going in. In all that time, I’ve never called it what it is—an addiction—but that’s what it is. And it has me at its mercy.
“The ten grand I borrowed is closer to twenty now,” I tell Becca, although if she walked out of the room, I think I’d still keep talking. It’s all spilling out, all the lies, all the shame. “They sent that bloke to frighten me by threatening Katya and Sophia. I begged Katya not to tell Mina. A few weeks later, someone came to the house when she was here alone and threatened her. She left the next day, and that’s when Mina accused me of sleeping with her.”
“You should have come clean.”
“I know that now! Back then, I thought I could handle it. I just needed one big win to clear my debts, then I’d…” I trail off, hearing how pathetic I sound. Whenever you’re in trouble, I hear from the sitting room, just yelp for help!
“And you can’t tell the cops because you took money from a loan shark?”
“I can’t tell them because I’ve been hiding a gambling problem for three years.” I reach for the wine and top up our glasses. “I can’t tell them because I’m drowning in undisclosed debt, which is a disciplinary offense.” Becca puts her glass down, untouched, but I swallow half of mine in one go. Not the best thing to do after a cocktail of painkillers, but I’m past caring. “I can’t tell them, because I could lose my job if they find out.”
Becca folds her arms across her chest. She’s trying—but failing—to conceal her glee, and I wonder if it’s my downfall itself she’s enjoying or simply the fact that she’s the only one who knows about it. “You really are in the shit, aren’t you?”
“Thanks.”
“So what’s your plan?”
I knock back the rest of my drink. I turn around, press my palms into the draining board, and lean forward as if I’m about to do a press up, feeling the blood throb in my bruised face.
“I have absolutely no fucking idea.”
SIXTEEN
PASSENGER 40C
My name is Elle Sykes, and getting on Flight 79 was a final fuck-you to my parents.
I sat fourteen GCSEs. All the usual ones, plus further math, additional science, Latin, Mandarin, and general studies. My little genius, Mum used to call me, even though I’d shot up that year and could see the top of her head when I hugged her.
“She’s predicted A-stars all round,” Dad would tell people, and I’d roll my eyes and slink out of the room, away from the politely impressed murmurs. Tightness would travel from my stomach like an elevator, and I’d take big gulps of orange juice to push it back down. Sometimes I’d still be able to hear him—math, further math, and physics at A-level, I’d imagine—and the lift would ignore my jabbing of the buttons and continue to rise. It would be a shame to give up on Mandarin—she’s the only one doing it in her year, you know—and of course, Latin’s always useful. The elevator would reach my throat, and I’d lean over the sink, mouth working like a fish on a hook.
There were six of us in what the school called the Gifted and Talented group: four boys and two girls. The boys kept to themselves, of course, making it awkward for me to ignore Sally, who wore knee-length socks and had a casual relationship with antiperspirant. It wasn’t that I didn’t like her; it’s just that we had nothing in common beyond our ability to come out on top in every exam. Sally preferred to spend lunchtimes doing calculus, while I wanted a fag ’round the back with mates who forgave me for being clever because I blew smoke rings and knew where to score weed.
And actually, I wasn’t clever. Not Sally clever. Not high-IQ, natural genius, go-to-university-at-thirteen clever. I had a good memory and a quick brain, and I worked hard. The harder I worked, the better results I got, and the better results I got, the harder I was expected to work, and the better results I got. ’Round and ’round I went, until the fourteen A-stars that results day brought was accompanied, not by euphoria or even relief, but by a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Cambridge is in the bag.” Dad grinned as he drove me home. I leaned back, turned my head, and closed my eyes so the countryside passed in flickers of filtered light. Cambridge had turned