JAMES
Percy has parked the Rolls-Royce right in front of the main entrance atrium of the school. He's leaning against the car, with his mobile phone in one hand and his cap in the other. It seems as if every passing day adds more silver strands to his dark hair. When he sees me, he quickly puts away his phone, puts his cap back on, and straightens up. In reality, it's not necessary, and he knows it.
As I descend the stairs, the people around me politely move out of my way. Apparently, I look as bad as I actually feel. It's all the fault of that darn events committee! I'm already regretting not keeping my mouth shut and not keeping the Victorian party proposal to myself. When I think about the list of things to do, my stomach churns. If I were hosting the party at home, I'd delegate everything to the staff, and I wouldn't have to lift a finger. But in this case, I am the staff, as Ruby has subtly implied with her raised eyebrows.
All I want to do is scream, knowing that I still have a whole quarter of meetings ahead. And, on top of that, missing training sessions with my teammates is unbearable.
Definitely, I hadn't imagined my last year at school like this. As I approach the car, all I want is to collapse into the back seat, but before I can get in, Percy grabs my arm for a moment.
"Sir, you don't seem to be in a good mood."
"You have excellent observational skills, Percy." I glance uncertainly from him to the car door and back.
"Perhaps you should rein in your temper a bit. Miss Beaufort isn't in the best state."
The cursed events committee is instantly forgotten.
"What happened?"
Percy hesitates for a few seconds, as if unsure about what he should or shouldn't reveal to me. Finally, he takes a step toward me.
"She just spoke to someone. A young man. They seemed to be arguing."
I nod, and Percy opens the car door for me.
Thankfully, the windows are tinted. Lydia looks terrible. Her eyes and nose are bright red, and tears have left dark gray streaks on her cheeks. I've never seen her cry so much as in the past few weeks, and it infuriates me to see her like this while knowing there's nothing I can do to prevent it.
Lydia and I have always been inseparable. When you come from a family like ours, you have no choice but to stick together, no matter what. I can only recall a few days in my life when I haven't seen my twin sister. Whenever things go wrong for her, I feel a strange ache in my chest, and she experiences the same. Our mother explained that it's something common among twin siblings, and she made us promise early on to always cherish this bond and not jeopardize it recklessly.
"What's going on?" I ask after Percy starts the car. She doesn't respond. "Lydia..."
"It's none of your business," she mutters."
I raise an eyebrow and observe her until she turns away and gazes out the window, effectively ending our conversation. I lean back and also take in the view outside. The trees, adorned with autumn colors, rush by so quickly that they blur into an indistinct image. I wish Percy would drive more slowly—not just because the thought of arriving home makes me feel ill, but also to buy more time and break Lydia's silence.
I want to help her, but I have no idea how. In recent weeks, I've tried everything to find out what happened between her and Mr. Sutton, but Lydia remains guarded. It shouldn't surprise me, really. Although we're inseparable, we've never discussed our love lives. There are simply things one doesn't want to know about their sister... and vice versa. But this time it's different. She's shattered, and I've only seen her like this once before, exactly two years ago. Back then, it nearly tore our family apart.
"Graham is losing it," Lydia suddenly whispers, catching me off guard. I turn back to her and wait for her to continue. The anger I feel toward that wretched teacher bubbles up inside me once again, but I suppress it. I don't want Lydia to close up even more than she already has. "I'm so afraid Ruby will tell Lexington," she says nasally.
"She won't," I assure her.
"How do you know?"
I see the same incredulity in her eyes that I felt when I first spoke to Ruby.
"Because I'm keeping an eye on her," I reply after a moment.
Lydia doesn't seem convinced.
"You can't monitor her constantly, James."
"I don't have to. She's on the events committee."
Lydia looks at me, surprised, and I offer a wry smile. It's good to see that although the tension hasn't completely dissipated, it seems to have eased a bit in her shoulders. After a few minutes, she speaks softly:
"I completely forgot about the events committee. Is it really that awful?" I just grunt in response. "Have you talked to Dad?" she asks cautiously.
I shake my head and look out the window as the Rolls-Royce comes to a stop. Before us rises the facade of our residence against a dark, cloud-laden sky—a reflection of my mood and what still awaits me today.
