Chapter 30
30
The autumn term rolled on. More than rolled on, really: in fact, it galloped on.
By the time I’d been teaching at St Mede’s for three months, I was gaining in confidence and actually beginning to enjoy my days at the chalkface. Year 9 still had the ability to wind me up, and that little sod, Whippety Snicket, took great pleasure in goading me into losing my temper whenever he could. But now I was able to see him for the unhappy, unloved, immature adolescent he unfortunately was and, instead of being confrontational with him, I either ignored him or rang for the senior leadership team to remove him from my lessons.
And I now had a secret weapon with these kids.
Two, actually.
With my knee much improved I’d started both lunchtime and after-school dance sessions, which could only be attended when accompanied by good reports from class teachers. Anything less than a clean sheet for behaviour – and that included C1: shouting out in class – and they’d forfeit that week’s chance to join in.
‘Yah, you’re all big sissies,’ I heard various kids mock those who were up for it. ‘Who wants to be a fucking ballet dancer?’
‘Oh, grow up,’ one tiny Year 7 lad had the temerity to come back at a much bigger, extremely truculent Year 8 girl. ‘It’s hip hop.’
Well, some of it was. I’d started with easy dance routines, stepping, pivoting and shimmying to tracks such as Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake It Off’, and when the kids were able to cope with those, we were soon into working to the tracks of Swedish House Mafia, Illenium and Teddy Swims.
After a couple of weeks, when I found some of the young mums watching at the door, tapping their feet and dancing in the corridor, I invited them in as well and soon I had a class just for parents: all mums – there didn’t appear to be any dads interested. Maybe there just weren’t any dads around full stop?
And, of course, the other secret weapon was the production of Grease . I’d been absolutely astonished when, after Mason had announced in assembly that St Mede’s was thinking of attempting this, and that anyone interested in taking part should meet with him, Mr Mallinson, in charge of English, and me that very lunchtime, we were absolutely inundated with kids. To be honest, it was jolly cold outside that day – an icy wind blowing across the playground from the Pennines – and it was a good opportunity to remain inside, but there was a genuine frisson of excitement in the ranks as Mason explained just what was entailed in their signing up.
There were some rumblings of disapproval from one quarter of the staffroom, particularly from those with responsibility for the summer GCSEs, but, on the whole, positive vibes were soon winging around the school and the four of us, Mason, Petra, Dave Mallinson and myself, immediately got down to auditioning for parts.
By early December, parts had been allocated and rehearsals started. Sorrel was the obvious choice for Sandy, despite some backchat and downright badass comments from a couple of coteries of Year 9 and Year10 girls – as well as their mums – who complained of favouritism and actually bandied around the words bias and nepotism (with which I was most impressed).
Joel would have nothing to do with the part of Danny Zuko or, indeed, the production itself, despite Sorrel, Mason and myself constantly haranguing him to change his mind.
‘Leave him,’ Sorrel advised. ‘He’s got enough on his plate at the moment.’ And, eventually, after much auditioning (some truly terrible, some rather surprisingly promising and some that had Mason, Petra and me in absolute hysterics) the part was given to a Year 10 lad – Seb Kingsley – who might not have been anywhere near Joel in the dance stakes, but could sing and act and was confident with his lines.
I’d called an after-school rehearsal for both the Pink Ladies and the T-Birds.
Mason had gone off to some meeting of head teachers and Petra had spent the afternoon at the hospital having a scan, so it was just Dave Mallinson and myself left to organise the kids. They were enthusiastic but over-excited, and after a couple of hours putting them through their paces I was shattered. It was going up to 6p.m. by the time Dave and I were satisfied we’d done enough, and all I wanted was to get off home and a soak in a hot bath.
