SAVE US
Mona Kasten was born in 1992 and studied Library and Information Management before switching to writing full-time. She lives in Hamburg, Germany, with her family, their cats, and an enormous number of books; she loves caffeine in every form, long forest walks, and days when she can do nothing but write. For more information, visit: monakasten.de.
Rachel Ward completed the MA in Literary Translation at the University of East Anglia in 2002 and has been working as a freelance translator from German and French to English ever since. She lives in Wymondham, near Norwich, UK, and specializes in works for children and young adults, as well as in crime fiction and contemporary literature. She also loves coffee and cats and can be found on social media as @racheltranslates and at forwardtranslations.co.uk.
TITLES BY MONA KASTEN
SAVE US
Mona Kasten
Translated by Rachel Ward
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First published in Germany by Bastei Lübbe AG, Köln, 2018
First published in the United States of America by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC 2025
First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books 2025 001
Copyright © Mona Kasten, 2025
Translation copyright © Rachel Ward, 2025
Copyright © Bastei Lübbe AG, Köln, 2018
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For Anna
PLAYLIST
“A Day to Be Certain” by Gersey
“You” by Keaton Henson
“Surrender” by Natalie Taylor
“The Tide” by Niall Horan
“Dream in a Dream” by TEN
“In My Blood” by Shawn Mendes
“Fallin’ All in You” by Shawn Mendes
“The Shortchange” by Thomston
“Bill Murray” by Phantogram
“Critical” by Jonas Brothers
1
Graham
When I was younger, my grandfather always used to ask me, If one day you lost everything, what would you do? I would never think seriously about my answer to the question, just say whatever popped into my head first at that moment.
When I was six, and my brother had deliberately broken my toy truck, I said, I’ll fix the digger.
When I was ten, and we moved from Manchester to the outskirts of London, I said, I’ll just have to find new friends.
And when I was seventeen, my mum died, and while I was trying to be strong for my dad and my brother, I said, We can get through this.
Even then, giving up was not an option.
But now, aged almost twenty-four, sitting here in this office where I suddenly feel like a criminal, I no longer have an answer. At this moment I feel as though there’s no way out of this situation, that my future is uncertain. I don’t know how I’m meant to go on from here.
The drawer squeaks as I pull it out of the heavy cherrywood
desk. I dig around in the muddle of pens and notepads that have accumulated there over the last year. My movements are slow, my arms feel like lead. But I need to hurry—I have to be out of the building by the end of lunch.
You are suspended with immediate effect. You are expressly forbidden from maintaining any contact with Maxton Hall students. If you breach this ban, I will go to the police.
The pens fall through my fingers and clatter onto the floor.
Bloody fucking hell.
I bend down, pick them up, and dump them in a box with the rest of my belongings. It’s a mishmash of notes, textbooks, my grandfather’s globe, and handouts I’d photocopied for tomorrow’s lessons and now might as well leave behind, although I can’t bring myself to do that.
I look around the office. The shelves are bare, and there’s nothing but a few bits of paper on the desk and the smudged writing pad to show that I was marking essays here until a few hours ago.
You only have yourself to blame, a spiteful voice nags in my head.
I rub my pounding temples as I check all the drawers and cubbyholes in the desk one last time. I shouldn’t drag out my goodbyes any longer than strictly necessary, but I’m surprised by how reluctant I am to tear myself away from this room. I’d decided weeks ago to look for a job in another school so that I could be together with Lydia. But there is a major difference between leaving a job of your own accord and being escorted out by security.
I gulp hard and take my jacket from the wooden coat stand. Mechanically, I pull it on, then grab the box and walk to the door. I leave the office without a backward glance.
The questions are piling up in my head: Does Lydia know? How is she? When will I be able to see her? What should I do now? Can I ever work as a teacher again? What if I can’t?
But I can’t find the answers to them now. All I can do is fight the rising panic and walk down the corridor toward the school office to drop off my keys. Kids run past me, and some of them greet me politely. My stomach is throbbing painfully. It’s a struggle to smile back at them. Teaching here was fun.
