All That's Left Page 5

  He shouldn’t have mentioned answering the phone. That’s what does it for me. That what makes me the horrible, spiteful version of myself that I hate. “Yeah.” I mull over his words, narrowing my eyes at him. “It’s really annoying when someone doesn’t answer the phone when you need them, isn’t it?”

  He freezes cold, and I don’t bother saying anything else. I don’t need to.

  I wake to blinding sunlight as my curtains are thrown open and my duvet is stripped off me whilst I try to block the sun with my arms.

  What on earth?

  My mouth feels like something died in it, and I reluctantly sit up and reach for my bedside table where a glass of water sits, but my clumsy reflexes first thing in the morning mean I knock it over. I turn my head to the side and see the reason I’m being woken up so rudely at such a horrible time.

  Maria.

  I shouldn’t be surprised, really. I knew it wouldn’t be Ethan—I think he’s giving me the silent treatment. We haven’t spoken since the night I got back from Marcus’s place. In all honesty I haven’t been around much since then. I’ve made sure I’m out in the evening, either at Marcus’s bar or even upstairs in his flat. I think he was pretty surprised when I asked if I could go watch TV when he was working, but he didn’t argue with it. Then I crashed there.

  Yesterday I woke up feeling so horribly crap about myself that I decided to start drinking straight away and ended up passed out in bed by 7pm.

  Maria frowns when she takes in my appearance. I’m just wearing a vest top and my underwear, and she apparently doesn’t approve. “You’re too skinny,” she tells me. “You need to eat more.”

  I rub my eyes and push my hair out of my face. “What’s wrong?” I ask. I haven’t seen much of her over the last few days. She had a couple of days off, and then I’ve either been out or in my room. I haven’t wanted to get in her way.

  She comes at me and, before I know it, has pulled me to a standing position and is herding me towards my bathroom.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, still disorientated from only just waking up.

  She pushes me into the bathroom, reaches into the shower, and turns it on. Then she reaches for my tank top and swiftly pulls it over my head. I’m horrified and immediately go to cover myself whilst she tries to pull down my underwear. “Stop it,” I snap, jerking away from her, suddenly wide awake. “What are you doing?” She reaches for me again and I take another step back, banging into the sink. “Stop touching me.” My voice is high-pitched and disbelieving.

  Is this woman crazy? Who does she think she is?

  She rolls her eyes, telling me she’s seen hundreds of naked bodies and I should stop being a prude. Then she pushes me towards the shower and demands I bathe and wash my hair as I currently stink and look like I haven’t washed in days. My jaw falls open at the sheer audacity of her as she turns and closes the door behind her. I glance in the mirror and see that her description of me isn’t that far off. I’m tempted to go crawl straight back into bed, but I already have a sinking feeling she wouldn’t allow it, so I step in the shower and try to pretend the water on my skin isn’t possibly the best hangover cure I could imagine when I’m feeling so crappy.

  When I emerge back into my room with one of the giant fluffy towels that are in the cupboard in my bathroom wrapped around me, I see her standing by my wardrobe, rooting through my suitcases, which I dumped there and haven’t bothered to unpack. “Your clothes need washing,” she tells me, holding them up and sniffing them.

  I feel violated. I do not need a woman I’ve only just met sniffing my clothes and passing judgment on me. Laundry wasn’t exactly my priority when my world got turned upside down and I realised I had no choice but to move over here. “I’ll do it later,” I say snippily.

  She’s created a pile of clothes on the floor beside her. She tosses the ones she must deem clean onto my bed and then stands. “I will do it.” She nods her head towards my bed. “Pick something to wear.”

  I’m staring at her in complete confusion, and then my eyes drift to my bedside table and the clock on it.

  “It’s 6.30am,” I tell her indignantly. I walk over to my bed and crawl back in, wet hair, towel, and all. I have at least another four hours of sleep before I even have to start thinking about getting up.

