Scarlet Wakefield 01 - Kiss Me Kill Me Page 4

  Calm down, Scarlett, for God’s sake! You’re hyperventilating, you stupid cow!

  I close my eyes for a moment. Over the hypno-relaxing-trippy music that’s playing, I hear Venetia’s voice. Actually, I could hear Venetia’s voice over zombie death metal cranked up to full blast. She’s got one of those grating, high-pitched upper-class voices that could cut through steel faster than a circular saw.

  “Oh my God, no, you can’t wear Blue Aeroplanes! Put those back at once!”

  “What do you mean?” Sophia sounds baffled, as am I.

  “You can’t wear Blue Aeroplanes jeans! Only Plum can wear Blue Aeroplanes!”

  “Are you serious?” Sophia says.

  “Fine. Don’t believe me. Buy them and see what happens.”

  “What’ll happen?” Now real doubt is creeping into Sophia’s voice.

  Venetia heaves a giant sigh. “Plum will send you to Coventry for weeks. That’s what she did when Nadia bought Blue Aeroplanes. Don’t you remember?”

  “No, I don’t! When was that?” Sophia sounds petrified.

  “Last autumn. After half-term. You must have been there.”

  “I was in Kenya the week after half-term! On safari with Mummy and Daddy!” Sophia realizes. “But I do remember, I came back and we weren’t allowed to talk to Nadia. Only no one told me why, and I didn’t want to ask.”

  I grimace. Sophia is such a pathetic sheep.

  “Well, that’s why,” Venetia says. “And now you know.”

  I hear the sound of hangers shifting as, I presume, Sophia fearfully slips the pair of Blue Aeroplanes jeans back on the rail.

  “Secretly?” Venetia adds, in what she thinks is a lowered voice. “And promise you won’t tell?”

  “Oh yah, absolutely!” Sophia sounds very excited.

  “Nadia looked better in the jeans than Plum did. That’s why Plum got so angry. You know she doesn’t have much of a bum.”

  “Gosh,” Sophia says.

  “I heard Nadia cut the jeans up and sent them to Plum, and that’s when Plum took the Coventry thing off and we could talk to Nadia again,” Venetia continues. “But that’s just a rumor.”

  “Oh yah, of course,” Sophia says.

  They both sound very subdued now. I know they believe the part about Nadia cutting up the jeans.

  And so do I.

  “Well, there’s nothing in this bloody shop today,”

  Venetia says bluffly. “Since they only have that bag in yellow. God. Do you want to get a soy latte?”

  “Love to!” Sophia sings out.

  Honestly, I’m surprised Sophia doesn’t bleat instead of talk. I bet if Venetia had asked her if she wanted to get a slice of dead rat fried in batter, she’d have agreed. Anything to fit in.

  Mind you, it’s hypocritical of me to complain about that, isn’t it? What am I doing here if not spending a fortune on clothes that will help me fit in?

  I nose slowly through the curtains to make sure they’ve gone, like a mole trying to see if it’s safe to come out of its hole. When I’ve got enough of my face (about the amount you have out of the water when you’re floating in the sea) through the gap in the curtains to be sure that the coast is clear (goodness, I’m full of metaphors today) I emerge.

  “That looks really nice,” says the shop assistant from across the room.

  I turn to look at myself in the long mirror in its twisted silver frame. I already had a look in the changing room. I’m not an idiot—I know better than to walk outside without checking first to make sure I don’t look like a fat sausage squeezed into a skin too small for it.

  I’m wearing an aqua green top in a silky material, with lots of straps, including one that runs diagonally across one shoulder and down the back. The material is suspended from the straps in a series of gathers and angled folds that looked on the hanger like someone had taken drugs and gone crazy in the sewing room, but on me actually hang really nicely. It’s a bit like drapery from a Greek statue, and somehow, miraculously, I look grown-up and graceful in it.

  The salesgirl has also found me a pair of jeans that work. I.e., I didn’t pull them on, stare at myself in the mirror and think Thunder thighs, elephant legs, and burst into tears. Not too skinny, not too baggy. Nice dark denim, which is always safe. Pale denim is only for girls so thin and confident that they can wear stuff that’s so out of fashion it’s just about to come raging back in again. And I am not one of those girls.

