‘I heard our mums talking about it! I’m going to Westfield, if I pass the entrance exams. They were saying how lovely it would be if we could go together! Wouldn’t that be fantastic?’
It was a glorious prospect and, as soon as they were in the car on the way home, Imogen asked her mother if it was true.
Mrs Heath seemed a little flustered. ‘Well, how did you hear about that? It’s true Selina and I have discussed it, and I would be so happy if you went to Westfield, just as I did, and with Allegra too. But … it’s terribly expensive. The only way would be if you could win a scholarship to pay some of the fees. I don’t see why you couldn’t – you’re a bright girl, top of your class in some subjects. We’ll talk to your father about it.’
It didn’t take long for Imogen to realise that her father was not at all keen on the idea. Loitering behind doors and on the stairs, she heard him state his views very clearly.
‘I don’t like the idea at all, Jeannie! She’s too young for that kind of pressure. What if she doesn’t get a scholarship? She’ll feel like a failure, and she’s only ten years old.’
‘Of course she’ll get it. She’s very clever.’
‘She’ll be up against lots of other clever but poor girls. And if she does get it, what then? Surrounded by rich pupils who can afford anything they want … it could ruin Imogen. She’ll turn into one of those nasty types, obsessed with herself and her possessions, and permanently dissatisfied. It’s not what I want for her.’
‘I went to Westfield and I’m not like that!’ cried her mother indignantly. ‘It’s not the social aspect I’m interested in – it’s the fact that I want Imogen to have the very best opportunities. The academic results there are excellent.’
‘If it’s academic results you value, why can’t she go to school here in Scotland? Why send her all the way to bloody England? I don’t want her to leave home so young. I’ll miss her.’
‘We must think of what’s best for her. It’s a wonderful chance. We must let her take it. Besides, she’s longing to go. She told me.’
Imogen knew who would win and, sure enough, a few weeks later she was told that they would be taking a trip
with
the McCorquodales to Westfield so that the girls could sit the exams: a straightforward entrance exam for Allegra and a scholarship exam for Imogen.
It was a prospect that was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.
What if I don’t pass?
Imogen wondered, as they took the train from Edinburgh to London where they would stay overnight at the McCorquodales’ house in Onslow Square, South Kensington. Her mother had arranged some extra tuition from a dry old ex-schoolteacher. Miss McTavish came over every evening to drill Imogen in French grammar and vocabulary, and put her through some mathematics exercises.
‘
Soyez soigneuse
, Imogen,’ she had warned in her Scottish-tinged French accent. ‘You’ll need to think very hard in these exams … and remember to read the question three times before you answer it.’
She tried to forget how frightened she was in the excitement of their trip. It was Imogen’s first visit to London, and in the taxi from the station to the house she was silent all the way, watching as the famous landmarks drifted by outside the windows. Then they reached their destination: a tall, white-fronted house with an imposing columned porch, set in an elegant square. Inside it was enormous, tastefully and very expensively decorated.
‘What a beautiful house,’ exclaimed Imogen’s mother when they went inside. ‘Selina, it’s exquisite!’
‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with me,’ she said airily, leading the way down a long hall with every inch of the walls hung with paintings. ‘It’s Ivo’s brother, David. He did up this place for us, and you know what wonderful taste he has.’
The two mothers looked at each other meaningfully.
‘Come on,’ said Allegra, pulling Imogen by the hand. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
The room they would be sharing was right at the top of the house, looking out at the back over the rooftops of Kensington. It was done up like a traditional girly room, with rose-printed curtains, and pink-and-white counterpanes on the beds, and white chests of drawers with little lamps on them. Imogen fell in love with it at once and wished that her bedroom at home looked just like this.
‘My uncle David did it,’ Allegra explained. ‘He designed this ’specially for me.’ She jumped on the bed and bounced on it a little. ‘He’s quite famous.’
‘Is he?’ Nothing about the McCorquodales surprised Imogen: their lives were unendingly fascinating, glamorous and impressive. ‘Why?’
‘He knows absolutely everyone. Goes to all the parties and is friends with them all. I mean, he knows the royal family and film stars and rock stars and …
everyone
.’
‘Does he know Claudia Schiffer?’ asked Imogen. Claudia was her definition of the most famous and beautiful woman in the world, and her favourite supermodel. Allegra preferred Linda Evangelista.
‘I expect so. And Joan Collins. And Princess Diana.’
Imogen shook her head and breathed, ‘Wow! Princess Diana! Do you think he knows her well?’
