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CHAPTER ONE

Nancy

For as long as I can remember I have been in love with Chase Hunter.

I love everything about him. The way his thick, dark-brown messy hair sticks up when he runs his fingers through it (which he does whenever he’s nervous) and how he gets the cutest dimples whenever he smiles, showing off his pearly white teeth. He has the most beautifully sculpted cheekbones and chiselled jaw, but my favourite thing is his vintage indie style of dressing; he looks hot in whatever he’s wearing, but I love him best in his simple, favourite combo of black skinny jeans, a white T-shirt and leather jacket, and that fedora hat he hardly ever goes without. And who could miss those piercing bright blue eyes framed by long dark eyelashes, which make your knees turn to jelly and cause your brain to go blank and forget all the words in the English language as you look into them.

Chase is also the most talented human being on the planet. He plays a whole host of instruments, but he’s the best at piano. He’s been playing since he was four years old, when his dad first plonked him on a piano stool. And Chase has a seriously beautiful singing voice that makes a shiver go down my spine and the breath catch in my throat.

Chase and I are made for one another. We like all the same things, including, but not limited to, the following:

Music (mostly pop, but we also both occasionally dip into soundtracks from the West End)
Fashion (we can both pull off hats, and that is something you just can’t teach)
Dogs AND cats (but neither of us are fans of pigeons – they are pure evil)
Art (for me, that includes nails and make-up; for Chase, it’s songwriting and, also, photography is one of his favourite hobbies)
Yoga (we are both totally spiritual)

Basically, we’re soulmates.

‘Nancy? Hello, Earth to Nancy!’

I snap my head up as my friend Layla’s voice cuts through my daydreaming.

‘Sorry!’ I smile as she rolls her eyes, sitting down next to me and pulling her phone out of her bag. ‘I was in my own world.’

I’d just been remembering Chase’s birthday last year, when he went to his party wearing an open red-and-black check flannel shirt over a vest. I had inhaled so sharply when I saw him in such a great layer combination that I had accidentally swallowed my gum, making me cough and splutter all over the place.

Which is proof of how good-looking Chase Hunter really is.

He, literally, almost made me die.

‘Whatever.’ Layla sighs impatiently, busy texting. ‘So, what’s this big news you wanted to tell me?’

‘You have got to see this app I downloaded.’ I grin, sliding my phone across the table towards her.

Her eyes flicker towards it reluctantly.

‘What is it?’ she says in a bored voice. ‘And who opened the window? Seriously, it’s freezing in here.’

I shrug and reach up to close the classroom window, deciding not to mention that it was actually me who had opened it earlier, just before she came in. I had been spritzing my new perfume and gone a bit overboard, spraying so much that I sneezed about a hundred times and could still taste it in my mouth.

I can confirm that perfume does not taste as nice as it smells.

‘Morning!’ our friend Sophie says brightly, sauntering across the classroom and sitting at the table in front of us.

We don’t have seats officially assigned to us in morning registration, but Layla made sure at the beginning of the year that everyone knew these three places were ours, because, being right at the back and next to the window, they are the best seats in the room.

A few weeks ago, Timothy Davies tragically forgot about this unwritten rule and we came in one morning to find him sitting at mine and Layla’s desk, doodling cartoons in his notebook. Layla was furious and I had to step in quickly before she went full-on Disney villain at him. I know what she can be like. Don’t even get me started on the time I took a sneaky bite out of her red velvet cupcake.

I will never commit such a crime EVER again. The punishment was so not worth the bite.

‘Hey, Sophie.’ I grin as she sits down, swivelling to lean on the back of her chair and face us. ‘I have to tell you about this app. Basically –’

‘Did you get my message?’ Layla asks her, cutting across me.

‘Yeah.’ Sophie nods, rummaging about in her bag before passing Layla a lip gloss. ‘Sorry, I completely forgot I’d borrowed it. I’m glad you reminded me. My brain has been all over the place this morning, stressing about the English test today.’ She lets out a long sigh. ‘Who knew Jane Austen could be so complicated!’

