For Jake
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
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17
18
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39
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Also by Lisa Williamson
Copyright
Everyone in Rushton knows the Campbell-Richardson sisters.
Grace is the oldest and destined for a first from Cambridge. Signature scent: grapefruit shampoo, second-hand books and perfection.
Audrey is the youngest and destined for the Olympics. Signature scent: chlorine, Lucozade Sport and discipline.
Then there’s me, Mia. I’m in the middle. I have no idea what my destiny is. Signature scent: coconut oil, Haribo and TROUBLE.
1
‘I feel like getting wasted tonight,’ I announce.
It’s a Friday evening in early June. Me and my three best friends – Stella Fielding, Mikey Twist and Kimmie Chu – are packed into Stella’s messy bedroom, the air thick with perfume and hairspray.
Mikey rolls his eyes at the others. ‘No offence, Mia,’ he says, ‘but when do you not feel like getting wasted?’
He makes a valid point. My fondness for getting drunk is one of my trademarks.
‘Yeah, but tonight I feel like getting especially wasted,’ I say, sloshing at least three fingers’ worth of vodka into a plastic beaker before topping it up with a splash of Diet Coke. I stir it with my straw, watching as the liquid turns the colour of dirty paint water.
‘Why? What’s the occasion?’ Kimmie asks, blowing on her newly painted fingernails.
‘Does there have to be one?’
‘I suppose not.’
The truth is, I’ve had a crappy week. The evidence so far:
On Monday, I dropped my iPhone on the patio when I was out on the roof having a late-night cigarette, and now the screen is all cracked and Mum and Dad are refusing to replace it again.
On Wednesday, the English essay I worked really hard on for once came back with a big fat ‘D’ on it and the words ‘a poor effort’ scrawled on the top in red pen.
On Thursday, I was hauled into Mr Joshi, the head of sixth form’s, office for ‘flouting’ the sixth-form dress code for the third time this term. Apparently my ripped jeans were ‘inappropriate for an academic environment’. I argued back for a bit, telling him that whether you could see my kneecaps or not had no reflection on my ability to discuss the symbolism in A Streetcar Named Desire, but he was having none of it, confiscating my hooped earrings while he was at it for good measure.
The real nail in the coffin though, the cherry on top of the big fat cake, happened earlier today. I was in the sixth-form social area scrolling through Instagram when a selfie of my ex-boyfriend Jordan, kissing some blonde girl I’ve never seen before, popped up on my feed. Straightaway I got that horrible sick feeling in my stomach, the sort that makes your insides slosh about like unset jelly.
I down my drink and pour another.
‘Someone’s phone,’ Stella says, turning down the iPod speakers.
It’s mine. I pluck it off the bed and peer at the shattered screen. ‘MUM’ flashes back at me. I consider not answering, but I know she’ll only go and leave me a really long voicemail message if I don’t.
‘I’ll be back,’ I say, putting down my beaker and heading out onto the landing, shutting Stella’s bedroom door behind me.
I swipe my finger across the screen.
‘Hey, Mum, what’s up?’ I ask, dangling my spare arm over the banister.
‘Hi, sweetheart, change of plan, I’m going to need you at home tomorrow,’ Mum says.
‘But I’ve got plans with Stella.’
‘You see Stella every day at school.’
‘That’s not the same. This is chill time,’ I say, my voice venturing dangerously close into whining territory, something I know Mum hates.
‘Well, I’m sorry, Mia,’ she says, ‘but you’re going to have to chill another day.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘Grace is coming home.’
What? But Grace isn’t due back for another six weeks. Since last September my older sister has been in Greece volunteering on an archaeological dig. Which I just don’t get. I mean, Greece is nice for a holiday and everything, but why would you willingly spend your entire gap year digging for bits of broken pottery when you could be somewhere cool and exotic like Thailand, sunbathing and tubing and going to full-moon parties? But then most of what Grace does bewilders me. Grace and I may have the same blood and DNA and stuff, but that’s kind of it; we are chalk and cheese to the extreme.
