‘I’ve been fending off calls from irate parents all morning.’ He has been going on like this for some time. ‘They think we’re running some sort of . . . bordello here.’
I am becoming numbed to his rantings, but not because I don’t think he’s absolutely right. If I were him, I’d be ranting and raving too, and pacing up and down if one of my staff had been such a stupid arsehole, but that doesn’t make it any the easier to listen to. And the indignity of it all is that it wasn’t really my fault. My only fault was in trusting the man I loved and having a healthy sexual appetite and a silly outfit to prove it. I cannot believe that this one mistake is going to cost me my job, my career. This is all I have worked for since university. I’m a bloody good teacher and, as I’ve said, there aren’t a lot of us about.
He stops and stares at me. ‘You are supposed to set an example to your pupils.’
I take it that he means a good one.
‘Do you understand the gravity of this?’
I fold my hands on my lap and look chastised. ‘Yes, Frank.’
Frank is an old-fashioned Headmaster, not one of these new-fangled headteacher jobbies. I had previously viewed this as a positive thing in an age of declining standards. He wears a tweed jacket and Hush Puppies and walks with his hands clasped behind his back. The man drives a Volvo. At five miles an hour below the speed limit. We don’t often call him Frank, or even, Mr Shankley; he likes to be and is usually known as ‘Headmaster’. I am trying to appeal to his human side. And appear to be failing.
‘The parents are furious,’ he continues. ‘They cannot afford this sort of publicity. Several very well-known celebrities send their children here. They trust us.’
Perhaps they will appreciate the fact that one of the teachers at the school understands the double-edged sword that accompanies fame.
‘They’re calling for your resignation.’
Perhaps not. This is probably the wrong moment to point out that several of the very well-known celebrity parents have been in the newspapers for doing far worse things.
‘We have rules.’
Frank loves rules. The sillier the better. He’d probably be in favour of caning children if corporal punishment was still legal.
‘I think this is very unfair,’ I say. ‘I have been betrayed already, Frank. I want you to support me on this.’
‘I don’t know if I can, Emily.’
I am astonished that I’m being seen as a corrupting influence on teenage boys. Don’t any of these parents watch EastEnders? All the kids do, and look at the stuff that goes on there. How corrupting is that? But then I conclude that I don’t know how many of my pupils’ parents would be EastEnders watchers. Some of them are in EastEnders. The others are all too busy arranging world tours and Christmas specials and leave soap-watching to their au pairs and offspring.
‘This puts me in an untenable situation,’ the Headmaster says pompously.
How do you think I feel, Frank? I shout silently. I have lost my lover and my home – and now my job is going down the pan. But I say nothing.
‘I think it’s best if we suspend you.’ He sits on the edge of his desk and folds his arms. ‘On full pay.’
That goes some way to providing a bit of relief.
‘For the time being,’ he adds.
And the modicum of relief ebbs away. Still, suspended is better than sacked. I hope they consider this slip in the manner it was executed, but I suspect the Headmaster isn’t the sort of person who could understand the bringing of some festive cheer into your love life. I’m beginning to question the wisdom of it myself.
‘Let’s hope this whole blasted thing dies down,’ he says next, as if it’s his bum that’s been on the Internet.
‘I’m sure given a few days everyone will have forgotten about it,’ I offer.
‘I wish I had your confidence, Emily.’ The Headmaster retreats behind the barricade of his sturdy mahogany desk and spreads his fingers on it. ‘Go home,’ he says. ‘Lie low.’ I hope that wasn’t supposed to be a joke. Frank carries on regardless. ‘I’ll get a supply teacher in to cover your classes for the next week.’
‘Thanks, Frank.’
‘The Board of Governors have asked for an emergency meeting about this and I am duty bound to agree.’ Frank loves being duty bound. ‘You’re not out of the woods yet.’ He sounds as if he’s about to add ‘my girl’. He has only one mode of telling-off voice and he uses it for both pupils and teachers alike. He probably tells his wife off like this. ‘Penelope, you’ve burned the dinner again and it really, really isn’t good enough.’ He concludes my telling-off by saying, ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Frank,’ I mutter again and prepare to take my leave.