Allegra said, ‘She phoned him once when I was there, and he said, “Hello, Diana darling, how are you? When are we having lunch?”’
They thought for a moment of what it must be like to know people as famous as that, to have them phone you and to go out for lunch with them.
‘Why does he know them?’ Imogen asked. She sat down on her bed and kicked off her shoes.
Allegra shrugged. ‘Mummy said he’s a style …
arbiter
. He has a private members club that he started up years ago, and it’s very exclusive and expensive.’
‘A club?’ Imogen thought of the Secret Seven, which was her main idea of a club.
‘A nightclub. You know, a place people go to late at night, to have dinner and cocktails and talk to each other. Perhaps dance a bit, probably to classical music.’
‘It sounds quite fun,’ Imogen said, though she wasn’t entirely sure.
Allegra nodded. ‘I really want him to take me there but he says I’m far too young and that I can go when I’m eighteen.’ She made a face. ‘But that’s
ages
away. I’m sure I’ll be able to make him take me before then.’
Then they were called downstairs for tea and cake.
The next day they all climbed into the big black Bentley and were driven to Westfield School. It was beautiful, like a palace, and they were shown all over it by a prefect, who looked sophisticated, adult, and just a touch bored despite her impeccable manners.
If I come here, I’ll be like that
, Imogen thought longingly.
I’ll be like Allegra, and all the other girls here. They’re so clever and confident
…
The school was full of wonderful facilities, from the huge sports hall, acres of grass tennis courts and Olympic-sized swimming pool, to the library, computer room, theatre, and light, airy classrooms. But it was the boarding houses she loved the most: the dormitories with their rows of cubicles, each decorated to its owner’s taste with posters, family photographs, books and ornaments. It was everything she’d dreamt a boarding school would be, and her heart contracted with a violent yearning to belong here.
Before lunch they sat their first paper. Allegra was shown into a classroom and whispered, ‘Good luck!’ as Imogen was led on down the hall to the room where the scholarship hopefuls were sitting their exams. A sick feeling seized her stomach.
Allegra only has to do well enough to get in
, she
realised
as she surveyed the other girls, who all looked frighteningly bright,
but I have to do better than all of these others to get my place
.
The pressure made her hands tremble and her throat dry.
She did her best. There was nothing too terrifying, although she couldn’t be sure how much she’d got right in the maths paper.
‘How did it go?’ Allegra whispered as they ate their lunch in the refectory, surrounded by the girls lucky enough to be at the school already.
‘All right, I think,’ Imogen said, mainly relieved that her least favourite paper was out of the way. ‘You?’
Allegra shrugged. ‘Okay. We did Venn diagrams this term, so it wasn’t too bad.’
After lunch they had the French paper and then English, which Imogen knew was her strongest suit. Last of all there was an interview with the Headmistress, which wasn’t as frightening as she’d expected: a casual chat about the things she liked doing, her favourite books and her ambitions. Then it was time to go.
‘Do you want to come here?’ Allegra asked as they watched Westfield disappear through the windows of the Bentley.
Imogen nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She wanted to go there more than anything in the world.
‘Imogen, you clever girl, you’ve won a place at Westfield!’ her mother said, full of excitement as she clutched a letter with an embossed coat of arms at the top of it.
Imogen gasped, her insides burning with pleasure and surprise. A glowing future appeared in her mind, full of dorms and sports kit and toast and lessons and …
‘But …’ Her father took it from her mother’s hand and scanned it quickly. Then he glanced up at his wife. ‘This is
a
standard place. Not a scholarship.’
‘The competition is terribly fierce,’ her mother said quickly, her cheeks stained with red. ‘And look what lovely things the Headmistress has said …’
Not a scholarship place?
Dismay rushed through Imogen.
So am I going or not?
‘Look,’ continued her mother, ‘Miss Steele says that your English paper was outstanding. It was just the slight weakness in your other papers that meant you couldn’t be offered the scholarship. But they hope you’ll be able to take up your place anyway.’
Her father said, ‘I don’t see how, Jeannie. It’s ten thousand a year.’ His face was grim.
Imogen glanced between her parents, her eyes wide and pleading. She knew that her mother usually won arguments, but when it concerned money, her father’s word was final. ‘Please may I go, Daddy?’ she asked in a small, tremulous voice.
Don’t you realise my life will be over if I can’t go?
