The Understudy Read online

  ‘Why don’t you suggest having it at ours?’ I say. ‘I could make lasagna.’

  Bel shakes her head. ‘I can’t, Mum. Sadie has already offered.’

  ‘Then of course you can go,’ I tell her, feeling a little pang, because on Friday evenings she and I usually watch a film together while Carl takes Toby to karate. I make a mental note to bring some of the costumes that need mending home with me, to fill in the time.

  Bel reaches up and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Mum, you’re the best.’ I watch her fondly as she runs back to her friends. ‘Mum says it’s fine for the sleepover at yours,’ she says to Sadie.

  ‘There’s a sleepover?’ Imogen looks at Sadie expectantly. ‘Great, when?’

  There’s a bit of a pause and when I catch Ruby and Jess exchanging glances, I realize that Sadie hadn’t intended to invite Imogen. I can see her struggling with herself, because she has a kind heart and doesn’t like to upset anyone. Just when the pause is stretching out a little too long and I’m wondering if I’m going to have to intervene diplomatically, she shrugs.

  ‘Friday,’ she says.

  Imogen throws her arms around her, unsettling her, if the look on Sadie’s face is anything to go by.

  ‘Maybe you’ll all be able to give me a few tips,’ Imogen goes on, looking around at the rest of them. ‘Ruby, you dance so well and Bel, you’ve got such a lovely voice.’

  Her effusiveness doesn’t quite ring true, and when I catch Jess frowning, I know she doesn’t think Imogen was being sincere, either.

  ‘Can I take your costume for you, Imogen?’ I ask, wanting to break up what is fast becoming an awkward situation.

  She takes her costume from the peg and drops it into my outstretched hand, giving me a hard look to let me know she’s aware I interrupted her on purpose. That look gives me chills.

  Adam’s suggestion that the girls include her in their group did throw me a bit. I would have preferred for him to have spoken to me before he sprang it on us. If he had, I would have tried to dissuade him. He usually listens to me on this kind of matter, though during the episode with Ruby and Jess last year, I must say he was a bit remote. Another person coming along to potentially overshadow Bel is a complication that I don’t need right now. Maybe I’m stressing about nothing; it’s not going to be easy for the girls to accept Imogen into their group when it’s always been just the four of them.

  It used to be the four of us mums, too. But Kendall and Carolyn weren’t even speaking by the end of the spring term. My mind turns to the music box. I don’t think Carolyn should have come straight out and accused Ruby, not without proof. Maybe I should have tried to intervene, smooth things over a little. It’s true that Ruby is jealous of Jess, I know that from Bel. And she desperately wants to be an actress, more so than any of the others. I hate to think what will happen if Jess gets the starring role in the end-of-term production and Ruby is her understudy. I doubt Bel will be in the running. Not that she’ll mind; sometimes I think that if she was told she couldn’t be an actress, she’d just shrug and say that it didn’t matter. She’s not that ambitious and neither am I, not like some of the pushy mothers we have at the Academy. Kendall and Carolyn definitely fall into that category, but I prefer to work behind the scenes to help Bel achieve her dreams.

  The bell rings for their next class and the girls leave, Ruby and Jess with their arms linked together, as if Monday (and last term) never happened. It would be nice if Kendall and Carolyn could take a leaf out of their daughters’ book and do the same. Maybe I should invite everyone for tea next week. I must remember to use mugs this time. Last time they came to tea, way back in April, I served it in pretty teacups, complete with saucers, and got raised eyebrows and a ‘how quaint!’ from Carolyn. It didn’t stop her from eating my scones, although I kind of wished she’d choke on one. I don’t know why she has to be so disparaging. Why can’t she just be nice?

  I pull out the little plastic arm and look at it again. Maybe I should go and see Adam, after all. I turn to leave the dressing room, slip it back into my pocket, and get the shock of my life because Imogen is standing there, staring straight at me.

  ‘Imogen!’ My right hand is still in my pocket, so it’s my left hand that flies to my chest. ‘You gave me a fright!’ She doesn’t say anything, just stands there looking at me with her unblinking blue eyes and my heartbeat, already crazily out of control, goes up a couple of notches. I wait for her to speak—but she doesn’t, and as the silence stretches out between us, I try to work out how long she’s been there and if she saw what I had in my hand.

  ‘Did you want something?’ I ask.

  A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. ‘No, not anymore.’

