The Grey Girl Read Online Free Page B

meet you, Suzy.’ And then he scooped up his helmet and just walked off. Out of the kitchen, onto the gravel driveway and away from me. My mouth hung open like a fly trap as I watched Nate climb back onto his bike, rev the engine and drive away without looking back.

3
    The whole encounter with Nate had only lasted a couple of minutes, but it had been enough to completely throw me off-kilter. There was no way I was going to befriend the first motorbike-riding, leather-jacket-wearing, cocky cliché with a nice smile that strolled into the kitchen. And I made a mental note to complain to Aunt Meredith about the lack of security at Dudley Hall. If anyone was free to walk up to the house and let themselves in through the back door then it was a miracle no one’d been murdered in their sleep yet.
    It took me ages to make myself breakfast, I was so flustered. I couldn’t find a pan to boil eggs in. And then I burnt my toast and had to start again. Meeting Old Nell and her biker teenage nephew in the space of half an hour had not been the start to the day I had expected. No surprise that they were related – if the rest of the village were half as rude then it was going to be a long few weeks at Dudley Hall. And I couldn’t help but feel betrayed by Aunt Meredith. Nate knew I’d been in hospital. She’d clearly blabbed about me being in Warren House to anyone who’d listen. By the time I had finally cooked my breakfast and eaten it, I’d already resolved to ignore Nell, Nate and any other boorish villager I might be unfortunate enough to meet whilst I stayed at Dudley Hall. I couldn’t afford to feel so distracted. I had to focus on getting better and writing my screenplay.
    It was late morning by the time I finally made it outside into the sunshine with my notepad and a stack of pens. I needed to find a few good writing spots. I needed shade and I needed somewhere I wouldn’t be easily disturbed, somewhere far enough away from the house. I briefly considered sitting underneath the old weeping willow by the stream, but it was still in view of the house. I wanted to be somewhere I knew no one would find me straight away. I followed the small brook as it wound its way through my new garden. Sure enough, after following the stream for a few minutes I saw the old wooden boathouse perched on the riverbank that I’d spotted from my bedroom window the night before. My face widened with a grin – a boathouse would be a perfect place to write.
    The door bolt was rusted but unlocked, and after a few frustrating minutes of struggling I managed to pull it open and swing back the boathouse door. Inside was cool and damp and smelt of stale river water. One ancient-looking boat lay on the wooden decking of the boathouse. The boat was rotten and filled with holes, its paintwork long chipped away. I walked around the small vessel slowly. On its helm was the name
The Lady of Shalott
.
    â€˜Named after the poem,’ I whispered to myself. ‘“
The curse is come upon me,” cried the Lady of Shalott.
’ I sat down on the boathouse floor, the wooden boards creaking as I leant against the rickety old wall and made myself comfortable. The gentle sound of water splashing against the boathouse gave me the perfect soundtrack to sit and write. I opened my notepad, clicked a biro into action and began to put pen to paper.
    I sat and wrote for hours. There, on the floor of the rotting old boathouse, I began to stitch together the threads of my story. I decided not to set it at Warren House. I heard once that you should write about the things that you know best. And other than ‘head hospitals’ the one thing I knew best was boarding schools. I’d lived in a boarding school for most of my life – instead of parents I’d had housemistresses and matrons, and instead of home-cooked meals I’d had cold, stodgy school food to nourish me. So I started to write a story set