I turn the corner and, suddenly, it feels as though someone’s tipped a bucket of ice-cold water over my head. I stop so abruptly that someone crashes into me from behind and murmurs an apology. But I barely take it in—my eyes are fixed on the tall, redblond young man whom I have to thank for this entire situation.
James Beaufort’s face doesn’t flinch at the sight of me. Far from it—he looks totally unbothered, as if he hasn’t just screwed up my entire life.
I knew what he was capable of. And I was aware that it wasn’t a good idea to get on the wrong side of him. Lexington warned me as much on my first day at this school: You never know what he and his friends will do next. Watch out for them. I didn’t pay much attention to his words because I knew the other side of the story. Lydia had told me how hard all the family expectations were on her twin, and how he’d closed himself off from everyone, even from her.
In hindsight, I feel a total idiot for not having been more careful. I should have known that James would do anything for Lydia. Having destroyed my career is probably all in a day’s work for him.
Standing next to James is Cyril Vega. It’s a good thing he doesn’t take history, considering that I can’t set eyes on him
without picturing him and Lydia together. Walking out of school together and getting into a Rolls. Laughing together. Cyril with his arms around her, comforting her after her mother’s death in the way I never could.
After the tiniest hesitation, I grit my teeth and walk on, the box jammed under my arm. I grip the keys in my pocket more tightly as I come closer to them. They’ve broken off their conversation and are watching me, each of them with a hard, impenetrable mask of a face.
I stop by the door to the school office and turn to James. “Happy now?”
He doesn’t respond, which makes the anger inside me boil over.
“What were you thinking?” I ask, glaring at him. “Didn’t you and your friends realize that your childish prank would destroy my career?”
James exchanges glances with Cyril and his cheeks flush slightly—just like his sister’s do when she gets angry. The two of them look so similar and yet, in my eyes, they couldn’t be more different.
“You’re the one who ought to have been thinking,” Cyril spits. His eyes are more furious even than James’s, and it occurs to me that getting me kicked out was probably a joint effort.
The expression on Cyril’s face leaves me in no doubt that he has all the power here. He can do what he likes to me, even though I’m older than he is. He’s won, and he knows it. There’s triumph in his eyes and arrogance in his stance.
I bark out a resigned laugh.
“Beats me why you’re laughing,” he goes on. “It’s over. We know what you are. Don’t you get it?”
I clench my fist around the key ring so hard that the little metal teeth cut into my skin. Does this rich brat really think I don’t get it? Does he think I’m not perfectly well aware that nobody gives a shit when and where Lydia and I first met? That nobody will believe us if we insist that we had already fallen in love before I started at Maxton Hall? And that we broke up the moment I found out that I’d be her teacher? Of course I knew it. From now on and for all time, I’m going to be the creep who got involved with a student on his very first teaching job.
The thought makes me sick.
I walk into the office without deigning to look at the two of them again. I pull the bunch of keys from my jacket pocket and slam them onto the desk, then turn on my heel. As I walk past the lads again, I glimpse Cyril pushing a phone into James’s hand out of the corner of my eye. “Thanks for that, mate,” he says. I turn away and hurry toward the door as fast as I can. I dimly register that James is raising his voice.
Every step hurts; every breath feels like a monumental effort. There’s a roaring in my ears that drowns out pretty much everything else. The students’ laughter, their echoing footsteps, the creaking of the double doors as I walk out of Maxton Hall and into the unknown.
Ruby
I feel numb.
The bus driver shouts out that it’s the end of the line, but I can’t make sense of her words. Eventually, I grasp that I’ve got to get off if I don’t want to ride all the way back to Pemwick. I’ve
been so sunk in thought that I have no memory of the last fortyfive minutes.
When I step out into the air, my limbs feel heavy yet tingly, all at once. I grip my backpack with both hands as if the straps could hold me up. But it doesn’t help to shake off the feeling that I’ve been caught up in a whirlwind from which there’s no escape. Like I no longer know up from down.
This can’t have just happened. I can’t have been kicked out of school. Mum can’t really have thought I’d get involved with a teacher. My dreams of Oxford can’t have just gone up in smoke.