  Thank God I’ve got a pair of jeans that fit. I know it’ll be okay to wear them to the party. Jeans go with everything.

  “Do the sandals fit?” asks the assistant.

  “Yeah, I think so,” I say.

  To my embarrassment, I actually have to think about that, since I am so not used to wearing three-inch heels. I take a few steps, and I don’t fall over or twist an ankle.

  “Um, you might want to do your toenails if you’re going to wear open-toed shoes,” says the assistant nicely.

  I look down at my craggy, unvarnished toenails. The contrast between them and the strappy gold sandals is so awkward it’s comical. I’m like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s shoes. Only this isn’t dress-up anymore. If I’m going to wear the princess shoes, if I’m going to go to the princess party, I’m going to have to act my age. I’m sixteen. I’m not a little girl any longer.

  She comes to stand behind me, tugging and adjusting the gold and brown leather belt and the drapes of the green top so it hangs just right. In the long mirror, I watch what she’s doing. I take a whole series of mental notes. I want to be able to reconstruct this perfectly for Saturday night.

  “Some earrings,” she’s muttering as she touches my hair. “Take this back off the face. You need blusher. And a lot of eyeliner. A lot. I’ll set you up with a nice little makeup kit. Oh, and do you have a pretty bra? Because that one’s showing, and it’s not exactly, hmm . . .”

  In the mirror, I watch myself go bright red. Not exactly the kind of blush she was recommending. I shake my head wordlessly.

  “No problem, I can tell you exactly where to go. Now, why don’t you come over here and pick out some nice earrings? Wow, this is so much fun!”

  I hope she’s on commission, because she’s being really nice to me. Not at all patronizing, which is what I was terrified of. Like the obedient lamb I accused Sophia of being, I walk dutifully over to the counter.

  This is all going to cost me a fortune.

  Lucky, really, that I have a trust fund.

  four

  SHINY HAPPY PEOPLE

  The building is a sheer sheet of glass and steel and lights are gleaming behind the windows. I was careful not to show up before ten-thirty, knowing that nothing would be worse than to be the first person at the party. I think I can hear laughter coming from somewhere up above, but maybe I’m hallucinating it, out of nerves. That not-so-rare psycho logical condition where the sufferer thinks everyone is laughing at her.

  There’s a cantilevered glass roof slanting over the entrance. The doors (also glass, I’m sensing a theme here) slide apart as I step onto the gray carpeting that covers the pavement in front of them. They hiss shut behind me with a quiet thunk. The atrium inside is just as impressive as the facade of the building, illuminated by a gigantic chandelier-type thing made out of what look like millions of bits of glass from a shattered bus shelter.

  “Can I help you?” comes a voice.

  I nearly jump out of my strappy gold sandals.

  The voice is coming from a doorman wearing a dark-gray uniform (ooh, he matches the carpet). He’s standing behind a marble desk.

  “Um, yeah,” I start. “I’m here to see Nadia Farouk.”

  “Top floor, Penthouse C,” he says, and raises his right arm briefly to indicate the far wall.

  Lifts. God, this is like a luxury hotel. I tip-tap across the dark-gray granite floor (yes, dark gray again; the people who designed this didn’t have a lot of imagination), feeling awkward, sensing the doorman’s eyes on my back.
Wow, I’m already self-conscious. What’s it going to be like at the party?

  The lift door pings open. I press the button that reads PENTHOUSE. As the doors close, I turn to look at my reflection in the smoky mirrors that line the little cabin. My coat is old and a bit tight on me—the buttons are pulling over my chest. I take it off and drape it casually over my arm, so no one can see how manky it is (I forgot to buy a new one in preparation for this evening).

  Okay, Scarlett, quick inventory.

  Lips: sticky and red.

  Eyes: tons of black eyeliner, shiny mauve eye shadow.

  Cheeks: less blusher than the girl in the shop said to put on. I wiped half of it off as soon as I left when I caught sight of myself in a shop window and thought I had a red traffic light on either cheek.

  Cover-up on incipient/fading spots (thank God no current ones): not too cakey. I think. It’s hard to tell in the dim light. I put it on, blotted, and then put on more, just to be sure.

