Chelsea High

‘First day of term, kids,’ Mrs Pearce said. ‘This is an important year for you, so no messing. Yes?’

No one really replied.

‘Miss?’

‘Yes, Emmeline.’ There was a resigned tone in Mrs Pearce’s voice as she looked at a girl with long black hair, huge eyes and a tiny stubby nose. The stuff on her table all neatly stacked in size order: MacBook, paperback, phone, neatly wound headphones.

‘I think it’s really demoralising to call us kids,’ said Emmeline. ‘I think it encourages immaturity because it expects immaturity.’

‘You think so, Emmeline?’ Mrs Pearce raised a brow while scrolling through the register.

‘I do, Miss.’ Emmeline flicked her smooth curtain of hair.

‘And you don’t think that perhaps I’m acknowledging the immaturity I see in the room and challenging you all to step up and overtake it?’ Mrs Pearce mirrored the register to the screen behind her as she spoke. ‘Rex Andrews?’

A guy at the front said, ‘Here.’

‘No, Miss.’ Emmeline’s hair swung as she shook her head. ‘I think you should see us and treat us with the respect we deserve. We are adults.’

‘Well, I think someone might have forgotten to tell Freddie and Rollo,’ said Mrs Pearce.

The whole class looked at the two guys by the window who were silently cracking up at something on Freddie’s phone, zooming in close.

Rollo, the mega-tanned redhead from earlier, glanced up when he realised he was being watched.

‘Care to share, boys?’ Mrs Pearce asked, leaning forward with her elbows on the table.

Freddie immediately put his phone away, unable to quite wipe the smile from his face. ‘No, Miss.’

Mrs Pearce glanced back to Emmeline. ‘Perhaps if you could get your brother up to speed, your cause would be more fruitful, Emmeline.’

Emmeline rolled her eyes and pulled her paperback out of the stack on her desk to start reading.

‘Book away.’

She closed it with a sigh.

Mrs Pearce glanced back to her register. ‘Verity Benítez?’

‘Yeah.’ The glossy brunette raised a dismissive finger a centimetre to signify her presence.

Someone’s phone beeped. There was a scuffle of movement as people went to check their bags.

‘Phones away,’ Mrs Pearce said without looking up from the register. ‘Frederick Chang?’

Freddie saluted. ‘Present and correct.’ Mrs Pearce sighed. ‘I’ve had enough of you already.’

‘Ah, Miss, come on, you love me,’ he said. ‘I brighten up your day.’

‘That’s debatable, Freddie. Emmeline Chang?’

‘Yes, I’m here.’

I watched as Coco read a message on her phone under her table and passed it to Verity.

‘Rollo Cooper-Quinn?’

‘Yes.’

Verity passed Rollo the phone. Rollo was big like a rugby player, effortlessly pleased with himself. He sat with the casual confidence of someone who knows they’re chocolate-box handsome, chewing gum, eyes smiling.

‘Coco Summers?’

‘Here.’

Freddie grabbed for the phone but Rollo held it just out of reach, laughing.

Mrs Pearce clicked her fingers without glancing their way. She had some crazy surround vision. ‘Phone,’ she said. Coco swore. ‘No swearing, Coco,’ she added as Rollo gave Freddie the phone to take up to the table at the front.

Mrs Pearce took a moment to study the customised cover of the slick new iPhone. Hot pink Perspex with the word Coco scrawled in gold glitter. ‘You can have it back at the end of the day.’

‘You can’t take my phone, Miss; it’s my business,’ Coco said with big serious eyes.

‘Do you want it back tomorrow instead?’ Coco slumped back, fuming. Then a few seconds later bent down to check that her other, equally sleek rose-gold iPhone with a rabbit-ear jacket was still nestled in the pocket of her bag.

‘Norah Whittaker?’ Mrs Pearce looked straight at me at the back of the class. ‘Whittaker?’ Verity murmured.

She leaned over and whispered something to Coco, who laughed. Rollo leaned forward, keen to get in on the joke. I blushed. They knew, of course they knew. The whole world knew. It had been plastered over every newspaper in the country. ‘Three arrested in alleged £15m film investment scheme’. It had been like watching it all happen to someone else’s life. And as the headlines soon switched to ‘Earl of Wesley’s movie-fraudster son!’ it did feel like someone else’s life. These people were talking about my dad, who wore holey green jumpers, played banjo in the Mulberry Island band and ate carrots he’d pulled straight from the ground. Suddenly he was an earl’s son.