‘There’s one last thing, Emily,’ he says as I reach the door. I hear him clear his throat and when I look back there is a flush to his cheeks and he is fingering his bow tie. Frank coughs lightly. ‘It’s a very nice photograph.’
And I take it that he doesn’t mean the one on the front of the Hampstead Observer.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Adam and Josh were sitting on a bench on Hampstead Heath overlooking the duck pond. This was the same bench where Laura had first persuaded Adam to make love outside. When they met, Laura was very much an ‘outdoors’ sort of person. Whereas Adam was not. Having graduated from the back of a Fiesta to his own flat, comfy bed and fluffy duvet, the idea of making love in cramped, uncomfortable or generally exposed places had lost its appeal. Laura found the fresh air on her body exciting. Adam found the whole experience rather marred by his urge to look round furtively every five minutes to check that no one was watching them. Laura found the idea of someone watching them exciting. Adam didn’t want to give half the perverts in Hampstead a free peepshow. He’d once seen Melvyn Bragg jogging round here. That was enough to put anyone off. So they had compromised. Sometimes he pretended to enjoy himself whilst lying on damp grass tinged with the aroma of dog pooh. Sometimes when they were at home in the centrally heated comfort of their first-floor flat, they’d pretended they were on a palm-fronded beach. It had rarely been satisfactory. Laura usually complained that he wasn’t pretending enough or was pretending too much. Adam always had a sneaking suspicion that Laura was pretending, too. When Josh had joined their merry band, the occasions to pretend or not, either indoors or outdoors, became infrequent to the point of non-existence. He sighed to himself. It wasn’t so surprising that they’d split up. There had been irreconcilable differences since the outset. The strange thing was that now Adam wouldn’t be too averse to a bit of fresh air frolicking, but Laura now looked as if she was an advocate of indoors on a Saturday night with the light off. Times change. And so do people.
It was cold and it was starting to get dark. A few stoic dog walkers were hurrying their charges homewards. He looked across at his son.
‘Are you cold?’ Adam put his arm round Josh.
‘No.’ His child’s teeth were one step away from chattering.
Up on the Heath, they’d been kicking a ball around since Adam had enjoyed a rare treat and collected Josh from school. They’d both been a bit half-hearted and although Adam knew why he was lethargic, he didn’t know why Josh was.
‘I enjoyed that,’ Adam said too brightly. ‘I’ve been stuck in a car all day. It was as boring as hell.’
Josh rolled the football round with his foot, not looking at it. ‘Would hell be boring, Dad?’
‘I expect so.’
‘I think heaven sounds worse,’ Josh said, staring at the few shivering ducks on the green, scummy water. ‘I don’t think I’d like to sit around all day on a cloud.’
‘Perhaps they’d let you take a football,’ Adam suggested.
‘What’s Australia like?’
Adam smiled. ‘Why? Are you planning to go there instead?’
‘Mum is.’ Josh looked up at him and Adam could see that his son’s eyes had filled with tears. Adam felt his heart miss a beat.
??
?Australia?’ he said as lightly as he could manage.
Josh picked at his puffa jacket. ‘There are brochures all over the house. And forms. Mum says we’d have a better standard of living.’
‘Well . . .’ Adam cleared his throat. ‘It’s nice and sunny there.’
‘On Survival Special it said that Australia has more poisonous spiders than anywhere else in the world.’
‘Well . . .’ Adam coughed again. ‘I think they’ve got quite a few of them.’
‘I hate spiders,’ Josh said firmly.
‘How long has Mum been talking about this?’ Adam asked.
‘For ages. She’s always going on about it.’ Josh looked at Adam again. ‘But then she goes on about loads of stuff that she never does.’
‘Women do that,’ Adam assured him. ‘It’s probably just one of her phases.’
‘Yeah,’ Josh agreed, but he sounded deeply unconvinced.
