weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.’
‘What do you want me to do, camp in a field? I’d like you to show me to my room and then I want a phone call.’ This was just like getting arrested—only it looked as if this cow wasn’t going to be won round with a sob story and a reapplication of Clive Christian No. 1.
‘We do not permit our girls smoking,’ said the woman. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
Aurora pulled on her cigarette. ‘Not really.’
Plucking the stick from Aurora’s hand, the woman tossed it to the gravel and ground it out with a steel-toed boot.
‘Hey!’
‘I am Mrs Durdon,’ she said briskly, ‘your housemistress. From now on you will do exactly as I say—or you’re going to wish you’d never set foot in this school.’
‘No kidding,’ Aurora muttered grimly.
‘Come with me.’
Mrs Durdon led the way through the main doors, a scowling Aurora loping behind. She was all too accustomed to spoiled teenage girls needing taking down a peg or two. The international ones were the worst. Here they had them all: princesses, heiresses, daughters of sheiks and oil barons, and, her least personal favourite, the brats from America with famous parents. Glimpsing the girl out of the corner of her eye, she sensed this one would spell no insignificant amount of trouble.
Aurora wondered why no one was offering to take her bag. Where was the doorman? Instead she had to drag her impractical Louis Vuitton wheels behind her as they entered the hall. Grave portraits of headmistresses-past glared down at her from their frames on the wall; an enormous fireplace sat cold and unused beneath a great black hood; doors peeled off from the space, most of them closed. There was a disgusting smell like soup.
‘You’ll meet the Head this afternoon,’ said Mrs Durdon as she mounted the staircase. ‘I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.’
‘Great,’ Aurora mumbled. She was tired of lugging her stuff. ‘Where’s the elevator?’ She stopped and leaned against the wide mahogany banister, folding her arms.
Mrs Durdon was revolted by the word. ‘We do not have a lift, I’m afraid. If you can’t manage, leave your things down here and you’ll have to come and collect them piecemeal.’ She eyed the suitcase, bursting at its seams. If there were drink or drugs in there, the school would soon rinse them out. ‘We’ll need to organise you a trunk. That … bag is hardly suitable.’
Aurora didn’t know what a trunk was but it sounded far from hot. ‘Can’t you get one of your staff to carry it?’
A frigid smile. ‘This way.’
Upstairs, a door opened and a gaggle of girls came rushing past. Aurora had to back up to avoid being slammed into.
‘Girls!’ Mrs Durdon boomed. ‘No running in the halls! ’
Giggling among themselves, the girls slowed their pace, arms linked as they vanished into what appeared to be a dining room. Aurora caught a glimpse of long regimented tables: as the heavy door opened a massive waft of the soupy smell came rushing through to greet her.
‘Don’t they have their own clothes?’ asked Aurora, grossed out by the grey skirts and shapeless jumpers. So unflattering!
‘That’s the school uniform,’ Mrs Durdon confirmed. There was a carpeted corridor at the top of the stairs. Several doors down, she stopped. ‘And this is your dormitory.’
Aurora raised a hand. ‘Wait a second,’ she said. ‘First, I’m not wearing some dumb uniform. I’ve got a fashion line to protect. And second, I am not sleeping in a dormitory. I demand a private room. I’m sure my dad paid for one, so I’d appreciate you taking me to it, please.’ She lifted her chin.
Mrs Durdon was amused. ‘All girls share dormitories,’ she said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
When the door opened, Aurora knew categorically and absolutely that she would never get used to it. There were at least ten beds in here! It was like some ghastly hospital room. Where was she going to put all her clothes? A small closet parked by each mattress wasn’t going to come close. What the fuck? What was this place?
‘Uh-uh, no way,’ said Aurora. But Mrs Durdon was charging down the central aisle between the beds until she stopped by the one closest to the window.
‘This one is yours,’ she said smugly. The revelation of the dormitories was always her favourite bit. Aurora Nash wore a look of sheer horror. ‘I’ll find your guide—we assign every new student here one—and she will help you unpack your suitcase. Once you’ve settled in you can meet Mrs Stoker-Leach.’ She departed without another word.
Aurora felt like bursting into tears. She missed LA, she missed her dad; she missed the glittering ocean and the warm sunshine. She even missed Farrah and Jenna. How had this happened? How did she end up in this raging dump? She stormed to the window and gazed bleakly out. It had started to rain. Down below, girls in navy blue skirts ran pointlessly around a hockey pitch and a fat Games teacher with pasty legs blew a harsh whistle. Beyond the school gates, the severe, rugged line of the hills stood cold and immovable, trapping her, forcing her into this unimaginable situation. Did anyone seriously live here? Never mind the castle-slash-orphanage-slash-prison she was expected to reside in, but the whole freaking place was abysmal. All she had seen on the drive up was endless motorway going into hills, hills and more hills. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could exist here in Dullsville and not want to shoot themselves between the eyes after about five minutes.
In the quiet deadness of that empty dormitory, Aurora felt acutely alone. Fine, it was kind of her fault for getting into trouble, but hadn’t her parents gone a bit far? Wasn’t this total abandonment? Didn’t people get arrested for this kind of neglect?
She could see her reflection in the pane, distorted as the rain pooled and slithered and ran in rivulets down the glass. They looked like tear drops.
Fuck it—she wasn’t a crier, and this place wasn’t going to make her one.
All she needed to do was come up with a plan. Fast.
Her guide was a girl called Fran Harrington, Queen Dork of Dorkdom. She had mouse-coloured hair and the most boring face Aurora had ever seen—in fact it was so boring it didn’t even merit description. Her personality was boring, too. Everything about her was boring. Everyone in the whole school was boring. The world was boring. Aurora was bored, bored, bored. She craved California and lamented the parties she was missing; the guys she was missing. She was desperate to fuck. The frustration! That was another matter entirely.
A week had passed since her arrival and she was learning a few things about St Agnes School for Girls. First, it didn’t matter how boring everyone was because they’d never need worry about acquiring a personality: all the students were daughters of shipping magnates, government officials, royalty … In comparison, being Tom Nash and Sherilyn Rose’s kid meant squat. Second, they were all suck-asses and never seemed to do anything even remotely rebellious. The girls she shared a dorm with were mostly English and called things like Camilla and Verity and Poo-Poo. Third, the teachers seemed to hate her. They were all ancient with bad breath. The only decent one was Mr Faulks, who taught Chemistry and was reasonably sexy if you looked at him through squinty eyes,