There’s a statue on a hill in Cornwall of a Roman temple. It rests high off the ground on a wooden frame, Underneath you can see each column tethered by a counterweight so when the wind blows the whole structure tips precariously to the left or right, yawing like a ship in a storm. That’s how my life felt when I thought too much about it all.

Mrs Pearce looked from me to Coco et al and back again with an expression of pity.Then she looked back at her register and, with a slight frown, said, ‘Ezra Montgomery?’

Everyone in the room looked up at the name. Mine was forgotten.

Mrs Pearce glanced around. ‘Coco, do you know if Ezra’s in today?’

Coco gave the slightest shake of her head. A gesture that seemed to surprise most people.

‘Rollo?’ Mrs Pearce asked. ‘Have you seen him?’

Rollo shook his head too, suddenly a little less self-assured than he had been a moment ago. ‘I only flew in last night, Miss,’ he said.

I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand, intrigued by the change in the room. The imperceptible tensing of Coco and her gang. Mrs Pearce was scrolling through emails, trying to find something on the unaccounted for Ezra. In the end she gave up and went back to the rest of her register.

‘Rufus? Emir? Portia? Alejandro?’

Even the names here were different.

My mind wandered as Mrs Pearce read out the day’s notices. A comment from the headmaster mocking the results of the previous year. CHELSEA HIGH BREEDS WINNERS came up in huge capitals on the screen. If you’re not an A student, you’re not a Chelsea student. My focus however was less on grades and more on how I was going to fit in around here. Or at least go unnoticed.

I would have to do something about my dress. Everyone else’s was shorter, tighter, better fitting. Mine was like a giant boat in comparison. And my shoes. Why had I believed the information pack, why did I think that people would be wearing the regulation black lace-ups? Because I had foolishly assumed that at somewhere so grand, everyone would follow the rules. Not like at Mulberry Island Academy, where white shirt meant anything white and clean. Where my friends and I wore our tracksuits all day if we had PE in the afternoon.

There had been a melting pot of friendships at Mulberry Island Academy. Jess, for example, was my best friend, but she also had her canoeing friends while I had my drama friends. But we all knew each other and each other’s siblings, regardless of style or interest. Here, you could tell from one cursory glance that the classroom was divided into hierarchical cliques. And Coco reigned supreme.

I was just watching Emmeline as she leaned over to whisper something to Coco, wondering how she got her hair so glossy–immediately annoyed at myself because I had never cared about glossy hair before – when the door opened. Everything around me went still, like the room was holding its breath. I saw Coco completely ignore whatever Emmeline was saying, her sparkling pink lips opening slightly and her eyes wide. She shifted in her seat, shrugging off Rollo’s attention. A tiny crease developed between Rollo’s brows.

I’ve spent my whole life studying the greatest actors and actresses in the world. It’s all I want to be. So I understand facial expressions. I have whiled away many hours in front of the mirror perfecting the smallest quirk of a brow. If I make it to Broadway, I will die happy.

Maybe this was something I could focus on in the hours I spent here, friendless, before normality resumed. I could use these people and their expressions as part of my studies. Watching and learning, impassive, neutral.

But then I turned back and I saw him.

I know that my lips parted like Coco’s, just less pink and less frosted, as he slunk over to Mrs Pearce’s desk. Thick dark hair, olive skin, face all angular, body tall and sinewy. This had to be the elusive Ezra Montgomery.

‘Sorry, I’m late,’ he half mumbled.

‘That’s fine, Ezra.’ Mrs Pearce smiled, all kind eyes. ‘There’s a seat at the back.’

She pointed to the only seat left in the room. The seat next to me.

I shut my mouth. I could feel myself start to blush for no reason other than the fact he was getting closer. Tall loping strides, nonchalant half-closed eyes, hand raking back messy hair. He took his time, walking down the aisle between the tables.

Coco was smiling. It was the softest I’d seen her since I’d arrived. She half stood up from her chair and called, ‘Ezra, over here! We can squeeze up.’

He took in the lack of spare seats by Coco and his brow creased, like he was confused. That was enough for me to like him immediately.

‘Over there’s fine,’ he said, pointing at the spare chair beside me, half smiling. ‘Thanks.’

