The Understudy Read online

  B A Paris s an internationally bestselling author who has sold over one million copies in the UK alone and is a New York Times bestseller. Her books have sold in 38 territories around the world. Her next novel, The Dilemma, publishes in January 2020.

  Clare Mackintosh is a Sunday Times bestselling author who has sold over 2 million copies of her books worldwide. Her latest novel, After The End, published in June 2019.

  Holly Brown is a highly acclaimed author of four novels and is a practicing marriage and family therapist in the San Francisco Bay Area. How Far She's Come is her latest novel.

  Sophie Hannah is an internationally bestselling crime fiction writer. Her crime novels have been translated into 49 languages and published in 51 countries. Her next thriller, Haven't They Grown, publishes in January 2020.

  Also By B. A. Paris

  Behind Closed Doors Bring Me Back

  The Breakdown

  The Dilemma

  Also by Clare Mackintosh

  I Let You Go

  I See You

  Let Me Lie

  After The End

  Also by Holly Brown

  Don’t Try To Find Me A Necessary End

  This is Not Over

  How Far She’s Come Also by Sophie Hannah

  Little Face

  Hurting Distance

  The Point of Rescue The Other Half Lives A Room Swept White Lasting Damage

  Kind of Cruel

  The Carrier

  The Orphan Choir

  The Telling Error The Monogram Murders A Game for All the Family The Narrow Bed

  A Closed Casket

  Did You See Melody?

  The Mystery of Three Quarters

  The Understudy

  B. A. Paris, Clare Mackintosh,

  Holly Brown, Sophie Hannah

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Hodder & Stoughton An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Serial Box, Inc. 2019

  The right of B. A. Paris, Clare Mackintosh, Holly Brown and Sophie Hannah to be identified as the Authors of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library eBook ISBN 9781529303933

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Contents

  1 The Music Box

  2 Let the Show Begin

  3 On the Trail for Truth

  4 The Performance

  5 Truth Crash

  6 Revelations

  7 All the Players

  8 Picture Perfect

  9 Finding Grace

  10 The Final Act

  1

  The Music Box

  B. A. Paris, Clare Mackintosh, Holly Brown and Sophie Hannah

  KENDALL – Ruby’s mum

  For a second, all you see is beauty. That’s because the eye goes where it wants, where it’s drawn: to the flawless face, golden hair caught up in a bun, arm extended gracefully, lithe dancer’s body possibly about to take flight. Only she’s spinning slowly, toward you, and then you realize . . . her sky-blue leotard is splashed with blood. One arm is missing and the opposing leg is grotesquely twisted in a way that spells violence. A ballerina who really did break a leg, but it certainly wasn’t her good luck.

  I know a place where no one’s lost . . . I know a place where no one cries . . .

  The voice is haunting and exquisite. Of course it is; it’s Jess Mordue’s. She’s incredibly talented, perhaps just as talented as my daughter Ruby, only far more beautiful. I’d never say that to Ruby, but she could hardly miss it. Jess is stunning.

  Right now, we’re all stunned into silence here in the headmaster’s office, all four of us mothers. I feel Carolyn, Jess’s mom, staring daggers at me. I don’t want to look at her, and I don’t want to look at the demonic music box on the desk in front of us, and I don’t want to look down like I’m guilty, or like Ruby is. She can’t have done this. It’s not Ruby at all.

  The other mothers don’t know the full story of who Ruby is, or who I am, or how the two fit together. They’re all British, so maybe they haven’t tried to imagine how hard it is to move from LA to London, leaving your husband behind, being solely responsible for the day-to-day rearing of someone as tempestuous as Ruby.

  Her dream is to enter a world—a business—where beauty is revered, where Jess is likely to get breaks Ruby never will. Sometimes her insecurities take over. Sometimes it all gets out of control, and then she’s truly sorry, I know she is.

  As the music box winds down, the plinking piano notes first irregular and then ceasing, the ballerina’s movement becomes jerkier until, mercifully, she’s still. Adam Racki whispers, as much to himself as any of us, ‘Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles.’ Then, for our benefit, he attributes, ‘Macbeth.’

  Carolyn shakes her head in utter contempt for the headmaster. ‘You realize what that song is, don’t you?’ she demands. She’s physically imposing, as tall as Jess but solid rather than willowy, not one to soften her features with makeup. She leans forward in her chair, jabbing her finger toward the music box—and toward Mr. Racki—but I feel like her aggression is aimed squarely at me, two seats to her left. ‘It’s “Castle on a Cloud.” It’s Jess singing “Castle on a Cloud” Her audition song. You all get what this means.’

  ‘None of us know yet what it means,’ Mr. Racki says in that sonorous voice of his. He’s not handsome but he has an undeniable presence, which makes sense given his past success on the West End. His walls display photos of him in full makeup onstage beside such luminaries as . . . well, I don’t know the British theater greats, but I know they’re represented. And I like his habit of quoting from plays, though sometimes the Latin is a bit much. ‘We don’t know who left this in Jess’s locker.’