They sat and watched the ducks some more. Street-lights were coming on all over London and people were starting to draw their curtains, patches of yellow, orange and pink giving a soft coloured glow to the encroaching night.
‘You won’t let Mum take me to Australia, will you?’
‘No,’ Adam said quietly. ‘I won’t.’
‘You could get custard of me.’
‘Custody,’ Adam corrected.
‘You could though, couldn’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Adam said. Josh’s face fell. ‘I need to talk to your mum about it.’
It had never been a possibility, him having custody of his son, because of his work. Doing shifts, the hours were too erratic to be able to provide Josh with the stability he needed. But then, if he was halfway round the world, where would the stability be in that? Josh would forget about him. Bloody boring Barry the building society manager would become his only father figure. What was Laura thinking of? Whatever happened, he would fight tooth and nail against his ex-wife taking their son overseas.
‘Don’t worry, Josh.’ Adam pulled his son into the crook of his arm and ruffled his hair. Not that it needed much ruffling. In the untidy hair department his son was very much a chip off the old block. ‘I’ll sort something out.’
Perhaps it was time for him to consider Toff’s offer. Topless models probably didn’t work erratic hours, and he could fit them all in during the day when Josh was at school. He looked down at his son. God, he could squeeze the life out of him, he loved him so much. Josh was the only thing that kept him sane. If working for Toff meant the difference between losing his son and compromising his principles, then it would have to be done.
‘Do you want to go to Luigi’s?’
Josh shook his head. ‘I’m not that hungry.’
‘Well, I’m starving,’ Adam lied. ‘What about if we get Mrs Luigi to make you some special ice cream?’
Josh smiled reluctantly. ‘OK.’
‘Good.’ Adam pulled his son up by his small, cold hand. ‘What are we hanging around for?’ He picked up the football and squeezed it into Josh’s rucksack, hoping that it wouldn’t deposit too much mud on his school books.
They set off down the path towards the High Street and the warmth of Luigi’s restaurant. And Adam hoped to God that he’d be able to force some food down so that Josh wouldn’t see he was dying inside.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I am lying on Cara’s sofa surrounded by an army of alternative remedies. There’s incense burning which smells like old socks, a relaxation CD playing featuring the squeaks and pips of dolphins which is not relaxing it is bloody irritating, particularly if you’re not a dolphin, and Cara is doing reflexology on my feet which is also annoying me intensely. I can’t stand having my feet touched, but she insisted it was good for me.
‘Relax,’ Cara says, yanking my foot.
‘I can’t,’ I huff. ‘I’m wound up.’
‘You have to let go of your anger,’ Cara says.
I punch the cushion behind my head. ‘Oh – and how do you suggest I do that?’
‘By relaxing,’ we both say together and start to laugh.
‘How did things go today with the lovely Adam?’
Cara wrinkles her nose. ‘He was out all day.’ She twiddles my toes a bit more and I try to grit my teeth and enjoy it. ‘Doorstepping.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
Cara looks a bit sheepish. ‘He was sitting outside Declan’s offices, actually.’
‘Why?’
‘To see if anything happened,’ Cara says.
I can feel my brow dig into ploughed furrows. ‘Like what?’
She shrugs tensely. ‘Anything.’
My attempts at relaxation disappear and I push myself up. ‘Can’t you let this story drop now, Cara?’
‘Emily, if it was up to me I would,’ she says. ‘It’s out of my hands.’
‘I can’t believe you do this for a living.’ I want to scream in frustration and can’t make it come. ‘You’re principled. You’re green, for heaven’s sake. This . . .’ I find the paper stuffed down the back of the sofa and wave it, ‘this is obscene.’
‘Emily . . .’ Cara stops twiddling my toes.
‘Can’t you see what this is doing to me? It’s costing me everything, Cara. I’ve been suspended. I’m literally hanging around waiting to see if a bunch of strait-laced do-gooders think I’m fit to teach any more. I need this all to go away. Quickly. What chance do I stand if you lot keep plastering me on the front page?’
‘I will do all I can to help, Emily. I promise you.’
