did I agree to go? I barely know anyone to say more than two words to. I don’t travel in their world in any way. Their specialist subjects are the classics.

And I don’t mean Latin and ancient Greek. I mean the real St. Tabby’s classics: where to get the best manicure, which is the best month to go to Saint-Tropez, which boys will raise your social status, and how to get on the special pre-sale-viewing list for whichever shoe designer is hot this year.

And no, I’m not familiar with these topics from personal experience. But if you have any classes with Plum or Nadia or Venetia, or if you’re simply stuck behind them as they take their time going upstairs in those wobbly stilettos, you can’t help learning more about them than you ever wanted to know. It’s all they bang on about. You’d think St. Tabby’s was a Swiss finishing school with classes in flower-arranging and how to get out of Porsches, the way they carry on.

And yes, I’m jealous of how glamorous and photograph-able their lives are, and that’s why I sound bitter. No point denying that, is there?

I stare at the contents of my wardrobe. This is a joke. I don’t know why I’m even looking. I know already that I don’t have anything to wear to a party at Nadia Farouk’s penthouse flat in Knightsbridge. That in itself—not having anything to wear—wouldn’t be an insuperable obstacle. The true problem is that I know enough about fashion to recognize that I don’t have the right thing to wear, but not enough to know what that would be.

Hell and damnation.

I glance around my room, which doesn’t represent me, because this isn’t my home. It’s a guest room, complete with white walls and tasteful engravings of fruits and flowers, which are echoed in the chintz curtains and bedspread. Sounds a bit like a classy hotel, doesn’t it? I’m not allowed to put up posters, or even framed prints. No making holes in the walls. In a way, it’s a little girl’s dream room: it’s very pretty. But it’s not me. It’s never been me.

No wonder I’ve been spending all my time hanging out with Alison and Luce. But suddenly I feel as if I’ve been hiding in Alison’s basement for the last few years: hiding from everything. Life. Boys. The universe.

And though I know that’s a gigantic exaggeration—after all, it’s not like I was invited to a ton of parties I didn’t go to, it’s not like a ton of boys asked me out and I turned them all down—I’m also aware that there’s more than a grain of truth in it. I’ve been at school, or doing gymnastics, or hanging out with the girls I met through gymnastics, for the last few years. I didn’t take any risks—apart from throwing myself through the air trying to do a twisting back layout and land on my feet rather than my head, of course.

It’s not surprising that I grabbed at the first thing resembling security that came along—drowning girl and life preserver ring spring to mind, though it’s such an obvious analogy that my English teacher would write “NO NO NO LAZY LAZY!!!!!” if I tried to use it in an essay. (She’s not big on sparing your feelings.) But maybe it’s time to push aside the life preserver and start swimming on my own?

Not that I have much choice, actually. I doubt that Alison and Luce will ever speak to me again.

I sit down on the corner of my bed and stare out the window at the view. Thick green leaves from tall, sweeping trees frame two elegant large white houses across Holland Park, which is the wide street on which this house (equally white, equally large, equally elegant) is set. Occasionally a red double-decker bus passes by along Holland Park. I can see the top deck, but its passengers aren’t remotely close enough to peer into my window. These houses are built on a slight rise, and their lawns slope down gently to high stone walls, lined with trees, to provide plenty of shade and privacy. I’ve spent a lot of time lying out on the lawn, reading in the sunshine. By myself, of course, because I’m not allowed to bring any friends back to the house. That’s one of the conditions of living here.

It’s lonely. But I do have the whole attic to myself. Which includes my own bathroom.

Looking at the view from my bedroom window is what I always do when I’m confused, or upset, or unhappy. Rain or shine, gray skies or blue, it never fails to center me and calm me down. I think: If this were a project at school, an exam I wanted to pass, what would I do?

And then I think: Research. I need to research my way through it.

For the first time since being invited to that party, I feel as if I might be able to get things just a bit under control.

“Oh my God! Look at that bag! It’s the definition of pretty!” exclaims Girl A.

“Oh yah!” replies Girl B, which is how really posh girls say “yes.” “If that bag was a girl, all the boys would be totally in love with her.”

This exchange is followed by a round of self-conscious giggles at their own cleverness.

I shrink against the changing-room wall. And not because of their idiot banter—it’s like hearing boys on the bus repeating lines from comedy films that were hilarious on-screen, but crash and burn in the mouths of talentless morons. The talentless morons fall about laughing. Everyone else roll their eyes and turn their iPods up.

I’m cringing because I know those voices. The first one is Venetia and the second one is Sophia Von und Zu, the German countess with wads of money coming out of her ears. I peek through a tiny chink in the curtains just to confirm it. Yup, there they are. Confidence is a weird power. Horse-faced, big-bummed Venetia is standing there with as much self-assurance as if she owned the shop. And tall, slender, blond Sophia, with smooth china-white skin and enough money to buy the shop here and now, has the droopy shoulders and slumping posture of a rag doll with really low self-esteem.

“Excuse me,” Venetia says, I presume to the shop assistant, “do you have this in any other colors?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Just the yellow,” says the shop assistant.

“Oh, God, how upsetting!” Venetia exclaims, as fervently as if she’d been told that one of her best friends had been taken to hospital.

“So disappointing!” Sophia chimes in. It’s obvious she thinks that agreeing with everything Venetia says will keep Venetia as her friend. And Sophia is absolutely right.

And then I nearly jump out of my skin, because the girl who’s helping me pulls lightly at the curtain of my cubicle and says, “How’s it going in there? You need any other sizes?”