  I’m about to ask her what she means, then change my mind. ‘Haven’t you got a class to go to?’ I say, the arm of the ballerina digging into my sweating palm.

  ‘You’re right, I have.’ She turns away. ‘Goodbye, Mrs. Richardson.’

  I withdraw my hand from my pocket and take a shaky breath. This area backstage—the dressing rooms and the wings—is my little kingdom, where I rule. But the exchange with Imogen has left me with the weirdest of feelings; it was almost as if there was some kind of power struggle going on between us.

  ELISE – Sadie’s mum

  I frown at the shoes in the hall, sliding back the cupboard door and exchanging my heels for a pair of Mahabis slippers. I wriggle my toes, cramped from Louboutins that were never designed for hospital corridors.

  ‘Yuliya?’ I find the housekeeper in the kitchen. ‘There are several shoes by the front door.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Bond.’ She disappears and I pour myself a large glass of Chablis. Field days—as research and development insist on calling them, as though we’re sixth formers on an orienteering trip—are rewarding and frustrating in equal measures. Rewarding to see the life-saving equipment my team designed, frustrating because a day away from my desk means two catching up.

  ‘All tidy, Mrs. Bond. I collect your dress from dry cleaner—they mend the zip.’ Yuliya unties her apron, putting it in the drawer next to the oven. The polished concrete work surfaces are spotless.

  ‘Thank you, Yuliya.’

  ‘There is chicken stew in the oven, and I make pizza for the girls.’

  ‘Girls?’

  Yuliya looks uncertain. ‘Sadie’s friends? She said you said okay?’

  With a sinking feeling, I half-remember Sadie asking if she could have a sleepover. I’d been busy; yes was easier to say than no. ‘That will be all, thank you, Yuliya.’

  She changes her indoor shoes for a pair of ugly brown boots, but as she’s about to leave she turns, her face creased with anxiety.

  I sigh. ‘What have you broken, Yuliya?’

  ‘No, I—’ She wrings her hands, apparently wrestling with whatever it is she wants to say. I hope she isn’t going to hand in her notice. Yuliya runs our family like clockwork on wages that are—frankly—meager. Oh God, is that why she’s leaving?

  ‘Is this about money? Because—’

  ‘Money? No, is about the new girl.’ Her voice is low and urgent, and she comes toward me, gripping my upper arms.

  ‘What new girl? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Watch her with your family.’ The whisper becomes a hiss as Yuliya leans closer to my face. My heart is a drum in my too-tight chest. ‘She has the devil inside her.’ With that, she releases her grip and buttons her coat. ‘I see you tomorrow, Mrs. Bond.’

  Shaken, I take a gulp of wine. Yuliya is prone to superstition. She knocks on wood to ward off the evil eye, and crosses herself if she spills salt. But this is a new one. I hope she isn’t having some kind of breakdown—she’s only halfway through the pantry audit.

  Upstairs, I knock on Sadie’s door.

  ‘God, in my house people just barge in whenever they feel like it.’ Jess’s strident voice filters through the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  The sofa bed has been pulled out, and the
single air bed squeezed between Sadie’s king-size bed and the wall. Every surface is strewn with clothes.

  ‘Sleepover?’

  Sadie sighs. ‘We talked about it earlier this week?’

  ‘If it’s not in the calendar . . .’ I tap my phone and she rolls her eyes. Honestly—she knows everyone’s social engagements have to go in the shared diary, otherwise how can any family function?

  ‘Hi, Mrs. Bond.’ It takes me a moment to place the blond girl sitting on the single air bed, a pair of hair straighteners in one hand.

  The new girl . . .

  ‘Imogen,’ I remember. ‘Call me Elise—everyone does.’ Imogen smiles, rather sweetly. I wonder if Yuliya’s been at my drinks cabinet.

  ‘Your house is amazing.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Imogen is a seventeen-year-old drama student, not a Beautiful Homes journalist, but I’m still flattered. This house represents everything I’ve worked for. I remember standing on the road with the architectural plans in my hands, watching the bulldozers take down the grotty bungalow that had been there, and thinking, This is it—this is what it’s all for.

  ‘I’ve got work to do,’ I tell the girls as my phone pings, ‘but Yuliya’s made pizza, and there’s cider in the fridge.’

  ‘Thanks, Elise,’ Sadie says.

  ‘Cider!’ Imogen bounces on her air bed. Ruby and Jess exchange excited glances.