"How would you describe me in three words?" Alistair asks over the music blaring from my device. He's sitting on the couch, leaning over his phone, and his blond curls fall onto his forehead as he tilts his head to look at the screen.
I've just prepared two gin and tonics and return with the glasses to the couch. Without looking up, Alistair reaches out and takes one. It's our third round, and finally, that vague sensation I've been waiting for settles in my head. It helps me forget that everyone else is at lacrosse practice right now. And, above all, it suppresses the memory of the last two hours. My father's voice is now only a muted whisper.
"How about 'a cheeky troublemaker'?" I suggest.
Alistair smiles. "That would be fitting. But with modesty, I might go even further."
Smiling as well, I sit next to him on the couch. I still get the impression that he'd already had one or two drinks when I messaged him to ask if he wanted to drop by. Apparently, the fact that he did so is a testament to his character.
Being removed from the team has also left its mark on him, despite what he wants us to believe. In any case, he burst into my room with the news that from now on, he won't touch any of the guys from Maxton Hall and will focus on this online dating platform instead. He said it with a wide smile, as if he weren't really serious and was only creating a profile out of boredom.
But I know him well enough to understand that this matter affects him deeply. He's fed up with the Maxton Hall guys because they only want to hook up with him secretly. Unlike most of them, Alistair has been openly embracing his sexuality for two years now, much to the horror of his idiotic parents, who treat him like an outcast.
If he finds someone online who doesn't treat their connection like a dirty secret, I'll fully support him. Plus, it distracts me from my own problems, which is quite convenient.
'Do they have to be exactly three words?' I ask. He shakes his head. 'Then... 'nice guy, lacrosse player, athlete, and seeking exciting connections, blah blah blah.'
He gives me a wry smile. 'The blah blah blah sounds quite accurate.'
I lean in slightly, and as I move, some of the gin and tonic spills onto my hand. I curse softly as I wipe it on my pants and glance at Alistair's phone. When I see the draft of his profile, I burst out laughing.
'What?' he challenges.
'You're not six feet one, liar.'
He huffs. 'Yes, I am.'
—I'm 6'1", and you're about half a head shorter than me, dude. Subtract ten centimeters, and then you might be just right.
He nudges me in the side, and once again, the alcohol spills onto my fingers.
—Stop being a buzzkill.
—Okay, okay.
I take a big sip from my glass and set it down on the table. Then I grab the laptop from the low bedside table, open it, and start searching for profiles that seem somewhat reasonable.
Inviting Alistair over was the right decision. His chauffeur brought him promptly, and since then, he's done nothing but distract me without asking a single question.
—God...—I mutter.
Alistair makes a questioning sound and leans toward me to see the laptop screen. I tilt it slightly toward him.
—I was looking for inspiration to write your profile, but now I wish I'd never clicked on this link. Who in their right mind writes in their description, 'My ideal would be to hook up with my twin brother, but since I'm an only child, I'll have to settle for you'?
Alistair laughs.
—I'm exhausted. I'm just going to write: '18, lacrosse, open to anything.'
—No, man, no,—I shake my head—. With 'open to anything,' you're giving people a blank check to ask for weird stuff.
He shrugs. After a couple of minutes, he says without looking up from his phone.
—By the way, Elaine asked about you. —I raise an eyebrow, but I don't say anything. It's the first time since Wren's party that Alistair has mentioned the topic, and I can't deduce from his voice whether the conversation was going to be serious or not. -She's worried about your young and fragile heart, and she would like to know if you still think of her often.-
Well, definitely not serious, I reply– " Ah yes I bet-very worried, she must be," I add.
I doubt Elaine has spent even a second thinking about the night we spent together. It's probably Alistair who's mulling over the matter because I've awakened his protective brotherly instincts. 'I still can't believe you had sex with my sister,' he says, shaking his head and making a disgusted noise. 'Couldn't you promise to marry her? I think that would help me process this better.' Smiling, I give him a playful punch on the shoulder. 'If I ever propose to someone, it definitely won't be so you can sleep better at night.' Alistair sighs dramatically and then hands me his phone. 'Can you at least help me choose a photo?' He shows me two options: one where he's shirtless, arms crossed behind his head, relaxing in a hammock, and another where he's taken a selfie in front of a mirror, wearing a suit.