‘Jane Eyre,’ I correct.

‘Oh.’ Sophie stares at me blankly. ‘Are those two different things?’

I smile. Sophie always has her head in the clouds; sometimes I think she’s on a completely different planet. She lives next door to Layla, so they’ve been best friends for years and I often wonder whether Sophie is ever annoyed that Layla chooses to sit next to me at school now, rather than her. However, whereas I’d be upset if my best friend since forever did that to me, I genuinely don’t think it crosses Sophie’s mind.

‘Jane Austen was an author, and Jane Eyre is the main character of Charlotte Brontë’s book. Totally unrelated except for the first name.’

‘Wait, what?’ Her dark eyes widen with panic.

Sophie always goes on about how lucky I am to have blue eyes and poker-straight blonde hair, but I think the exact opposite. I would do anything to have her intense dark-brown eyes and beautiful brunette curls. I get really mad at her when she straightens her hair. She has no idea how long it takes me – and how many times I burn myself with curling tongs – to achieve anything near the kind of volume her hair has. Layla has lovely natural waves too, and whenever she stays over at mine she complains about how much hair spray I use in the morning, accusing me of poisoning her lungs.

The straight-hair struggle is real.

‘I was just telling my parents this morning that I’ve been studying Jane Austen,’ Sophie continues. ‘No wonder Mum looked confused at breakfast when I mentioned all the moors.’

‘The moors?’

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘You know, all the moors in the book. I read that this morning online. It’s an important theme,’ she adds proudly.

‘Ah,’ I begin carefully, ‘I think you’re getting confused with Wuthering Heights. That’s a different book, by Emily Brontë.’

Sophie stares at me blankly. ‘I’m lost.’

‘Charlotte Brontë is the author who wrote Jane Eyre, the book we’re studying,’ I explain slowly. ‘Emily Brontë was her sister, who wrote another classic book, Wuthering Heights, which we’re not studying. That book has the important moors theme in it. And neither of those books are anything to do with Jane Austen.’

Sophie slumps her shoulders forward. ‘I’m never going to pass my English GCSE. I can’t even get the book right!’

‘Don’t be silly – you’ll be fine,’ I say, trying to be as convincing as possible. ‘It’s only September, so this test doesn’t mean anything. You’ve got the entire year to read the right book before the actual exam.’

‘I suppose.’ She sighs. ‘What am I going to do about the Jane Eyre test?’

‘I can give you an overview of all the important points, if you like,’ I suggest.

‘You seem to know a lot about Jane Eyre and classic literature all of a sudden,’ Layla notes, watching me. ‘I didn’t know boring old books were your thing.’

‘They’re not,’ I insist hurriedly. ‘It’s because of the test. And I just … I know a lot about them because of Nina. She often talks about books at dinner.’

Layla rolls her eyes. ‘That figures.’

Technically, that wasn’t a lie. Nina does sometimes talk about books at dinner. But what I don’t mention is that I’ve also read all those books myself. Twice. I just can’t admit that to Layla and Sophie.

They would think I’m as big a loser as my sister.

‘Did you see Chase is working in Manchester today?’ I say to Sophie, keen to change the subject. ‘He was meant to be taking time off this week, but he is so dedicated.’

I swirl the tip of my finger gently over my current phone background: a black-and-white picture of him laughing, with his dimples very pronounced and all these cute crinkles round his eyes.

I sigh dreamily. ‘He’s just perfect.’

‘He really is,’ Sophie says enthusiastically, as Layla nods in agreement. ‘If only we knew him! Can you imagine meeting Chase? Like, face-to-face?’

She squeals loudly at the thought of it, causing Mrs Smithson, our form teacher, who has just sauntered into the room, to jump and splash her coffee all over the floor. ‘I think I would pass out on the spot!’

Which brings me to the teeny, tiny snag in my otherwise perfect relationship with Chase Hunter …

I’ve never actually met him.

And the reason I’ve never met him is because he just so happens to be the lead singer in the globally famous band Chasing Chords.

