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towards me and my heart sank. I haven’t spoken to her since, I don’t remember the last time I spoke to her, but it was probably about Scarlett so I knew she didn’t want to chat about the weather.
    ‘I can’t stop.’ I put my head down. ‘Someone tried to break into my car last night and the Mercedes garage are coming to tow it.’ She followed and the shock of it almost made me break into a trot. ‘I have to go, Olivia. If I don’t give them the keys now I’ll be late for my one-to-one with Madame Girard.’
    She’s as stubborn as her sister and caught up with me. ‘Didn’t you write a piece for the Disraeli about how Crofton is the safest boarding school in England?’
    She wasn’t giving me a reason to slow down, but she kept pace as I crossed the Green and I realised that she wasn’t going to leave me alone so I slowed down. ‘Irony wins again,’ I muttered, reaching into my bag and pulling out my sunglasses.
    Given all the drama, the weather should have been grim, but today was perfect, the sky clear and the sun gilding all of Crofton’s edges. I hadn’t expected it to be so warm; last week everyone was wearing scarves and gloves. But that’s England; one day I’m wearing a sweater, the next I’m in sandals.
    I think that’s what I love most about the English: as soon as there’s a hint of sun, everyone goes outside. The Green was cluttered with girls sitting on their blazers watching the boys play an impromptu game of rugby. As Olivia and I walked past, heads popped up from each huddle, eyes wide, like meerkats, and I knew what they were thinking: Why was I talking to Olivia Chiltern? I’d wondered the same thing as I weaved between the clumps of girls, stepping over piles of bags and discarded sweaters. I heard a roar and turned to look as a boy skidded across the grass, hugging the ball.
    ‘What are you working on now?’ Olivia asked, as we took the short cut to the car park through the trees.
    I was startled by her attempt at polite conversation and answered robotically. ‘A profile on Mr Lucas,’ I told her, ducking under a particularly low branch.
    ‘A profile on a teacher? Wow.’ She shook her head and whistled. ‘That’s front page news, Adamma. That’ll get you that Pulitzer.’
    I shot a look at her, but when I saw her red eyes and unwashed hair, I softened. I wanted to ask if she was OK, but she wouldn’t look at me. Her gaze was on the rows of cars below us at the bottom of the hill, their roofs glistening in the sun, and it was kind of beautiful; if you squinted hard enough it looked like the ocean.
    ‘It’s the Disraeli , Liv,’ I said, then caught myself; Liv sounded too much like we were friends. ‘It’s for the parents and governors. They only care about exam results and if we beat Cheltenham in the hockey.’
    ‘And teachers.’
    ‘He sold a collection of poems to Faber,’ I told her with a sigh. She knew that – everyone did, it was announced in the Disraeli last month – so I don’t know why she was giving me a hard time. ‘Ballard’s asked him to revive the Crofton Review .’
    ‘Because a lit mag is so much more important than my missing sister.’
    So that’s why she was so upset.
    ‘Of course it isn’t, but parents don’t want to read about pupils running away.’
    ‘Scarlett didn’t run away.’
    I was about to walk down the hill towards the car park when I realised that she’d stopped and walked back over to her. When she crossed her arms and glared at me, I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes because I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to lie and say I was sorry, that I was worried too, and it was suddenly so quiet that I could hear the trees trembling in the wind.
    The sun was so bright, even though I had sunglasses on, that I had to shield my eyes with my hand to see her. I’m rarely warm enough to sweat in England – usually I’m the one in a coat while everyone else is in shorts – but my shirt was sticking to my back