I must be losing my mind. My breath is coming even faster, and my fingers are cramped. I feel the sweat running down my spine, but there are goose bumps all over my body. I’m dizzy. I shut my eyes and try to get my breath back under control a bit.
When I reopen them, I no longer feel like I could throw up at any moment. For the first time since I got off the bus, I take in my surroundings. I’ve come three stops too far and I’m at the far end of Gormsey. Normally, I’d be kicking myself. But right now, I’m almost relieved, because I can’t go home yet. Not after Mum looked at me like that.
There’s only one person I want to speak to at this moment. One person I trust completely and who knows without a doubt that I’d never do a thing like that. Ember.
I start walking toward her school. They must be nearly finished, because a few primary school kids are coming this way. There are a bunch of boys trying to push one another off the narrow pavement and into the hedge. At the sight of me, they pause for a moment, and walk on with their heads down like they’re scared I might tell them off.
The closer I get to Gormsey High, the weirder I feel. It’s only two and a half years since I was at this school too. I don’t miss it, but being here again is a blast from the past. Except that back then, nobody turned to stare at me for wearing a private school uniform.
I walk up the steps to the main doors. The dingy walls presumably used to be white and the paint on the windowsills is flaking. You can’t help noticing the absence of funds flowing into this place.
I squeeze past the stream of people coming toward me and try to spot anyone I know in the sea of faces. Before long, I see a girl with two neat plaits as she walks out of the school side by side with a boy.
“Maisie!” I call to her.
Maisie stops and looks around. When she sees me, her eyebrows shoot up. She nudges her boyfriend to wait, then threads her way through the crowd toward me.
“Ruby!” she says. “Hi, what’s up?”
“Do you know where Ember is?” I ask. My voice sounds perfectly normal, and I wonder how that’s even possible when everything inside me is broken.
“I thought Ember was ill,” Maisie says with a frown. “She wasn’t in school today.”
“What?”
That’s impossible. Ember and I left at the same time this morning. If she didn’t go to school, then where the hell is she?
“She messaged me that she was in bed with a sore throat.” Maisie shrugs and glances over her shoulder to her boyfriend. “So she must be at home, right? Sorry, I have to go. Do you mind . . . ?”
I nod hastily. “Yeah, sure.”
She gives me another wave, then walks down the steps and links arms with the boy. I watch them go, my mind racing. If Ember had a sore throat this morning, I’d have known. She didn’t look ill, and she was acting normal. Everything was fine at breakfast. I pull my phone out of my pocket. Three missed calls from James. My cheeks flush as I dismiss the notifications.
I took the photos. I can hear his voice in my mind, but I’m trying to ignore the oppressive feeling in my chest. I click on Ember’s name in my favourites. It’s ringing, so her phone can’t be switched off. But she doesn’t pick up, even after ten rings. I hang up and text her:
Please call me. I need to speak to you. It’s urgent.
I send the message and slip my phone back into my blazer pocket, then I walk down the steps and turn back to look at the school one last time. I feel out of place. I don’t belong here anymore. But I don’t belong at Maxton Hall anymore either.
The words I don’t belong anywhere shoot through my head.
With that thought, I leave the school grounds. On autopilot, I turn left and walk down High Street toward our estate, even though home is the last place I want to be right now. I couldn’t bear it if Mum looked at me with the disappointment she showed in Lexington’s office.
The events of the day are running through my mind on a loop. I replay the head teacher’s voice again and again. Those few words that shattered the future I’ve been working toward for years.
As I pass a row of cafés and little shops, I catch fragments of conversation between people on their way home from school. They’re discussing homework, getting angry at teachers, or laugh-
ing about things that happened at break. Numbly, I realize that I have nobody to chat like that with anymore. All I can do is walk along with the warm sun mocking me, knowing deep down that there’s nothing left in my life. No school, no family, no boyfriend.
Tears fill my eyes, and I try in vain to blink them away. I need my sister. I need someone to tell me that everything’s going to be OK, even if I don’t believe that for a moment.