It was possible Coco blushed.

Freddie bounded out of his seat to give Ezra a natty little handshake. Rollo stretched across to follow suit – but their hands didn’t touch because Mrs Pearce called out, ‘Sit down, everyone!’

And then Ezra was chucking his black bag to the floor and kicking the spare chair out with his foot to slide effortlessly down in the seat next to me.

Coco seemed unable to tear her eyes away.

But, to be honest, so was I.

He was so close I could smell him. All shower fresh and fabric softener. Lashes like blackbird wings.

I saw a muscle in Rollo’s jaw tense.

I sat rigid. Cheeks hot. Never in my life had I been so overwhelmingly aware of the presence of another human.

I tried to concentrate on my notebook, absently doodling round where I’d written Chelsea breeds winners, but my eyes kept darting to the side. His top button was undone, his tie in his pocket. He wore a ribbed white T-shirt underneath his shirt. His black trousers were jeans. His black shoes were Nikes. His watch was cracked. I couldn’t see his face again without tucking my hair behind my ears (which I did), but all my movements felt wooden and rehearsed. Perhaps I didn’t have what it took to be an actress after all. I cast furtive glances across at the sharp contours of his cheeks, the line of his nose, the sullen dip of the corners of his mouth.

The room gradually settled back to normal.

Emmeline turned right round in her seat. ‘Hello, darling Ezra,’ she said, putting her hand gently on his. When she smiled, her whole face lit up with unexpected kindness.

I watched Ezra’s mouth quirk up just slightly on one corner and his eyes spark. He put his other hand briefly over hers. ‘Alright, Em,’ he said. Emmeline turned back round, hair sloshing like paint down her back.

Coco was mouthing his name, trying to catch his attention. Ezra lifted a finger in a sort of wave. I watched him look around the room, his knee jiggling under the table like he was wired, excited, maybe nervous. He pushed his hair back from his face. Then, as Mrs Pearce was making us take notes about timetable changes and all I could hear was the gentle tap of twenty iPads, he turned to me and said, ‘Can I borrow some paper?’

Caught staring at him, my flustered cheeks still prickling with heat, I found myself saying, ‘What? Oh. Yes, sorry,’ and ripping off a sheet of notepaper so quickly it tore diagonally across the top. ‘Don’t have that one,’ I mumbled, laying it on the desk next to me. It fluttered to the floor as I tore off another sheet.

He looked amused as I handed him the new piece and scrabbled to get the one that had escaped.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

I nodded, blowing my fringe out of my eyes, unsure how I’d made something so simple into such a trial.

‘Any chance you’ve got a pen?’ he added ruefully.

And I couldn’t help but laugh, at his expression and the fact the ordeal was not yet over. I had one spare biro – I don’t know where they all go; I think my mum takes them – and it was shameful. The end was chewed into jagged points and there was barely any ink left. Reluctantly I passed it over. ‘Only this one,’ I said, cringing as he took it.

‘Thanks,’ he said, then looked at it properly and laughed. ‘That’s a hell of a pen.’

I did a sort of apologetic shrug, and that was the end of our interaction. He turned away to scrawl down everything that was on the board while I replayed the incident over and over in my mind. My senses still tingled with awareness, at the smell of him, the closeness of his arm as he wrote, the two tiny moles on his cheek.

Then the bell went.

Everyone jumped out their seats. Scooping up her bag, Coco shot over to hug Ezra tight. Her face pressed close to his neck, she whispered, ‘Hey, Ez,’ as her presence filled the corner of the room with a rich, sweet-smelling cloud of coconut suntan lotion and Chanel.

Ezra put his hand lightly on her back. But where her eyes were shut tight, he kept his open, staring straight ahead. Then suddenly Rollo was there, splitting the hug apart with a quick punch on Ezra’s arm, and next Freddie was laughing as Ezra caught him in a playful headlock while Verity leaned over the desk to deliver the kind of kiss on each cheek that was predominantly about keeping her make-up intact. If the girl had an emotion in her body, it wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

The whole thing lasted hardly more than five seconds. And then they were gone, Ezra strolling out of the door with my half-chewed biro, me waiting, hopeful, for a backward glance. But he didn’t look back.