  Nails: no chips on the varnish as far as I can—

  Ping! The elevator bounces and stops moving.

  And that’s it. No more time. Gymnastics training allows me to spin round 180 degrees so fast that I don’t think anyone could have noticed that I’d been checking myself out in the mirrors. I step out into the hallway. (You guessed it—dark-gray granite floors, dark-gray suede walls, etc., etc. There’s a big vase of white orchids that probably cost more than my entire outfit standing on a table in front of me. And my outfit wasn’t cheap.) No trouble telling which door is Penthouse C. The sexy R&B music is spilling out round the doorframe, like water pouring through cracks. I push at the door. It’s open.

  Oh God. It’s like Teen Vogue is staging a shoot in here. Sprawled all over the incredibly expensive leather sofas, sitting smoking on the lavish glass coffee tables, lounging against the walls, are what looks like the cream of London’s teenage smart set. All self-consciously posed, knowing how decorative they are, as if they’re just waiting for the photographer to purr that they’re gorgeous and press the shutter button.

  I stand there staring for a good minute or so, just taking it all in and trying not to hyperventilate. All I can hope for is that no one will look up, see me, point, and laugh. Plum’s circle isn’t exactly known for its generosity and friendliness. It’s a bitch-eat-bitch world and you sink or swim by yourself.

  Sorry about that mixed metaphor. My English teacher’s eyes would pop out in fury if she caught that.

  Thankfully, no one is pointing and laughing. At least not yet. I take a deep breath, knowing I can’t just stand here all evening, when Nadia detaches herself from a huddle of young men who look like a boy band and rushes toward me.

  “Scarlett!” she says. “I’m so glad you came!”

  “Um, thanks,” I say, amazed at her enthusiasm.

  “Let me take your coat. Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

  Nadia snatches my coat off my arm before I can say a word, and shoots off down a corridor. Without my coat to hold on to, I feel almost naked; there’s nothing to do with my hands, and the front of my body is exposed. I suddenly understand why people smoke, though lung cancer seems a high price to pay for relieving social anxiety. I shift from foot to foot till Nadia returns.

  “Now we’ll get you a drink,” she says. “Let me show you to the bar.”

  Nadia sounds like she’s been hosting parties all her life. She could be thirty-six instead of sixteen. And she looks much older than sixteen, too. She’s as well groomed as a character from an American soap.

  I follow Nadia through the room. People call her name and she smiles and waves, but keeps going. She’s in a really thin phase—the school grapevine says she’s running for hours every day and eating nothing but tuna in brine. It doesn’t suit her, but there’s no point telling her that. She’ll just think I’m jealous and take it as a twisted compliment. So I keep my mouth shut. Nadia is wearing a heavily embroidered white lacy blouse (over jeans, phew, I got that right) and the sleeves are full, which is good, as you can’t see how terrifyingly skinny her arms are. If she tried to do a handstand, they’d buckle.

  “Here’s the bar,” she says, gesturing.

  I gulp. It really is a bar, with a whole array of bottles behind it on mirrored shelves, and ranks of glasses glistening under the built-in lighting refracting off the mirrors. There’s even someone standing behind it, bending down to get something from a shelf below. My God, has Nadia actually hired a bartender?

  “Wow,” I gasp.

  Nadia pushes at her flood of glossy black hair, which is hanging down her back. It’s so heavy she has to pick it up with both hands to lift it and arrange it as she wants, draped over one shoulder. “I know! Isn’t it utterly fabulous? My parents really love to entertain.”

  “They’re not around, are they?” I ask.

  She bursts out laughing. “God no! They’re out of the country. Don’t ask me where, I haven’t bothered to look at the itinerary. What are you drinking? I’m on the fizz. Hey, Dan! More fizz!”

  I jump at the name. But I don’t turn my head to look for him, because that would be too obvious. As a result, when he straightens up from behind the bar, I find myself gazing into those wonderful eyes. I swallow hard.

  “Hey,” he says, grinning at me.

  “Hey,” I manage to reply.

  “Scarlett,” he says.

  I expect Dan to add something else, but he doesn’t. He just keeps grinning at me.