I’m about to pull my phone out again when a car stops at the kerb beside me. I can see that it’s a dark green banger, with rusty rims and grubby windows. I don’t know anyone who drives a car like that, so I walk on, not paying it any attention.
But the car follows me. I turn to take a closer look, and the driver winds down the window.
The face I then see is the last person I’d have expected. I stop in surprise.
“Ruby?” asks Wren. I must look as shit as I feel, because Wren leans out of the window to squint at me more closely. “Are you OK?”
I press my lips together. There are few people on earth I want to speak to less at the moment than Wren Fitzgerald. The more I think about it, the more I know why he’s looking at me like that. I must be the talk of the school by now. A wave of unpleasant heat washes over me, and I walk on without replying.
A car door slams behind me, and I hear hasty footsteps. “Ruby, wait!”
I stop and shut my eyes. Then I take two, three deep breaths. I turn to Wren, trying not to show how messed-up I am or what I’m thinking.
“You look like you’re about to pass out,” he says with a frown. “Do you need help?”
I snort. “Help?” I croak. “From you?”
At that, Wren grits his teeth. He stares at the ground for a moment, then looks up. “Alistair told me what happened. That’s shit.”
I stiffen and turn away. Just as I thought. Everyone at Maxton Hall knows about it. Marvelous. I stare at the gym over the road. There are people running on treadmills and others lifting weights. Maybe I should crawl in there to hide. Nobody would find me there.
“Great,” I mutter.
I want to turn and walk away, but something makes me pause. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s not driving around here in a flashy car, but one that looks like it’s on its last legs. Maybe it’s the expression in his eyes, which seems serious and genuine, not like he’s laughing at me. Or maybe it’s just the fact that we’re here in Gormsey, where I’d never have expected to meet Wren Fitzgerald.
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
Wren shrugs. “I was just passing through.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Just passing through. In Gormsey?”
“Hey.” Wren changes the subject. “Listen, I refuse to believe that James had anything to do with it.”
“Did he send you to talk me round?” I ask, my voice trembling.
Wren shakes his head. “No. But I know James. He’s my best friend. He’d never do a thing like that.”
“The photos make it look like I’m kissing a teacher, Wren. And James admitted taking them.”
“Maybe he did. But that doesn’t mean it was him who sent them to Lexie.”
I press my lips together.
“James would never do a thing like that,” Wren insists.
“What makes you so certain?” I ask.
“Because I know how James feels about you. He’d never do anything to hurt you.”
He says it with such certainty that my thoughts and feelings are stirred right up again. Would it change things if James didn’t send the photos? But why did he even take them?
“I’m on my way to his place now,” says Wren. “I want to know what the fuck is going on too. Come with me, Ruby. Then you can find out for certain.”
I stare at Wren. I’m about to ask him if he’s out of his mind. But I bite the words back.
Today has been the worst possible. It can’t get any worse. I have nothing left to lose.
I ignore the alarm bells that start ringing in my head. Without another thought, I walk over to Wren’s rusty car and get in.
2 Lydia
The news that Graham’s been suspended spread around Maxton Hall like wildfire. It was unbearable to stand outside school, waiting for Percy to finally arrive and pick me up, especially as I couldn’t get hold of either James or Ruby, and definitely not Graham.
When I finally get home, I go straight up to my room and try yet again to get through to him. This time, he picks up and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Graham?”
“Yes.” His voice is flat.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt as I pace up and down my room. My entire body is flooded with adrenaline, and my heart is pounding rapidly and heavily against my rib cage. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want this to happen.”
I hear Graham take a sharp breath in. “It’s not your fault, Lydia.”
But it is though. It’s my fault that Graham and Ruby have been kicked out. “I’m going to go to see Mr. Lexington this af-
ternoon and I’ll explain everything. It’s all going to be OK, trust me. I’ll take all the blame and—”
“Lydia,” he interrupts me gently.
“Ruby was suspended too. And she totally doesn’t deserve that. I can’t let her be punished for something she didn’t even do.”
“Lydia, I—” Before he can finish his sentence, the phone is ripped out of my hand. I give a little squeal of shock and whirl around.