Sorrel had missed the rehearsal, Jess picking her up to take her to the dentist for a filling. I went to retrieve marking I’d not got round to earlier and then, desperate for a pee, made a quick visit to the nearby girls’ toilet block rather than the staff facilities a good five minutes’ walk at the other end of the building. Humming along to ‘Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee’ , I did what I’d come for and went to the basins to wash my hands. I was running a hand through my hair, belting out at the top of my voice the actual, more controversial, lyrics – about being lousy with virginity instead of the words appropriately doctored by Dave for our young performers – when a scuffling noise behind me stopped me in my tracks.
One of the cleaners had reported seeing a rat on the playground earlier in the week and I froze, poised to leg it out of there. The shuffling noise came again, but this time accompanied by sniffing. Sniffing rats?
‘Hello?’ I called, assuming it to be one of the girls from rehearsal and now utterly embarrassed I’d been overheard really going for it with the original words to the song. ‘Hello? You need to get off home before Caretaker Ken locks you in.’
Silence.
Then more sniffs.
I walked the length of the toilet block, bending to peer underneath cubicle doors. ‘You’ll be here until the morning,’ I warned once again. ‘You need to get off home.’
The end cubicle was closed and, when I put my hand to it, I found it was locked. I bent down once more but could see no telltale shoes or trainers.
‘Who’s in there?’
Silence.
I walked into the adjacent cubicle, stood on the toilet seat and, hoisting myself up, peered over into the locked one.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I’d called the kid Whippety Snicket for so long that, for a second, I couldn’t remember his real handle. How awful of me. Blane, that was it. Blane Higson. ‘What are you doing , Blane?’ I repeated. ‘This is the girls’ toilet.’ He was sitting on the closed toilet seat, his knees scrunched up to his scrawny chest, his head in his hands, and sniffing. ‘Have you found yourself locked in?’ I asked with a laugh. ‘Come for some tissue for your nose and got yourself locked in? Come on, open the door and go home.’
‘I’ve lost the bloody key,’ he muttered, and I realised he was crying.
‘You don’t need a key to get out, you daft thing,’ I encouraged. ‘Just turn the lock on the door.’
‘No. I’m staying here.’
‘Why?’
‘Just am.’
‘All night?’
Silence.
‘All night?’ I asked once again. ‘It’ll get cold. It’s December. Heating’ll go off.’
Silence.
‘Hang on, I’m coming over. Shift out of the way, Blane.’
Putting all the weight on my hands, I hoisted myself over, feeling for the toilet cistern with my feet before dropping down beside the boy.
‘Blimey, haven’t done that for a while.’ I smiled, turning in the narrow space and unlocking the door.
‘Don’t,’ he snapped, kicking out towards the door before hugging his foot to himself once more.
‘Why not?’ The atmosphere in that cubicle was fetid as well as slightly claustrophobic and I needed to get out. I realised Blane, as well as the lavatory, was somewhat odorous. His scrawny neck, peeking out from the frayed and dirty collar of his greying school shirt, was filthy.
‘Can’t go home.’
‘Why not?’
‘Told you, I’ve lost the bloody key.’
‘And your mum’ll be cross? Convinced a burglar might find it and let themself in?’
‘Me mam’s not there.’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s gone off somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘Dunno.’
I remembered Mason telling me Whippety’s dad had left years ago and his mum had a heroin addiction.
‘You’ve brothers, haven’t you? Big brothers? Won’t they be at home?’
‘Dunno where they are. They’ve scarpered; couldn’t stand living with me mam any longer.’
‘OK. Well, at least let’s get out of this toilet. You hungry?’
‘I had me school dinner,’ he muttered.
‘What are you having for your tea?’
Blane shrugged but uncurled his legs from beneath him and stood.
‘I’ve some chocolate in my classroom. D’you fancy some?’
‘If you want.’ He shrugged again, but looked hopeful as he followed me out of the toilet block.
‘Oy, what you two still doing here?’ Jobsworth Ken was doing his final rounds. I looked at my watch and realised it was going up to 7p.m.
‘Just going, Ken. We’ve been in rehearsal.’