  What the hell do I do now? Say his name back to him? That would be totally moronic, wouldn’t it? Frantically, I scavenge around in every recess of my brain, trying to fish up some answer that isn’t completely banal.

  (Though part of me thinks that a boy just gazing at you and saying your name is pretty unfair, as it’s an impossible thing to find a reply to.)

  But all I can do is just gawk at Dan. His lips are really full, and I catch myself wondering whether they’re as soft as they look. I know I’m blushing, but so what? It’s not daylight in here, no one will notice. But someone’s got to say something soon. . . .

  “Dan! Don’t just stand there! More fizz, please!” Nadia commands, and waves a glass at him.

  Dan turns to smile at her. Is it just my imagination, or is it hard for him to tear his gaze away from mine?

  “Well, since I happen to be behind the bar,” he says, reaching for a bottle of champagne.

  At the sound of the cork popping, three incredibly sexy girls in backless dresses who are clustering further down the bar start whooping. Dan fills flutes for me and Nadia and then, with an apologetic smile, walks down to refill the glasses of the backless chicks. I can’t blame him, they’re gorgeous. But it’s horrible to watch him go.

  “Stay right here,” Nadia says to me. “I’m going to see if Simon’s around. I know he wanted to say hi to you.”

  That’s nice of Nadia, finding someone for me to talk to, I think, sitting down on a stool.

  In the mirrors behind the bar, I can watch what’s going on in the room. It’s like a scene from a pop video. Shiny happy people, like that old R.E.M. song. There’s a bowl of crisps in front of me on the bar, super-expensive blue designer ones. I definitely shouldn’t have any (Ricky would kill me if he were watching), but nevertheless, I start nibbling on them. (Nibbling: a word often used as a euphemism for “shoving down one’s throat as fast as possible.”)

  And my mind shifts into extreme overdrive. I begin asking myself pertinent questions, like: Why am I here? Why did Plum invite me? I’ve been wondering about that ever since Wednesday afternoon, and the only answer I can come up with is my father.

  Titles are very important in the world of shiny happy people. In the mirror, I see Sophia Von und Zu Unpronounceable, perching on the arm of a sofa, throwing back her head, letting her long blond hair dangle down her back, and braying with laughter at some boy’s joke. Sophia Von und Zu gets to hang out with the shiny happy people because she has a title. Sophia’s in my history class, and I happen to know that she has
the brain capacity of the donkey her laugh sounds like, and a considerably less interesting personality. She’s really pretty, but that wouldn’t have been enough to get her into Plum’s inner circle. Her key to the door is the fact that she’s a countess.

  And so I assume that someone in Plum’s entourage must have found out that my dad was Sir Richard Wakefield. Which means that I’m the daughter of a baronet. The title died out with my dad, because sexist rubbish British law says that only a boy can inherit a baronetcy, and I don’t have any brothers (or sisters, for that matter). No more Wakefield baronetcy. But still, that must mean that they’ve decided that my heritage counts me as being posh enough to hang out with them. It wouldn’t have been enough in itself, but it helps.

  There are three main factors you need in order to be a part of Plum’s group: poshness, money, and looks. Two out of three will probably get you in, if they’re good enough. And I just barely scrape by on all three.

  1. Daughter of a baronet. Poshness checked.

  2. Small trust fund. Ditto re.: money, though it’s a pittance compared to what Nadia possesses.

  3. Physical attractiveness. Well, this year was my growth spurt. In all the good directions. I grew a couple of inches, which made me look thinner. The gymnastics helped keep my weight down. And then there are the boobs. For the first time in my life, I look more like a woman than a girl.

  Thinking about my figure has made me feel guilty about eating the crisps. I lick the grease off my fingers, deliberately not looking down the bar at Dan flirting with the backless girls. I’m not usually paranoid, and yet I don’t quite trust all of this bounty. The champagne, the mirrors, the glittering people. I feel I’m being set up.

  And I was. I just didn’t realize how.

  “Hey, sorry to abandon you.”

  It’s Dan. Returned from pouring champagne for the backless girls. He’s grinning at me. It’s such a lovely smile that I would look behind me to see if there’s someone else he’s talking to, if it weren’t for the fact that I can see clearly in the mirror that there isn’t. Unless of course they’re a vampire.

  Scarlett! Focus!