‘When?’ I ask, swapping my phone to the other ear, as if that’s going to make a difference to the news Mum is delivering.
‘Tomorrow,’ she answers.
‘But how come?’
‘She just said that she’d done all she wanted to do, and it felt like time to come home. Between you and me, I think she might be feeling a bit homesick.’
I scrunch up my face. Who suddenly gets homesick after nearly nine whole months away?
‘Anyway,’ Mum continues, ‘they’re due to arrive home about one o’clock tomorrow, so I’ll pick you up from Stella’s in the morning after I’ve got Audrey from training.’
‘Hang on a second, who’s “they”?’
‘Grace and Sam.’
‘Sam? As in Grace’s lame-arse boyfriend?’
‘Mia …’ Mum says in a warning voice.
Even though she’s yet to meet him face-to-face, Mum won’t hear a word said against Grace’s new boyfriend. Apparently he and Grace bonded on their dig because he’s also going to Cambridge this autumn, to study medicine. Mum almost wet herself when she heard that. I keep hearing her refer to Sam as Grace’s ‘doctor boyfriend’ on the phone. Audrey’s chatted to him on Skype and reckons he’s really nice, which everyone knows is just the polite code word for ‘lame’. If anyone ever called me nice I’d probably chuck myself off the nearest bridge.
‘Anyway,’ Mum says again, ‘we should be with you around ten thirty tomorrow.’
‘Ten thirty?’ I splutter. ‘As in ten thirty a.m.?’
‘Of course. It’s not going to be in the evening, is it?’
‘But why so early? You know Saturday is my only chance for a lie-in.’
‘I’d hardly call ten thirty early. Besides, we’ve got a lot to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, you need to sort Grace’s room out for a start. It’s a complete tip.’
‘It’s not my fault she gave us zero notice she was coming back so soon,’ I huff.
But Mum ignores this. Just like she ignores anything negative I ever say about Grace. Because Grace is perfect, and I am not.
‘And then I need you and Audrey to get started on lunch while I do a cake delivery,’ Mum adds.
‘Can’t Dad do the delivery?’ I ask, picking at a loose thread on the pyjama shorts I’d put on to wear while I was getting ready.
‘No,’ Mum says. ‘He’s been on nights all week and he does need a proper lie-in. When I sp
oke to him earlier he was so shattered he could hardly string a sentence together.’
‘It’s not fair,’ I say.
Mum tuts. ‘Oh, come on, Mia, I’m only asking you to tidy up a bit and maybe chop some salad for lunch, not go down a bloody coal mine.’
‘Fine,’ I mutter. ‘Look, is that all you wanted? I kind of need to start getting ready. The party starts at seven and I haven’t even had a shower yet.’
‘Where is this party again?’
‘Andrew Stark’s house, remember? And before you ask, yes, of course his parents are going to be there.’
The second part is a lie. Obviously. Not that I’m going to let Mum know that.
‘Stella’s mum is going to pick us up at midnight,’ I add.
Another lie. Stella’s mum, a flight attendant for Virgin Atlantic, is currently en route to Shanghai, leaving Stella’s older brother Stu in charge. Stu doesn’t care what we do, providing we don’t burn the place down and keep our hands off his beer stash.
‘Can I go now?’ I ask.
‘Fine, fine, I’ll leave you to it,’ Mum says, sighing.
There’s a pause. I know what’s coming.
‘Now have fun tonight, Mia.’
I wait for the inevitable ‘but’. She doesn’t let me down.
‘But just try not to go too crazy.’
‘Mum,’ I groan. ‘Please don’t do this.’
‘It needs to be said,’ she says, talking over me. ‘I don’t want a repeat of New Year’s Eve.’
‘You promised not to keep banging on about that,’ I said, closing my eyes, my hand curling round the banister, fingernails digging into the soft wood.
