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  Meribel scraped a lump of thick buttercream off a slice of chocolate cake with a teaspoon and moulded it in to a ball between her thumb and forefinger. “Did I tell you Paige walked off with my Miracle Kingdom lip liner in the last games lesson of term?”

  “Yes, many times,” I said.

  “She pretended she had one just like it,” said Meribel. “Nuh. It’s a limited edition and you can’t even buy it in this country.”

  “Go ahead, Bel. Fire,” I said. “She deserves it.”

  “She’ll lob it back,” said Lo, eying the buttercream missile. “Let’s see what the new housemistress is like before you get into a food fight.”

  “Chill,” I said to Lo. It wasn’t that she was gutless. Just more cautious than Meribel and me.

  Meribel placed the buttercream ball in the teaspoon, lined up her shot and flicked it across the room. It hit Paige’s arm with a speed and accuracy she never displayed in games lessons.

  Paige made a squealing sound. Ms Calding didn’t notice. We saw Paige take a bit of non-bake brownie and squish it into ammunition. If the greasy piece of cake had landed anywhere other than Meribel’s hair, that would have been that, but her hair was sacred.

  Meribel scraped a bigger lump of buttercream and hurled it towards Paige, who dodged. It landed on the velvet upholstery, and there were shocked murmurs from some of the first-formers.

  Ms Calding strode across to the sofa, and then spun in our direction. “Who threw that?”

  The chatter dimmed and Meribel kept quiet.

  Ms Calding asked again in a louder voice, leaving half a pause between each word. She was going about this the wrong way, picking a fight in front of the whole house. Besides, it was an unwritten law of Pankhurst: no one ever snitched.

  “Nobody saw,” said Clemmie and sipped her tea, keeping her eyes on Calding like a challenge, to see what she would do.

  Calding stood up straighter. “If it happens again, there will be consequences.” She walked towards the mantelpiece, which, being in the centre of the room, was the natural place to deliver the predictable news that things were going to change with her at the helm. She turned her head slowly as she spoke, first one way and then the other. There was something not quite Mount Norton about her attitude, as if she didn’t believe we’d ever turn out to be the Creative and Original Thinkers of Tomorrow we were regularly promised that we would become in assemblies.

  “D’you think her head swivels all the way round?” I muttered, barely moving my lips.

  Lo gave a snort and Calding’s eyes were on her immediately.

  “I am combining my duties as housemistress with covering some science classes, so you may see me around the school,” she said, “but my main priority is getting this boarding house back on track, and I’m going to need your help with that.”

  The younger girls smiled politely. The rest of us waited.

  “I shall be pinning up the rules in the hallway, so you can become fully acquainted with them.” She waved the pile of papers that she was holding. How many sheets were there?

  I leaned back against my chair and absent-mindedly ran my finger along my nose. From across the room, Clemmie caught my eye and a slight smile appeared. I sat up straight again. I was Kate Jordan-Ferreira. I was House Prefect, not her. She had more Instagram followers than anyone else in the school because she put a lot of work into her pouty photos and pathetic words of inspo, but her online fans didn’t know what she was like in real life.

  Calding waited until there was absolute silence before she began speaking again, this time about some maintenance issues with the building that hadn’t finished during the summer. I zoned out as I contemplated something far more critical: as House Prefect, it was up to me to plan a decent illegal party for a select group from all seven boarding houses. Pankhurst usually threw the best ones, so I had a reputation to keep up. Not only this, by general agreement the boarding houses rotated the order in which the parties were held, and this year it was Pankhurst’s turn to kick off the party season.

