Good Girls Lie(32)

The blood.

I wake to the sound of weeping. It takes me a few minutes to realize the room is still empty, and it is my own pillow drenched in tears.

* * *

Camille misses breakfast, but when I go back to the room to switch books between computer and English, she is there, sitting at her desk, twisting a curl in her fingers, staring out the window. Pale, washed-out in the sunlight. Black circles under her eyes, the heating pad clutched to her stomach.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Lies, lies, lies. Why not? After last night’s little trip down memory lane, I’m feeling...vulnerable.

“I was worried when you didn’t come back.”

“I slept in Vanessa’s room. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You want to tell me what’s really going on?”

Her eyes fill with tears but she shakes her head. “It’s all good. I told you, my time of the month is rough.”

I’m surprised to find myself feeling sorry for her. “If you ever want to talk—”

“I. Don’t. So. Stop. Asking.”

“Sod off then.” I grab my books and leave. Screw her. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to get the Goode stamp of approval. This is all that matters. The petty bullshit of my suitemates isn’t important.

Or so I think.



JUNE

Oxford, England



24

THE PROPOSAL

They are sitting together at one end of the dining room table when I drag in, high, drunk, dirty. I’ve come through planning to sneak up the back stairs to my room. This is a place I don’t expect them to assemble, in either position or companionship. I don’t know how they’ve managed it, how they knew I was coming home, how they timed it. Surely, they haven’t been here waiting for two days—no, someone from the village reported that I was heading their way.

They look ridiculous, eclipsed by the grandness of the room, awkward, the two of them snugged together like this.

Mind, our dining room table might be a bit different than yours; it seats forty comfortably, forty-six in a pinch. The room is massive, echoing when empty, but the acoustics are perfect for a house party. The dark oak wainscoted walls are covered in priceless oils of hunting scenes. From forest to table, the Carr family philosophy.

It strikes me as funny, this. I, too, come from forest to table now.

Damien Carr has a reputation—likes to keep to himself, holds his own counsel, does everything with stiff-upper-lip discretion, which is why his clients love him. Why the Queen knighted the sick fuck “for service to the British banking system.”

My mother, on the other hand, good old Sylvia, newly monied and married to an icon, loves to show it off. She takes full advantage of the Carr treasures to hold lavish feasts for important and interesting people.

This space used to be the site of so much fun. I’d watch the festivities from the anteroom, getting in Dorsey’s way as she sent up the courses. Laughter, the clinking of china and goblets, the room growing more uproarious as the cellar was raided again and again.

He went along with it for a while. Then he put a stop to the parties. My mother cried and whimpered and begged, but Damien is like granite, implacable when he makes up his mind.

I’ve drifted. My parents are staring at me. My mother wears a semblance of a smile—the opening salvo. I laugh. I might be a little too high.

“Ashlyn, please sit down.”

I’ve been sleeping rough for two nights, bunking on the floor of a friend’s flat in the village. A rat has gnawed the edge of my messenger bag. I don’t move. The Molly, whilst making me warm and fuzzy, has my feet planted.

My father gives it a try.

“Ashlyn, I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I apologize.” This is said stiffly, and I know he doesn’t mean it. There’s a reason he’s seeking détente. Why?

I stay standing but sway a bit, toward the closest chair. Finally, I collapse into it. My legs are tired. I am so, so tired.

“Your mother and I have discussed this at length, and we believe it’s time for you to go away to school. There’s a lovely all-girls spot in America. It’s called The Goode School. It’s for children of the elite.”

“I won’t go.” The words are out before I have a thought. I have no desire to go away to school. I barely go here anymore, why in the world would I agree to go to America and be locked away inside with a bevy of squealing quims?

“You don’t have a choice. You are going. It’s been settled with the school already. You must do a formal interview with the headmistress. We can set up a Skype call, she’s agreed to it since you don’t live close enough for an in-person visit in time.”

I shake my head and he holds up a hand.

“You aren’t happy here. I understand how hard your life has been—” oh, the sarcasm, Daddy, so appropriate just now “—being the daughter of two parents who love you very much and only want what’s best for you.”

Mum launches her gambit. “You’ve left us no choice, Ashlyn. The drinking, the drugs, the running away, it will stop now. You will go to America, which gets you far, far away from us, which is all you really want, as you’ve told us so many times. You’ll be among peers, girls who are just as intelligent as you. You won’t be bored by the provincial school districts anymore. It’s like a college, really, you choose your path of instruction. This is for the best.”