"The one in the hammock,"I say. "You're too dressed up in the other one."
"I like your team spirit, Beaufort."
After this, thankfully, the Elaine issue is settled, and I go for a fourth round of gin and tonics. Alistair returns to his new hobby while I reluctantly check my email.
My good mood vanishes in the blink of an eye when I see that I've received an invitation from Beaufort Offices. I reluctantly open the message, which reads:
Next Friday, at 7 p.m., business lunch with the sales management in London. Be punctual.
In an instant, my good humor evaporates. Instead, a chill runs down my spine as I recall the argument with my father earlier that afternoon.
- "You make us look ridiculous."
- "We have a reputation to uphold."
- "A foolish and childish boy."
I got angry at myself for flinching when he approached me with his raised hand. In reality, I know what's best for me: in Mortimer Beaufort's presence, one must show neither weakness nor fear.
The meeting is nothing more than a punishment. He knows perfectly well that this affects me more than his words or slaps ever could. In reality, we have an agreement: as long as I attend Maxton Hall, he won't bother me with anything related to our company. The fact that I now have to attend this dinner is his way of saying, 'I'm the one who decides your life, and if you don't behave, it will happen sooner than you think.'
Dejected, I push my laptop away and head to the bar. I pour myself a glass of whiskey and spend some time contemplating the amber liquid. Then I turn around and take it back to the sofa.
Alistair looks at me. There's no trace of the earlier smile on his face.
'Everything okay?' he asks.
I shrug. I wanted Alistair to come to forget about the issue with my father, not to discuss it.
Alistair doesn't press further. Instead, he hands me his phone.
'I have a date,' he says, showing me the screen, which displays the image of a dark-skinned, muscular guy.
I slide down a bit on the sofa until I can rest my head against the backrest.
This is one of the reasons why Alistair is counted among my best friends. If I wanted to, I could talk to him about what's constantly swirling in my head. I could discuss anything with him, but I shouldn't. We've been friends for so long that we tune in to each other and understand our boundaries, even if we occasionally test them. I doubt I could build this kind of friendship with anyone else.
'Are you hungry?' I ask after a while.
Alistair nods, and I call downstairs to the kitchen. After the clash with my father, I've lost my appetite, so now I'm genuinely hungry.
While we wait for the kitchen assistant to bring up our food, Alistair continues looking at photos of half-naked guys, and I scroll through my list of blogs on my laptop. Alongside some lacrosse sites and friends' blogs, I've been following travel blogs for the past couple of months. There's nothing better for disconnecting than reading about distant countries and seeing their images. I mark some new entries for later; right now, I'm too drunk to absorb information.
I've also included the school blog on my list. Mostly just to laugh at it, but now that I see the logo in the list, Ruby's face suddenly appears in my mind. I feel a twinge in my stomach, but I'm not sure if it's because I'm hungry, the alcohol, or something else.
My index finger takes the initiative, and I open the blog. I click through the school events—each one boring without exception—skim the articles—unbearably dull—and look at the photos, searching for Ruby's face. Although her name appears in many entries and she's mentioned in school events, there doesn't happen to be a single picture of her. Shortly after Lydia told me that Ruby had seen her with Sutton, I searched on Google and tried to find out everything I could about her. But there was nothing. She doesn't have a single account, neither on Facebook, nor on Twitter, nor on Instagram—at least not under her name. Ruby Bell is a ghost.
I keep scrolling. By now, I've reviewed the entire past year, and I still haven't found what I'm looking for. Whatever it is. The more I look, the angrier I get. Why the hell can't I find anything about her?
'Are you looking for something on the school blog?' Alistair suddenly asks.
I look up, caught in the act. Alistair is staring at my laptop with a disgusted expression. But when his gaze lands on the word I've typed into the search field of the browser, his face lights up.
'Ah' he says.
'What?' I ask.
His smile widens.
'Well, if I tell the others...'
I close the laptop.
'There's nothing to tell.'
The knocks on the door from Mary, our kitchen assistant, interrupt Alistair's response. As she crosses my room with the cart, I stagger to my feet to refill my glass. Now, along with my father's voice, I have to push Ruby's self-assured face out of my mind.