The Beautiful Ones

Book summary

Caitlyn Shaw's life unravels after a traumatic event, leading her into a battle with mental illness and psychotic breaks. As she rebels against her treatment, Caitlyn fights to reclaim her sanity and dreams, confronting societal stigmas along the way. THE BEAUTIFUL ONES by Julia Sutton is a poignant tale of resilience and redemption.

Excerpt from The Beautiful Ones

My name is Caitlyn Shaw, and since I was knee-high, I have aspired to be a teacher. Mum, who is prone to bouts of nostalgia, often told me I would spend hours playing class with my teddies; signing an imaginary register and teaching sums and spellings to my furry, lifeless friends. As the oldest sister in a family of five girls, my leadership skills were honed to perfection. Dad called me bossy, and of course, I would retaliate hotly, ‘You say that as if it’s a negative attribute.’ I was all for equality, non-gender bias. Anything a man can do, a woman can achieve too. I was driven, determined, and ambitious. Not for me a life of marriage, housework, and children. I wanted an important career. I longed to leave an impression on the world. I figured that I could do all that and more through teaching.

‘Why don’t you become a politician?’ It’s Friday evening; my best friend Hannah is lying on my bed, applying glittery eyeliner in front of a handheld mirror. ‘You’re so… what’s the word? Begins with an A.’

‘Argumentative?’ I’m dabbing on foundation with a manky sponge that really needs binning.

‘No. Well yes, you’re that too. I mean, you’re good at talking, debating.’

‘You mean articulate.’ I study my reflection, pleased that my spots have been temporarily covered with the help of Miss Perfect’s ivory mousse.

‘Yes!’ Hannah flings her eye pencil in the air. It lands beside me on my dressing table. ‘You could be the next female prime minister. Imagine it, Caitlyn Shaw, living in Number Ten Downing Street with an entourage of servants at her beck and call.’

‘No thanks,’ I reply with steely determination. ‘Because I am going to be the best teacher ever.’

Hannah bounces up on the bed. ‘Let’s run away to London,’ she says with excitement. ‘We can share a flat in the West End; you as a teacher and me as a pop singer. I’ll be famous, of course, and a millionaire by the time I’m twenty-five.’

‘Is that really what you want to do?’ I regard my best friend with amused eyes.

Hannah lets out an almighty sigh and flops down onto the duvet. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Anything, anywhere is better than here.’

‘What’s wrong with Great Harrington?’

‘What’s right with it, you mean.’

‘Well, I like it here,’ I’m pouting as I apply lip gloss. ‘I don’t think I’d like living in a city much.’

‘But there’s no action here,’ Hannah paces to my window and pulls back the netting. ‘Just miles of fields. Sheep and cows everywhere.’

‘That’s a bonus of living in the countryside.’ I put the lid back on my lip pencil and turn to look at her. ‘It’s pretty here, you have to admit.’

‘Pretty dull.’ Hannah comes to the dressing table and squirts my most expensive perfume liberally over her chest and arms.

‘It’s not too late, you know.’ I stand up and straighten the skirt on my velour dress.

‘For what?’

‘To alter your choice to a London university.’

‘Move away?’ Hannah exhales noisily. ‘I couldn’t leave my family and you, Caitlyn.’

‘Don’t forget Declan,’ I say with a smile.

Hannah nods. ‘I absolutely couldn’t leave Declan.’ For all her expostulation, my best friend is a true home bird. Her family and friends are her world.

‘Well then, you’ll just have to commute and study history at Birmingham.’

Hannah gravitates her eyes into a huge roll. ‘Why are you always so sensible and right about everything?’

I shrug indifferently. ‘Because I’m perfect?’

Hannah laughs. ‘You might be right there. So, are we ready to smash this party?’

The pair of us stare in the full-length mirror. Me in red and Hannah in black. We look like the girls from Abba; me dark haired and Hannah blonde.

‘Shoes!’ I say, crossing to my walk-in wardrobe. I slip into a blingy designer pair and pick up a matching handbag. ‘Now I’m ready.’

‘Then let’s go, girl!’ Hannah links her arm through mine, and we clatter out of the room, giggling and whispering.

On the way down the opulent staircase, we cross my sister Melanie. She’s carrying a bottle of lager and a plate of toast and gives us a scowl as we pass her by.

‘Does Dad know you’re drinking his beer?’ I ask.

‘Butt out, Caitlyn.’ Melanie sticks her finger up before carrying on to the top of the staircase.

‘Don’t your parents mind her drinking alcohol?’ Hannah asks. ‘She’s what… sixteen?’

‘Dad’s pretty laid back,’ I shrug, ‘and I don’t think Mum even notices.’

‘I heard that,’ shouts Melanie, ‘and it’s none of your goddamned business.’ Her words are accompanied by a door slam that resounds throughout the house.

‘Jeez, I thought my brothers were bad,’ Hannah says as we totter down the last step. ‘What an attitude!’

‘I wish I had brothers,’ I sigh. ‘Boys are cool, and girls… well, they’re a nuisance.’

‘My brothers have their moments too,’ Hannah says ruefully.

‘Well, look at you both. What a fine sight.’ Dad ambles down the hall, newspaper in his hand. ‘Go and show your mother some love; she’ll be proud as punch.’

