Summer of Secrets (2 page)

‘But we all said we’d meet up in Brighton on Saturday night – and besides, we could do the party stuff at your place,’ Caitlin reasoned. According to Summer, Izzy’s
parents were totally laid back and didn’t give a toss what their kids got up to – whereas her lot could sniff out a hidden bottle of vodka a mile away and would have no shame about
marching into her room at half-hourly intervals to check that she wasn’t doing anything vaguely imaginative or interesting. They didn’t treat her brother like that, of course,
because––

‘It’s Jamie, isn’t it?’ Caitlin burst out, as the reason for Izzy’s persistence finally registered in her wandering brain. ‘
He’s
the reason you
want to come over – go on, admit it.’

Izzy flushed and avoided Caitlin’s gaze.

‘Don’t be silly – of course it’s not,’ she began. ‘Why – will Jamie be around this weekend?’

Caitlin sighed. What it was about her brother she didn’t know, but despite showing no interest in them at all, he managed to have girls prostrating themselves at his feet, whereas the
story of her own love life would fill the back of a postage stamp with room to spare.

‘
Will
he?’ Izzy couldn’t hide the eagerness in her voice.

Caitlin shrugged.

‘Haven’t a clue,’ she replied. ‘He’s a law unto himself. But I guess if I tell him you’re coming . . .’

‘No way! Don’t you dare!’ Izzy screamed. ‘I so don’t want him to think that I––’

‘Fancy him like crazy?’ Summer interrupted, gulping down the last of her water and tossing the cup into the bin. ‘Or was that yesterday? We all know that you fall in and out of
love more often than the rest of us touch up our lip-gloss.’

‘I do not! And besides, do you
have
to reduce every emotion to the lowest common denominator?’ Izzy retorted, pulling a face at Summer. ‘I don’t
fancy
him
– that is such adolescent terminology.’

Summer shook her head, raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, but said nothing.

‘I just think he’s a really interesting guy,’ Izzy finished lamely, surveying a broken fingernail with distaste.

‘When Izzy says a guy is interesting,’ Summer whispered in Caitlin’s ear, ‘it means two things. One, she’s got the hots for him and two, she’s about to make
mincemeat of him. When she has this party of hers just make sure you don’t let
your
boyfriend anywhere near her, OK?’

Caitlin smiled what she hoped was an enigmatic smile and turned to gather up her magazines and grab her text books. She wasn’t about to admit that she didn’t have a boyfriend, or
even a friend who was a boy right now. If she had been glamorous like Izzy, who, with flawless skin and hair the colour of liquorice, looked like a gypsy princess out of some Offenbach operetta, or
dainty like Summer – whose skin was so pale that it seemed transparent and who reminded Caitlin of that poem about fairies with gossamer wings – she might have had more luck on the guy
front. But she was what her mother called ‘chunky’, had auburn hair that fought her hair straighteners every morning and won, and such a healthy, freckled complexion that no one
believed she was ill, even when she felt at death’s door.

Despite these drawbacks, however, she was basically an optimist and she was pinning all her hopes on next term. Mulberry Court, a rambling grey-stone building nestling in a cleft of the South
Downs in Sussex and advertised as ‘the Country’s Foremost Independent School Specialising in Expressive Arts’, had started taking boys in the Sixth Form and she hoped that she
could do some hands-on expressing with the two she’d got in her sights – Fergus Walker and Charlie Ditton. She had earmarked the summer holiday for losing weight, getting lowlights and
becoming sophisticated; and she thought that in addition perhaps she would ask Izzy’s advice about getting boys to come on to her. Certainly, Izzy’s techniques seemed to be working on
Jamie.

She sighed to herself, recalling that first morning three weeks earlier when Jamie had agreed to drop her off at school – not through any sense of brotherly love and duty, but because
he’d just returned from three months in Australia and wanted to give his battered MG Midget a burn-up. Caitlin had been battling to open the passenger door – Jamie hadn’t got
round to fixing anything that wasn’t under the bonnet – when Izzy appeared at her elbow.

‘Hi, I’m Izzy,’ she had said brightly, her eyes fixed, not on Caitlin, but very firmly on Jamie’s bronzed thighs, shown off to considerable advantage by his frayed denim
shorts. ‘Caitlin and me are best buddies.’

This statement had somewhat surprised Caitlin, since she’d only met Izzy at the scholarship interview day, during which, although she was supposed to be showing Caitlin the ropes,
she’d spent more time buffing her nails and sizing up the guys in the Sixth Form than forming any lasting relationships with the newcomer.