“Uh, no,” I mumble, trying to keep my voice low so Venetia and Sophia won’t recognize it. “I’m fine.”

“Great,” she says brightly. “I’ll give you some time. You’ve got a lot to get through in there.”

I certainly do.

This boutique is like a jewel box. It has pale-blue Ultrasuede walls, shiny emerald floor, chrome-and-silver display racks, a series of minichandeliers trembling with crystal drops hanging from the ceiling, which is painted with a mural of silver clouds on an azure background. The changing room has an Ultrasuede upholstered bench and the curtains are layers of blue and green chiffon. And on the long rail, which I turn to look at now, is hanging a whole row of clothes that the very helpful salesgirl has picked out for me. Clothes in greens and burgundies and pale mauves that, she says, suit my coloring; clothes that, hopefully, cling in all the right places while draping tactfully over the others. Clothes that will make me look as if I belong in a place like this.

Because if I can look like I belong here, in this gorgeous temple to beauty and fashion, then my odds of looking like I fit in at Nadia’s party are infinitely raised.

Clearly, my trendy-boutique research (I scoured Teen Vogue, Elle Girl, and a slew of other magazines looking for shops which sounded like places Plum and her crew would go) was very successful. Too successful. I hadn’t bargained on running into members of Plum’s set during the buying process.

I realize I’m going to have to hide out in the changing room the entire time they’re here. Because if they see me, they’ll know I’m here buying clothes for the party, and then I might as well not go at all, because everyone will laugh at me because I was so freaked out by the invitation that I had to run out to the most expensive boutique in super-chic Notting Hill and shop like a pathetic, desperate, socially insecure maniac, but I have to go, because Dan McAndrew is going to be there, and he said my name suited me—

Calm down, Scarlett, for God’s sake! You’re hyperventilating, you stupid cow!

I close my eyes for a moment. Over the hypno-relaxing-trippy music that’s playing, I hear Venetia’s voice. Actually, I could hear Venetia’s voice over zombie death metal cranked up to full blast. She’s got one of those grating, high-pitched upper-class voices that could cut through steel faster than a circular saw.

“Oh my God, no, you can’t wear Blue Aeroplanes! Put those back at once!”

“What do you mean?” Sophia sounds baffled, as am I.

“You can’t wear Blue Aeroplanes jeans! Only Plum can wear Blue Aeroplanes!”

“Are you serious?” Sophia says.

“Fine. Don’t believe me. Buy them and see what happens.”

“What’ll happen?” Now real doubt is creeping into Sophia’s voice.

Venetia heaves a giant sigh. “Plum will send you to Coventry for weeks. That’s what she did when Nadia bought Blue Aeroplanes. Don’t you remember?”

“No, I don’t! When was that?” Sophia sounds petrified.

“Last autumn. After half-term. You must have been there.”

“I was in Kenya the week after half-term! On safari with Mummy and Daddy!” Sophia realizes. “But I do remember, I came back and we weren’t allowed to talk to Nadia. Only no one told me why, and I didn’t want to ask.”

I grimace. Sophia is such a pathetic sheep.

“Well, that’s why,” Venetia says. “And now you know.”

I hear the sound of hangers shifting as, I presume, Sophia fearfully slips the pair of Blue Aeroplanes jeans back on the rail.

“Secretly?” Venetia adds, in what she thinks is a lowered voice. “And promise you won’t tell?”

“Oh yah, absolutely!” Sophia sounds very excited.

“Nadia looked better in the jeans than Plum did. That’s why Plum got so angry. You know she doesn’t have much of a bum.”

“Gosh,” Sophia says.

“I heard Nadia cut the jeans up and sent them to Plum, and that’s when Plum took the Coventry thing off and we could talk to Nadia again,” Venetia continues. “But that’s just a rumor.”

“Oh yah, of course,” Sophia says.

They both sound very subdued now. I know they believe the part about Nadia cutting up the jeans.

And so do I.

“Well, there’s nothing in this bloody shop today,”

Venetia says bluffly. “Since they only have that bag in yellow. God. Do you want to get a soy latte?”

“Love to!” Sophia sings out.

Honestly, I’m surprised Sophia doesn’t bleat instead of talk. I bet if Venetia had asked her if she wanted to get a slice of dead rat fried in batter, she’d have agreed. Anything to fit in.

Mind you, it’s hypocritical of me to complain about that, isn’t it? What am I doing here if not spending a fortune on clothes that will help me fit in?

I nose slowly through the curtains to make sure they’ve gone, like a mole trying to see if it’s safe to come out of its hole. When I’ve got enough of my face (about the amount you have out of the water when you’re floating in the sea) through the gap in the curtains to be sure that the coast is clear (goodness, I’m full of metaphors today) I emerge.

“That looks really nice,” says the shop assistant from across the room.

I turn to look at myself in the long mirror in its twisted silver frame. I already had a look in the changing room. I’m not an idiot—I know better than to walk outside without checking first to make sure I don’t look like a fat sausage squeezed into a skin too small for it.

I’m wearing an aqua green top in a silky material, with lots of straps, including one that runs diagonally across one shoulder and down the back. The material is suspended from the straps in a series of gathers and angled folds that looked on the hanger like someone had taken drugs and gone crazy in the sewing room, but on me actually hang really nicely. It’s a bit like drapery from a Greek statue, and somehow, miraculously, I look grown-up and graceful in it.