Gifted and Talented (15 page)

Isabel hummed happily on her way back from the library. Since meeting Olly, the world seemed transformed, her heart immeasurably lightened. She had hardly noticed when Ellie cut her dead, as usual, when they passed in the corridor, or when Kate, also as usual, was hogging all the books she wanted. Let them carry on with their petty little girls’-school cruelties, she did not care. They could not touch her now; she had a friend. In time, perhaps, more than a friend.

She turned the corner of her corridor and viewed without interest someone trying Amber’s doorknob. One of the tall, handsome boys, she registered vaguely, but she did not seek to meet yet another blank, uninterested stare. They always looked right through her, these glamorous friends of her neighbour. Not that she cared any more, of course.

All the same, as Isabel approached, she kept her eye level to his hand, a long, pale hand with a ray of light bouncing off the gleaming gold signet ring.

He turned suddenly and she glanced, involuntarily, straight at him. As he met her eyes, Isabel felt something sharp and piercing in her lower abdomen, as if a bullet was ripping through it. It was
him
: the one she had seen in the quadrangle of St Alwine’s on her way to the tutorial with David Stringer.

The feeling of being dazzled came back. It was as if everything stopped – not only her breath, but time itself. There was something about this boy not entirely of this world: yellow-blond hair with a metallic gleam; broad, lean shoulders; pink-swept summits to his cheekbones. His eyes were unusually light – yellowish, even – their line and length emphasised by thick black lashes and broad, straight brows. She gazed into them, hynotised.

‘Hi there,’ he said, and the sound shot around the inside of her ear as if no one had ever spoken to her before.

‘H-hi,’ she managed in response. She knew she was staring but she could not help it. He was straight from a stately-home ceiling, the sort of figure seen writhing with gods and goddesses and lit by rays of fantastic light. Instead of a scrap of silk, he wore jeans, almost falling off his narrow hips, and a baby-pink gingham shirt tucked half in, half out.

He pushed a hand through his bright hair and took a step forward. ‘You don’t know where Amber is, do you?’ His voice was expensive, warm and low.

Isabel shuddered, rather than spoke her negative. Her voice sounded strange to her ears. Amber could be anywhere, after all. She seemed to remember a loud, imperious voice shouting something about Paris and a private jet, although it had been the middle of the night and she could have dreamt it.

He was leaning against the corridor’s exposed brick wall, arms lightly folded, looking at her. With nervous, birdlike darts of her eyes she gathered details: festival wristbands, an expensive watch. Pictures tumbled into her mind: a summer of rock concerts, nights under the stars, laughing girls with long legs, perfect teeth and shining hair. She felt a powerful twist of envy.

‘Couldn’t scrounge a coffee off you, could I?’ he asked.

She nodded and muttered and, with a shaking hand, unlocked her door. He followed her in, his tall, lean frame stooping. He seemed to fill the room. She plugged in the kettle; the noise, as it roared to its conclusion, seemed deafening.

‘I’m Jasper,’ he told her. ‘Jasper De Borchy.’

‘Isabel.’ Why was everything she said coming out in this silly, gaspy voice?

Jasper De Borchy. She knew the name. Amber’s escort for the first party – the one with the silver dress. Amber’s boyfriend, probably, although so many came and went it was difficult to tell and she was not in her neighbour’s confidence.

What must it be like, being kissed by this god? She could not suppress the question, although it wasn’t formed of words, but pictures. She looked down, chest pounding, cheeks scorched.

‘You’ve got very beautiful hair, Isabel.’

It was an easy compliment, just a pleasantry. In her rational mind she knew this. A bit cheesy, even, possibly. But that didn’t stop her looking up, red face and all, and her insides dissolving as he smiled. The sound of her name on his lips set the blood thundering round her body. Her hand shook as she measured out the Nescafé.

‘Thanks,’ he said, tawny eyes boring into her as he took the mug – as if he could see what she was thinking. As their fingertips touched, Isabel suppressed a shudder.

But then, through the pounding in her eardrums, came the unmistakeable, gravelly sound of Amber’s voice: loud, honking and right outside the door. She was on the phone.