Jamie, who was usually more given to grunts than whole sentences, had treated her to a lopsided grin, said ‘Hi, Izzy, good to know you,’ and then thrown the gear stick and roared
off, his macho departure being only slightly spoiled by the necessity of stopping after ten metres to avoid a double-decker bus.

‘
Where,’
Izzy had gasped, grabbing Caitlin by the wrist, ‘did you find him? That is one seriously divine guy.’

‘Divine? Jamie? Be serious,’ Caitlin had said, laughing.

‘You mean – he’s not your boyfriend?’ Izzy had asked.

‘No way,’ Caitlin had replied. ‘He’s my brother.’

‘Oh my God!’ Izzy had clamped a perfectly manicured hand to her mouth, slipped her arm through Caitlin’s and begun dragging her towards the imposing entrance of Mulberry Court.
‘What are you going to think of me? I mean, I thought he was your guy and I was just trying to – well, you know – be friendly and stuff.’

She had kicked open the double doors.

‘Lovely necklace, by the way,’ she had remarked, gesturing at Caitlin’s pendant. ‘I wish I had more junky stuff – all mine’s
real
, and wearing it here
would be so in your face, know what I mean? OK, now this is the Day Den – or common room, to the rest of the world. Shove your stuff over there. By the way, your brother – has he got a
regular girlfriend?’

Caitlin had shaken her head.

‘Nobody serious – he spends most of his time messing around with cars,’ she had sighed. ‘Why?’

‘Oh – no reason,’ Izzy had assured her. ‘Just showing an interest.’

Izzy had continued to show an interest at regular intervals ever since, which was quite clearly, Caitlin thought, as she stuffed her magazines into her bag, why she was so keen to come over on
Saturday. More surprisingly, Jamie appeared to have noticed her friend as well; he had insisted on driving Caitlin to school several times in the past couple of weeks, albeit on the excuse that the
car needed some fine tuning; he had gone through the ‘Ciao, Izzy – see ya around!’ stage, to the ‘How’s your mate Izzy? She seems kinda cool,’ stage every
evening, and the previous day he’d actually winked at Izzy as he drove off, which, while not being the greatest come-on by some people’s standards, was as good as a declaration of
intent for Caitlin’s reticent brother. And clearly, Izzy had got the message and had decided it was time to go in for the kill.

‘So that’s settled,’ Izzy gabbled, as the bell rang. ‘I’ll pitch up on Saturday – we can still make Brighton for the evening – we’ll sort out the
party and get Jamie to come along with a few of his mates and––’

‘Jamie? You’re going to ask him to your party?’ Caitlin gasped.

‘And you tried to pretend you don’t fancy him?’ added Summer.

Izzy gave them both a long-suffering stare.

‘I’m doing it for
Caitlin
,’ she said graciously. ‘She doesn’t know many people, and having Jamie there will make it easier for her. What’s the matter?
Why are you laughing?’

‘And what strikes you about this picture?’

Robina Cathcart, the new history of art tutor, zapped the button on her laptop and
The Three Graces
filled the screen on the studio wall.

‘Serious cellulite!’ Izzy called out, pointing at the three naked ladies of more than ample proportions. The entire room collapsed in fits of giggles. Izzy made no secret of the fact
that art was not her thing; she was the school’s drama queen in more ways than one.

‘That is not funny,’ Mrs Cathcart said, her huge jade earrings tinkling as she shook her head impatiently, causing wisps of bottle-blond hair to escape from her chignon.

‘No, you’re quite right, Mrs Cathcart – cellulite is certainly no laughing matter,’ Bianca Joseph added with mock solemnity.

‘As, indeed, she should know,’ whispered Izzy, nudging Caitlin in the ribs.

‘Is there anyone in this room who can think of a single intelligent thing to say about Rubens’s work?’ Mrs Cathcart demanded. ‘How about our new art scholar?
Caitlin?’

‘Me?’ Caitlin looked alarmed. This was only her second lesson in history of art, and she was feeling distinctly out of her depth. The practical stuff, such as photography, painting,
doing caricatures of her mates – all of that came easily to her; but when it came to comparing and contrasting the work of Monet and Van Gogh, or identifying a fragment of an Italian fresco,
she was lost. Everyone else in the room, it seemed, had toured the art galleries of Europe or thought nothing of owning the odd Constable or Whistler. Her parents’ idea of a family holiday
was a cottage on the Isle of Wight and all that bedecked the walls of Caitlin’s home were ceramic plates and framed photographs of the Morland children at every stage of their
development.