  My towel is ripped away from me so I’m lying there completely naked. I screech and pull the duvet over me.

  “You’re going to be late.”

  “For what?”

  “School.”

  Oh for God’s sake. “I’m not going. I already finished school in the UK. I’m not doing it again over here. I should be doing my A levels.”

  She acts like I haven’t spoken and reaches for my discarded towel, shoves it on top of my head, and starts towel-drying my hair.

  “Hey!” I snap. I’m starting to get annoyed now. Obviously this woman doesn’t have any personal boundaries.

  “You haven’t been to school all week. You were expected on Monday and now it’s Friday.”

  “So?”

  “So your father knows. He’s going to stop your allowance unless you go in today.”

  I yawn. Like that’s a threat that’s going to matter. Casey has been emailing me all week, begging me to go in. Apparently the school have been in touch about my absence, but I haven’t bothered to respond. They might be able to force me to come live over here, but they can’t make me go to school.

  Maria levels me with a gaze. “What are you going to do instead? Drink all day?” That sounds like a good idea to me. She takes a step back and folds her arms. “Your dad called me. Unless you go in today, he’s going to fly back and personally take you into school himself, and he will withhold your trust fund until you’re twenty-five.”

  Well, fuck.

  She has a triumphant smile on her face. She’s got me and she knows it. I don’t care about being rich, but I do care about going to university so I can get a decent job and support myself separately from my father for the rest of my life. I’ll need to pay my tuition and accommodation fees whilst I’m there, and my trust fund will do that. I don’t want anything from my dad, but I do want my trust fund, which both Ethan and I are due to get on our 18th birthday. My mum got nothing in her divorce from my dad, her punishment for daring to leave his cheating self, and despite her deserving every penny she could get for the way he treated her, in the end she just walked away with the understanding that the money that should have been hers would go to Ethan and me in our trusts. That was the deal; that was all she wanted, and it would be an insult to her if I acted like this isn’t important to me and something I want also.

  It’s more than that, too. My trust fund gives me independence—independence from my dad.

  My trust fund will more than cover all my expenses, and it will mean I’ll never have to speak to him again. If he withholds it until I’m twenty-five, it means I’m reliant on him for my university fees, and I won’t be able to do a damn thing about it unless I want to get myself into tens of thousands of pounds of debt.

  “Hurry up,” Maria says firmly, exiting the room. “Breakfast is ready for you downstairs.”

  I throw myself back on my bed and let out a scream of frustration.

  Pancakes and coffee are waiting for me when I finally make my way into the kitchen. I cut a look towards Maria, but she’s doing something in the fridge. My hangover has kicked in. I don’t want to go to school at all, and I especially don’t want to go today.

  “There’s no point in me going in today,” I start. “It’s a Friday. I might as well just rest over the weekend and go in fresh on Monday.”

  She whirls around. “You’re going.”

  “You know I’ve been jetlagged.”

  She scoffs. “Jetlag hasn’t made you sleep all day. It’s the alcohol you’ve been drinking that’s made you do that.”

  She doesn’t miss a thing. Turns out I’ve not been as subtle as I thought. I let out a sigh and drop into a seat at the kitchen table. I pi
ck up a fork, take a bite of the pancakes, and sip a bit of the coffee. It scalds my tongue, and I quickly jump up to fetch a glass of water and guzzle it down. I turn back and see Maria’s gaze scrolling up my body, specifically lingering on my bare legs.

  “What?” I ask self-consciously. It’s not my fault it’s boiling hot and shorts are the only thing I can wear without thinking I’m going to overheat. I’ve paired them with a baggy tour t-shirt from when I saw the Artic Monkeys last year and I know you can see my legs, but the rest of me is covered and conservative.

  “You’re very pretty,” she tells me. I turn away from her, sitting back down at the table. I know what I look like, know when I walk past a group of guys they pay attention, but if Maria thinks I care about that then she’s sadly mistaken. Looking good hasn’t made my life any easier. It hasn’t meant I have a father and brother who care about me or stopped the fact that my mother is gone. Good looks don’t get you anywhere. “You should wear a dress today, make a good impression.”