  I’m not about to suggest that it was one of the other girls in the group of friends, though it is worth noting that their mothers, Bronnie and Elise, were also called into this meeting. Bronnie is sitting as a buffer between Carolyn and me, and Elise is on the other side of Carolyn. Our four girls are all studying musical theater at the Orla Flynn Academy. All us ‘mums’ would do anything to protect them, which sometimes puts us at odds with each other. Alliances can form and dissolve in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, I’m sad to say, we aren’t so different from a bunch of sixteen-and seventeen-year-olds ourselves.

  Even though Ruby took full responsibility for last year’s events, she has been welcomed back into the fold by the girls, (thank God!) but Carolyn has never forgiven her. She’s probably not forgiven me either. The whole business offended her sense of justice. She is a law professor, after all. She didn’t think Ruby paid a high enough price.

  Not that that excuses Ruby’s behavior last year, but the notion of bullies and victims is too reductive and simplistic to fit all situations.

  I glance at Bronnie and feel her silent support. Of the group of mothers, she’s the most tenderhearted, though she’s not the type to speak up this early. Her daughter Annabel is sweet a
nd kind and avoids taking sides, too.

  There’s no point in looking to Elise, who’s emanating waves of impatience. She taps her foot audibly, her impeccable fox-red bob swinging in time like an exasperated metronome. She’d prefer to be off making her millions. She’s a pragmatist and a workhorse, just like her daughter Sadie.

  Could it really be that just last year, we were a gang of four, like our daughters? We’re all so different, but I relied on them. I miss them.

  ‘Ruby did this,’ Carolyn says with certainty.

  What happened to innocent until proven guilty? Is that only in America?

  ‘We at the Academy take this type of threat very seriously,’ Mr. Racki says. ‘The safety of our students is paramount. But with no witnesses and no confession, we must proceed with caution.’

  Carolyn lets out an angry laugh. Then she stands up and begins to pace behind the other mums’ chairs. It unnerves me, though I won’t show it.

  ‘I’m very sorry for Jess’s experience . . .’ Mr. Racki trails off when Carolyn halts to glare at him. He decides to appeal to the larger room, his gaze encompassing all the mothers. ‘The reason I brought all four of you in today is because we need to focus on creating an environment of nurturance and empathy so that whoever did this will realize—’

  ‘Empathy?!!!!’ Carolyn explodes. ‘Someone is threatening to mangle my daughter!’

  ‘I’ve interviewed all the girls. Ruby denied any involvement, and no one saw anything.’ His eyes scuttle away from Carolyn. I’m still amazed that he didn’t cave to her pressure to expel Ruby last year, which must have been substantial.

  The fact is, Ruby’s still here. And so am I. I sit up a little straighter. Carolyn’s not the only one willing to fight for her daughter. I just happen to have different weapons. I lean in and address Mr. Racki—Adam—with my voice soft in a deliberate contrast with Carolyn’s bleating. For a second, I wish I still had my long blond hair to toss, wish I still dressed with a hint (or more) of cleavage, but post-chemo and post-lumpectomy, my hair’s grown back at a glacial pace and it’s only to my shoulders, the same chestnut brown as Ruby’s. ‘Ruby has no reason to threaten Jess,’ I tell him.

  Carolyn comes to loom over me. ‘It’s an encore performance!’ she nearly bellows into my face. I try not to flinch. Don’t show fear.

  ‘Carolyn, sit down, please,’ Mr. Racki says in the authoritative voice he must use with the girls in his charge.

  Seeing that Mr. Racki won’t continue until she complies, Carolyn sits down with a loud huff. I reward him with a smile.

  ‘I’ll certainly make further inquiries and tighten security measures, but everyone in this room must play their part. All the world’s a stage, after all, and we need to set an example for the girls. It’s just a few weeks into the term. We don’t want a repeat of last year, now do we?’

  Bronnie is nodding, all furrowed brow, but Elise’s foot has accelerated. ‘Sadie had nothing to do with last year’s nonsense, and she’s got nothing to do with this music box. I set a fine example for my daughter.’

  ‘What went on last year affected their entire group, and threatened to infect the entire school,’ Mr. Racki says. ‘With teenage girls, it’s all about dynamics. Everyone plays a role.’

  ‘No,’ Carolyn says, ‘this is about Ruby. She should have been expelled already, but I’ll settle for right now.’

  ‘It wasn’t Ruby,’ I tell Mr. Racki. Lately, Ruby’s been so much more grounded; she won’t let anything distract her from her true purpose, which she’s had since she was four years old. She’s going to be a star.

  I do worry that some of what’s happened is my fault. My cancer was so tough on Ruby, and she’d acted out, which multiple therapists in LA said was not unusual. I wish I’d responded differently at the time, but I can’t erase the past. London was supposed to be our fresh start, an ocean away.

  But this wasn’t Ruby. She promised.

  ‘At heart, Ruby’s a lovely girl,’ Bronnie says. Thank goodness for Bronnie.

  ‘Lovely?’ Carolyn turns to Bronnie, but can’t turn on Bronnie. Even Carolyn can’t behead Bambi. ‘Adam, this has Ruby written all over it.’ Her use of his first name is as challenging as her stare.