I veer around the furniture into the sitting room. Mum is lying on the sofa, fanning herself with a rolled-up magazine. The heat in the room is oppressive; it’s been scorching for days, and there’s a thunderstorm brewing. The wind is whistling through the open windows, making the drapes flap outwards. I suppose it should be expected for August. It’s been a muggy summer. I long for the coolness of autumn and the start of university. Unlike my bronzed father, who will bask semi-naked for hours in the garden, I prefer the cold and being wrapped in thick jumpers. I must be like Mum in that respect.

I notice one of my other siblings, Harriet, curled up on an armchair. As usual, she has a book in her hands. Harriet is the family brain box. I mean, I’m an A-grade student and pretty clever myself, but Harriet is in another league. She’s down on the gifted and talented register at our secondary school. She speaks fluent French and German and plays the piano and trombone. She aspires to be a doctor, and for a thirteen-year-old, she’s okay. Mum’s mouth drops open when she sees Hannah and me looking glammed up. I hope she isn’t going to start reminiscing about my baby days. Before she gets the chance, I tell her we’re running late.

‘Have a fabulous time, darlings,’ she calls across the room. ‘You’re both looking wonderful.’ Mum gives me a thumbs up, a gesture which makes me cringe with embarrassment.

As we turn away, I mumble to Hannah, ‘She told me the other day I can start calling her Ruth instead of Mum now I’m eighteen.’

Hannah splutters with laughter. ‘Your parents are so cool.’

‘No, they’re really not,’ I shake my head. ‘They just think they are.’

Dad is waiting for us beside the front door. He’s twirling his key around his forefinger and asks us if we’re ready to leave. Before I can respond, I hear the patter of feet running across the polished floor. My twin sisters catapult themselves at me.

‘Where are you going, Caitlyn?’ Seven-year-old Jade looks up at me with her beautiful cerulean blue eyes.

‘You said you’d read us a story.’ Mae pipes up, wrapping herself around my legs.

‘I’m going to a party,’ I reply, ruffling their golden hair. ‘I promise I’ll read you a story tomorrow.’

‘A party?’ The twins gasp with wonder. ‘Will there be clowns there and jelly and ice cream?’

‘No,’ I say with a laugh. ‘It’s a grown-up party, but I’ll be dancing and having lots of fun.’ I squat down to drop a kiss on their foreheads. They’re warm and smell of baby lotion and fruity shampoo.

‘Be good for Mum,’ I tell them, waving goodbye as I close the door behind me.

‘Your sisters are seriously cute,’ Hannah says. ‘You’re so good with them.’

‘It’s a case of having to be,’ I reply, lowering my tone, ‘especially as Mum’s not always there for them.’

Hannah gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Still suffering with her nerves?’

‘Yep. Dad,’ I holler, ‘which car are we going in?’

‘The Mercedes,’ he shouts back. He’s standing at the end of the drive talking to our neighbour.

‘How many cars does your dad own?’ Hannah asks, looking wide-eyed at the fleet of parked vehicles.

‘Urm… three. The Porsche is Mum’s. Although she hardly drives anywhere, so I don’t know why she bought it.’

‘What a waste.’ Hannah runs her fingers along the shiny red sports car. ‘I would love to whizz through the country lanes in this baby. Will he buy you one when you’ve passed your test?’

I flush. ‘Erm… I’ll be happy with a small car.’

Sometimes I hate that Mum and Dad are wealthy. We live in a five-bedroom detached with imposing iron fencing and miles of countryside as a sublime view, but I’m acutely aware that Hannah lives in a three-bedroom semi on the neighbouring run-down estate. I don’t want her to think I’m just another rich bitch who is spoilt by her parents. I’ve already told her the story of how Dad was born in poverty and worked tirelessly for everything he owns. After being kicked out of school for unruly behaviour, he began his working life as a labourer, toiling and clawing his way to the top. Now he’s the managing director of his own steel firm, and despite his loud, sometimes overbearing personality, he’s my hero.

Hannah and I clamber into the car, sinking onto the seats. It’s stiflingly hot; the leather sticks to my perspiring thighs. I slide down the windows and inhale the countryside air. Mum’s watching us from the doorway, sneezing into a handkerchief. Dad crosses the drive to kiss her before clambering into the driving seat.

‘So, what time is this party going on until?’ He asks as we pull out onto the country lane.

‘All night,’ Hannah says with undisguised glee.

‘Do you want me to pick you up?’ He catches my eye in the mirror.

‘It’s alright, Dad,’ I reply. ‘We’ll get a taxi.’

‘Fair enough. But I’ll take my mobile to bed just in case.’

He switches on the radio, and classical music fills the air.

Hannah and I pull faces and burst into laughter.

‘What’s so funny? Don’t you like my choice in music?’

‘Have you any dance music, Mr Shaw?’ Hannah winks my way.

‘Nope.’ He replies, scratching his beard. ‘Would eighties music suffice?’

‘That will do, I suppose.’

Hannah crosses her legs and inspects her false nails.

‘You look gorgeous,’ I say.

‘Good. Hopefully, Matt Monroe will notice that too.’

As we whizz down the countryside lanes, we listen to Nik Kershaw crooning about being in someone else’s shoes.