But that doesn’t mean we’re not soulmates.

I know it sounds mad but I’ve been loyally supporting Chase since his band first uploaded one of their songs on to YouTube, which went viral in a matter of days and landed them a big record deal. I was the first one in our entire school to stumble across the video online of the band playing a song that Chase had written, in what I now know to be his mum’s dusty old garage. I lay on my bed and played it over and over on repeat, until Nina knocked on my door and went, ‘Can’t you put some headphones on?’ in an unnecessarily narky tone.

I didn’t care though because I knew then that I had stumbled upon something really special. I showed the video to everyone the next day at school, and by then the band’s YouTube hits had skyrocketed. I followed them on every possible social media platform and registered for their newsletters, so that I could stay on top of all their updates, like when they signed the record deal. I couldn’t stop listening to their latest song until they uploaded the next one, and then I couldn’t stop listening to that one either. I have always been into music – Nina and I used to pretend we were pop stars all the time when we were little – but no songs have ever had the effect on me that Chase’s songs do.

Layla and Sophie love Chasing Chords, but they don’t compete with my appreciation of Chase. They don’t really get him. Which is why I write the posts for the blog we created together, the one dedicated to our amazing fan fiction about the band. When I first suggested we set it up, Layla was really keen, but she never actually contributes anything. She just lies on her bed Snapchatting, while I sit at my laptop and work hard writing the stories, with occasional helpful comments from Sophie (although I have to put my foot down when Sophie suggests stupid plotlines like Chase and Miles, the band’s drummer, going on a space adventure with NASA).

It’s not like I always get As on my English papers or anything, and even if I did I wouldn’t tell anyone in case they thought I was a big nerd, but writing fan fiction about Chasing Chords is one of my favourite things to do. Through my stories, I get totally lost in the band’s world and I feel as if I know them better than they know themselves. I get loads of comments on my stories from fellow Chasing Chords fans begging me for the next instalment and I always secretly hope that the band might actually log on every now and then and read the stories, or even comment under another name.

Once the band replied to a tweet I sent them about how much I loved their latest single:

Chasing Chords @realchasingchords

@npalmer Thnx! Without fans like you, we’d be lost xox

I took a screenshot of it, which I printed out in a blown-up size, and then I bought a really expensive frame, and set the picture up on my dressing table next to my framed picture of Chase and my mirror, so I can read it every morning while I get ready.

I just have to meet Chase, and then everything else will fall into place. And ever since this morning, when the band announced they would be playing a surprise gig in London on Saturday, with tickets going on sale this week, I’d been coming up with a brilliant plan to make that happen.

‘I have to tell you both about this new app,’ I say, slightly distracted by Mrs Smithson, who was attempting – and failing – to mop up the spilt coffee with a piece of paper in absence of a tissue.

‘What is it?’

‘It gives me priority when buying any gig tickets in London,’ I explain eagerly, clicking on the app to show them. ‘We’ll get first dibs as soon as the tickets for the secret Chasing Chords concert go on sale!’

‘Amazing!’ Sophie squeals, just as Mrs Smithson raises her mug to her lips, making her jump again and spill what’s left in the mug down her shirt. ‘Is it expensive? Getting this priority thing?’

‘Who cares?’ I shrug. ‘It’s Chasing Chords. We HAVE to get tickets and this is our best chance.’

‘Will your mum mind?’

‘Sophie, you’ve met my mum.’ I sigh, sharing a knowing look with Layla. ‘It’s not like she’d understand anything about apps. She can barely work her mobile and it’s ancient. It doesn’t even have a camera.’

‘What?’ Sophie replies, stunned. ‘Do phones like that actually exist?’

‘Trust me, they do.’

I had tried to update my mum’s phone and I’d even got so far as to take her into a mobile phone shop in town, but that ended up being a total disaster. She completely embarrassed me in front of the really cute shop assistant by asking the WORST questions, like, ‘Why are young people so obsessed with your own faces? I’ll never understand this selfie malarkey you go on about, Nancy. Although, I do have to say, Nancy, you have a very beautiful face. Like mother, like daughter, eh?’