‘We’ll see, Imogen, we’ll see,’ he said in a solemn tone, and she knew that the big debate was going to happen when she was in bed. All she could do was await the outcome.
‘Oh, Jeannie, what a shame!’ Selina said, her face full of sympathy.
‘I’ve begged and pleaded, but he won’t be moved.’ Jeannie Heath’s eyes were red and puffy from all the weeping she’d done in an attempt to shift her husband’s resolve. ‘He says we can’t afford it, and that’s that. He’s been against it from the start, and this has given him just the excuse he needed. Oh, if only Imogen had had a little more maths tuition, she would have won that scholarship place, I know she would. But he wouldn’t pay, and now look!’
The girls sat silently on the sofa in the drawing room of
Foughton
Castle, listening to Imogen’s fate being discussed as they munched Battenberg and Jaffa cakes. Allegra had her place and would be going to Westfield. The thought that Imogen would not had filled their hearts with despair.
Selina leant towards her friend and pressed a hand over hers. ‘If money is all it is … well, we’ll take the wind out of his sails, that’s all.’ She turned to Imogen with a broad smile over her face. ‘Would you like to go to Westfield with Allegra, darling?’
Imogen nodded, her mouth full of cake and her heart full of longing.
‘Then you shall!’ she declared.
‘But, Selina …’ Jeannie looked dubious. ‘You shouldn’t say such things … it’s really not fair to lead her on. Gordon won’t budge.’
Selina turned back to her friend with a satisfied expression. ‘There’s only one solution.
We’ll
pay for Imogen to go to Westfield. Oh, don’t worry, darling,’ she said, seeing her friend’s expression, ‘you can pay us back, of course. When you’ve got the money. But, in the meantime, we’ll be more than happy to meet the fees. I know I can speak for Ivo. We’d both feel so much better about Allegra going if we knew she had her little friend with her.’
Allegra’s dark blue gaze slid over to meet Imogen’s grey-green one. Their eyes sparkled and danced. Here was the solution. They continued munching and listening as hard as they could.
‘But, Selina, we couldn’t possibly …’
‘Don’t be silly! I won’t hear another word about it. We’ll pay and that’s that. It will be wonderful, darling! Your daughter and mine, at our old school. It couldn’t be more perfect. And as for Gordon … well, you’ll just have to persuade him, won’t you?’
*
It was only Imogen’s own special pleading, when they’d gone out walking together one day, that swung the balance. Her father was still reluctant but when he’d seen how much she longed for it, he couldn’t deny her, even though she could see in his eyes that he didn’t want to lose her to her new English school.
When he’d finally said yes, she’d screamed with joy and hugged him with all her strength, until he’d laughed but not with joy. She was going to belong to Allegra’s world at last, properly, and on her own account.
They’d gone to Westfield that September, full of anticipation, trepidation and excitement, secure only in their friendship but brimming with hope for the future.
Chapter 4
New York
2000
MITCH GOT OFF
the Greyhound bus at Port Authority and instantly felt like the smallest, most meaningless speck in a city full to the brim with people who knew exactly what they should be doing. Even the drunken bearded man in a mass of rags panhandling in the subway exit seemed more sophisticated than he was.
He pulled his rucksack tighter over his shoulder and headed for the daylight.
Once above ground, he was assailed by noise and movement. Cars rushed past, yellow cabs wove in and out of less nimble traffic, silver buses rolled imperturbably alongside the sidewalk, all stopping to obey the instructions of the traffic lights as though following the steps of an intricate dance: now one stream moving, now another, ever flowing up and down and across the grid system of the city’s streets.
He felt overwhelmed by the size and sound of the city, the vast glass-and-steel office blocks rearing up into the sky, dwarfing him as he stumbled past their revolving doors, and the bustle and rush of people as they strode determinedly on their way. The people themselves were extraordinary: all colours, shapes and sizes, in all manner of clothes. There were races he’d never seen in his backwater of a town:
Korean
boys with fierce eyes and set mouths wearing rock-band T-shirts and jeans; Chinese women in dark trousers and shirts hurrying by about their business with armfuls of packages; graceful Somalian girls wafting along the kerb. He saw giant women in leopard-print coats and glittery high heels, with heavy make-up and unnaturally large hair –
They must be men
, Mitch thought incredulously. He’d heard of trans-sexuals but never seen any – and beautiful girls, more beautiful girls than he’d imagined possible in one place, along with loping young guys, shuffling old men, and the armies of middle-aged, middle-income office workers in their dark suits and leather shoes.