CHAPTER THREE

The day didn’t get better. I got lost in the maze that led from the original Gothic quarters of the school to a gleaming new glass extension, where the roof had a triangular-panelled dome like a giant observatory, the view reaching up to the wide blue sky and the gentle fluttering of plane-tree leaves, teasing in their freedom. But no matter the opulence, I would have swapped it in a second to be back at my old school, sitting in my old Drama class, the back doors open on to the wilderness pond, or sketching outside in the meadow for Art. The corridors here smelt box-fresh, the poured concrete floors glistened, giant art installations loomed down from the stark white walls like a fancy museum. In the corner was a coffee bar with low tables and lounge chairs, but the kiosk was bigger and more impressive than the whole of the Mulberry Island café. This part of the school was three storeys high, designed with a corridor running round the edge of the atrium, and open so anyone up above had a clear view down.

‘Late, Ms Whittaker!’

I heard a familiar voice echo round the dome and looked up to see Mr Watts peering over the uppermost balcony.

‘Sorry, Sir,’ I called, rushing to find the stairs. Where they were, I had no idea. So when I finally made it to the classroom, panicked and breathless, Mr Watts made a point of glancing

at the wall clock. As punishment for disrupting his class, he made me stand behind my white table and recite my thirteen times table backwards, which of course I couldn’t do. Could anyone? My cheeks flamed like popping candy, my voice catching with nerves. Then when my humiliation was too much to bear and Mr Watts had proved his point, a skinny guy with thick brown quiffed hair and square glasses recited it number-perfect. The diagrams in my textbook blurred as I fought the press of hot, embarrassed tears.

*

Lunch was another minefield. No snaking queue and grumpy dinner ladies dishing out wet green beans and undefinable meat, no warm chocolate sponge pudding, no scuffed plastic water jugs and fake wood tables. Lunch here was like the food court at Wholefoods. There were various stations round the edge of the room and huge circular tables in the middle, all the different colours of the rainbow. In one corner there was a guy sizzling steak for burritos next to a Japanese woman rolling sushi. There was a shopping cart stacked up with baguettes, a sourdough pizza oven, a salad bar, and even a stall of fresh chopped fruit where you could make your own smoothies. I felt like Charlie walking into Willie Wonka’s chocolate factory all wide-eyed in awe, while everyone else took it for granted, picking at their baguettes and texting as their pizzas cooked. It was hard to believe this would ever feel like the norm.

As I walked around the various food stands, I looked for a list of prices, not quite sure what I could afford. I had hardly any cash on me. I hadn’t dared ask my mum because our money had been poured into the bogus film company and what was left had been frozen by the police. I paused by the baguette stand to ask the lady serving which was the cheapest.

She frowned. ‘You don’t have to pay, dear. You just swipe your card here.’ And she held out a black card reader.

‘It’s free?’

‘Well, not free,’ she scoffed. ‘It goes on your parents’ bill. But that’s for them to worry about, isn’t it?’

People were piling their plates high. My unknown grandparents were paying my school fees. The thought of them poring over the itemised school bill, raising their brows at my expensive sushi lunch, was more than I could handle. So I went for the most basic cheese and tomato sandwich I could find and sat at the empty half of a giant blue table. The three girls on the other side didn’t even look up from where they were huddled around their phones.

Instinct made me reach into my pocket for mine, for something to do. But I only found the replacement pager, given to me by Mum when she’d confiscated my phone after finding me in my room, deep in a wormhole of messaging, my unblinking eyes welling up. She made me delete all my accounts after one glance at the screen. A girl in my year called Becky Brown, who I sat next to in History and whose dad owned the Mulberry Island pub, had written If ur dad doesnt die in jail, my dad says hes gonna kill him.

Naively, I’d tried to defend him. But when I did, more people joined in to side with Becky. I couldn’t believe that people who I had known all my life could turn on us so quickly. They said that my dad had stabbed their parents in the back and now we were running away, rich cowards who’d lost nothing.

I felt sick. These had been my friends. Friends, with families my dad had helped in the past. He’d organised the river raft race to raise money for the leaking pub roof. He’d set up the Theatre Club when we’d all moaned about having nothing to do. There were always people sobbing on our boat about various issues, my dad listening with a Scotch and some words of wisdom. Yet suddenly there was no benefit of the doubt, no belief that he would sort this, that together we could make this situation better.