That wasn’t even her worst joke, and every time she made one she cackled really loudly afterwards when it was clear that I wasn’t finding any of them very funny at all. Then she insisted on making the cute shop assistant guide her round all the phones on display so that she could ‘gather all the facts’, before declaring to the entire store that she couldn’t POSSIBLY discard the phone that has loyally stuck with her through thick and thin for the past four years, and she wouldn’t be purchasing anything today, but did the cute shop assistant want to note down his number for her beautiful daughter, standing right there next to her.

It was MORTIFYING. I literally had to crawl out of the shop and couldn’t speak to her for the rest of the afternoon, making a promise to myself that I would never again attempt to lure my mum into any kind of modern technology.

Just thinking about the phone-shop incident was actually making my cheeks burn hot with embarrassment, even though it was months ago.

‘What is your sister doing?’ Layla suddenly says, looking towards the front of the classroom curiously.

I hadn’t even noticed Nina come in the room, but she must have been in there for some time because her notepads and pencil case were open on her desk, as though she’d been working.

I watch as Nina, with her clunky purple headphones round her neck like always, gets up from her desk and holds out a pack of tissues to Mrs Smithson, who is now standing looking in despair at the coffee stain on her shirt. She takes one gratefully before Nina quickly returns to the safety of her desk. But, of course, one of Nina’s shoelaces has come undone and she trips, stumbling forward and quickly steadying herself on Timothy’s shoulder as she passes his desk.

‘Sorry!’ she mumbles, as he jolts his head up in surprise.

Layla sniggers next to me.

Oh, Nina, I think, staring at her, you can’t even walk from the front of the class to your seat without somehow messing it up. Why do you have to be so embarrassing?

I don’t think anyone noticed except me and Layla, and Nina was only at the front of the class for a matter of seconds, but still I notice the familiar crimson blush appearing on my sister’s cheeks as she ducks her head down to her notebook, pulling her headphones back into place over her ears.

‘What is with her?’ Layla asks, shaking her head. ‘She is so clumsy. I swear I saw her trip in the canteen yesterday. It’s like she can’t handle her own feet!’

‘You two are so different, Nancy,’ Sophie chimes in.

‘Thank goodness,’ I quip, laughing nervously.

‘It’s really weird. Apart from your looks –’ Layla begins, leaning back in her chair, as the bell for morning registration trills loudly through the room – ‘I’d never guess you were twins.’

CHAPTER TWO

Nina

I pull my headphones on, burying my face in my book as my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment.

The music fills my ears, blocking out Layla’s cackle from the back of the classroom. WHY did I have to trip over in front of EVERYONE? I should have just left Mrs Smithson using that stupid piece of paper to mop up her coffee, rather than bother to offer her a tissue. I wish Layla hadn’t seen. I’ve overheard her and Nancy talking about how clumsy I am before and now I’ve just given them even more ammo against me.

I glance up at the clock on the wall. Morning registration is about to start and then it’s only a couple of hours until I can escape to the music rooms for my piano lesson, the only highlight of the school day.

Please, time, move faster.

Mrs Smithson raps her knuckles on the desk to get everyone’s attention and I reluctantly lower my headphones, letting them sit round my neck like a safety blanket. I can hear Nancy giggling with her friends and I wonder whether they’re still laughing at me or whether they’ve moved on to someone else.

I glance round and catch Nancy’s eye as she looks my way.

Yep. Guess they’re still laughing at me, then.

I hurriedly face the front, slouching even further into my chair, wishing it would swallow me up. Mum is always on at me about my posture – ‘You’ll end up hunched right over like your Great-uncle Walt if you don’t roll those shoulders back, and, let me tell you, your Great-uncle Walt was constantly walking into things because his eyes faced the floor.’

I don’t want to burst Mum’s bubble, but I checked out our family tree and Great-uncle Walt doesn’t exist.

