secret grudge.’ Eugenie developed her conspiracy theory. ‘Who’s left over from last term and the whole Lily and Paige thing? Who
besides Harry Embsay and that lot might still have it in for you, Alyssa?’
‘No one,’ Please God, no one. The right people were in jail, Saint Sam had glossed over the whole thing and St Jude’s was sailing on into a future perched at the very top of
the independent-school league tables. Students would get the usual brilliant baccalaureate results and go on to Oxbridge, fees would go up again, the school would continue its tradition of taking
nothing but the best.
‘Who’s got it in for Alyssa?’ Zara burst into the room, squeezed on to the spare bed and sat cross legged next to Charlie. ‘Come on – what am I missing? Tell,
tell!’
‘Whoever thinks spooking her out by putting a dead bird on her windowsill is a fun idea,’ Eugenie replied. ‘It turns out she has a phobia.’
‘It’s not a phobia,’ I protested. This whole thing was getting out of hand. ‘Look, it’s nothing. I’ll let the bursar know about the broken window. End
of.’
But Zara refused to let it drop and went off on a new tack. ‘Maybe it wasn’t Alyssa who the jokester was targeting. Maybe it was Galina.’
‘And he thinks this scares me?’ Galina’s voice with loaded with scorn but I knew now that this was a cover for the fear she’d shared with me. ‘A bird is dead.
It’s nothing.’
‘Yeah but it could be a metaphor for something, or a kind of warning.’ Eugenie had performed in too many melodramatic operas. Her mind was full of gothic events. ‘Dead bird
sings no more. It represents the fall of something beautiful, the ending of a brief life. Soaring in the sky one moment then dead and cold the next.’
‘Thanks for that,’ I told her, trying not to shiver and glancing at Galina who by now wasn’t smiling.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ Charlie was the first out of the room. ‘I have to work with my fitness trainer for a half hour before breakfast, and, Eugenie, you have to practise
your scales or whatever it is opera singers do.’
I haven’t forgotten that it’s Tuesday.
As soon as the others left and Galina had begun another angry conversation with her dad about the pervert bodyguards he’d employed, I went off to take a shower. I washed my hair and rubbed
in Moroccan oil, shaved and exfoliated, moisturised and tweezered. Then I went back to my room and set out the clothes I would wear later in the day.
Jack is on a plane out of Denver and I’m getting ready for our reunion at Ainslee Westgate. Focus on that, Alyssa.
First though, I put on my uniform – white shirt (top button undone), red tartan skirt and matching tie. I customized the tie by making the knot big and the ends short then dropped by Molly
Wilson’s office on my way to breakfast.
I’m glad to report that the new bursar’s room had been totally refurbed. Gone was D’Arblay’s glass cabinet with its Second World War books and trophies – the
medals, the small silver box containing his macabre collection of teeth taken from victims of the Holocaust. The big leather-topped desk was gone too and the walls had been repainted in fresh,
cooking-apple green. There were white flowers on the new glass-and-steel desk and Molly herself sat behind it wearing a welcoming smile.
‘Alyssa, isn’t it?’ she asked.
I nodded. Impressive – the woman had done her homework, studying students’ photographs attached to our files and learning names off by heart.
‘Have a seat. How can I help?’
‘Our window’s broken,’ I replied, sitting on the edge of the seat, not planning to stay. ‘Room Twenty-seven.’
Molly made a note. ‘Room Twenty-seven – yes. In fact, Alyssa, I’ve been reading your file and wondering if you might want to change rooms, considering what happened last term.
Make a fresh start, maybe?’
‘Thanks, but it’s OK.’
‘You’re not reminded too much of Lily and
besides Harry Embsay and that lot might still have it in for you, Alyssa?’
‘No one,’ Please God, no one. The right people were in jail, Saint Sam had glossed over the whole thing and St Jude’s was sailing on into a future perched at the very top of
the independent-school league tables. Students would get the usual brilliant baccalaureate results and go on to Oxbridge, fees would go up again, the school would continue its tradition of taking
nothing but the best.
‘Who’s got it in for Alyssa?’ Zara burst into the room, squeezed on to the spare bed and sat cross legged next to Charlie. ‘Come on – what am I missing? Tell,
tell!’
‘Whoever thinks spooking her out by putting a dead bird on her windowsill is a fun idea,’ Eugenie replied. ‘It turns out she has a phobia.’
‘It’s not a phobia,’ I protested. This whole thing was getting out of hand. ‘Look, it’s nothing. I’ll let the bursar know about the broken window. End
of.’
But Zara refused to let it drop and went off on a new tack. ‘Maybe it wasn’t Alyssa who the jokester was targeting. Maybe it was Galina.’
‘And he thinks this scares me?’ Galina’s voice with loaded with scorn but I knew now that this was a cover for the fear she’d shared with me. ‘A bird is dead.
It’s nothing.’
‘Yeah but it could be a metaphor for something, or a kind of warning.’ Eugenie had performed in too many melodramatic operas. Her mind was full of gothic events. ‘Dead bird
sings no more. It represents the fall of something beautiful, the ending of a brief life. Soaring in the sky one moment then dead and cold the next.’
‘Thanks for that,’ I told her, trying not to shiver and glancing at Galina who by now wasn’t smiling.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ Charlie was the first out of the room. ‘I have to work with my fitness trainer for a half hour before breakfast, and, Eugenie, you have to practise
your scales or whatever it is opera singers do.’
I haven’t forgotten that it’s Tuesday.
As soon as the others left and Galina had begun another angry conversation with her dad about the pervert bodyguards he’d employed, I went off to take a shower. I washed my hair and rubbed
in Moroccan oil, shaved and exfoliated, moisturised and tweezered. Then I went back to my room and set out the clothes I would wear later in the day.
Jack is on a plane out of Denver and I’m getting ready for our reunion at Ainslee Westgate. Focus on that, Alyssa.
First though, I put on my uniform – white shirt (top button undone), red tartan skirt and matching tie. I customized the tie by making the knot big and the ends short then dropped by Molly
Wilson’s office on my way to breakfast.
I’m glad to report that the new bursar’s room had been totally refurbed. Gone was D’Arblay’s glass cabinet with its Second World War books and trophies – the
medals, the small silver box containing his macabre collection of teeth taken from victims of the Holocaust. The big leather-topped desk was gone too and the walls had been repainted in fresh,
cooking-apple green. There were white flowers on the new glass-and-steel desk and Molly herself sat behind it wearing a welcoming smile.
‘Alyssa, isn’t it?’ she asked.
I nodded. Impressive – the woman had done her homework, studying students’ photographs attached to our files and learning names off by heart.
‘Have a seat. How can I help?’
‘Our window’s broken,’ I replied, sitting on the edge of the seat, not planning to stay. ‘Room Twenty-seven.’
Molly made a note. ‘Room Twenty-seven – yes. In fact, Alyssa, I’ve been reading your file and wondering if you might want to change rooms, considering what happened last term.
Make a fresh start, maybe?’
‘Thanks, but it’s OK.’
‘You’re not reminded too much of Lily and
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