‘Yes, you,’ the tutor encouraged. ‘Tell us what you see.’

Caitlin swallowed hard.

‘Well,’ she began, peering more closely at the picture, ‘obviously the woman in the middle is really having a hard time of it – I guess she’s being bullied by the
other two. They’re pretending to be oh-so-nice, of course, but you can see they are really laying into her – criticising her figure and all that. See how they are gripping her arms, not
letting her get away. I guess probably she’s used her magical powers as a goddess or whatever to win the affection of some nobleman that they’re after and that’s why . .
.’

She stopped dead. Half the class had swivelled round in their seats and were eyeing her with a mixture of astonishment and outright hilarity.

‘All right, Caitlin, you’ve had your joke,’ Mrs Cathcart said wearily. ‘Now would you please give us the facts about the picture. When was it painted?’

‘Um – quite a long time ago?’ Caitlin ventured.

‘For heaven’s sake, girl – how come we gave you a scholarship?’

Caitlin felt a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on her, waiting for her next
faux pas
. Get this wrong, and she’d be labelled an ineffectual wimp and the cool set would be closed to her for
ever. Even Summer, who normally kept her eyes down and worked like a swot, seemed to be egging her on to say something more incriminating.

‘I guess because I’m pretty ace at drawing; because my photographic portfolio was wacky and off the wall and because when I’m a top designer, it won’t matter a toss
whether I know when some stupid man obsessed with fat women was born!’

For a moment you could have heard a pin drop. Mrs Cathcart’s ample breasts heaved in unison, her poppy red lips pursed together and Caitlin just knew that she had totally blown it.
She’d be expelled before she’d even started and then her family would be able to smile in satisfaction and say it was all for the best and she should have kept her feet firmly on the
ground.

‘All right, point taken!’ Mrs Cathcart smiled despite herself. ‘You’re right – well, up to a point, anyway. You
do
have tremendous artistic talent, and
there’ll be plenty of opportunities for me to drum some of the finer points of art history into you. A task which will clearly take some time. In fact – you’ve given me an
idea.’

A groan rippled round the room.

‘Her ideas always mean hard work for us,’ said Izzy. ‘Thanks a bunch, Caitlin.’

‘An assignment,’ Mrs Cathcart began.

‘You can’t – it’s practically the end of term!’ Bianca protested.

‘We’d never have time to do it justice,’ Izzy added emphatically.

‘It’s a holiday assignment,’ Mrs Cathcart replied smugly. ‘I’m calling it
Art in My Imagination
and . . .’

‘We don’t
have
holiday assignments,’ Summer burst out. ‘When we had Mr Brington, he never gave us anything to do after the end of term.’

‘Did he not? Well, I do,’ said Mrs Cathcart, smiling calmly. ‘As I was saying, I want you all to seek out one piece of art wherever you go on holiday this summer and let it
speak to you – the way Caitlin, however misguidedly, let
The Three Graces
fire her imagination. Paint, draw, photograph anything and everything that the original painting or sculpture
leads you to think about. Make up stories, poems . . .’

She beamed round the room, clearly chuffed at her own inventiveness.

‘And then I want you to find out where the artist
really
got his inspiration – myths, legends, unrequited passion – and compare the two. Should be
fascinating.’

‘Oh, riveting,’ muttered Bianca, as Mrs Cathcart turned away and packed up her laptop. ‘Like she really thinks I’m going to find a load of art galleries in the Maldives.
Get real.’

The Isle of Wight isn’t exactly spilling over with masterpieces either, Caitlin thought.

‘I’ll expect a portfolio from each of you at the start of next term,’ Mrs Cathcart concluded. ‘Good morning, ladies!’

‘I shan’t know where to begin,’ Caitlin moaned as she made her way to lunch with Bianca, Summer and Izzy. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’

‘It could be quite fun,’ Summer mused.

‘It could be quite fun,’
Bianca imitated. ‘Compared to what? Watching paint dry?’

‘Compared to spending the whole holiday . . . oh, forget it!’

‘Go on,’ Caitlin urged.

‘I said, forget it!’ Summer turned away and stomped over to the food counter.

‘Is she OK, do you think?’ Caitlin asked anxiously, watching as Summer grabbed a tuna salad. Falling out with one of the few friends she’d made would not be a good idea right
now, and secretly she thought Summer fascinatingly mysterious.