Scarlet Wakefield 01 - Kiss Me Kill Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

glamorous and photograph-able their lives are, and that’s why I sound bitter. No point denying that, is there?
    I stare at the contents of my wardrobe. This is a joke. I don’t know why I’m even looking. I know already that I don’t have anything to wear to a party at Nadia Farouk’s penthouse flat in Knightsbridge. That in itself—not having anything to wear—wouldn’t be an insuperable obstacle. The true problem is that I know enough about fashion to recognize that I don’t have the right thing to wear, but not enough to know what that would be.
    Hell and damnation.
    I glance around my room, which doesn’t represent me, because this isn’t my home. It’s a guest room, complete with white walls and tasteful engravings of fruits and flowers, which are echoed in the chintz curtains and bedspread. Sounds a bit like a classy hotel, doesn’t it? I’m not allowed to put up posters, or even framed prints. No making holes in the walls. In a way, it’s a little girl’s dream room: it’s very pretty. But it’s not me. It’s never been me.
    No wonder I’ve been spending all my time hanging out with Alison and Luce. But suddenly I feel as if I’ve been hiding in Alison’s basement for the last few years: hiding from everything. Life. Boys. The universe.
    And though I know that’s a gigantic exaggeration—after all, it’s not like I was invited to a ton of parties I didn’t go to, it’s not like a ton of boys asked me out and I turned them all down—I’m also aware that there’s more than a grain of truth in it. I’ve been at school, or doing gymnastics, or hanging out with the girls I met through gymnastics, for the last few years. I didn’t take any risks—apart from throwing myself through the air trying to do a twisting back layout and land on my feet rather than my head, of course.
    It’s not surprising that I grabbed at the first thing resembling security that came along—drowning girl and life preserver ring spring to mind, though it’s such an obvious analogy that my English teacher would write “NO NO NO LAZY LAZY!!!!!” if I tried to use it in an essay. (She’s not big on sparing your feelings.) But maybe it’s time to push aside the life preserver and start swimming on my own?
    Not that I have much choice, actually. I doubt that Alison and Luce will ever speak to me again.
    I sit down on the corner of my bed and stare out the window at the view. Thick green leaves from tall, sweeping trees frame two elegant large white houses across Holland Park, which is the wide street on which this house (equally white, equally large, equally elegant) is set. Occasionally a red double-decker bus passes by along Holland Park. I can see the top deck, but its passengers aren’t remotely close enough to peer into my window. These houses are built on a slight rise, and their lawns slope down gently to high stone walls, lined with trees, to provide plenty of shade and privacy. I’ve spent a lot of time lying out on the lawn, reading in the sunshine. By myself, of course, because I’m not allowed to bring any friends back to the house. That’s one of the conditions of living here.
    It’s lonely. But I do have the whole attic to myself. Which includes my own bathroom.
    Looking at the view from my bedroom window is what I always do when I’m confused, or upset, or unhappy. Rain or shine, gray skies or blue, it never fails to center me and calm me down. I think: If this were a project at school, an exam I wanted to pass, what would I do?
    And then I think: Research. I need to research my way through it.
    For the first time since being invited to that party, I feel as if I might be able to get things just a bit under control.
    “Oh my God! Look at that bag! It’s the definition of pretty!” exclaims Girl A.
    “Oh yah!” replies Girl B, which is how really posh girls say “yes.” “If that bag was a girl, all the boys would be totally in love with her.”
    This exchange is followed by a round of