‘Him as well?’ Ken nodded in Whippety’s direction. ‘Can’t see him as the next Fred Astaire.’ He gave a sneery chuckle. ‘Come on, the pair of you, out, my wife’ll have my tea on the table.’
‘Ten minutes, Ken, and then we’ll be off.’
‘Right,’ I said, once Blane had devoured not only the chocolate but my left-over cheese and pickle sandwich from lunchtime. ‘I’ll give you a lift home.’
‘I told you, I’ve no key to get in.’
‘Neighbours who might have one? Granny you can go to?’
Blane shook his head.
I needed Mason or Petra to tell me what to do but when I rang, both their numbers went straight to voicemail. I left messages and then tried Dave Mallinson but, again, no response.
‘Where d’you think the key might be?’ I asked hopefully, not sure what else to do.
‘I’m locking up. Now,’ Ken ordered, coming back into the classroom with his coat, hat and scarf on before retreating once more.
‘OK, OK, we’re coming,’ I called after him. I turned back to Blane. ‘When did you lose this key?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Have you ever actually had one?’
‘Yeah, course.’ He didn’t look at me.
‘Blane, where did you stay last night?’
He shrugged.
‘Here? In school?’ I felt my heart plummet. The poor, poor kid. ‘Right, OK, you come home with me now and I’ll ring Mr Donoghue again. He’ll know what to do.’
‘Don’t you bring in no social lot,’ Blane warned, heading for the door. ‘I’m not going into no care again.’
‘Come on,’ I said gently, taking hold of his arm. ‘Come home with me and then we’ll work something out.’
‘What the hell’s he doing here?’ Sorrel looked up from the kitchen table where she was struggling with not only a post-dentist numb mouth, but pages of algebraic equations. Mum, at the ironing board, was equally surprised.
‘Long story,’ I said. ‘Blane here’s lost his key and can’t get in at home.’ I threw both Sorrel and Mum a warning glance. ‘So, he’s going to stay for tea and then, if I can get hold of him, Mr Donoghue will take him home.’
‘There’s a casserole in the oven,’ Mum said. ‘Might be a bit dried up now, but there should be enough for both of you.’
Throughout this, Blane had stood, head down, scowling, refusing to speak or meet anyone’s eye.
‘You hungry, Blane?’ Mum asked gently. ‘You look it.’ She moved towards him and then drew back slightly as the smell of unwashed teen assailed her nostrils. She raised an eye in my direction and then we all turned as Jess came through the back door.
‘I’ve come to help with your maths, Sorrel…’ she started, but stopped once she saw Blane. ‘Hello, who’s this?’
And then, in typical Jess style, once she’d been brought up to speed on the situation, she took over. ‘You look all in, Blane. How about Ms Allen here gets on the phone to Mr Donoghue again? Then, once you’ve had your tea you can come round to my house – I just live next door – and you can have a lovely warm shower and we can find you some clean clothes?’
‘I’m not going into no home again,’ Blane warned.
‘Well, we can’t throw you out on the street, can we?’ Jess smiled. She nodded her head slightly in my direction and I followed her out into the sitting room.
‘You can’t just bring a child home like this,’ she warned. ‘Not convinced it’s ethical.’
‘What else could I have done? I couldn’t leave him to spend another night by himself in school.’
‘I’ll ring the right people.’
‘Who are?’
‘Robyn, don’t forget I’m a registered foster parent.’
‘Oh, I had forgotten that. You’ve not fostered a child for years, have you?’
‘Yes, I have.’ Jess spoke calmly. ‘The spare bed’s always made up in case of emergencies. Not so many now when I’m virtually full time at the care home but, yes, my number is still on lists.’
‘So, what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying, you feed him and I’ll make a phone call. I’ll take the poor kid next door after he’s eaten and keep him overnight if necessary. You keep ringing Mason and then he and the authorities will have to sort it tomorrow.’
Which was what we did. Blane and I sat at the table and ate while both Mum and Sorrel tried to act as though it were an everyday occurrence that one of my pupils – a neglected, unhappy kid from a broken family – had joined us.