Dad is facing me, looking at me with cold eyes. He looks down at the lit-up screen, then lifts a finger and breaks off the call.
“Hey! What the—”
“You are never to speak to that teacher again,” my father cuts me off, his voice like ice. “Do you understand me?”
I open my mouth, but the chill in Dad’s voice and the angry look in his eyes prevent me from saying a single word.
He knows.
Dad knows about Graham and me.
Oh, God.
“Dad . . .” I whisper in desperation.
At that, he twists his face into an almost-pained grimace. “If your mother were still alive, she’d be ashamed of you.”
He says that so calmly that it takes a second for the full meaning of the words to get through to me. They’re like a slap in the face, and I flinch back from him and his rage. “Let me explain, Dad. It really isn’t what you think. Graham and I already knew each other before we— ”
Suddenly, my father raises his arm and hurls the phone violently against the wall. It shatters, and the shards of black glass and pieces of plastic are strewn across the floor. I stare at him in disbelief.
“I’m telling you one last time. You are never to speak to that man again. Do you understand me?” His voice is now trembling with rage.
“I’m trying to explain that it’s not—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Lydia,” he growls.
I hate it when he’s like this. That he won’t listen to me even though he knows I have something to say.
“I didn’t do everything in my power to protect your reputation just for you to make yet another thoughtless choice. This ends now, got that?”
It feels like someone’s thrown icy cold water in my face. I need a moment to get my voice back. “What do you mean ‘protect my reputation’?”
The expression on Dad’s face hardens. “I made sure that this family’s name won’t be dragged through the mud again. You should be grateful, not look at me like that.”
My throat is constricted. “It was you?” I croak. “You gave the photos to Mr. Lexington?”
Dad’s cold eyes are fixed on my face. “Yes.”
I feel as though I can’t take in enough air. Nausea rises within me, and the room starts spinning. I reach out a hand to the chair in front of me, for something to lean on.
My own father is to blame for Graham losing his job and James’s girlfriend being suspended.
“Why did you do it?” I whisper.
The need to explain my situation to him has crumbled to dust. All there’s room for inside me now is disbelief— and incredible fury, which is racing through my veins, gaining speed with every second.
“Because your reckless behaviour could destroy this family. Do you really not give a damn what you’re putting at risk?”
“Family? You don’t give a flying fuck about this family!” I snarl, clenching my fists. My arms are trembling, and I feel like I could burst. “All you care about is money. You don’t give a fuck how James and I are doing since Mum died. And now you’re standing there, expecting me to be happy that you got my boyfriend fired from his job?”
Dad’s nostrils flare briefly at the word “boyfriend,” but that’s the only reaction his face gives away.
“I’d do more than that to save the good name of this family.”
His calm voice is really winding me up. My breath is racing faster and faster, and I’m digging my fingernails so hard into my palms that I’m sure it’s about to draw blood.
“You should be grateful to me, Lydia,” he adds.
My rage boils over. I can’t hold the words back now; they flood out of me uncontrollably. “You might have got him kicked out of the school, but you can’t wipe him out of my life!” I scream at the top of my voice.
“You’ll see what I can do.” Dad turns away and is about to leave the room.
But I’m not finished.
“No, you can’t. Because I’m pregnant.”
He stops dead. In slow motion, he turns on his heel to face me. “What?”
I jut out my chin defiantly. “I’m pregnant. By Graham.”
It’s strange to watch his reaction. For a moment he just looks at me and blinks several times in a row—like the guy in the GIF. Then his shoulders start to shake like he’s finding it hard to
breathe evenly, and red dots form on his cheeks, his forehead, and his throat.
I’d thought I knew every variant of Dad’s anger. James and I learned young to read the smallest twitch of his face or his body language, and to make a break for it in time.
But I’ve never seen him the way he is now.
His eyes rest on me for a second, then another, and I take a slow step back because I can’t tell what’s going to happen. But to my surprise, Dad walks away and leaves my room without another word.
He slams the door so violently that I can’t help jumping. I press a hand to my ribs and take a deep breath. My pulse is racing. I can feel my heart hammering under my hand.