‘I’m not “banging on”,’ Mum says. ‘I’m just reminding you of what happens when you get carried away.’
‘Look, I’ve really got to go now, Mum. Stella needs me. I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?’
She sighs again. ‘OK. Ten thirty a.m. Make sure you’re ready, I don’t want to be hanging around waiting for you.’
‘OK, OK.’
Back in the bedroom, Stella is sitting at her dressing table, frowning at her reflection.
‘What’s up?’ I ask, tossing my phone on the bed.
‘Hair dramas,’ Mikey says.
‘I can’t believe I didn’t notice how disgusting my split ends were until now,’ Stella moans, holding her hair out in front of her as far as it will stretch.
‘I could have told you that,’ I say.
‘I’m serious!’ she cries. ‘I can barely look at them without wanting to throw up in my mouth.’
‘They’re not that bad,’ Kimmie offers, her eyes round and hopeful. Of the four of us, she’s the closest we have to a peacekeeper.
‘Yes they are,’ Stella snaps. ‘I should have gone to the hairdressers, I knew it.’
‘Well, you didn’t,’ I say, flopping onto the bed next to Mikey. ‘So quit whining.’
Stella turns round in her chair to face us. ‘Trim them for me, Mia? Please?’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you’re good at hair.’
This is true. Sixteen years of taming my own hair – a big fat curly Afro – has forced me to develop some pretty advanced hairdressing skills. Stella and Kimmie are always begging me for ‘fishtail plaits’, or ‘beachy waves’, like I’m their on-demand personal hair stylist.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Have you got any scissors?’
A prolonged search produces a pair of craft scissors from an ancient pencil case, the inside blackened with ink and pencil shavings. I run the blade against my finger. I secretly long for blood, but they’re as blunt as can be.
‘These will barely cut through a piece of paper,’ I say.
‘I don’t care,’ Stella replies. ‘At least try.’
‘Well, on your head be it.’
‘Literally!’ Mikey chimes in, high-fiving Kimmie.
‘You guys are so lame,’ I mutter, brushing Stella’s hair so it falls in a single straight sheet down her back. ‘So how much do you want taking off?’ I ask, snipping in mid-air.
‘Just the very ends,’ Stella says. ‘I don’t want to lose the length. A couple of centimetres at the very most.’
Thanks to the fine texture, the scissors cut through Stella’s hair more easily than I’d anticipated.
‘Done,’ I say, taking a step backwards.
Stella inspects my work. ‘Maybe a tiny bit more?’ she says. ‘The ends are still kind of raggedy-looking.’
‘Fine,’ I say, rolling my eyes at the others as I resume cutting. I work faster this time, taking big swishy slices out of her hair.
I’m beginning to quite enjoy myself when Stella lets out a scream.
‘What the actual fuck, Mia!’ she shrieks as she falls to her knees to retrieve the chunk of hair I’ve just hacked off. It’s five centimetres long at the most but she’s wailing like I’ve just scalped her or something.
‘You were the one who bugged me to cut it,’ I say, putting the scissors back down on the dressing table. ‘I told you I didn’t want to do it.’
In the mirror, I can see Mikey and Kimmie gaping at Stella, wearing a mixture of horror and delight on their faces. Meanwhile Stella continues to kneel on the carpet and scream over the piece of hair like it’s a dead baby.
Calmly, I sit down on the chair she’s just vacated.
‘Jeez, relax, Stells. It’s only hair.’
But that just makes her scream even more.
I know for a fact I should feel guilty, but the truth is, I don’t feel anything at all.
2
You have got to be kidding. I swear I only set my alarm about three minutes ago. How the hell can it be 10 a.m. already?
I open my eyes a crack, praying to see darkness, despite the fact the birds were already singing when the four of us stumbled off the night bus. Instead, I’m greeted with full-on blinding sunshine blasting through Stella’s white organza curtains and threatening to burn my poor hungover retinas to dust. I squeeze my eyes shut again and pull the duvet over my head.
