She watched carefully to see if Martha Young and Sophie went near each other, but they didn’t. They were in different houses and different forms. The only time they were together was in the upper-fifth common room during any free or revision periods. Imogen saw them together when Sophie went to make a cup of tea and Martha was rinsing a mug in the sink: they appeared not to notice each other at
all
, but Imogen thought she saw the merest flicker of a glance between the two of them. She remembered them embracing in the darkness, their skin soft against the rough old wool of the well-worn sofa, and looked away, her face burning.
The day after the discovery, Allegra had been in high spirits.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she’d said excitedly, as they walked around the games field during break. ‘Sophie Harcourt’s a lesbian! And with Martha Young.
Shit
. I wonder if Arabella knows about it? Bet she doesn’t. God, when you think about how mean Sophie is … Do you remember when she and Arabella spent the whole time teasing Portia Clifford about being a lezzer – and all along Sophie was one herself! Martha had her hand down her pants, for Christ’s sake. She must have been
fingering
her. What a fucking hypocrite!’
They all agreed that Sophie was a terrible hypocrite, but Imogen found it hard to share Allegra’s elation; something about the discovery worried her, though she wasn’t sure if it was the revelation about Sophie’s sexuality or the power of the secret they now guarded. No matter how worldly wise and grown-up everyone pretended to be, they would still be shocked by a gay relationship – it would mark Sophie out, make her the target of gossip and secret jokes. Romily maintained her cool French exterior as always and didn’t say much, but the glances she swapped with Imogen showed that she secretly shared the same misgivings.
When the games mistress nominated Allegra to help collect kit from the sports hall, Romily pulled Imogen to one side.
‘What are we going to do about all this?’ she said, her dark brown eyes worried. ‘Look at Allegra, I haven’t seen her so cheerful in ages.’
‘I know.’ Imogen gazed at the ground. ‘It’s because of
what
we’ve found out. I think she wants to use it.’
‘I don’t think she should,’ Romily said urgently.
‘Nor do I.’ Imogen couldn’t help noticing that her friend wore even her games kit with her customary sense of fashion: her tartan kilt was a little more rakish and stylish than the others, her initials stitched on to it in flowing pink script.
‘If Sophie gives Allegra any reason or provokes her, she’ll use it to get her revenge,’ said Romily. ‘She won’t be able to help herself. It’s bound to get out somehow, and it’s going to cause a terrible scandal. Poor Sophie. I know she’s a bitch, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her. It will be so, so embarrassing. How will she face everyone? It will ruin her life here. And Martha’s too. They’ll have to leave.’
They stared at each other.
‘Can we stop Allegra?’ asked Imogen at last.
‘All we can do is try and persuade her to go easy,’ Romily said. ‘I’m sure she’ll listen to us.’ The games mistress returned then with Allegra, whose arms were piled high with bibs. ‘Come on. We’d better go and warm up.’
It felt strange for Imogen to be sharing a confidence with Romily. Allegra had always been their leader, the other two her close lieutenants with their first loyalty to her rather than each other. And Imogen had been at Allegra’s side even before they came to Westfield, two girls from Scotland anticipating their grand English boarding school, Imogen with nervousness and Allegra with unbridled excitement.
They had first met when Imogen was almost ten years old.
‘What an amazing coincidence!’ her mother had marvelled as she dressed Imogen in her smartest clothes.
‘What is? Where are we going?’ she’d asked while her mother brushed out her hair and tied it in a ribbon.
‘My old school friend, Selina Garrett … all this time she’s
been
living ten miles away and I never knew!’ Imogen could sense her mother’s excitement. ‘Who would have thought it? I met her quite by accident in Edinburgh and it turns out that she’s only gone and married Ivo McCorquodale, the eldest son of Lord Crachmore, and they live at Foughton, that magnificent old castle on the edge of the loch. I can’t believe how many times I’ve driven past it, and all the time Selina’s been living there! We were very best friends at school, though we lost touch afterwards when she went abroad. We’re going to visit today, and you’ll meet her daughter who is the same age as you are. I’m sure you’re going to be friends, just as we were!’