  ‘I’m not allowed to drink,’ I hear Bel say as I close the door. Quelle surprise. Bronnie Richardson’s apron strings are tied tighter than a ship in a storm. Personally, I think a few pints of cider would loosen them both up, but I have more important things to worry about than Sadie’s friends. BONDical, Limited is this close to securing a contract with one of the country’s leading private medical firms, and although I’ve got a dedicated team working on the bid, I’m sure they won’t mind my double-checking the application.

  I’m engrossed in my work when there’s a tentative knock, followed by silence. I wait; sometimes Sadie will go away if I’m busy. I squint at the screen, my eyes gritty. The numbers are right, but the bid needs more impact . . .

  Another knock. I sigh. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Imogen won’t stop crying.’ A charcoal mask is smeared across Sadie’s face.

  ‘About what?’

  The mask wrinkles as Sadie screws up her face. ‘She won’t say.’

  My fingers twitch on the keyboard. ‘I’ll come in a minute.’ Ensuring a high-quality, viable service . . . I tut, trying to find the perfect phrase . . .

  ‘Mum.’

  Mum? I stand up.

  Imogen’s head is buried beneath pulled-up knees. Muffled sobs come from beneath her arms, wrapped around her as though she’s trying to be as small as possible. Ruby, Bel, and Jess are on Sadie’s bed, watching Breaking Bad. Jess very deliberately turns up the volume. Sadie hovers between Imogen and her friends.

  I could do without teenage histrionics tonight. Occasionally someone will tell Nick and me that we’re lucky to have such a level-headed daughter, who doesn’t act up, doesn’t have mood swings. I’m scathing in my response. You don’t tell someone with a well-behaved dog that they’re ‘lucky’ they sit on command, do you?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I crouch and put an awkward hand on Imogen’s shoulder. Like the others, she’s in pajamas, although hers are covered in cartoons—the sort of thing Sadie wore when she was fourteen. The sobbing intensifies. ‘What’s wrong, Imogen?’

  Slowly, she emerges, her face red and blotchy, like she’s been rubbing it. I’m struck by the bags beneath her eyes. Imogen looks more exhausted than any seventeen-year-old ever should—a sharp contrast to the fresh faces of Sadie and her friends, who value their looks too much to miss out on sleep.

  She lets out a loud, choking sob. ‘N-n-nothing.’

  ‘Unless you tell me, I can’t help.’

  Ruby twirls a finger around her ear. ‘Cray cray . . .’ she says, sotto voce. I glare at her.

  Imogen’s bottom lip trembles. ‘I don’t want to sleep on the air bed.’

  ‘Then swap with one of the girls on the sofa bed,’ I say, but Imogen shakes her head. She pulls her pajama sleeve down—but not before I glimpse the plaster around her left wrist. Was she trying to hide it?

  ‘I can’t sleep there, either.’ She scrambles to her feet, fists clenched, her back tight against the wall. Her voice is shrill, like she’s ten years younger than the others, and the contrast with her otherwise mature appearance is oddly unsettling.

  She has the devil inside her . . .

  I push Yuliya’s words away. ‘Why not?’

  She widens her eyes, her words breathy and frightened. ‘There are things under the bed. Monsters.’

  Ruby screams.

  Jess hits her. ‘You idiot—you made me jump.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’ Ruby raises both arms, fingers clawed. ‘It was . . . A MONSTER!’ They collapse into giggles.

  When I look back at Imogen, she’s staring at Ruby and Jess with undisguised fury. A shiver runs across my neck.

  Imogen draws herself up and smiles politely, all trace of the frightened little girl gone. ‘May I go in the big bed, Mrs. Bond, between Sadie and Ruby?’ She’s talking like an adult, now, and it’s eerie, coming from a teenager in cartoon pajamas.

  There’s a sharp exclamation from one of the girls. Ruby, probably, or maybe Jess. Privately, I don’t blame them.

  ‘I won’t sleep a wink otherwise.’

  Sleep a wink. Again, that curiously grown-up turn of phrase. Grown-up? I think, before I can stop myself, or otherworldly?

  She has the devil inside her.

  Bloody Yuliya, putting stupid ideas in my head. I’m a scientist. Imogen is practically a child. So what if she still freaks out over monsters?

  ‘Fine—sleep in Sadie’s bed, then.’