Less than ten seconds later, the door suddenly opens again— with such a flourish that the handle flies into the wall and must surely have left a dent. My father comes back into the room and looms over me.
“Does he know?” he asks, so quietly that I can hardly hear him.
The question takes me by complete surprise, and it takes me several seconds before I’m able to shake my head. “No, I—”
“Good,” Dad interrupts. Without deigning to look at me again, he strides across my room. He pulls open the door to my wardrobe and walks in. I hear a loud crash.
I hurry over and stare at my dad, who has clearly just pulled one of my big suitcases down from the top shelf. He’s now reaching for a travel bag, which he flings loudly to the floor beside it. He kicks the case open and starts pulling clothes at random off the shelves and hangers and throwing them in.
“What are you doing?”
Dad doesn’t react. It’s as if he’s delirious as he snatches T-shirts, blouses, trousers, underwear, bags, and shoes. His hair is flying up with all his sudden movements, and the blotches on his face and neck are darkening. He doesn’t stop even when the case is full, and more things land in a messy heap on top of the bag and the floor beside it.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I scream, taking a step forward to make him stop. I reach for his arm, but he snatches it away. The force of his movement sends me stumbling back, and I only just manage to catch hold of the doorframe with one hand.
At that moment, James bursts into the room.
“What’s going on in here?” he asks. He looks me over from head to toe, his eyes concerned as he checks that everything is OK. Then he sees Dad in my wardrobe and his eyes widen.
“What are you doing, Dad?” he asks.
Dad whirls around and points at James.
“You knew about this?” he demands.
James frowns. “About what?”
“What am I even asking? Of course he knew,” Dad mutters to himself. For a moment, he stares at the chaos he’s wreaked around himself, then he bends down and starts stuffing the clothes that landed next to the case into the travel bag.
“Why are you packing my things, Dad?” I ask hoarsely.
“You’re moving out.”
A wave of nausea rolls over me. “What?” I gasp.
James puts a hand on my back, as if to show me that he’s with me.
“We’ve had enough headlines to deal with for one year. I’m
not letting you damage my company just because you’re stupid enough to get knocked up by a teacher!” Dad roars those last words at me.
I sidle closer to James, and his hand clenches against my back. I can feel the effort it’s costing him to hold back now.
His voice is deliberately calm as he tries to reason with our father. “You can’t just pretend that nothing has happened.”
Dad pulls on the zip. There’s a scrap of fabric caught in it and then a nasty ripping sound. I flinch.
“Of course I can,” he snaps, pulling the bag closed. Then he turns to the suitcase. He jams a knee on the top as he pulls at the zip. “You’re going to your aunt’s. Right now. Nobody is to hear about your . . . condition.”
I gasp for breath. “W-what?”
“You can’t do that,” says James.
Dad stops and looks at us. It’s a grotesque image as he kneels there on my silver suitcase, breathing hard, with messed-up hair and a sweat-stained shirt. “I seem to be the only person in this house still in his right mind. Do you really think that I’ll permit you to keep on representing our family, like”—he gestures at my belly—“like this? Do you have any idea how it makes us look? Makes Beauforts look?”
“That’s what you’re worried about?” James’s voice is shaking. “That’s all you care about?”
“Of course. What else?”
“You should care about your daughter, for fuck’s sake!”
Dad snorts. “Don’t be so naïve, James.” His cold gaze lands on me. “You should have considered where your priorities lie sooner than this, Lydia. The family can’t afford you being like this.”
The walls of my room are moving in on me. I sway against James and cling to him tight.
“You can’t just send Lydia into exile and act like she doesn’t exist!” James exclaims. I feel his hand shaking on my back.
Dad stands and lifts the case off the ground. His face is bright red as he grabs the handle, snatches up the travel bag, and strides toward us.
James steps into his path.
“Out of my way, James.”
“Even if you do send Lydia away, the news will be out in a month or two at the latest. It won’t change anything. You’ll just have destroyed our family for nothing!”
A second passes. Then Dad drops the bag, raises his hand, and—
I react on instinct.