Jess made just the one phone call to whoever, determined that Blane should have at least one night’s stopover with her before the real interrogations started the following day.
‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ I told Mason the next morning. ‘You didn’t answer your phone. Didn’t get back to me.’
‘The heads’ meeting went on and on,’ Mason said. ‘And then I crashed out. Been a busy term. Sorry. You did well. Thank you.’
It turned out that Blane’s mum had been working the daytime streets as usual and had overdosed and ended up in hospital, totally out of it. No one appeared aware, or even to care, that a thirteen-year-old child had come home to an empty house and a locked door. The upshot of all this was firstly that Blane did have to spend several weeks at one of the local places for looked after children until his mum was back home, supported by social services. But secondly, he and I had established a much better relationship and I’d often look up from my desk at the end of the day to find he’d sidled in wanting to talk. Or just for company. And a bit of affection.
One bitterly cold Friday morning, I was in the studio trying to heat up the place in readiness for a Year 7 session and, shivering, realised the best way to warm myself up was to actually move. I’d been growing in confidence about my knee, extending my movements when teaching my dance classes, and now I decided to see just how much my knee would take. I was stiff, awkward to begin with, but I built up slowly, repeating the exercises and routines I knew my knee could take and then extending myself, pushing myself, going through the less complicated set moves I knew by heart from Dance On .
‘Hey, you’re getting there; you’re nearly back to what you were.’ Sorrel had appeared in the studio without my noticing.
‘Not really.’ I sighed. ‘I’m terribly stiff; really lacking the confidence to jump. Terrified I’m going to fall again. What are you doing here?’ I turned to her. ‘Bell’s gone.’
‘I have to go home.’
‘Aren’t you well?’ She looked fine. Buzzing actually. ‘Need some Tampax?’
‘No! Jess has just texted me.’
‘You shouldn’t have your phone on you.’
‘Jess just texted me.’ She tutted, ignoring the rebuke. ‘Don’t go all teacherish on me. She’s probably texted you as well.’
‘Oh, not Mum?’ I wiped the sweat from my face with a towel. ‘She’s not had another turn, has she?’
‘No!’ Sorrel tutted again. ‘Why d’you have to be so negative? She says the post’s just come.’
‘And?’
‘She says there’s two letters. One for her, and Mum’s been round to say there’s one for me.’
‘And?’
‘She daren’t open them. One’s from Yorkshire Christmas TopChef?—’
‘Oh, blimey?—’
‘And mine’s from the Susan Yates Theatre School.’
‘Oh, Sorrel.’
‘So, can we just bunk off and go home? Come on, drive me, will you? Because Jess says she won’t open hers – and she won’t open mine, though I’ve texted her to open mine and text me back – until we’re all there. And she’s off to work in an hour. Come on !’
‘Registration, Sorrel?’ Mason popped his head round the studio door. ‘You’re late.’
‘I need to go home.’
‘You don’t ,’ I butted in. ‘Exercise a little patience.’
‘So, how about I tell you Focus North is going to come to a rehearsal next week?’ Mason’s face was alight with anticipation. ‘They’ve a feature which looks at the creative arts in local schools. Lucy Bennet’s boyfriend works on the programme, apparently. She had a word with him last night and he’s just messaged her; they’re coming to a rehearsal next Wednesday. It’ll only be five minutes at the most, but it’ll give the kids a buzz.’
‘Oh, that’s great.’ I felt really pleased, but with misgivings. ‘They do know we’ve only just started?’
‘Absolutely. Have you never seen the programme? It tries to feature different activities at different stages of production. If we’re lucky, they’ll come back later on to see how we’re progressing.’ He turned away from Sorrel and, with a lowered voice, said, ‘Sorry, Robyn, can’t make this evening, after all.’ He’d asked me over to his place for the drink and takeaway that had become a bit of a Friday evening routine. ‘Got a really important meeting over in Leeds.’ He turned again in Sorrel’s direction. ‘Right, Sorrel, registration,’ he barked before hurrying out as his phone started.