  ‘But that’s not—’ Jess stares at me, open-mouthed.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Ruby whirls around, looking to Sadie for backup. ‘Sadie, tell her!’

  Sadie knows better than to try to change a decision I’ve made. ‘Oh okay, then. Imogen, sleep between me and Rubes.’

  ‘What the fuck, Sades?’ I’ve never heard Ruby this angry. Is she jealous? Worried about her position in the group now there’s a new girl to contend with?

  ‘Language, Ruby,’ I say, although I couldn’t give a monkey’s how someone else’s child speaks. ‘That’s sorted, then.’

  ‘Yay!’ Imogen bounds up, jumping onto the bed and sitting cross-legged, cuddling a pillow. She’s all smiles, like the last half hour never happened; like a puppy who loses a ball and then finds another. I stand, wanting to get back to work, but as I pass Sadie’s en suite, I see my Crème de la Mer, tossed onto a pile of cheap toiletries. I don’t mind Sadie using my things—you can’t invest too early in good skin—but I’m blowed if her friends are going to slather themselves in my four-hundred-pound face cream.

  The counter is a mess of masks and spot treatments, liners and lip glosses. Four wash bags spill their contents into the soup of cosmetics. Ruby’s will be the pink one with Selfie Kit in white letters on one side, which means the rose-gold bag filled with Mac and Benefit will be Jess’s, and the half empty Cath Kidston one with a flannel and some Body Shop shampoo, Bel’s. Which only leaves . . .

  I glance behind me, but the girls are whispering animatedly to each other, oblivious to my presence. Imogen’s bag is black, with Ted Baker along the top. I step into the bathroom and, slowly, I unzip the bag. You can tell a lot about someone from their wash bag. Cleanse, tone, and moisturize? Or a pack of baby wipes and hope for the best? Dental floss, or a splayed out toothbrush that’s seen better days?

  There isn’t much. A toothbrush, some makeup, and a razor. I think of how Imogen yanked down her sleeve. Self-harming? Attention-seeking? Thank God Sadie’s too level-headed to be swayed by emo trends.

  My hand closes around a small packet of pills. I pull it out, expecting paracetamol, but instead I see the familiar label of a prescription-
issued drug. I peer at the label, too reliant nowadays on my reading glasses, and see a familiar word. Olanzapine.

  I might not be a doctor, but there isn’t much I don’t know about medical equipment and drugs: What the hell is a seventeen-year-old doing with antipsychotics? I read the label—10 mg alprazolam once a day—then stop short.

  The patient name printed on the label isn’t Imogen Curwood. It’s Lisa something, Lisa D . . . Dais-something. I rub at the smudges of makeup obscuring the name. Are they stolen?

  I don’t know what makes me look up. I only know that when I do, it’s all I can do not to cry out. The eyes that meet mine in the bathroom mirror belong in the face of someone far older than Imogen Curwood.

  Someone far more dangerous.

  ‘I think you’ll find that belongs to me.’

  I freeze, as though I’m the child, and Imogen the adult who has caught me out. I shove the pill packet back in the wash bag and drop it onto the counter.

  ‘Just clearing up a bit!’ I say, more confidently than I feel. If it had been one of the others—Ruby or Jess or Bel—I’d ask what they were doing with drugs, where they got them from. But Imogen’s eyes burn into me. My mouth is dry; a hard ball of fear settles in my chest.

  A cruel smile creeps across Imogen’s face. ‘You should be careful,’ she says softly. ‘Did you know more accidents happen in the home than anywhere else?’ She holds my gaze, and although I know she’s just a kid, and there’s no such thing as a devil inside her, I feel the blood drain from my face.

  Only when I am once again in the safety of my study am I able to breathe again. Ruby is spot on: Imogen Curwood is utterly cray cray.

  ‘Then why is she in our house?’ Nick says. His laptop is tilted away from him, so my Skype view is less husband and more hotel headboard. I push my glass of wine out of view before he comments on it.

  ‘Because Sadie didn’t want her to feel left out.’

  His face softens. ‘That’s my girl. Did you know that actors have higher levels of empathy than anyone else? I read a study about it.’

  ‘Great, she can add it to her CV,’ I say drily. ‘It’ll compensate for the lack of A-levels.’ Nick’s sitting on his hotel bed; I’m already under my covers. It’s almost midnight here, and coming up to seven p.m. in Connecticut, where Nick will be till next week.