I throw myself in front of James as Dad swings. The blow lands on my cheek and ear, so hard that my body is swung around and black dots dance before my eyes. There’s a ringing in my ears, getting louder and stronger, and suddenly I can’t tell up from down. I lose my balance and try to grab on to anything to hold me up. Just as James’s arms catch me, everything blacks out.
I don’t know how much time has passed when I come around. Seconds, or minutes? I think I’m lying on the floor. I can make out the sounds of loud voices, which make my head ache all the worse. The throbbing in my temples is getting harder by the moment. I try to open my eyes.
Someone is kneeling beside me, gently shaking my shoulder.
James. He’s saying my name, again and again, and every time he does so, it sounds more desperate.
I blink, and gradually my surroundings take a solid shape again. I’m lying by the door to my walk-in wardrobe. James has nestled my head in his lap, and he’s stroking my arms. His eyes are wide, but when he sees that I’m conscious again, he sighs with relief. Dad is standing beside us, looking down, the suitcase still in one hand.
I might be imagining it, but there’s a split second when I think I see a flicker of relief in his eyes. But only for a second. The next moment, he pulls his phone from his trouser pocket, presses a button, and holds it up to his ear.
He looks me in the eye and says, without a flicker of emotion, “Percy? Would you please come upstairs and carry my daughter’s bags to the car? Lydia is moving out.”
Then he looks away from James and me, steps across the cases, and leaves the room.
It feels as though someone has put their hand around my throat and squeezed. I run my fingers cautiously over the place where he hit me, and I can’t hold the tears back any longer.
“It’ll be OK,” James whispers, holding me tight. “Don’t worry. We’ve got this.”
But, for the first time in our lives, I don’t believe that my brother can protect me from what’s coming.
3
Ruby
“What’s the car all about?” I ask Wren, after a few minutes driving in silence along the country lanes toward Pemwick. The only sound is the music crackling from the tinny speakers. It’s just started raining out of the blue, and I’m expecting the flimsy windscreen wipers to give out at any second. Or to fall off. They squeak louder with every sweep. Wren seems to be used to that though.
“There have been a few . . . financial challenges in the Fitzgerald household,” he answers after a brief pause. “The end result of which is George here.”
I look around the inside of the car yet again. It really doesn’t look like a George. To be honest, it doesn’t even look worthy of a name at all. The seat covers are in brown cord, with faded patches and an ingrained smell of cigars and old man. “You really named your car George?”
“I didn’t. Erm . . . a friend of mine did that.” Wren turns left while fiddling with the radio—that seems to be the only part of this thing less than twenty years old. Even so, there must be a
dodgy connection, because every time he turns a corner, Wren has to give it a whack to get the music going again.
“Ah,” I say, and then there’s silence between us again. I don’t want to dig any deeper into what he meant by “financial challenges.” Wren and I are practically strangers. We have nothing in common apart from that one incident in the past and our mutual friendship with James. I shuffle awkwardly in my seat. Why did I even get into his car?
Wren shoots a sideways glance at me, then fixes his eyes on the road.
“I’ve been wanting to chat to you for ages, Ruby,” he says suddenly.
I look uncertainly at him. “Why?”
“Because I was a total dick to you. Back then at that party. I should have apologized a long time ago.” Wren clears his throat and taps on the radio again even though we didn’t turn a corner and the music is playing as tinnily as ever. “I shouldn’t have acted like that. I was stupid and inexperienced. Looking back on it, I’m ashamed of myself. And I’m sorry.”
That’s the last thing I was expecting him to say, and it takes a moment for me to really take in his words. I gulp hard. It sounds like he’s serious, but even so, I’m sceptical. People don’t just change overnight.
“You really upset me by saying what you did at Cyril’s party. It didn’t feel then like you were sorry about it,” I say.
“I know. I was . . . dubious because you turned up at that party with James, and I wanted to find out why. And somehow, I made a total idiot of myself in the process. I’d never do a thing like that again, like the way I acted at that party two years ago. I’ve changed. I hope that I’ll get the chance to prove that to you.”