  I scoff. Not a chance. I haven’t worn a dress since last summer when I went to a wedding with my mum. To be totally honest, it feels weird to even be in a t-shirt and shorts; back home you always wear a uniform to school, and even when you get to sixth form, you have to wear professional dress to attend classes—formal shirts, suits, skirts, and trousers.

  I take another bite of the pancake and then push it away. I’m not hungry. I’m never hungry this early in the morning. I go to the fridge and grab a glass of orange juice, pushing past the weird feeling that I’m intruding. It feels weird helping myself to anything here. I don’t think I’ll ever feel like this is my house where I should be comfortable helping myself to things. It feels like I’m staying in a stranger’s house.

  Suddenly Maria is snatching the glass from me and forcing folders and pens into my hands whilst I look down in surprise. “I picked these up for you last week. You should have everything you need here. You’ll get your textbooks when you get to class.” She turns me and starts pushing me out of the kitchen. “You’re going to be late.”

  I glance down at the time on my phone. “It’s really early.”

  “School starts at 7.30 here.”

  “What? Really?” That’s insanely early.

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Let’s go. You’ll be late.”

  “Wait,” I say, suddenly panicking. I really don’t want to go to school today. “I’ll go on Monday, I promise.”

  She continues to push me out of the kitchen and towards the front door, not listening to my protests or my requests for her to slow down. She swipes up an oversized bag that’s lying by the door, takes the folders, papers, and pens, and dumps them in there. She even throws in an EpiPen she’s pulled from somewhere. I gawk when I realise the bag is a Birkin. “Casey sent this over yesterday,” she explains when she sees my face. “Your dad’s new girlfriend picked it out. Apparently it’s the latest fashion thing.”

  I absolutely do not need a Birkin handbag, certainly not one the cost of which would cover my plane ride home plus living expenses, but I don’t have time to protest because she’s opening the door and pushing me out of it and towards the car she’s fully expecting me to drive. When I’m there, she hands me the keys and some dollar bills, which she explains are for my lunch. When I make no move to go, she pointedly jerks her head towards the car. “Go on then.”

  “I’m not driving that,” I blurt out.

  She looks surprised for a minute. “What do you mean?”

  I decide against telling her the truth; I don’t want her to tell Ethan. “I don’t want to drive something my dad bought for me as some kind of reward for being forced over here.”

  Her jaw falls open but she quickly recovers. “You are very lucky to have this car. Most girls would love to drive a car like this.”

  I’m sure she’s not wrong, so I don’t bother arguing with her. “I’ll walk,” I decide, even though it’s already boiling hot despite being only just after 7am.

  She starts muttering something in Spanish to herself that I’m pretty sure isn’t all that complimentary.

  “Or I can get a taxi,” I decide, because for some reason I don’t want this tiny Mexican woman to be annoyed with me.

  She just shakes her head and is already reaching into her pocket, still muttering under her breath. She sends me one last look of annoyance then turns and walks away, her phone to her ear. I can’t hear what she has to say.

  After a minute, she returns. “Go wait down on the main road.”

  I suddenly have the awful thought that she’s just called Ethan to come get me. The last thing I want to do is spend any more time with him than is necessary, and I certainly don’t want him thinking I need his help.

  “Who did you call?”

  “My friend’s grandson. Very nice boy. He was almost at the school but he’ll come back for you. You should be very grateful.”

  Oh. I feel bad that some poor guy is having to turn around and come get me. I don’t want to be an annoyance, especially when I don’t even want to go to school anyway.

  “Well go on then,” she snaps. She must see the look on my face because she softens. “I know a first day is tough, but you’ll be all right. They’ll love you.”

