I sigh. ‘And how will the four of you manage?’
She shrugs her shoulders. ‘We’ll find someone else who wants to join in.’
‘You could ask Tori,’ I say, without thinking.
Florence frowns in confusion. ‘Does she write?’
‘No, but she reads a lot.’
‘Yeah, mainly trash if her videos are anything to go by,’ murmurs Quentin. He looks away hastily as I glare sharply at him.
‘Young adult romance novels are not trash,’ I say, because Tori’s answer to that kind of provocation is deeply engrained in me now.
‘You mean dirty books for horny teenage girls to get off on,’ Quentin laughs quietly. ‘Not that she needs them now that Ward’s looking after that for her.’
He freezes as I leap up off my chair and instinctively clench both fists. ‘Take that back.’ I step threateningly towards him, which does the trick. Quentin raises his hands in self-defence.
‘Whoa, easy, it was just a joke.’
‘Hey,’ Florence’s voice cuts through the silence that follows. Amara tugs me down by the sleeve while Ho-wing just rolls his eyes. ‘Pull yourselves together.’
‘Just shut it, OK?’ I growl in Quentin’s direction, avoiding Amara’s warning expression.
Quentin exhales, barely audibly, shaking his head as if to sayWhat’s the fuss about? True, isn’t it?My blood is boiling as I reluctantly sit down. I still want to deck him, even though I know my reaction is way over the top – and that Quentin might even be right. About Tori and Val, that is. The rest was total bullshit. But maybe Tori is actually reading less now because she’s with Val and doing . . . Fuck, I don’t want to think about it.
‘Can we all just calm down now, please?’ Florence looks from Quentin to me. I stare at the old floorboards of the school library in silence.
‘And, let’s face it,Romeo and Julietis kind of trashy too, if you look at it like that,’ Amara murmurs. ‘Except there’s no happy ending.’
‘Romeo and Juliet’s a classic,’ Quentin immediately contradicts Amara and she rolls her eyes at him.
‘So will Colleen Hoover’s books be in a few years’ time.’
‘Guys, seriously,’ Florence cuts in. ‘If you,’ she looks at Quentin, ‘can’t ditch your medieval ideas of literature, then you might as well have walked out with Lowell. And I’m begging you from the bottom of my heart to ditch them because we can’t lose another team member now.’
Quentin crosses his arms and leans back, but he’s looking mildly guilty. Florence turns to me. I can see in her eyes that she would actually prefer it if I stayed and wouldn’t be doing thisif it wasn’t necessary. ‘Do you think Tori would be interested?’ There’s a hint of hope in her voice. ‘If she reads a lot, she’ll have a good sense of storytelling and an ear for language.’
‘You should ask her at any rate,’ I say. ‘I’m sure she’d do a good job.’
I might be pissed off with Tori but I’m not a bad friend. I know she might enjoy this. And enjoy doing something just for herself. Without that jerk Val making her give up her dreams.
‘I’ll ask her,’ Florence says, looking at me. ‘Does this mean we’ll have to make do without you from now on?’
I feel four pairs of eyes on me. And then I remember the addictive sensation on the stage. The certainty that I have a talent I’d had no idea about.
I nod slowly.
I guess it does.
TORI
Plot twist: I didn’t party with Val and his pals in the Dungeon on Friday night. Around lunchtime, it suddenly hit me that Arthur would be there any moment to pick me and Will up, by which point I didn’t have time to tell Val. I hastily packed my weekend bag, and half an hour later, my brother and I were getting into the big dark car. This trip home had been planned for ages, long before I knew I’d be spending last weekend with my family too, for the dinner at Val’s. If I’d remembered sooner, I might have made my excuses and stayed at school, but our driver was on his way over by then and I don’t want to be a bad daughter. Or a bad girlfriend. So, as I chat to Arthur, I make a mental note to text Val in a bit. Arthur is more than just a chauffeur – he’s been part of the family for twenty-two years and helps to look after the estate too. I can’t imagine life without him, or without Martha, our cook and housekeeper, or Deborah our old nanny. For aslong as Will and I can remember, they’ve been there, living in estate cottages on the other side of the grounds.
My family home looks like a scaled-down version of Dunbridge Academy, about sixty miles north-east of Ebrington and right on the coast. As always, a warm feeling spreads through me as Arthur turns the car through the wrought-iron gateway and up the gravel drive to the front door. It’s not late but it’s properly dark now. Golden yellow light shines out of the windows, and lanterns line the drive.
Will is sitting on the back seat beside me, and now looks up from his phone for the first time since we left.
‘Is everything OK?’ I ask, as we pull up and Arthur gets out.
