It’s Always the Husband: the Sunday Times bestselling thriller for fans of THE MARRIAGE PACT. Michele Campbell
their own, and – against regulations – they plugged Jenny’s space heater into an ancient outlet beneath a scarred wooden table. Aubrey warmed her feet and imagined herself sitting by a fire in the time of Dickens, with only a candle for her light. With the musty smell of old books filling her senses, she’d lose herself in their pages.
Aubrey was taking Novels of the Gilded Age, Eastern Religions, Intro to Astronomy, and Sanskrit (so she could read Hindu and Buddhist liturgy in the original). It was a heavy load, but she was eager to open her mind, to become worthy of Carlisle. She was writing a paper on the yoga-sutras of Pantanjali, ancient Hindu texts that promised the acquisition of supernatural mental powers through the regular practice of yoga. Was it true? She went to yoga class to investigate, so she could include her personal observations in the paper. That was the sort of amazing work you could do here. But when she tried to talk to her friends about what she was learning, most of them would say, “Cool,” and change the subject to which parties were worth going to on Saturday night. It surprised her how few people at Carlisle cared about acquiring knowledge for its own sake. Her roomies didn’t. Jenny studied to get As. Kate never studied. Kate skipped class when she felt like it and barely cracked a book. All term she would ignore her assignments, then spend Reading Week hopped up on stimulants – Dexedrine, the minuscule amount of coke she could afford since Keniston cut her allowance, and cup after cup of black coffee – so she could stay awake cramming for days. Then she’d regurgitate it for the exam and promptly forget it. Watching Kate pound uppers during fall term, Aubrey worried that her heart would stop, that she’d drop dead on College Street on her way to Hemingway’s for an espresso to add to the toxic cocktail already flooding her bloodstream. But nothing bad happened. That’s how it always went with Kate: no consequences. Her grades turned out decent, so she repeated the same scam for winter term – all play and no work, stockpiling a sizable stash of uppers for exam time.
One Wednesday night in early February, Aubrey was down in the stacks reading when she heard a knock on the window above her carrel. She’d been far away, lost in Edith Wharton’s New York, which reminded her uncomfortably of Carlisle. The heartless rich kids, the genteel wraiths who’d fallen on hard times, the strivers looking for their next advantage – they were all here. It’s not like there were no good people at Carlisle, but there were plenty of indifferent ones, as well as some who’d been corrupted at a young age through no fault of their own and couldn’t help but misbehave. Aubrey put Kate in that latter category, if she was being honest. Lately, Kate had been thumbing her nose at her father and living off handouts from the fat trust fund that belonged to Griffin Rothenberg, her Odell swain. Griff was the son of a wealthy investment banker and a Swedish fashion model. With his striking blond head on his compact jock body, he bore enough of a resemblance to Kate that they were sometimes mistaken for brother and sister. As far as Aubrey could tell, Kate thought of Griff that way. Griff followed her around like a lovesick puppy while Kate treated him with a comfortable, dismissive indifference that Aubrey found hard to watch. Aubrey carried a torch for Griff herself, though she did her best to hide it. Griff was the male Kate, really. Not only did they look alike, but he had that same careless confidence, that ease in the world, that Aubrey both coveted and lacked utterly. Griff was the boy she’d most like to lose her virginity to, but she had no hope of achieving that. He was obsessed with Kate, and Aubrey was nothing but a third wheel to be patted on the head on those rare occasions when he noticed her at all.
At the sound of the knock, Aubrey looked up. Kate and Griff were down on their knees in the window well, making faces at her. Griff slammed a rectangular object up against the glass – a plastic tray from the dining hall.
Jenny leaned over from the adjacent carrel and gazed up at the tray pressed against the window.
“They’re going traying now?” she asked. It was a rhetorical question.
The snow was deep enough that winter that the skiing at the local resorts was supposedly sublime. Aubrey had never been on skis and couldn’t afford a lift ticket to save her life, but she’d gone mad for sledding. The speed, the abandon, the sharp taste of snow in her mouth when she crashed. Traying was the Carlisle version of sledding. You blasted a stick (smoked a joint), stole a tray from the dining hall, and walked a mile in the cold to Belle River Park to the crazy steep sledding hill, where you flew down the slope using the tray as your sled. The hill had been rigged up with all sorts of homemade jumps. The most popular jumps sent you rocketing high into the air, or directed you off into the woods to confront an obstacle course of trees. The broken limbs and the concussions were piling up, to the point that the college infirmary recently sent out a memorandum warning the students not to sled. But everybody ignored it. Traying was too fun.
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