The alarm is getting louder. Where the hell is my phone? Beside me, Stella doesn’t even stir. She sleeps like a corpse, flat on her back and eerily still, her mouth slack and shimmering with drool. The piece of hair I cut yesterday sticks out from her skull at a right angle. She finally stopped going on about it last night, around the time we located the exotic booze stash at Andrew’s party.
Over the other side of the room, Mikey and Kimmie are totally out of it on the inflatable mattress; Mikey is star-fished on his front, the soles of his skinny pink feet poking out from under the duvet, Kimmie nestled at his side, curled up in foetal position.
I hang over the edge of the bed, figuring I must have plugged my phone in to charge when we got in, my hand almost upsetting a plastic washing-up bowl on the floor. I peer in. A couple of centimetres of congealed vomit clings to the bottom. The stench of regurgitated banana tequila hits my nostrils at the exact same time the flashback of sitting on the edge on the bed, head between my knees, whooshes before my eyes. Bile gushes up into my throat and before I know it I’m puking all over again. A curl falls loose from my ponytail and dangles in the vomit. I pluck a tissue from the box on Stella’s bedside table and attempt to wipe my hair and chin clean. With the other hand, I locate my phone in the tangle of wires under Stella’s bed and manage to turn off the alarm. I expect the silence to make me feel better but it does the opposite, drawing all my attention to the ringing in my ears instead. I flop back on the bed, my head hitting the pillow like a ton of bricks.
This is all Grace’s fault. If it wasn’t for her stupid welcome-home lunch, I could sleep in until one or two, then spend the rest of the afternoon lying in Stella’s massive bed watching Netflix and guzzling full-fat Coke and Domino’s pizza, and by 4 p.m. I’d be more or less back to normal. As it is, I’m destined to feel crap until tomorrow morning at the very earliest.
It’s worth it, though; last night was a right laugh. Once we got bored of Andr
ew’s, I suggested we get the bus into town, sparking a mass exodus from the party. As I headed up the group on our way to the bus stop, I couldn’t help but picture that experiment Mr Crowley did in Year 7 science, the one where he held a magnet above a pile of iron filings and they all leaped up in the air to cling on. It’s always been like this. When I was younger Mum used to call me the ‘Pied Piper’ because wherever I went, other kids would follow, no questions asked.
When we got into town, we almost didn’t get into the Cuckoo Club because the bouncer didn’t believe Kimmie was over eighteen. Poor Kimmie, she’s so dinky that when we went to Pizza Express for Mikey’s birthday last year, the waitress gave her the kids’ menu and a packet of crayons (we nearly died laughing). Anyway, I had to flirt like mad to get the bouncer to let us in, fluttering my false eyelashes for all they were worth until he groaned and unclipped the tatty velvet rope.
Once we were inside, loads of boys came up to me. I didn’t really fancy any of them, but who cares, especially when they’re buying the drinks and telling you how gorgeous you are.
The next thing I know, my alarm is going off again, this time right next to my head. Only it isn’t my alarm, it’s a call. I must have drifted back off to sleep. I jab at the screen with my index finger.
‘Hello?’ My voice sounds like gravel.
Stella rolls away from me, yanking the pillow from under my head and pulling it over her face.
‘It’s me. We’re outside,’ a female voice crackles down the line.
It’s Audrey. I check the time. 10.30 a.m. bang-on.
‘Coming,’ I say, struggling to sit up, my head still pounding. I can hear Mum tutting away in the background, bitching about how much we have to do before Grace arrives.
Grace, Grace, Grace.
Groaning, I hang up and start the search for my clothes.
‘I thought I asked you to get rid of those shorts,’ Mum says as I climb in the back seat of the car five minutes later.
Audrey is in the passenger seat directly in front of me, eating a protein bar, a damp semicircle on the back of her T-shirt from her wet hair.
‘Why, what’s wrong with them?’ I ask, even though Mum’s issue with my shorts is well established.