Save You

1

Lydia

James is drunk. Or coked-up. Or both.

It's been three days since anyone could really talk to him. He's just been on one long bender in our sitting room, draining bottle after bottle and acting like nothing's happened. I don't understand how he can be like this. Apparently, he's not even interested in the fact that our family is now in ruins.

"I think it's his way of grieving."

I give Cyril a sideways glance. He's the only other person who knows what's happened. I told him at his party, the night that James got off his face and snogged Elaine in front of Ruby's very eyes. Somebody had to help me get James home without either Percy or Dad spotting the state he was in. Our families are close friends, so Cy and I have known each other since we were kids. And even though Dad made me promise not to tell anyone about Mum before the official press release goes out, I know I can trust him and that he'll keep the secret-even from Wren, Keshav, and Alistair.

I couldn't have got through the last few days without his help. He convinced Dad to leave James alone for a bit and told the lads not to ask questions for the time being. They're sticking to that, although I get the impression that with every passing day, they're finding it harder and harder to watch James destroying himself.

While my brother is doing his very best to shut off his brain, all I can do is wonder how I'm meant to cope. My mum is dead. Graham's mum died seven years ago. The baby growing inside me isn't going to have a granny.

Seriously. That's the thought running through my head on a perpetual ticker. Instead of grieving, I'm wrestling with the fact that my child will never know the embrace of a loving grandmother. What the hell is wrong with me?

But I can't help it. The thoughts in my head have taken on a life of their own-they escalate until I'm wallowing in catastrophic scenarios and I'm so scared of the future that I can't think about anything else. It's like I've been in a state of shock for three days. I guess something inside me-and James-broke horribly when Dad told us what had happened.

"I don't know how to help him," I whisper, watching James tip back his head and drain yet another glass. It hurts to see him suffering. He can't keep on like this forever. Sooner or later, he's going to have to face reality. And in my view, there's only one person in the world who can help him with that.

I pull out my phone for the squillionth time and call Ruby's number, but she doesn't pick up. I wish I could be angry with her, but I can't. If I'd caught Graham with someone else, I wouldn't want anything to do with him, or anyone associated with him, ever again either.

"Are you calling her again?" Cy asks, glancing skeptically at my phone. I nod, and he frowns disapprovingly. I'm not surprised by his reaction. He thinks Ruby's only interested in James for his money. I know that's not true, but once Cyril's made up his mind about a person, it's very hard to convince him to change it. And I might find it frustrating, but I can't resent him for it. It's his way of taking care of his friends.

"He won't listen to any of us. I think she might be able to get through to him before he has a total breakdown." My voice sounds weird in my own ears. So cold and flat-but inwardly, I'm the total opposite.

The pain makes it almost impossible even to stand up straight. It's like I've been tied up and spent days trying to undo the knots. Like my thoughts are whirling on a never-ending carousel that I can't jump down from. Everything seems pointless, and the harder I struggle against the helplessness rising up within me, the more completely it grips me.

I've lost one of the most important people in my life. I don't know how I can get through this alone. I need my twin brother. But all James will do is get shitfaced and smash everything that gets in his way. I haven't seen my dad since Wednesday. He's away, meeting with lawyers and accountants, settling the future of the Beaufort companies. He doesn't even have a second to spare on Mum's funeral-he's hired a woman called Julia to organize it, and she's been strolling in and out of our house for days like she's part of the family now.

The thought of Mum's funeral makes my throat clench. I can't breathe; my eyes start to sting. Hastily, I turn away, but Cyril notices.

"Lydia . . ." he whispers, gently reaching for my hand.

I pull away from him and leave the room without a word. I don't want the boys to see me cry. Sooner or later, they're going to start asking questions, whatever Cyril says; we can't stall them forever. They're not idiots. Even for James, this is out of character. OK, so he gets a bit out of hand sometimes, but he normally knows his limits. And the boys have clocked that right now, he doesn't. Keshav has started hiding bottles of the hard stuff from the bar, and Alistair "accidentally" flushed James's last few grams of cocaine down the loo-and that tells you everything you need to know.

I can't wait to put an end to all this secrecy. It won't be long now. The press release is going out at three on the dot, and then all the boys will know-and it won't be just them, either. The whole world will learn that Mum died. I can already see the headlines and the reporters doorstepping us and hanging around outside the school. I feel sick and stumble down the hall toward the library.

The lamps are on, casting faint light on the rows of shelves full of antique leather-bound books. I lean on the bookcases as I cross the room, my knees shaking. Right at the back, by the window, there's an armchair upholstered in dark red velvet. It's been my favorite spot in this house ever since I was little. This is where I came to hide away when I wanted some peace-from the boys, from Dad, from the expectations that go with the name Beaufort.

At the sight of this little reading nook, my tears flow all the faster. I curl up in the chair, wrapping my arms around my legs. Then I bury my face in my knees and cry quietly.

Everything around me feels so surreal. Like this is a bad dream that I could wake up from if I just tried hard enough. I wish myself back to the summer, eighteen months ago, when Mum was still alive and Graham could give me a hug when I was having a bad day.

I wipe my eyes with one hand and pull my phone from my jeans pocket with the other. As I unlock the screen, I notice streaks of mascara all over the backs of my hands.

I open my contacts. I haven't spoken to Graham for months, but he's still saved in my favorites, along with James's number. He doesn't even know about our baby, let alone that my mum died. I've honored his wish and haven't called him. It's been the hardest thing I've ever done in my whole life. We were in touch pretty much every day for more than two years, and then it suddenly stopped, practically overnight. It felt like going cold turkey.

