Plan B

Chapter Seventeen

Saturday lunchtime found Fran in the sixth form common room, propped up against Bernard’s legs as he sat on the sofa watching TV with a couple of others.  Fran paid attention to the screen every once in a while, but she was trying to struggle through some French homework and get over the petty anger that she felt towards Brookie for kicking her out of the room so that he could work efficiently.  When it came to French, specifically her French oral, Fran was almost as disagreeable as Brookie, and on the pretext that he needed to finish his work before he went for a filming stint that weekend, Brookie had apparently decided it was best for his sanity if he got rid of his roommate.

She looked up as the theme for the news came on, surprised that it was already one o’clock.

“Darn,” sighed Hewie, levering himself off the sofa.  “I need to go get changed for the match.”

“Oh, because the news is so scintillating to watch.”  Arthur returned to stirring his cup of tea.  He was already in rugby kit, and Fran had to admit, it added a certain appeal to his already handsome features.  The navy blue and red stripes of the rugby shirt made his hair look slightly lighter, and the top hung just baggily enough to emphasise how broad his shoulders were and how lean he was.

And then she caught sight of a sleepy-faced Rico taking coffee shots next to him, and she took back everything she thought about Arthur, because Rico in rugby kit was just hot.  He wasn’t as tall as Arthur, nor as well-built as Brookie, but there was something sturdy and reassuring about his wiry build that—

“Hey,” Bernard whispered, nudging her.  “Don’t be open in your ogling, or Aaron might start hitting on you.”

Fran jumped violently and he snickered.

“Honestly, you’re such a space cadet.  Earth to Frankie, please, and stay here.”

Grateful that he’d only been teasing her with no idea that she actually had been ogling boys – do not do that again, Fran – Fran turned her attention back to the news, and nearly leapt out of her skin when she saw a photo of herself on the screen.

“Jesus!”

“Get your eyes tested,” Bernard told her.  “That’s Frances Pelham, not Jesus.”

Fran was tempted to snap that she knew very well who she was, thank you very much, but figured it would not be a good idea.

“You know, that girl that vanished at the beginning of September?” Bernard pressed when Fran didn’t respond.

“Yeah,” said Fran in a hollow voice.  She barely heard what the news presenters were saying about her as she tried to stare Bernard down.  Her skin was crawling, and she suspected something wasn’t quite right.

“Why the freak out?” he asked her.

“I think I might’ve met her,” Fran said lamely in an attempt to make it sound reasonable.  “I never realised it was her.”  She felt like face-palming immediately after she’d said that.  God, I’m an idiot.  Why didn’t I just say ‘I think I might know her’?  Now I’ve limited myself to having met her since the beginning of September, or else I’d never remember meeting her.

Sure enough, Bernard’s eyes widened.  “When?  Where?”

“In town.  When I went to stay at Phil’s and got lost by myself.”  It was all she could venture.  It was the only time she’d actually left the school grounds since she’d arrived there.

Bernard whistled.  “Somebody has to tell the police she’s so close.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”  Fran covered her mouth, but it was too late.