3.22. Trouble’s Brewing

Roisin – 


I put down my latest issue of the Tatler, the favourite publication of high society. I beamed, totally loving Sofia Bjergsen’s latest articles on me. It was an incredible experience really, being on the cover of The Magazine that everyone reads. To me, it meant that I’d made it – seeing my face blazoned on the cover and all.


It feels great to be top of my game, having people (figuratively) grovelling at my knees and all. Just see all those aspiring socialites clamouring over my favour, moving around precariously, for the fear that stepping on my toes means a downward spiral straight to the bottom. One bitchy word from me, that’s it. I never felt so invincible. It was a powerful feeling knowing who’s in charge now.


It was my defining accomplishment.

That was the only thing I could be proud of.

Lance was for sure not the brightest bulb in the box. I knew, from all those report cards the school had been sending me. I never got any from Lance himself. He didn’t want me to know I assume. Frankly I half-expect the school to be named after me by the time he graduated, from all the contributions I had been giving just to keep him there. (It all the more affirmed “elite school” has another meaning.) Luckily Lincoln was doing much better. He was in all of those gifted and talented class. It seemed only one half of the twins inherited my brains.


I looked disdainfully at the trough of emails. One of my PR guys must have been slacking off – by right they should already have filtered my emails so that I should only see the most important ones. The only ones from the creme de la creme that are worthy of my attention. I really ought to have a word with them tomorrow. It was atrocious I had to sort my inbox myself. Nobody had the time for that.

Campaign contribution. Delete. Investment opportunity. Delete. Headmistress Halliwell. De… Wait! Why would she send me an email? I remembered the last donation for a dozen microscopes had gone through, from what my bank statements showed. Shrugging my shoulders, I opened the message.

Que horror!


I knew I had to get on the phone with her, now. Who cares whatever-o’clock it was at night. Good thing I had personal access to her.


I could not believe the sheer absurdity of it. They wanted to expel Lance? What. The. Plum. After I donated upwards of a million worth of microscopes? Don’t they know how expensive those microscopes cost? Halliwell said it was because of a major bullying that Lance was the ringleader of. Halliwell said she would be available for a discussion tomorrow. Preferably with both his parents. Robert – he was always busy – was still in Hong Kong so I suppose that leaves me to deal with her.


A thousand thoughts raced in my head. I don’t believe it. Despite not excelling in his studies, I believe my Lance was a good boy. Lance simply isn’t a bully. I saw him being doting on his sister, and he and Lincoln were practically BFFs. And why did nobody call me earlier? I really wanted to wake the boy up and have a go at him, but I calmed myself not to freak out. It would cause one plum of a commotion and I did not want to wake my parents up. They were getting on their years now and I didn’t think they were strong enough to handle another distress. I had to wait until tomorrow. That was the only thing I could do.

And please tell me Halliwell made a mistake!


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