  When I was panicking in Italy about this, Lo had reminded me about the unexpectedly successful party I’d had in the third form, only a couple of terms after I’d started at Mount Norton. Mucking around on the beach, we’d discovered one of the beach huts had a broken lock and it was empty. As it wasn’t far off my birthday, I suggested to Meribel and Lo that we return with fairy lights, portable speakers and snacks a couple of nights later. It was April and the weather was unseasonably warm. It turned into a party, with people hearing about it and turning up. There was midnight paddling (which became skinny dipping in people’s imaginations when they recalled it later), alcohol, and stories about things happening behind the beach huts which may or may not have been true. It gave me a certain standing in Mount Norton. I went from being the new girl to the girl who’d had the beach hut party. It had been a pivotal moment for my popularity, although I wasn’t stupid; I knew my looks helped too.

  Veronica, last year’s House Prefect, had come up with the perfect venue for the Pankhurst party: the flat roof of the beach café. We’d accessed it by climbing up a pile of crates and wheelie bins; the café was only one storey high. Veronica and her friends had positioned hundreds of tea lights in jars around the roof and had set up a cocktail bar. Our locked Instagram accounts were full of amazing photos.

  The Pankhurst party was widely considered to be the best of the year. Monro, a boy in the year above, broke a bone in his ankle jumping down from the roof, but he managed to hobble off without getting any adults involved. There was also a kiss I regretted, and then later there was the whole thing about Sasha, but I didn’t want to think about that either.

  Calding hit her stack of papers against her hand to emphasize some point she was making. This talk looked as if it might go on a while.

  Fingers crossed, I’d have the party sorted soon. During the last couple of weeks of the summer holiday I’d been in touch with my godfather, Steve, and a plan was coming together for my party. Although it was my idea, I couldn’t do it without his help. A wild friend of my father’s from university, Steve was someone who dipped in and out of my life, throwing around extravagant gestures before disappearing again. He once arrived unannounced at Elsie Gran’s house in the back of a limo to take me out for dinner. Another time, he sent a delivery of fourteen helium balloons, each with a different sparkly letter printed on them. I eventually worked out they spelled LOTS OF LUCK KATE: he’d heard I was doing the entrance exam for Mount Norton.

  A property on the clifftop had recently been listed on Airbnb, and I was still waiting to hear if he could rent it for a weekend, for my party. He didn’t need to pay for it – I had savings for that – but he insisted, saying it would make up for a few missed birthdays and Christmases. I’d chosen the date of the Mount Norton Autumn Party, a compulsory school social which always ended early, and meant everyone would be free afterwards. He’d emailed to ask for my assurance that it wouldn’t be trashed under my care, and I replied that I’d do my best. He’d found that amusing, and said he’d send on the bill for any repairs.

  I’d passed the house many times when running along the coastal path. I’d seen huge rectangles of glass arrive on a lorry one weekend morning in the spring, and afterwards I’d heard Wibbz tell Squirrel she’d had it on good authority from someone in the village that the kitchen had been made specially and was coming over from Denmark.

  The photos on the website showed bedrooms with floor-to-ceiling windows, and a large reception room with huge doors that folded back so you could walk out into the sandy, landscaped garden with pale pebbles of identical size and clumps of thick grass, surrounded by a low white fence. It was the sort of house you saw in movies set in California. It was literally perfect. Even if it rained it would be perfect – I pictured how we’d watch the storm out of the big windows and scream when the thunder broke and the lightning dazzled. My party would be jaw-dropping. I wanted to uphold Pankhurst’s reputation as the best girls’ boarding hou
se, but I also wanted people to see I was capable of something daring and brilliant. I realized now how lucky I was to be going first with my party. Nailing it would mean being able to enjoy the rest of the year knowing I’d go down in Mount Norton history for the best of reasons.

  The website showed a photo of the garden at night, soft light glowing from outdoor lamps, a bottle of wine and two glasses on the bleached-wood table. Nothing but the sound of waves crashing on the shore below this clifftop oasis, said the caption. The ultimate getaway for those requiring peace and tranquillity.

  Ha.

  I would tell Meribel and Lo as soon as it was confirmed. I couldn’t wait to see their faces. After that I’d leak the news gradually to the people on our guest list, who might not necessarily be the people we wanted to come. It was the way it worked though: Mount Norton parties relied on exclusivity to have any chance of success.

