to Swindon and I’m sure you have a lesson to go to.’ He nodded towards the main hall. ‘If you have any questions, speak to your housemistress.’
‘My housemistress ? What the hell? Don’t give me that, Bones.’ My hand curled around the strap of my bag. ‘What’s going on? Her sister’s going out of her mind.’
‘It’s fine. I just spoke to her.’
‘Fine?’
‘Yes. Fine .’
‘So Scarlett’s OK? You know where she is?’
He sighed heavily and I thought he was going to fob me off again, but he took his sunglasses off, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put them back on. ‘If she isn’t back by tomorrow morning, which she will be, then we’ll issue an appeal.’
‘An appeal?’ I repeated, but the word didn’t feel real – appeal – like a sweet that fizzes on your tongue then disappears. ‘So she hasn’t run away?’
‘That’s all I can say right now, Adamma.’
He turned and climbed into his car, but before he closed the door, I grabbed it with my hand. ‘It was you. You called the theatre about the tickets.’
‘I have to go,’ he said without looking at me.
I let him close the door, and watched as he drove out of the car park. As soon as he turned out of Crofton, I ran back to my room and got my other cellphone out of my tuck box. It took an eternity for the menu to load, but as soon as it did, I called him. It went straight to voicemail and something in me wilted. I wanted to hang up, but I made myself wait for the beep, then breathed, ‘It’s me. We need to talk about Scarlett.’
212 DAYS BEFORE
OCTOBER
Today I got my first assignment for the Disraeli . It wasn’t much, I was just asked to cover the Crofton/Cheltenham hockey match, but it was something. The trouble was, Dominic was the photographer assigned to work with me and that was never going to end well, was it? It didn’t help that I was still prickly after what he had said at the social last week, and when he showed up an hour late – sauntering with no trace of urgency towards the door to the girls’ changing rooms where I’d been waiting for him – I had to fight the urge to club him with a hockey stick.
‘I’ve already done the interview with Chloe,’ I told him, arms crossed.
‘Fine,’ he grinned, holding up his camera, ‘I’ll just take some shots.’
I grabbed him by the sleeve of his coat and tugged him back. ‘Like hell you’re taking photos in the girls’ changing rooms. This article is for the Disraeli , not FHM .’
‘I love cross Adamma. She’s my favourite.’ The skin around his mouth creased as his smile widened, but I ignored him.
‘Let’s just head over to the pitch, the match is about to start.’
‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ He frowned and I had to take a deep breath; I hate it when guys think they can comment on what I’m wearing. He must have known I was pissed, because he held his hand up. ‘Not that you don’t look ravishing, as always, but you do know that it’s October and this match is outside, right?’ He pointed up at the ominous black clouds.
‘This is waterproof.’ I ran my hands down my Burberry trench coat. My Lois Lane trench coat purchased especially for my Disraeli assignments.
He didn’t look convinced. ‘If you say so, Miss Okomma.’
He stopped to talk to so many people on the way to the pitch – mostly girls whose hands lingered on his shoulders when he leaned down to kiss them on both cheeks – that I went on without him. I was nearing the pitch when I felt the first drop of rain, as it hit the top of my ear with a cold splash that made my shoulders jump up. I shivered and turned the collar of my coat up, wondering if there was enough time to head back to Burnham for an umbrella, but when I looked back at the changing rooms to see the players jogging out, I settled for a spot on the edge of the pitch next to a kind man with a big umbrella.
By the time the match started with a roar, the rain was biblical. To make matters
‘My housemistress ? What the hell? Don’t give me that, Bones.’ My hand curled around the strap of my bag. ‘What’s going on? Her sister’s going out of her mind.’
‘It’s fine. I just spoke to her.’
‘Fine?’
‘Yes. Fine .’
‘So Scarlett’s OK? You know where she is?’
He sighed heavily and I thought he was going to fob me off again, but he took his sunglasses off, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put them back on. ‘If she isn’t back by tomorrow morning, which she will be, then we’ll issue an appeal.’
‘An appeal?’ I repeated, but the word didn’t feel real – appeal – like a sweet that fizzes on your tongue then disappears. ‘So she hasn’t run away?’
‘That’s all I can say right now, Adamma.’
He turned and climbed into his car, but before he closed the door, I grabbed it with my hand. ‘It was you. You called the theatre about the tickets.’
‘I have to go,’ he said without looking at me.
I let him close the door, and watched as he drove out of the car park. As soon as he turned out of Crofton, I ran back to my room and got my other cellphone out of my tuck box. It took an eternity for the menu to load, but as soon as it did, I called him. It went straight to voicemail and something in me wilted. I wanted to hang up, but I made myself wait for the beep, then breathed, ‘It’s me. We need to talk about Scarlett.’
212 DAYS BEFORE
OCTOBER
Today I got my first assignment for the Disraeli . It wasn’t much, I was just asked to cover the Crofton/Cheltenham hockey match, but it was something. The trouble was, Dominic was the photographer assigned to work with me and that was never going to end well, was it? It didn’t help that I was still prickly after what he had said at the social last week, and when he showed up an hour late – sauntering with no trace of urgency towards the door to the girls’ changing rooms where I’d been waiting for him – I had to fight the urge to club him with a hockey stick.
‘I’ve already done the interview with Chloe,’ I told him, arms crossed.
‘Fine,’ he grinned, holding up his camera, ‘I’ll just take some shots.’
I grabbed him by the sleeve of his coat and tugged him back. ‘Like hell you’re taking photos in the girls’ changing rooms. This article is for the Disraeli , not FHM .’
‘I love cross Adamma. She’s my favourite.’ The skin around his mouth creased as his smile widened, but I ignored him.
‘Let’s just head over to the pitch, the match is about to start.’
‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ He frowned and I had to take a deep breath; I hate it when guys think they can comment on what I’m wearing. He must have known I was pissed, because he held his hand up. ‘Not that you don’t look ravishing, as always, but you do know that it’s October and this match is outside, right?’ He pointed up at the ominous black clouds.
‘This is waterproof.’ I ran my hands down my Burberry trench coat. My Lois Lane trench coat purchased especially for my Disraeli assignments.
He didn’t look convinced. ‘If you say so, Miss Okomma.’
He stopped to talk to so many people on the way to the pitch – mostly girls whose hands lingered on his shoulders when he leaned down to kiss them on both cheeks – that I went on without him. I was nearing the pitch when I felt the first drop of rain, as it hit the top of my ear with a cold splash that made my shoulders jump up. I shivered and turned the collar of my coat up, wondering if there was enough time to head back to Burnham for an umbrella, but when I looked back at the changing rooms to see the players jogging out, I settled for a spot on the edge of the pitch next to a kind man with a big umbrella.
By the time the match started with a roar, the rain was biblical. To make matters
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