Sorrel glared at me, but set off in the direction of the door.
‘We’ll sort it all tonight,’ I called after her. ‘If it’s good news, we’ll go out for pizza. Yes?’
‘And if it’s bad?’ She turned at the door, a look of comic melancholic dejection on her pretty face.
‘I’ll treat you to somewhere posh.’ I smiled, trying to work out what was left in my bank account that month.
‘Come on .’ Sorrel was at my classroom door as the bell went, waiting with her coat on and irritably elbowing the younger Year 7 kids and their voluminous bags as they barged into her in their bid for freedom.
‘Oy, don’t rush. Walk!’ I shouted at their departing backs. And then, grabbing my jacket, added, ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ Luckily, Friday was the one afternoon I didn’t have a staff meeting, rehearsal or one of my extra-curricular dance classes. ‘OK.’ I jingled my keys in Sorrel’s direction as we attempted our own quick getaway through a throng of pop-drinking, chocolate-bar-eating and phone-scrolling kids.
‘You OK?’ I asked once we were belted up and negotiating our way through the dissipating crowd of pupils.
‘Duh! No!’ Sorrel snapped. ‘Of course not. What if they turn me down for an audition? Of course , they’ll turn me down for an audition,’ she added crossly.
I patted Sorrel’s hand in sympathy, but slowing to a standstill at the main gate where kids and parents had gathered was just too much for her and, pressing down the window button, she shouted, ‘Get out the fecking way, can’t you?’
‘Sorrel,’ I spluttered. ‘There are parents there.’
‘I’m sure they’ve heard a lot worse.’ She grinned. ‘Sorry.’
Mum, Jess and Lola were all waiting in Jess’s kitchen, hovering impatiently over a devil’s food cake brimming with chocolate and cream.
‘I made it to stuff our faces if it’s not good news,’ Jess said apologetically while Mum poured tea.
‘What if one’s good news and one isn’t?’ Lola asked, holding the two letters reverentially to her chest.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said. ‘You’re all drama queens. Get the damned things opened.’ I took the envelopes from Lola and handed them to their rightful recipients. ‘Just do it.’
Jess and Sorrel did as they were told and, without another word, opened the letters.
‘Yes!’ Sorrel immediately shouted, thumping the air and jumping up and down. ‘Yes, yes, absolutely yes! Got an audition after Christmas.’ She hugged Mum so hard the pair almost fell over.
‘Jess?’
We all turned in her direction where she stood, stock-still, grim-faced, her demeanour one of utter disappointment.
‘No?’ I asked gently. ‘Aw, Jess. Look, you can try for the big one next. Actual MasterChef …’
Sorrel grabbed the letter angrily from Jess’s hand and then started to hoot. ‘You big fraud, Jessica Butterworth,’ she yelled, turning back to Lola, Mum and me. ‘She’s got it too: she’s one of the ten picked to show what they can cook in the first round of just two rounds in Harrogate. Blimey, Jess, filming starts the beginning of the week after next!’
Mum had immediately messaged Jayden touring in South America to tell him the good news and he’d (amazingly) immediately got back saying he’d transfer the necessary readies to Mum’s account and for her to book somewhere fabulous for the five of us to celebrate.
‘You don’t think we’re being a bit premature?’ Jess worried. ‘I mean, we’re only both at the first stages.’
‘Yes, and let’s face it, being realistic, you might not get to the finishing line.’ I patted Jess’s arm. ‘So, best to take up Jayden’s offer of a fabulous meal and make the most of celebrating this first step of the way while you can.’
Three hours later, showered, coiffured, dressed in our best and made up (including Lola, who was immediately ordered back upstairs to take off the badly applied startlingly pink lipstick and blue eyeshadow) we were in an Uber and heading for Cream, an up-and-coming and ridiculously expensive restaurant in the town centre.
