Temptation Island

‘Don’t they have their own clothes?’ asked Aurora, grossed out by the grey skirts and shapeless jumpers. So unflattering!

‘That’s the school uniform,’ Mrs Durdon confirmed. There was a carpeted corridor at the top of the stairs. Several doors down, she stopped. ‘And this is your dormitory.’

Aurora raised a hand. ‘Wait a second,’ she said. ‘First, I’m not wearing some dumb uniform. I’ve got a fashion line to protect. And second, I am not sleeping in a dormitory. I demand a private room. I’m sure my dad paid for one, so I’d appreciate you taking me to it, please.’ She lifted her chin.

Mrs Durdon was amused. ‘All girls share dormitories,’ she said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

When the door opened, Aurora knew categorically and absolutely that she would never get used to it. There were at least ten beds in here! It was like some ghastly hospital room. Where was she going to put all her clothes? A small closet parked by each mattress wasn’t going to come close. What the fuck? What was this place?

‘Uh-uh, no way,’ said Aurora. But Mrs Durdon was charging down the central aisle between the beds until she stopped by the one closest to the window.

‘This one is yours,’ she said smugly. The revelation of the dormitories was always her favourite bit. Aurora Nash wore a look of sheer horror. ‘I’ll find your guide—we assign every new student here one—and she will help you unpack your suitcase. Once you’ve settled in you can meet Mrs Stoker-Leach.’ She departed without another word.

Aurora felt like bursting into tears. She missed LA, she missed her dad; she missed the glittering ocean and the warm sunshine. She even missed Farrah and Jenna. How had this happened? How did she end up in this raging dump? She stormed to the window and gazed bleakly out. It had started to rain. Down below, girls in navy blue skirts ran pointlessly around a hockey pitch and a fat Games teacher with pasty legs blew a harsh whistle. Beyond the school gates, the severe, rugged line of the hills stood cold and immovable, trapping her, forcing her into this unimaginable situation. Did anyone seriously live here? Never mind the castle-slash-orphanage-slash-prison she was expected to reside in, but the whole freaking place was abysmal. All she had seen on the drive up was endless motorway going into hills, hills and more hills. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could exist here in Dullsville and not want to shoot themselves between the eyes after about five minutes.

In the quiet deadness of that empty dormitory, Aurora felt acutely alone. Fine, it was kind of her fault for getting into trouble, but hadn’t her parents gone a bit far? Wasn’t this total abandonment? Didn’t people get arrested for this kind of neglect?

She could see her reflection in the pane, distorted as the rain pooled and slithered and ran in rivulets down the glass. They looked like tear drops.

Fuck it—she wasn’t a crier, and this place wasn’t going to make her one.

All she needed to do was come up with a plan. Fast.

Her guide was a girl called Fran Harrington, Queen Dork of Dorkdom. She had mouse-coloured hair and the most boring face Aurora had ever seen—in fact it was so boring it didn’t even merit description. Her personality was boring, too. Everything about her was boring. Everyone in the whole school was boring. The world was boring. Aurora was bored, bored, bored. She craved California and lamented the parties she was missing; the guys she was missing. She was desperate to fuck. The frustration! That was another matter entirely.

A week had passed since her arrival and she was learning a few things about St Agnes School for Girls. First, it didn’t matter how boring everyone was because they’d never need worry about acquiring a personality: all the students were daughters of shipping magnates, government officials, royalty … In comparison, being Tom Nash and Sherilyn Rose’s kid meant squat. Second, they were all suck-asses and never seemed to do anything even remotely rebellious. The girls she shared a dorm with were mostly English and called things like Camilla and Verity and Poo-Poo. Third, the teachers seemed to hate her. They were all ancient with bad breath. The only decent one was Mr Faulks, who taught Chemistry and was reasonably sexy if you looked at him through squinty eyes, but the one time she’d attempted to flirt with him had backfired when she’d got her substances confused and caused an explosion in one of the research chambers. Fourth, Mrs Stoker-Leach was a total witch. No surprises there. Was it possible for someone with that name to be anything but?

It was Tuesday afternoon. This meant only one thing: hockey with Eugenie Beaufort.