‘Amber!’ Jasper called. ‘In here!’

Isabel stirred her coffee, hard, trying to stir away the wish that he had said nothing. That they had sat here in a silent conspiracy, waiting for Amber to go away again. What was the matter with her? That had never been likely.

Isabel’s door slammed back on its hinges, sounding like a pistol shot. The familiar figure lounged in the doorway, face plastered in make-up, long blond hair streaming about her shoulders. ‘Jasper!’

He shot to his feet, Isabel noticed longingly. A gentleman. Manners were so sexy.

Amber flung herself at him. There was a prolonged kiss, the suggestive murmur, a giggle. Isabel turned away, feeling unaccountably sick inside. What had she expected, though?

‘Who were you just shouting at?’ Jasper asked. Isabel, listening intently, thought he sounded amused.

‘My absolutely
foul
agent,’ Amber exclaimed. ‘Really on my case about this hideous newspaper column; seriously wish I hadn’t agreed to do it, but I’ve spent the money now.’

‘Oh, well,’ Jasper said easily. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’

‘Except that I’ve blown all my allowance already this month,’ Amber groaned. ‘I need to do this column, really.’

‘Why? How much does it pay?’

The sum she mentioned was so incredible it made Isabel gasp.

Jasper, however, merely looked amused. ‘What’s this?’ He pulled at the ragged hem of what was obviously yet another party dress.

Amber giggled. ‘You like my shredded chiffon?’

So the dress was supposed to look like that. Isabel had assumed it was Coco’s handiwork, dating from before the dog’s disappearance. Even that didn’t seem so terrible now, with Olly on her side.

Although, now she came to think of it, the idea of Olly seemed less wonderful than it had . . . Now that Jasper was smiling at her.

‘Isabel looked after me,’ he was telling Amber. ‘In your absence.’

‘Couldn’t help it, darling. When Karl calls, we all drop everything.’

Amber, surely, had been conscious of her all along. But it was apparently only now that she really saw Isabel, really focused on her. She gave her a huge, beautiful and apparently genuine smile. ‘Darling! Haven’t seen you for
ages
! Where
have
you been?’

A host of caustic replies sprang to Isabel’s lips.

‘Come next door for a drink,’ Amber commanded, cutting her off. Isabel knew she should refuse. Did she want to re-enter the web? But it took just one honey flash of Jasper’s yellow eyes to change her mind.

Amber’s room, as before, was a sea of shoes and dresses and the jewellery box lay upturned. Pearls were tangled in the twists of a skull-printed scarf.

Pop!
A small explosion. Amber brandished a bottle, the foaming wine spilling down the gold-foil neck.

Jasper sat on the floor, his long legs crossed before him, his back against the clothes-heaped bed. His eyes were on Isabel and seemed full of suggestion, somehow. Her insides twisted in excitement.

‘Here,’ commanded Amber, shoving a glass at Isabel. ‘Sit down,’ she added, waving towards the tangle of clothes and jewellery. Isabel lowered herself, gingerly. Amber made room for herself, throwing up a pair of transparent heels and catching up a ruby bracelet on the end of one of them. It flew through the air like a ring of fire.

Isabel had gulped more of the wine than she meant to. Sheer nerves had made her do it. Now she felt giddy. The champagne had hit her empty stomach like a lit match hitting petrol. Her limbs felt shaky and her cheeks burned hot. Jasper was still looking at her, a thoughtful smile playing about his mouth. She could almost feel the little sparks of electricity jumping between them. Amber and her complaining voice seemed suddenly far away.

‘And now I have to write this wretched column,’ Amber was lamenting. She took another slug of champagne and plonked herself down beside Jasper, wriggling companionably beside him. They both stared at Isabel and she felt exposed, inadequate. There was something detached and pitiless about such beauty. It was like being in two very strong spotlights.

‘What is it about?’ Isabel asked, remembering what Olly had said about piercing political analysis and trying, suddenly, not to smile.

Amber gave a careless shrug. ‘Oh, you know. My life at university.’