‘Do we just get cream?’ Lola wanted to know as we were shown to our seats. ‘You know, like at the chippy, we just get chips?’
‘Yes,’ Sorrel deadpanned. ‘You just have to choose from single, double, clotted, whipping or sour.’
I glanced over at her. What a difference three months had made to my little sister’s whole life. She was still feisty, probably always would be, and, let’s face it, that wasn’t a bad thing if she was to make it and survive in the West End. I couldn’t see Sorrel getting as upset as I had been with the mean girls who’d turned on me backstage at The Mercury. Sorrel, this evening, was animated, glowing, her hair, released from its usual scrunched-up ponytail, a cloud of dark smoke around her ravishing little pixie face.
‘Ugh, sour cream? Why’s it gone off?’ Lola pulled a face. ‘I’ll have clotted cream, I think. Can I have Coke, Granny?’
‘She’s having you on, sweetie.’ Mum smiled. ‘Yes, one Coke if your mum says that’s OK.’ Mum, too, was so much better than when I’d rushed up – as much as one can rush up with an ACL injury – three months earlier, terrified that this particular downward spiral into her condition might be her last. Thanks to Matt Spencer and his team at Midhope General, she’d pulled through again and was trialling new drugs, which appeared to be working. Slight, pretty, her beautiful facial bone structure a heads-up to her Asian heritage, she looked more like my and Jess’s older sister than our mum.
Jess, herself always a worrier, appeared, despite the nerve-racking Yorkshire Christmas TopChef rounds ahead of her, much more relaxed and happier now that Dean Butterworth was out of her life and Matt Spencer very much in it. I watched as she perused every bit of the menu, frowning at a dish she obviously didn’t think would work, but nodding sagely to herself at an idea I knew she’d be emulating in her own kitchen the following day. She’d lost quite a bit of weight recently – whether through worry or, as was probably the case, through falling in love with Matt – and, with Jayden’s Caribbean heritage, rather than Mum’s South Asian genes, her stunning dark eyes and full mouth reflected her own striking good looks.
Mum looked up from her perusal of the menu. ‘Right, I know what I’m having,’ she said, turning to me. ‘So, Robyn, how’s it going with the magnificent Mason?’
‘Magnificent?’ I laughed at that. ‘Yeah, he is quite nice.’
‘Nice?’ Mum looked askance. ‘Nice? Robyn, he’s absolutely lovely. Quite stunning. Reminds me a bit of your dad in his younger days.’
‘Does he?’ I thought about it. ‘Actually, you’re right. Don’t they say you always end up marrying your father?’
‘Oh, gross.’ Sorrel sniffed, overhearing our conversation, and Lola started giggling. ‘Please don’t say you’re serious about him, Robyn? Mind you, you are getting on a bit now. Pushing thirty is so-o-o-o ancient. Maybe settling back down here, up in Yorkshire…’
‘Is that grammatically correct?’ I interrupted, embarrassed as all eyes turned on me.
‘Good job I’m going to Beddingfield High rather than St Mede’s next year,’ Lola said sagely, saving me from answering Sorrel. ‘I certainly don’t want to be sitting in assembly singing “Fight the Good Fight” knowing the headmaster’s just got out of bed with my aunty.’
‘Oy,’ Mum, Jess and I chorused as one.
‘No, not the best situation.’ Sorrel grinned. ‘I’m with you on this, Lola. Mind you, that bitch of a headmistress – Ms Liversedge – is an utter witch. You’ll have to watch your step there. In fact, you’d probably be better going to St Mede’s in September. I’m sure Robyn will be back in London by then, so you don’t have to worry about conjuring up pictures of the pair of them together.’
‘Oy, you as well, Sorrel,’ I said. ‘Enough already.’
‘Yes, but, Robyn, you are getting a bit serious with Mason.’ Mum was refusing to let it go. ‘He’s fabulous: good-looking, bright – dad’s a surgeon – he must be OK – and he’s here .’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? He’s here ?’