Eugenie Beaufort was a grade-A bitch. Her mother was a screenwriter Aurora had never heard of but was apparently famous in the UK. She walked around as if she owned the place, while her devoted troop of followers—weak-chinned girls who nodded and yah-yahed to everything she said—trailed her like puppies. Her dislike for Aurora seemed to be instant. Whenever they shared a lesson, Eugenie would glare at her from across the room. Whenever she ate lunch by herself in the dining room, Eugenie was gossiping and looking over, laughing and sneering with her friends. One night Aurora had found a dead spider in her bed, and some of the girls she shared with had collapsed in tinkling laughter—the next day they were sitting with Eugenie. Aurora didn’t care: they were morons. What was more, they were fakers. Eugenie was always rattling on about how she’d hung out with Prince William and Kate Middleton the previous summer on a snowboarding holiday, an acquaintance Aurora could tell was exaggerated because Eugenie went on about it in a way she wouldn’t have to if they were, like, her real friends. The stories Aurora herself could tell about the rich and famous … Whatever, it didn’t impress her, she was way over it. She doubted half the girls had even heard of some of the stuff she’d done to Hollywood’s celebrity cocks. Let them suck on that if they wanted scandal.

Aurora had never cared much for sport and wore a lacklustre expression as she changed into her Goal Defence bib.

Within minutes Eugenie Beaufort was attacking her legs.

‘Fuck off,’ Aurora told her as they locked sticks.

‘Fuck off yourself,’ Eugenie hissed. Her dark hair was plastered unattractively over her forehead. She was one of those girls to whom team sports meant everything. Winning was the be-all and end-all. Aurora was already thinking about when they could finish so she could sneak into the bushes for a joint. Maybe if she broke Eugenie’s shins she might get suspended.

‘OW!’ Eugenie howled out in pain as Aurora’s hockey stick slammed into her. She lifted her leg and clutched it at the knee, hopping up and down.

‘Oops, sorry,’ said Aurora sweetly. The fat Games teacher came panting over and blew her whistle unnecessarily close to Aurora’s ear.

‘Off!’ she blasted, red-faced and angry as she pointed to the sides. Eugenie appeared satisfied, as if being sent off mid-match was the worst fate she could imagine. Aurora didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. That was the punishment? She’d have to come up with something far worse if she was going to make it home within the month. Her phone call to Tom last week had been rushed and unsatisfactory—her father had a spa session he was loath to miss—and despite her declaration that St Agnes was worse than death row (mainly because there was no chance of a lethal injection at the end of it), her tearful pleas and impassioned begging that eventually descended into a litany of I hate you!s, he had remained firm: she was to see out her first two terms and then they would rediscuss. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.

On the bench was a girl she hadn’t seen before. She had long straight black hair, pale skin and a compact, petite body.

‘How come you’re out?’ asked Aurora moodily as she slumped down.

‘I don’t like exercise,’ said the girl, not bothering to look up. She was reading a book, and when Aurora peered over she saw it was written in another language.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, sipping from a bottle of water and crossing her legs. She thought she spied Mr Faulks loping into the Science block and adjusted her bib to reveal a little more flesh.

‘It’s a book,’ the girl said flatly. This time Aurora noticed the strong accent.

‘You’re French?’

‘Bravo.’

Aurora kind of liked her blatant lack of interest—it piqued her own. ‘I’m Aurora Nash,’ she said, sticking out her hand.

Finally the girl looked up. She was startlingly pretty, with a perfect white complexion, blood-red lips and cat-like green eyes.

‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘The loud American.’ She frowned. ‘Is your tan real?’

Aurora was unoffended. ‘West Coast sun, baby.’ She withdrew her hand and sat back. ‘You should get some.’

‘I don’t like how it looks.’

‘Thanks very much.’

The girl returned to her book.

‘Sport sucks for me, too,’ Aurora said. ‘How come you get off?’

‘I refuse to do it.’

‘Sounds like a great tactic.’

The girl flipped her book shut. ‘I am exempt from these lessons. My parents have a doctor friend—he wrote me the diagnosis.’

‘Which was?’

She shrugged. ‘Simply, I am not a team player.’

Aurora laughed with genuine amusement. ‘What are you, then?’

‘I’m me.’

She raised her left brow. ‘Does “me” get high?’

The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you imagine you can be my friend?’

Aurora pulled up her scratchy, fashion-bankrupt socks. ‘I don’t care either way.’

‘Because I’m not here to make friends.’

‘Suit yourself.’