They seemed to drive for ages, out of town and into the countryside, and finally down long, twisty, overgrown roads that led to a beautiful, crystal blue loch, with Foughton standing craggy and impressive at its side. It was amazing, like something from Imogen’s favourite storybooks, a castle where gorgeous princesses danced in satin slippers and where good fairies and wicked witches flew among the grey stone turrets and battlements.
I would love to live here
, she thought at once, her imagination alight.
It’s so much more exciting than our boring house in our boring road
…
She watched as her mother fell, screaming with pleasure, into the arms of her old friend, followed dutifully as they were led through the endless dark corridors and listened as her mother said what an incredible place it was, but her friend said it was a bore to live in something so big and that it was freezing in the winter and how difficult it was to find people to work there – and all the other adult problems that seemed so dull. Who cared, if you could live in a castle like this? And then, they came out into an enormous sitting room and suddenly they were in the light again. Huge windows opened on to a stone terrace edged with what
looked
like battlements, and beyond that was the sparkling loch and nothing else to be seen for miles and miles except soft Scottish hills melting into the horizon. And there, sitting on the rug in front of an enormous hearth, was a pretty blonde girl, her skinny limbs emerging from a T-shirt and some denim shorts, playing with a grey kitten.
‘This is Allegra,’ her mother’s friend said cheerfully. ‘Allegra darling, get up and say hello to Imogen. She’s just your age and I’m sure you’re going to be great friends.’
Imogen stood awkwardly on the edge of the rug while Allegra got slowly to her feet, her face impassive and her dark-blue eyes watchful and cool.
‘Take her up to the nursery, darling, and show her your things. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time together. Take Zaza with you.’
Allegra tucked the grey kitten against her chest and padded towards the door without giving Imogen another glance.
‘Go on, Imogen,’ said her mother, obviously eager to sit down for a good chat with her friend, ‘off you go with Allegra.’
So she’d gone after her, following in her footsteps and feeling silly in the smart tartan pinafore and patent Mary Janes that her mother had put her in for the visit. Allegra’s clothes, although they were nothing special, seemed a million times more stylish and desirable. On that first visit she barely said a word to Imogen for the first hour. Up in the nursery, she put a cassette tape into a player and they listened to rock music at top volume while Allegra played with Zaza the kitten and Imogen lost herself in the nursery bookcase, which was crammed with Enid Blytons that she hadn’t yet added to her collection. After an hour or so they went back downstairs and Allegra took her to the kitchen where the housekeeper gave them each a glass of orange squash and some digestive biscuits.
‘Do you like Nirvana?’ Allegra said at last, as they munched their biscuits.
‘Mmm, yes.’ Imogen nodded. That must be what they’d been listening to. She’d never heard of them. They were certainly loud, and seemed very het up about things.
‘I fucking adore them,’ Allegra announced. Imogen’s eyes widened with surprise at the extremely naughty word she had just heard. ‘I’m going to marry Kurt Cobain when I grow up.’ She stared at Imogen. ‘Who are you going to marry?’
Imogen didn’t know whether to tell the truth about who she wanted to marry, but she had been brought up to be honest and wanted to be like this glamorous girl, so she swallowed her biscuit and said in a quiet voice, ‘Kevin fucking Costner.’
Allegra laughed so hard she squirted orange squash all over the table. Imogen started giggling too, and the next minute they were squealing hysterically, with Allegra rolling on the floor holding her stomach, until the housekeeper came to find out what on earth all the fuss was about.
After that, they were friends.
Back home, Imogen’s mother couldn’t stop talking excitedly about Selina’s life, her marriage into the aristocracy, her beautiful children, and her amazing house.
‘Who would have thought it?’ she kept marvelling. ‘Selina Garrett. Well, well, well. Of course, it can’t all be a picnic. Ivo’s been married twice before and poor Selina’s got three stepchildren to cope with, as well as her own two, and her boy Xander won’t inherit a thing. And her grim old father-in-law still rules the roost, but still … Perhaps it’s not too high a price to pay for everything she’s got.’
Imogen wondered if her mother was drawn to her old friend and her impressive home because it was a life that perhaps she herself could have had. After all, they had both
started
out in the same place, as schoolgirls at Westfield, but where Selina Garrett now had a title and a castle to live in, Jeannie Heath had ended up in an average suburban house, with a decent but ordinary husband who ran his own Edinburgh law practice, living an uneventful life.