Still, I do try my best not to slouch all the time, but it’s difficult because when I sit up straight and roll my shoulders back with my chin up, I immediately feel too open, so I hunch forward again. Just like a hedgehog becomes a spiky ball, safely curled up into itself.

Nancy, on the other hand, has perfect posture. But then she would. She wants to be the centre of attention and have everyone looking at her all the time. Nancy doesn’t fall over her own feet walking across the classroom and she always looks amazing. School for her is a daily fashion show – she gets up super early in the mornings to get ready, selfishly waking up the whole street as she wails along to loud pop music, pretending her hairdryer is a microphone.

You’d think that being identical twins we’d have a similar appearance, but, honestly, there’s no chance of getting us mixed up. I don’t know how she gets her hair so shiny and glossy. It must be something to do with the hundreds of bottles lined up around the shower. And her make-up takes her hours and is flawless, as though she’s about to step on to the red carpet for a premiere, not get in the car to go to school.

I have no idea how to use cosmetics. I tried once and I just ended up looking like a child playing with her mum’s make-up. I quickly scrubbed it off before Nancy could get a glimpse and tell the entire school how stupid I looked.

I would ask her for some tips but that would require talking to her.

‘Nina Palmer, I know is here,’ Mrs Smithson says, smiling at me and ticking the registration list. ‘Thank you for the tissue.’

‘No problem,’ I say quickly, feeling my face on fire again. I know she’s being nice but I wish she wouldn’t draw any more attention to me.

Someone sniggers at the back. I don’t have to turn round to know it’s Nancy.

I keep my head down for the rest of the morning and by the time the lunch bell goes, signalling it is time for my piano lesson, I am ready for the day to be over. I get up so fast, scrabbling my books together to rush out of the room, that I don’t look as I slide out of my chair, knocking straight into Layla.

‘Hey!’ she growls, looking offended that someone like me had touched her.

‘Sorry,’ I squeak, clutching my books. ‘I didn’t see you.’

She glares at me in disgust and then swans out of the classroom, Nancy following her closely, without giving me a second glance.

‘Perfect!’ My piano teacher, Mr Rogers, grins as I come to the end of Bach’s Prelude in C. ‘I knew I didn’t call you my star student for nothing.’

I blush. ‘I fumbled some of the beginning section. I have been practising all week, but I guess it took me a while to get into it today.’

He nods thoughtfully. ‘Was it because I was in the room?’

‘What do you mean?’

He hesitates. ‘Nina, you’ve got a real talent. But, if you really want to get a place on the Guildhall music course next summer, you’re going to have to practise performing in front of an audience.’

My stomach tightens at the mention of the summer music course. I have dreamt my whole life of going to Guildhall School of Music and Drama after I finish school, and next July they are running a special summer course for younger students who one day might attend the school for real. I HAVE to get a place on that course.

But there’s also no way that I can play the piano in front of people. I feel sick to my stomach just at the thought of performing in front of an audience or on a stage.

‘This year, it’s the most important thing I want you to work on,’ Mr Rogers continues as I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Playing in front of an audience. I know how nervous you get just playing in front of me, so I think it would be very good practice to get used to controlling those nerves. It’s a very natural thing to be scared about, but, unfortunately, if you want to be a musician, you have to get over your stage fright. Maybe you could start with your family? This week you could play them this piece. You play it beautifully; I’m sure they would love to hear it.’

My family? No chance. Nancy is hardly going to want to spend an evening watching me play the piano.

‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to play in front of an audience,’ I admit.

Mr Rogers regards me carefully. ‘Just start getting used to the idea. We can take it slow. We have a whole year to work on it. Now –’ he smiles, reaching for another piece of sheet music – ‘let’s move on to some Beethoven, shall we?’

When our lesson ends, I stay in the music room to practise for the rest of lunch break, thinking about what Mr Rogers said.

How am I ever going to be able to play in front of the Guildhall tutors if just the thought of playing in front of anyone but Mr Rogers makes me break out into a sweat?!

‘I can’t do this,’ I announce to an empty room, slumping forward and resting my forehead on the piano keys.