And now . . . I'm having a relapse. I can't help it. I call his number and hold my breath as I listen to it ring. The ringing stops after a moment. I shut my eyes and listen intently, trying to hear whether or not he's picked up. At this moment, it's like I could actually drown in the lonely helplessness I've been feeling for days.

"Don't call me. We agreed," he says quietly. The sound of his soft, scratchy voice tips me over the edge. My body is shaken by a violent sob. I press my free hand to my mouth so that Graham won't hear.

But it's too late.

"Lydia?"

I notice the panic in his voice, but I can't speak, only shake my head. My breath is out of control, far too fast.

Graham doesn't hang up. He stays on the line, making quiet, soothing sounds. On the one hand, hearing him is churning me up more than ever, but on the other, it feels so safe and familiar that I press my phone even harder to my ear. I think his voice was one of the reasons I fell in love with him-long before I ever saw him in person. I remember the hours we spent on the phone, my ear sore and burning, remember waking up with Graham still on the line. His voice, gentle and quiet, deep, and just as piercing as his golden-brown eyes.

I've always felt safe with Graham. For ages, he was my rock. It's only thanks to him that I was able to move on from the thing with Gregg and start to look ahead again.

And even though I'm devastated, this feeling of security starts trying to fight its way back to the top. Just hearing his voice is helping me calm down ever so slightly. I don't know how long I sit here like this but, gradually, my tears stop.

"What's wrong?" he whispers in the end.

I can't answer. All I can do is utter a helpless sound.

For a minute, he stays quiet. I hear him breathe in a few times like he's going to say something, but at the last moment, he always holds back. When he finally speaks, his voice is hushed and full of pain: "There's nothing I'd rather do than drive over to see you, to be there for you."

I shut my eyes and imagine him sitting in his flat, at the old wooden table that looks about ready to collapse. Graham likes to claim it's an antique, but he actually pulled it out of a skip and revarnished it.

"I know," I whisper.

"But you know that I can't, don't you?"

Something in the sitting room just smashed. I hear breaking glass, then someone yelling. I can't tell whether they're hurt or having fun, but I straighten up all the same. I can't let James add a physical injury to the list.

"Sorry for phoning," I whisper, my voice broken, and I end the call.

I feel a stab in the heart as I get up and leave my little safe haven to go and check on my brother.

Ember

My sister is ill.

I wouldn't normally find that surprising-after all, it's December, it's freezing, and everywhere you look, people are coughing and sneezing. It's only a matter of when, not if, you're going to catch a cold.

But my sister never gets ill. Seriously, never.

When Ruby came home three nights ago and went to bed without a word, I didn't think anything of it. After all, she'd just come through the marathon of applying to Oxford, and it must have been mentally and physically exhausting. But the next day, she said she had a cold and couldn't go to school. That made me dubious because anyone who knows Ruby knows that she'd drag herself in, even with a temperature, out of fear of missing something important.

Today is Saturday, and I'm starting to feel really worried. Ruby's barely left her room. She's lying in bed, reading one book after another, and pretending that her eyes are red because she's ill. But she can't fool me. Something bad has happened, and she won't tell me what, which is driving me crazy.

Right now, I'm squinting through the crack around her door, watching her stir her soup without eating any of it. I can't remember ever seeing her like this. Her face is pale, and there are bluish circles under her eyes, getting darker with every day. Her hair is greasy and limp, hanging uncombed around her face, and she's wearing the same baggy clothes as yesterday and the day before. Normally, Ruby is the epitome of togetherness. It's not just her planner or her schoolwork-she takes pride in her appearance too. I didn't know she even had any slobby clothes.

"Stop lurking outside my room," she says suddenly, and I jump, caught. I act like I was coming in anyway, and push the door open.

Ruby raises her eyebrows at me. Then she puts the bowl of soup down on her bedside table, on the tray I brought it up on. I suppress a sigh.

"If you don't want it, I'll eat it," I threaten, nodding toward the soup. Not that it has the desired effect. Ruby gestures vaguely.

"Knock yourself out."

I groan with frustration as I lower myself onto the edge of her bed. "It's been hard, but I've left you alone for the last couple of days because I can see you're not exactly in the mood to talk, but . . . I'm genuinely worried about you."

Ruby pulls her duvet up to her chin, so that only her head is peeking out. Her eyes are dull and sad, like whatever happened to her has just this minute hit her with full force. But then she blinks, and she's back-or she's acting like she is. There's been a funny look in her eyes since last Wednesday. It's been like only her body was here, and her mind has been somewhere else entirely.

"It's just a cold. I'll be better soon," she says flatly, sounding like one of those lifeless computerized voices when you're on hold, like she's been replaced by a robot.

Ruby turns her face to the wall and disappears under the duvet again-a clear sign that as far as she's concerned, the conversation is over. I sigh, and I'm about to stand up when her phone lights up on the bedside table, catching my attention. I lean over slightly so that I can see the screen.

"Lin's calling you," I mumble.

All I hear is a muffled "don't care."

I frown and watch as the call ends and, a moment later, the number of missed calls pops up on the screen. It's in the double digits. "She's called you more than ten times, Ruby. Whatever's happened, you won't be able to hide forever."

My sister just growls.

Mum says I should give her time, but every day, it's getting harder to watch Ruby suffer. It doesn't take a genius to come to the conclusion that James Beaufort and his arsehole friends have something to do with this.