  I sigh. I hadn’t even thought about other students’ reactions to me. Whenever there was a new kid at school back home, everyone always knew about it straight away and they’d always get stared at for the first couple of days. Despite the fact that I don’t want to be here and don’t care what they might think about me, I don’t want to feel like I’m getting gawked at all day.

  I know there’s no use in explaining this to Maria. There’s no use in explaining this to anyone. So, I’ll do today what I always do: pretend I don’t care what anyone thinks and just get on with things.

  I turn and head down the driveway, and it takes me so long to get down the long sweeping drive that by the time I get to the large gates (which I had to climb over on my first day here because I couldn’t remember the code Ethan told me when I first arrived), an old beat-up green sedan is waiting for me. Something about the car makes me feel less anxious as I make my way over to it. I expected another flashy vehicle with a rich kid driver inside, but if this car is anything to go by, whoever is inside might actually be a normal teenager.

  I take a deep breath and make my way over to the passenger door, knocking on the window and bending down to look through the window. A kid who looks to be a little younger than me turns to face me and does a double take when he sees me. I expect him to wind the window down so I can double-check that he has the right person, but he just stares back at me until I make a circular motion with my hands, which finally triggers him into action. He lowers the window.

  “Hi,” I start. “I’m Izzy. Did Maria call you?”

  He doesn’t say anything, but his face blushes a deep red. It’s unfortunate because he’s covered in acne, and it only makes his spots look darker. It also clashes with his ginger hair.

  I wait for him to say something else but he still doesn’t, so I glance down the road, wondering if I have the wrong car. “Sorry, I think I have the wrong person.”

  “N-No, no,” he stutters out. “Sorry. Yes, she called me and asked me to give you a ride.”

  I get the impression he doesn’t talk to many girls as I open the door and climb in. “Sorry if this makes you late,” I tell him, and I genuinely mean it. “I wasn’t planning on going in today and didn’t realise how early school starts over here.”

  He doesn’t say anything, instead turning the wheel and pulling out onto the road.

  “Do you live nearby?” I ask after five minutes of silence. The radio isn’t on, so it’s not like I can pretend this isn’t awkward.

  “Um, about fifteen minutes away. I live next door to Maria.”

  Oh, that explains it then. Maybe I’m stereotyping, but I imagine Maria’s house is fairly modest, and if this kid is her neighbour, I doubt his parents have the same sort of money as my dad. Bu
t then, most people don’t have the same sort of money as my dad.

  “Thanks for this,” I say. He nods, his blush returning, and I realise he’s not being rude by not speaking. It’s more that he’s shy. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Are…are you staying at the Carlington house then?”

  Obviously Maria hasn’t fully filled him in. He has no idea who I am, and that makes me feel better.

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat. I should tell him Ethan’s my brother and my dad is Greyson Carlington the Third, and if he asks the question then I definitely will, but I’m not about to volunteer that information.

  “A-Are…” He stammers over his words, but I don’t turn to look at him. I have a feeling that will just make him even more nervous. “Are you from England?”

  “Yeah, I lived in London with my mum.” That at least isn’t a lie.

  He clears his throat. “You have a really nice accent.”

  I turn to him, and he’s blushed an even darker shade of red. There’s obviously no ill intent behind the comment. He’s just being nice. I smile. “Thanks.”

  We lapse back into silence whilst I try to rack my brain and think of something to say.

  He takes a left turn and slows the car down as it joins a steady stream of traffic, and I realise we’re almost at the school. Despite myself, I start to feel nervous. I’ve never been the new kid before. I started primary school at the same time as everyone else and went to secondary school with a lot of kids I already knew. Even when I first moved back to the UK I had Ethan with me so I wasn't on my own. I've never been the sole new kid who's new and everyone's staring at, but then as I take in the high school looming ahead of me, I console myself with the idea that this school is three times the size of my school in London, which means there will be three times as many kids. No one will even notice me. That’s what I tell myself as we near the entrance.

  “What grade are you in?”