‘Do what?’

I almost fall off the back of the piano stool, but breathe a sigh of relief when I see it’s only Jimmy leaning on the door frame, watching me with a bemused expression.

He grins and comes to lean on the piano instead. ‘I thought I’d find you here.’

Jimmy and I have been friends ever since we were paired together one PE lesson when we were ten and forced to come up with a gymnastics routine to show the rest of the class. Both of us are useless at any kind of sport, plus I get stage fright so badly that I physically freeze. Needless to say, our routine ended up being a complete disaster.

But it succeeded in making us best friends for life.

‘What is it you can’t do?’ he asks, pressing down on random piano keys.

‘Just something Mr Rogers has asked me to do. It’s nothing. How was your morning?’

‘Long. I wish we were in the same classes,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Mr Barber gave me another warning.’

I can’t help but laugh. Jimmy has never been one to hold back his opinions; one of the many qualities I love about him.

‘What did you do this time?’ I ask gleefully. ‘Accuse him of being a repressor of basic human rights?’

‘Oh please, that was so last week.’ He frowns. ‘It wasn’t my fault; I was provoked. Jessica Hawks decided to give her opinion on Jane Eyre.’

‘Oh?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Jessica Hawks thinks that Jane is, and I quote, “too gobby,” and she doesn’t understand why someone “as hot as Mr Rochester” would want to be with someone “who won’t stop whining”.’

‘Wow. That’s … interesting.’

‘That’s not the word I used. I asked her whether she’d have the same opinion if Jane was a man. I said, if Jane was a man, standing up for himself, not letting anyone boss him around or make him feel inferior, would Jessica Hawks still consider him “too gobby”? I accused her of promoting the idea of gender constructions by expecting female characters to stay in their place, under the power of men, and not protest. Then I said she was an embodiment of everything that’s wrong with our society.’ He pauses for breath.

‘And? What did she say?’ I ask admiringly.

‘I believe her exact words were, “Oh, sod off.” ’

I giggle at the idea of Jimmy facing up to Jessica Hawks, one of the popular girls. I doubt she even knows who Jimmy is.

‘Mr Barber gave you a warning for that? Seems a bit harsh. Isn’t it just a healthy debate?’

Jimmy puts his hand on his heart. ‘And that is why you are my best friend in this mad, mad world. That’s exactly what I think, and yet, according to Mr Barber, I was being unnecessarily aggressive in my opinions. How am I ever going to get into Oxford if I’m not aggressive – no, not aggressive – assertive in my opinions? That’s what I’d like to know.’ He absent-mindedly repeatedly taps the A key. ‘Yet again, proof of the Man trying to neatly mould us into deluded social norms.’

I smile, nudging him gently. ‘Keep fighting the good fight. Oxford won’t know what’s hit it.’

‘Neither will Guildhall. Do you want me to leave so you can practise?’

‘Actually, Mr Rogers wants me to try and do the absolute opposite. He wants me to start practising in front of people.’

‘As in, performing?’ Jimmy raises his eyebrows. ‘Has Mr Rogers met you?’

‘I know. But he’s right.’ I sigh. ‘I won’t get into the Guildhall summer school if I can’t play in front of anyone, will I?’

Jimmy nods, running a hand through his unruly curls. ‘Why don’t you ask your hero about this on Saturday? I’m sure he might have some tips on getting over stage fright.’

Immediately a rush of excitement washes over me. ‘Can you believe he’s in London? He’s there –’

‘– for one night only and he’s coming all the way from Manchester.’ Jimmy laughs. ‘You’ve told me maybe five hundred times since last night!’

‘I’m sorry, I know I must be boring you, but I can’t help it. Shall we go together?’

Jimmy looks at me guiltily. ‘I’m so sorry, Nina, I can’t come. I wish I could!’

‘That’s OK,’ I say hurriedly, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘Mum will take me.’

‘You’ll have to tell me all about it. Imagine,’ he says, smiling wistfully, ‘seeing Austin Golding in the flesh! I’m not sure you’ll be able to handle it.’