  I ate another square of lemon drizzle cake. Squirrel was a consistently good cook, unlike my grandmother. Elsie Gran had cooking frenzies with fruit and vegetables from her allotment, but then had times when cooking bored her, and it would be nothing but omelettes for days on end unless I took over. Her favourite food was Sultana Bran, and plain biscuits which she dunked into black coffee while momentarily holding her cigarette in the other hand. This summer, after coming back from Italy, I’d had a go at making almond biscotti, and she’d loved them. I’d made a triple batch before leaving for Mount Norton this morning.

  Calding had moved on to other notices. She read out a list of clubs and societies which would be running this term. Everyone was to make sure they used the recycling bins around the house. The winner of the Pankhurst Art Award had been won by Veronica Steepleton. Her name would go up in gold lettering on the art awards plaque in the assembly hall in the main school, and the winning artwork was already on display in Davison common room.

  I wasn’t surprised Veronica had won, but the desire to win it myself this year vibrated through my ribs. I would do a sculpture. As far as I knew, a sculpture had never won.

  Ms Calding looked down at her notes again. “It says here that the winner receives five thousand pounds. Has that been written down wrong?”

  There was a general shout out that five thousand was right and Calding pulled her head back slightly, with the momentary shock you sometimes saw on people’s faces when Mount Norton surprised them with its casual wealth.

  The fees for the school were among the highest in the country. There were scholarship students, of course, and those whose fees were paid by their parents’ employers, but not many. The amount of our individual allowances varied hugely though. We didn’t discuss them but we knew who was able to afford expensive things and who wasn’t. My parents paid a lot of money sporadically into my bank account rather than set up regular payments, and I hated asking for more when it ran out.

  Elsie Gran sent me a five-pound note every week, sandwiched between sections of Sultana Bran cardboard so it couldn’t be seen through the envelope. When I was living with her, she left them under an old clock I had in my bedroom.

  Elsie Gran refused financial help from my parents because she didn’t approve of my father making money through what she said were other people’s insecurities, and she never had a good word to say about my mother. She barely approved of me, but the first time I’d gone to live with her was a week after her cat of fifteen years died, and she told me I’d filled a void, and at least I didn’t bring in half-dead mice or birds.

  Something hit the side of my cheek, and when I touched it I knew it was cake, sticky against my skin. Across the room, Paige was studying her nails, and Clemmie was yawning. Her yawn looked suspiciously as if she was laughing at me. There had been quiet in the room but now there was absolute stillness. Everyone in the room, apart from Paige, had their eyes on me. Never before had anyone dared to humiliate the House Prefect like this. I could storm out, but that would be seen as weakness and Clemmie and Paige would love that. I pushed down the anger for now, and concentrated on wiping my cheek with a napkin, pretending to do it absent-mindedly while listening to Calding’s boring speech. But she’d stopped.

  “Who threw that?” she said.

  Silence.

  Mrs Haven, the assistant housemistress, who’d been standing by the door, shifted uncomfortably. We called her the Ghost because she had white hair, wore beige and glided about without saying much.

  Calding said, “Right,” in such a loud voice, several first-formers shrank back. “Here is the consequence: no dessert tonight at dinner.”

  There was a collective gasp. The Ghost’s mouth went slack. First-night desserts tended to be pretty good.

  Calding tucked a lock of lank hair behind her ear.

  “That’s so unfair,” whined a third-former.

  “I said there would be consequences,” Calding said in a tight voice. “You are now dismissed. I’ll see everybody later at dinner.”

  We stood up and shuffled to the door, and the Ghost gave little smiles to us, like you might if there’d been an accident and you were trying to put a brave face on it.

  “Squirrel is going to hate her,” said Lo as we hoofed it up the stairs. “All those wasted desserts.”

  “Everyone’s going to hate her,” I said.