  He averts his eyes. Well, I’m Ruby’s mother, dammit. ‘This isn’t Ruby’s MO at all.’

  Carolyn clearly relishes my choice of words. ‘So she has an MO, like a criminal, does she?’

  I ignore her. Mr. Racki’s my target. ‘When Ruby’s confronted,’ I say, ‘she admits what she’s done and she’s remorseful.’

  ‘You mean she cries,’ Carolyn says. ‘That’s not the same as feeling remorse. She’s an actress, after all.’

  ‘They all are,’ Bronnie says. I don’t know if she means just our four daughters, or all teenagers in general. Secrecy and lying go with the territory.

  ‘She told the headmaster she didn’t do it, and I believe her.’ My tone is firm. I might have a little actress in me, too. Because while most of me believes Ruby, there’s a part that wonders. But I can’t let on, can’t let Carolyn smell blood in the water.

  The truth is, I’m afraid. I’m the only one here who knows just how wrong it can all go when Ruby gets out of control.

  ‘She manipulates you,’ Carolyn says flatly. ‘And now she’s upping her game. Doesn’t anyone else see how dangerous this is?’

  Elise suddenly stands up. ‘Sure, it’s all very upsetting, I’m sorry for Jess, and I have no idea if Ruby did it, but it doesn’t have anything to do with Sadie or me.’ She heads toward the door and then asks, over her shoulder, ‘Bronnie, are you coming? This has nothing to do with you or Bel, either.’ Bronnie looks torn. She hesitates just a beat too long for Elise’s taste, so Elise yanks open the door, says, ‘I’ll catch you all later,’ and walks out.

  Mr. Racki seems to be losing control of this meeting. He is largely ineffectual, which worked to Ruby’s and my advantage when she was admitted with very few questions asked. I’m sure it didn’t hurt that Nick endowed positions for two underprivileged students. Carolyn probably anticipates that I’m not above playing the cancer card or the damsel-in-distress-far-from-home card. Maybe that’s why she’s fit to be tied right now. She can’t stand to lose, and the prospect of being bested by an inferior intellect like mine once again—well, it must be too much to bear.

  Or she just loves her daughter and doesn’t want to see her tormented again. I can understand that. If a music box like this showed up in Ruby’s locker . . . well, I don’t even like to think about that.

  ‘This is bullshit!’ Carolyn bursts out. ‘Find me another suspect. I fucking dare you!’

  I look to Mr. Racki imploringly, pleading my case. ‘This obsession Carolyn has with Ruby—’

  ‘I’d say it’s the other way around! Ruby is obsessed with Jess! And I’ve fucking had it!’

  ‘Does the person who cusses the most get their way?’ I ask.

  Mr. Racki is looking a bit hapless, perhaps searching for a unifying theater quote. Then he clasps his hands together and smiles around at all of us. I’ve seen this before, we all have, when he suddenly decides that what the world needs now is love, sweet love. Yes, he can be corny, but his heart is in the right place, and again, that frequently works to Ruby’s advantage. It means he’s always ready to see the best in her and give her another chance. I look at him with wide, curious, accepting eyes, while I can feel that Carolyn is tensing up, on the verge of another explosion. Maybe I shouldn’t take pleasure in her reaction, not at a moment like this, but cancer taught me that you need to live life to the fullest at all times, because you just never know.

  ‘An opportunity has presented itself,’ he says. ‘A new student has just started at OFA this morning. Her name is Imogen Curwood, and she doesn’t know anything about the girls, or their history. She doesn’t know anything about any music boxes. And introducing a new person can often shift dynamics significantly, which might be just what the girls need.’

  ‘Are you for real?�
� Carolyn asks.

  ‘Very real.’ His tone is jolly. He obviously believes he’s stumbled upon the perfect solution. ‘Imogen’s arrival can be a fresh start for everyone.’ A fresh start—one of my favorite phrases. This couldn’t be going any better. ‘Here’s a chance for the girls to resolve any differences they have by welcoming a new friend, and as adults, we can give them the proper encouragement.’

  I smile at him, like it’s a delightful idea, and it is, because it means that Ruby isn’t going to be expelled. It means Carolyn has been thwarted once again.

  Bronnie smiles, too. He’s her boss, after all, so she doesn’t have much choice. It’s a fine line to walk, being both an employee and the mother of a student.

  Without a word, Carolyn storms out.

  Some people are just never happy. Who doesn’t love a fresh start?

  CAROLYN – Jess’s mum

  I slam the car door shut and sit in the driver’s seat with my eyes closed, counting.

  One, two, three . . .

  Why do people count when they’re agitated? Are numbers inherently calming? Let’s see.

  Four, five, six . . .

  No, they’re not. It’s all bullshit: meditate, count to ten, paint your bedroom walls white and spray lavender mist on your pillow. You can do all of that and the real world is still out there.

  Seven, eight, fuck Ruby Donovan. Please let her get squashed to a splatter on the pavement by an obese hippo falling from a fourteenth-floor balcony.

  The real world is still out there, and you’re not going to get any sleep tonight because a sly-as-fuck teenage malignancy is still persecuting your daughter.