No matter what Selina Garrett now had, she must have been lonely too because their visits to the castle became quite frequent. Every few weeks Imogen and her mother would get into the car to make the trip to that strange otherworldly place. And with each visit, Allegra and Imogen grew closer. Allegra would take Imogen to her bedroom and show her her prized collection of Hello Kitty bags and T-shirts, and her sparkly bangles, and they were soon putting each other’s hair into bunches and plaits, talking about whether they preferred Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey. They talked about the boys they were in love with; Allegra liked actors like River Phoenix or else rock stars, the grungier the better. Imogen preferred nice, clean-cut boys like Tom Cruise and Take That.
‘How many brothers and sisters have you got?’ Allegra asked one day in her clipped English accent as they lay on the nursery floor doing cat’s cradles with pieces of string.
‘Oh, none. I’m an only child,’ Imogen said placidly. Her soft Scottish accent, picked up at school, was shortening into an imitation of the way her new friend talked.
‘Really? You’re so lucky. I wish I was an only child. I get forgotten all the time.’
‘Where are all your brothers and sisters?’ Imogen had never seen anyone else about and had begun to assume that Allegra was an only child, like herself.
Allegra shrugged. ‘Dad’s been married three times. He’s really old … much older than your dad, I expect. He’s over sixty.’
‘Sixty!’ breathed Imogen, unable to imagine her father at such a great age.
‘He’s got two children from his first marriage, Rory and Tristan. Rory’s going to inherit this place when Dad dies, and he’s grown up and married. Then there’s Miranda – she’s my sister from Dad’s second marriage. She’s away at Sherbourne, and in the holidays she goes to stay with her mother most of the time. After that Dad married Mum and had me and my brother Xander who’s at prep school in Oxford. He’s going to Eton next year.’
‘Gosh.’ It seemed terribly complicated but also very glamorous. ‘I wish I had all those brothers and sisters.’ Imogen twirled her string into a new arrangement.
‘I’d rather be like you,’ Allegra said. ‘At least you get noticed in a good way. I only get noticed when Dad … when he’s angry.’
But Imogen couldn’t imagine why Allegra would want to be like her. To her, Allegra’s life was bordering on the fairytale and she was irresistibly drawn to the other girl whom she considered perfect in just about every way. And, like a princess stranded in a tower, Allegra also seemed lonely and hungry for friendship. It was a perfect fit. Soon they couldn’t imagine life without each other.
‘Selina has a terrible time,’ Mrs Heath said grimly to her husband as they sat at the dinner table back at home. ‘Ivo isn’t easy …’ She cast a glance over at Imogen, who had finished. ‘You can get down, darling. Go and watch telly if you like.’
Television was rarely allowed, so Imogen guessed that there was something of interest to be heard. She got down obediently and lingered outside the dining-room door, listening to the adult conversation, catching clear snippets among the low buzz of her mother’s voice, like a radio tuning in and out to good reception.
‘He drinks! It’s nearly a bottle of whisky a night apparently …
his
rages are terrible to behold, Selina says …’
Imogen kept her ear close to the crack in the door.
‘The children are terrified too, she says … he’s turned on them once or twice … kicked his boy down the stairs once, can you believe it!’
‘Well, why does she stay?’ came her father’s deep, audible voice, in his reasonable lawyer’s tones. ‘He sounds like a monster, Jeannie.’
‘It’s not so straightforward, darling. She loves him, I think …’
‘Or loves that castle and her title.’
‘How can you say that? Selina’s not that type at all! I’ve met him, and he seemed like a love. You know what drink can do to a man …’
Imogen knew nothing of drink except that one or two glasses of his favourite red wine could make her father terribly sleepy, and she decided to look at Allegra’s father carefully next time she saw him for signs of what it could do. But when she did see him, striding down a corridor at Foughton, he seemed so huge and old and frightening that she ducked down a passage and hid.
‘Have you heard?’ Allegra said with excitement, dragging Imogen to the nursery almost before she was through the door. ‘We’re going to school together!’
‘We are?’ she said, amazed. She’d assumed that she was going to the local secondary school, like everyone else in her class.