‘But you’re never at university,’ Jasper pointed out, flicking a conspiratorial look at Isabel. ‘You’re always at parties in London.’

‘That’s crap!’ Amber tossed her hair. ‘Actually, I’ve just been at a shoot in Paris.’

Jasper caught Isabel’s eye again. This time she smiled back, but looked down quickly. Her heart thumped in her ears.

‘They’re going to call it “Blue Stocking” and have a picture of my legs in navy fishnets across the top,’ Amber was adding, yawning.

‘Deep stuff, then,’ Jasper commented teasingly. He was trying to make her laugh, Isabel knew, and she stared at the carpet, squirming with the fierce urge to oblige him.

‘Fuck off,’ Amber squeaked. ‘My agent says this column is, like, a potential breakthrough for me. There could be a novel deal, a film deal – you name it. And there better be, after the fly-on-the-wall got—’

‘Squashed?’ suggested Jasper, a gleam in his yellow eyes.

Isabel felt her shoulders begin to shake.

But now Amber was laughing too. She was beaming, her eyes dancing. ‘But I’ve just had the most wonderful idea!’ she exclaimed in her throaty rasp. ‘Darling, sweet, adorable Izzy,
you
could write my column for me, couldn’t you?’

‘What?’ Isabel’s ability to react quickly had deserted her, along with any idea of what to say. She looked helplessly from one to the other. ‘But . . .’

‘But you weren’t there?’ Amber supplied brightly. ‘You don’t live my dazzlingly exciting life? No matter, babes. I’ll tell you all about it. Well – the printable bits!’

This was not the way things were meant to go at all. Isabel looked appealingly at Jasper. He could rescue her from this situation with one word. She sensed that Amber was in awe of him, his cool authority.

But Jasper’s golden eyes, meeting hers, were encouraging. ‘I would,’ he said. ‘Shut the old tart up.’

Amber squealed in mock indignation as she elbowed him, diamonds glittering on her wrist.

‘But . . .’ Isabel said again.

The look Amber now turned on Isabel was mournful. ‘And of course,’ she said, ‘Coco’s still missing . . .’ Her face fell; she pushed out her plump lower lip.

Feeling the familiar screw turn, Isabel looked resignedly down at her hands. It’s only once, she thought. And if Jasper wanted her to . . .

‘OK,’ she said, looking up and being rewarded by two dazzling smiles. At the exact same moment, the mobile in her bag beeped.

‘Message!’ Jasper said. ‘Boyfriend, is it?’ His eyes twinkled suggestively.

Isabel reddened – for the millionth time, it seemed. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ she muttered.

Olly was putting his suit on and thinking of Isabel. Had she got his text? he wondered. She had not yet replied; she was in the library, probably. That she was mad keen on her work was obvious. Keener than he had ever been himself. He’d been sufficiently inspired, the next day, to ask David for some tips on metaphysical poetry, which seemed Isabel’s particular favourite. The deeply erotic verse his landlord had given Olly to read had intensified the situation. His ardour was now a blazing fire.

Well, he’d better forget all that for the moment. Roving hands, melting souls and all that. Today he must concentrate. He had an interview with the
Hagworthingham Chronicle,
a regional newspaper in Lincolnshire which seemed the last one in the country not to be owned by the De Borchys and therefore not about to shut down.

After slipping on his trusty suit, carefully inspecting it for marks, he went downstairs. Thumping music could be heard from Hero’s room. Another day off school, he guessed. As he passed her door, he noticed the addition of a row of ‘Help For Heroes’ stickers and, perhaps because of this new activity – or the noise – the black and yellow radiation sign had slipped to reveal something beneath.

He peered at the small white china plaque with ‘Hero’ in flowing black script positioned next to a tiny pink rose. It was the sort of nameplate little girls had on their doors and this blast from the past, evidence of the child Hero had been, struck Olly as oddly moving. That she had ever been anything other than a furious black-clad teen, scowling through smoke rings, seemed incredible.

He knocked on the door, ignoring the usual obscenity. Hero was lying on the bed, as usual, staring at her laptop and smoking.