‘Well, unlike the Bastard Bucks Barrister…’ Jess started.
‘Oh, come on,’ I snapped, hating any criticism of Fabian still that wasn’t coming from me. ‘I’m sure you three can be even more alliterative if you try.’
‘Perfidious Patronising Pillock?’ Sorrel suggested.
‘Lousy, Loathsome Lawyer?’ Lola giggled.
‘Enough,’ Mum warned, seeing my face. ‘I’m sure he was very nice…’
‘No, he wasn’t,’ Jess came back at Mum. ‘He knew how Robyn felt about his defending a serial misogynistic murderer; he messaged that there was no future in their relationship; blocked her from his phone and, even without all that, Robyn couldn’t have put up with his racist family.’
‘Only his brother and mother,’ I started, wanting to defend Fabian, knowing how much he’d loved me. Though not enough, obviously. ‘His dad was quite nice; his sister, Jemima, fabulous. Right,’ I went on, suddenly close to tears, ‘we’re supposed to be celebrating, not pulling my ex to bits.’
‘We’re just trying to balance Mason against your barrister,’ Mum said calmly. ‘Mason has a lot in the credit column whereas, from what you’ve told us, and what we’ve seen of him on TV, Fabian – is it? – is clearly in the red, if not totally morally bankrupt.’
‘You know, Mason Donoghue’s no angel ,’ I snapped, as we didn’t appear to be moving on. ‘He’ll do anything to get what he wants. Look how he blackmailed me into going to work for him.’
‘There you go – he is a bit like your dad,’ Mum said gently.
‘Oh?’ I glared at her. ‘That’s why you like Mason, isn’t it, because he reminds you of Jayden? And look how he’s led you a merry dance all these years.’ I shook the menu meaningfully. ‘Before I lose my appetite altogether, can we just order?’
The food was utterly fabulous and the wine went down well. I started with North Sea crab with ajo blanco and seared grapes; Mum and Sorrel had scallops with white asparagus and a smoked egg yolk, Jess went for prawn bisque croquetas with a charcoal mayo and Lola, although unfazed by Jess’s concoctions at home, went for a less exotic-sounding chorizo Scotch egg.
‘Hey, look! No, don’t look, don’t look ,’ Sorrel spluttered as we all did just the opposite. ‘Isn’t that the horrible Ms Liversedge herself?’ she asked as we all turned in the direction of the ladies’ loo where Sorrel indicated she’d just seen Beddingfield High’s headmistress go in.
‘Definitely her,’ I said once the woman exited and Jess nodded in agreement while Lola, who knew the infamous woman only by hearsay, lurched out of her seat to get a good look at her future head teacher.
‘Lola, stop gawping,’ Jess and I hissed.
‘ You all are.’ She pouted. ‘Kyle Meadows in my class says she’s really sexy and he can’t wait to move up to the high school.’
‘She does look a lot more glamorous than I remember.’ Jess nodded, turning back to the table. ‘D’you see her tight leather skirt and high heels?’
‘All the lads in Year 10 used to fancy her.’ Sorrel said in agreement. ‘I never got it.’
‘You’re not a red-blooded male.’ Mum laughed. ‘She’s certainly got something, I agree, but I found her so intimidating when she was always calling me in because of you, Sorrel, I never really dared look at her face. I think I was constantly eye to eye with that cleavage of hers that was always out on display.’
‘I’m going to see who she’s with.’ I grinned, the surfeit of wine making me frivolous.
I stood and walked over to the loo and then past it, peering into the dimly lit area beyond. This was obviously set up for more private dining – each white-clothed table set for just two diners – compared to where we were seated in the marginally cheaper seats out at the front.
Oh. I stopped, for a second, unable to take in just what I was seeing.
Ms Liversedge – I didn’t know her first name but, from then on, would always give her the handle Ms Loversedge – was leaning into, and being fed forkfuls of food by, the exceptionally handsome man opposite.
By, in Mum’s opinion, the Magnificent Mason.