  Clemmie was ahead of us, making her way up to the second floor where the rest of the fifth-formers had their rooms in either single or twin rooms. “Pre-drinks in my room, anyone?” she called.

  She didn’t mean me, Lo or Meribel. She knew we wouldn’t go even if she asked us. She didn’t mean Zeta either, who had a collection of furry gnome things on display and never hid her appalling homesickness, or the twins who did nothing but study or practise their musical instruments. She meant the girls who would have taken a bullet for Clemmie, or at least a detention.

  “Pre-drinks on my terrace, anyone?” I murmured to Lo and Meribel.

  CHAPTER 3

  There was no sun on the fire escape at this time of day, but the metal transmitted gentle warmth, and the sky was what I thought of as coastal blue. I produced three low-slung outdoor chairs from my trunk, which had been brought up by the premises team while we’d had tea and been lectured. We rarely saw the premises staff, who only called in at the boarding houses when required for heavy lifting or maintenance jobs.

  I had vodka in a shampoo bottle, and some cute shot glasses I’d bought in an Italian market, patterned with a silvery tree design. I rationed out a tiny bit of vodka for each of us, and added Diet Coke. The chairs were pretty comfortable, though it took some effort for us to lean forward in them enough to clink glasses and drink to the new school year.

  “Tell us what progress you’ve made with the Pankhurst party,” said Meribel after we’d taken our first sip.

  “I’ve got a plan. I don’t want to tell you in case it doesn’t come off, but I’ll know soon.”

  Lo gave a little sitting-down dance. “Oooooh.”

  “You’re teasing us,” said Meribel. “Come on. Spill.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Not yet.” I pointed at the railing to the right of the fire escape. “I reckon if I stood against that and leaned forward I could see…” I placed my glass down, stood up and tried it. “Yes! You can see over the trees. There’s the tennis court and, look, a bench. Good spying opportunities!”

  Meribel and Lo stood next to me. It wasn’t our tennis court. It belonged to Churchill, the next-door boarding house for boys, which was a far grander building and had extensive grounds. Each of the four boarding houses for boys was larger than any of the three for girls. Wibbz said it was because Mount Norton had started off as a single-sex school, and when girls were admitted, there hadn’t been suitable buildings of comparable size for them. I didn’t see why the girls couldn’t swap a building with the boys, or why the school still took in more boys than girls. I’d heard a rumour that when Miss Sneller was appointed headteacher five years ago, a family had removed their sons because they didn’t want a female in charge. It might wow visitor
s with its location and facilities, but this school wasn’t the forward-thinking place it liked to think it was.

  “We’ll be able to see more when the leaves fall,” I said as we dropped down on to our chairs again.

  “That sounds stalkery,” said Meribel.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “And Bernard isn’t even at Churchill,” said Lo.

  “Stop!” I said. “I’m done with you two winding me up about Bernard.”

  Meribel said, “But I love talking about him. It makes me laugh.”

  “That kiss was a mistake,” I said. “How many times have I told you that?”

  “OK, OK,” said Meribel, smirking.

  Lo touched the silvery tree on the side of her shot glass. “Speaking of mistakes… There was this girl on the campsite…”

  “And?” said Meribel.

  “Tell us everything,” I said.

  Lo pushed the fingers of one hand back with her other. It was a nervous thing that drove Meribel and me mad. We ignored it this time, because we were too interested in what she had to say. Lo said, “We were in her tent, and she took my phone and I was trying to get it back off her, and we ended up kissing, but it didn’t feel right. And it kind of… It made me realize how much I miss Sasha.”

  Sweat gathered at the back of my neck. I would let this conversation happen without me. Or, if I had to join in, I would carefully nudge it in a different direction.

  Lo looked at me and then Meribel. “I hate coming back to school and her not being here.”

  “Of course you’re going to miss her,” said Meribel. “You were together for…”

  “Four-and-a-half months,” said Lo. “Nearly five.”

  “You’re only remembering the good things about her,” said Meribel. “Remember what she did.”