I’d screenshot the messages and sent them to Jess, who said it was just emotions running high. People were understandably upset. I knew that, but it didn’t take away the sting. I just had to sit tight and wait for justice to win out, she said. But it was so hard. I’d nodded, watery-eyed at the screen, her words like a lifeline back to normality. When Mum looked at me wiping at my eyes with my cuffs, she walked out of the room with my phone. So now I just have my dad’s old pager, from when he joined the lifeboats, to use for emergencies.

After wolfing down my sandwich, I wandered the grounds, pretending to get my bearings when really it was for something to do other than sit alone.

I walked the periphery, past a glass-walled indoor swimming pool and steaming outdoor one. I passed six tennis courts: two hard court, two clay, two grass, as if this was an international training ground rather than just school PE facilities.

The Mulberry Island tennis court was cracked diagonally from one side to the other like an earthquake had hit. The ball got wedged in it so often that any semblance of a game was laughable.

At Chelsea High the tennis courts ran half the length of the tree-lined back wall. Next to them were cricket nets and a gleaming pavilion. There was a path through the trees into a walled garden, partitioned with box hedges like a low maze and full of intricate topiary. Around the edge were benches where people sat soaking up the sun. I walked through to a large green space marked with an athletics track. To the left was a small grandstand and an L-shape of wooden buildings.

I quite like athletics. I’m good at running. I wondered what my version of good would be in comparison to here.

The sun was scorchingly bright and the air smelt so strongly of fresh-cut grass and a hint of river (I presumed the Thames ran along the back of the playing field) that I had to stop for a second and shut my eyes. The smell was so much a comforting reminder of home, the watery tang like an old friend or a warm blanket of safety.

Then suddenly all I could hear was the frantic sound of a whistle. I opened my eyes to see a black pony cantering straight at me.

It was so fast, bearing down, closer and closer, yet I was frozen to the spot. My hands lifted to cover my face. The hooves thundered. The whistle kept blowing.

I think I screamed out.

But no impact came.

I moved my hands to find myself face to face with the panting, frothing mouth of the pony. Its eyes were as black as its hair.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Coco yanked her helmet off, white hair flowing. ‘Are you blind? I could have killed you. You could have killed us. Who takes a stroll on a polo field?’

‘Sorry,’ I stammered, the hot breath of the pony in my face. ‘I didn’t realise.’

‘There are eight ponies on this field. How could you not realise?’ Coco gestured to all the other ponies on the track. It did seem crazy that I hadn’t seen them. But I wasn’t looking. Who expected ponies at a school?

Verity appeared on a spotty grey and white one, hair plaited, skin-tight white jodhpurs and a tiny pale pink polo shirt with a polo stick lying across her saddle. ‘Do you know how much Coco’s pony cost?’ she asked.

I shook my head.

Verity leaned forward. ‘Probably about as much as your grubby little daddy stole,’ she said, voice as smooth as silk.

I felt like she’d whacked me with her stick.

Emmeline trotted over on a white pony with eyes like a Disney princess. ‘Give her a break, Vee. She’s new.’

Coco was still glowering at me. ‘She’s an idiot,’ she said, and with one quick dismissive flick of the reins she was gone, black pony cantering back into play. Verity followed with a smirk.

The sun was so hot. The sweat trickled down my back as I stalked off the pitch. Adrenaline made my hands shake. Too late, a thousand witty clever comebacks shot through my head. If Jess had been here, she would have taken Coco down. They would have squared off and battled it out. Jess had never been afraid of anyone. It was only now that I saw how much I had depended on her. How lost I was on my own.

‘Are you crying?’ a voice said, more out of interest than sympathy.

I turned to see the times-table guy from Maths. Tall and skinny with his quiff and horn-rims. Hands in the pockets of his grey trousers, tie loose and top button undone, striped grey and blue braces, he came to stand next to me on the edge of the polo field.

‘What?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘No, I’m not crying.’

‘Good. I’m really terrible with tears. Though to be fair, I’d probably be crying right now if I was you.’ He paused. ‘Don’t you hate people who say: though to be fair?’

I frowned, caught off guard by the conversation segue. It paused my desire to get as far away from the pitch as possible. ‘Now you come to mention it, yeah, maybe,’ I said, immediately liking the way his mind worked. This was the kind of nothing that we might have discussed staring up at the sun in the Mulberry Island meadow.