I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to handle it either. Austin Golding is one of the most talented living composers and pianists in the world, and ever since Mr Rogers introduced me to his work I’ve been completely obsessed with him. Whenever I want to hide away from the world – which happens on a daily basis – I put my headphones on, I listen to one of his albums and I escape from everything into his music. No one can play the piano like he can. As Mr Rogers says, he is truly a genius.

I saw the advert in the newspaper for his upcoming signing in London and immediately rang the music shop supplying the event to secure his latest book (according to the lady on the phone, they only had one left). It is ready and waiting for me to pick it up on Saturday and take it to Austin to autograph.

‘Do you think I should tell Austin I’m a pianist too? Or is that really lame? It’s really lame, isn’t it. I’m sure he gets it all the time. Maybe I should just say I’m his biggest fan. But that kind of sounds silly, too. What do you think?’

Jimmy opens his mouth to speak but hesitates, distracted by something over my shoulder. I swivel round on the stool just in time to see Nancy’s face disappear from the window of the door before she flounces off; I could tell she was pretending that she wasn’t looking in. I turn back to face the piano, resting my hands on the keys comfortingly.

‘The Queen Bee herself,’ Jimmy remarks, before shooting me a look of sympathy. ‘Have you two spoken recently?’

I shake my head.

Nancy and I never speak. Not properly. We say stuff in passing, because it’s hard not to when there’s only three of us in the house and Mum still insists that we have dinner at the table together every single night. But Mum will always be the one talking, desperate to get us more interested in each other. Nancy isn’t interested in me. The only thing she’s interested in is her phone and how many likes each of her posts receives. Her phone is, and I quote, ‘everything’ to her.

‘She’s been brainwashed,’ Jimmy once said to me, trying to excuse her behaviour. ‘Yet another victim of a society that promotes unattainable perfection. It’s not really her fault. One day, she’ll see the light and maybe you two will be friends again.’

Jimmy is an only child and insists that I’m lucky to have a sibling, especially a twin.

Thing is, I used to think I was lucky. I used to think I was the luckiest person in the world to have a sister like Nancy. We were best friends and the fact that we were identical twins made it even better. We did everything together, so much so that people didn’t even bother referring to us by name.

We were just The Twins.

I remember feeling really sad when Nancy wanted to do one thing and I wanted to do another, and we would make the decision to split up. I would feel odd without her next to me, as though I’d lost a limb. She was always the more confident twin – ‘I’m older,’ she used to say with her mischievous grin, ‘so don’t you worry, Nina – I’ll be in charge’ – but I didn’t mind that; I liked that she took the reins on everything we did. She never made me feel like I was less important. She knew I was shy.

But then Dad left and everything changed.

We all coped with the family split in a different way. Nancy refused to talk about it, snapping at me any time I mentioned Dad and telling me off for making Mum sad. She started hanging out with different people at school, who were loud, brash and confident, while I just wanted to block out everything and everyone with music or go somewhere quiet with my camera and take photos. When I tried to hang out with her and her popular friends, she ignored me or looked annoyed whenever I said the wrong thing.

It was as though everything she used to love about me embarrassed her.

As we grew up, we started having less and less in common, so then we had less and less to talk about, until one day I noticed that we barely talked at all. By that point, I was so used to it that it was just how it was.

‘I don’t know what happened to you two,’ Mum always says, with sad eyes. ‘I don’t know why you resent each other so much.’

It’s hard not to resent someone who makes you feel inferior to her phone.

‘I wonder why she felt the need to peer into the music room,’ Jimmy says. ‘Maybe she wanted to hear you play. She knows you like coming here at break times.’

‘Nancy has no idea what I do or where I go, and she couldn’t care less.’

‘How do you know?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘How else do you explain her looking through the music-room window?’

‘Simple,’ I say, pulling the piano lid down over the keys. ‘She must have mistaken it for a mirror.’

PENGUIN BOOKS

CHAPTER ONE

Nancy

CHAPTER TWO

Nina