I fall back against the cushions. My life is out of control – and for a control freak, that’s a pretty unnerving experience. The telephone rings and Cara pats my feet consolingly before she moves to answer it.
‘Hello.’ She pulls a face at me. ‘How are you?’
‘Who is it?’ I mouth.
‘Yes. She’s here.’ Cara covers the mouthpiece and holds out the phone. ‘It’s Declan.’
‘Tell him to fuck off.’
Cara frowns at me. ‘I don’t think she wants to talk to you just at the moment, Declan,’ she says sweetly. ‘Emily’s still very upset.’
I think that warrants the title of Understatement of the Year.
‘He says he wants to know how you’re feeling.’
‘Like shit,’ I snarl.
‘I think she’s been better, Declan,’ Cara says into the phone. ‘Her chi is disorientated.’
At least I still have chi. Even if Cara thinks it’s up the spout. ‘Tell him he’s now lost me my job as well as my home.’
‘Er,’ Cara lowers her voice as if she’s trying to keep it a secret from me. ‘She’s lost her job.’ She looks back at me. ‘He says he’s sorry.’
‘It’s a little bit too late for that,’ I snap in honour of favoured clichés in times of stress. If I had long hair I’d toss it about like Miss Piggy.
‘He says he feels it’s all his fault.’
‘Of course it’s all his fault!’ Declan has not only kissed the Blarney Stone, he must have pushed his tongue down its throat.
‘He says he’ll ring you in a few days when you’ve had a chance to calm down.’
‘Tell him to leave it a few years!’
‘Maybe I’ll get her to call you, Declan,’ Cara says. ‘That might be better.’ She pulls on her dreadlocks as she always does in times of crisis and turns nervously towards me. ‘He says he still loves you.’
‘Give me that here!’ I’m off the sofa like Linford Christie out of the starting blocks and wrest the phone from my friend’s hands. ‘Love?’ I shout. ‘You don’t know what love means, Declan O’Donnell. You have ruined my life.’ And, for once, I don’t think I’m being melodramatic. ‘I hate you. I’ll always hate you.’
And before Declan can say one lying, slimy word in his defence, I slam the phone down. ‘I really do hate him,’ I say to Cara.
‘I’d say you made that pretty clear.’ She looks sadly at me. ‘Remember, Emily, there’s a very thi
n line between love and hate.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘and I’ve crossed it.’ Hurling myself back onto the sofa I try to make my breathing return to normal. I feel like bursting into tears, but I won’t give in to this. Instead I clench my palms like the Royals do to prevent themselves from crying.
‘Tweak my toes a bit more,’ I say in a shaking voice to Cara. I might not like having my feet massaged, but at least the discomfort takes my mind off other things.
‘I’ve had enough of the dolphins,’ Cara says and immediately switches the CD to a recording of whale song. Which I have to say is not a lot better.
She comes and sits at my feet again. ‘You know, Emily,’ she says, ‘there is a manhole cover directly outside the front door.’
I assume she’ll tell me why this is relevant.
‘I think it’s making our energy stagnate. If I paint it gold, I’m sure it will attract good things to our door.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I say and close my eyes. I do wish everything in life was as easily solved as Cara believes.
Chapter Thirty
It takes me ages to make my eyelids open. Whatever Cara did to my feet last night, it certainly helped me to have a good night’s kip. I slept like a baby. Actually, I’ve never understood that saying. Don’t babies wake up and scream the place down every two hours?
I lie here waiting for the ceiling to come into focus. This could be the day that my fortune starts to change. Cara read my tarot cards last night and they came up with all sorts of good things for my life ahead. Well, at least the Hanged Man and the card with the skeleton on it didn’t turn up, thank goodness. But then she did have to do three readings on the trot, to get me a halfway decent one. The first two were crap. It’s a good job I don’t believe any of it.
There’s a faint murmuring of voices and I think it’s that which woke me up. It sounds like it’s coming from outside the house, but I’ll just have a little stretch and a yawn, and curl up again before I investigate what it is. Could be roadworks or yet another renovation project about to start.