September
I think I just had my first ‘hot girl summer’.
There were gigs in stuffy rooms, where Woodstock thrusted microphones in sparkling outfits.
There were Hinge dates in overcrowded bars.
One of these dates turned into Willy Three, an account manager who restored my confidence that I was not bad in bed.
Nice guy, but I’m enjoying having my own space and time.
As for Olivia, she ghosted me for three months after that day in Brighton.
I was sure that I was never going to see or hear from her again.
It was on my thirtieth birthday when she text me.
She wished me happy birthday and invited me to dinner with her and Nash at their home.
Since then, I’ve been down a handful of times.
The most recent time, we were having tea in her kitchen and she told me through tears she was pregnant.
She looked somewhere between ecstatic and terrified.
She was, after all, Olivia from Brighton, the local dressmaker, the wife of Nash.
But she was also, Lace, the mysterious cat thief who was hiding from motherhood above a Shoreditch coffee shop. We’re complicated beings – us women.
I’m in the kitchen eating Marmite on toast. My academic diary, break-time banana, bike keys and helmet are on the table in a line.
A Good Luck balloon – a sun with a toothy smile – is lightly spinning by the window.
It came with a card signed by Mum, Matthew and Chums. Matthew being the first man Mum has let in since Dad.
Chums being Matthew’s dog. She had no men in her life, now she has two.
My phone vibrates; it’s a video message from Rebecca. I take a bite of my toast and press play. Rebecca has Benson sitting on her lap. He’s only one, but looks big enough to be allowed on most theme park rides.
‘Benny and I want to say good luck. Benny, say good luck.’ Benny starts to giggle at the camera.
‘Aunt Amy is starting her new job-y-wob.’ He giggles some more.
‘Say we’ll see you on the weekend, Aunt Amy.
’ She takes Benson’s wrist and says in a profound voice.
‘We’ll see you over the weekend, Aunt Amy. ’ She cracks up, and the video ends.
I also have a DM notification on my TikTok. That’s right, TikTok. It’s from Arabella.
Good luck, from your favourite class ever!!!!!
Attached is a photo. It’s me with the Year 10 class, taken that day on the Southbank after the science contest.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Thanks, Arabella. Be nice to the teachers. (Remember your physics textbook.)
It was because of Arabella that I’m on TikTok.
After the press I received from the science contest, Arabella persuaded me to start creating science content.
It began with a few bumbling physics fact videos, and then it snowballed.
Now @AmyUniverse has a following of 100,000 science fans, including my favourite influencer, @DrLabby. A highlight of my year.
Abi comes bouncing into the kitchen holding a red-eyed white mouse. She brings them home to have a holiday. I’m slowly getting used to that part of our flatshare.
‘Look who it is, Mouse 55. It’s the new physics teacher,’ Abi says and holds the wriggling mouse towards me.
‘Morning, Abi,’ I say, leaning away from it.
Abi puts Mouse 55 into the cage and goes to make her coffee. The mouse climbs up and starts aggressively gnawing at the bars with its long sharp teeth, making a desperate clanging sound.
‘Right, time to go,’ I say.
‘Good luck,’ Abi yells over the noise of the coffee machine.
I rush out the door and get on my bike. It’s one of those blue-sky September days where every colour is popping in the park.
It’s not the countryside – yet – but I’ll get there one day.
I have my savings and rough idea of where I will end up, but for now, I am living each day as it comes and taking a break from to-do lists . . . and tally marks.
I leave the park and cycle a mile up the road. The Ealing Boys School sign comes into view. My insides start bubbling away. This is me, heading towards my new job.
There are groups of boys standing by the gate in green blazers and black ties. I ring my bike bell and they jump out the way and give me a curious look, trying to suss out who I am.
‘Thank you,’ I call back.
When I got the phone call to say I had been successful in the interview, I didn’t accept the job straight away.
After the break-up, I had an impulse to move far away from London.
Start again. Refresh. Reboot. But I wandered around Ealing, and even though it’s still London, it felt different from my world in Stockwell.
But what pushed me to say yes was when they increased my wage a smidge, and that smidge would have been silly to say no to.
I park my bike in the teachers’ bike shed and bend over to lock it up.
‘Amy Elman?’ a voice says behind me. I turn and see Alex, the biology teacher, standing with a backpack pulled up high on his shoulder and his distinctive thick-framed glasses that he wore that day at the science contest. I have a lot to thank him for, but I have to keep it professional for now.
‘Hi,’ I say, shaking his hand. My unclasped helmet falls off my head and drops onto the gravel.
‘Oopsy,’ he says and picks it up. I am blushing. I’m not sure if it’s because I dropped my helmet, or because he said oopsy. ‘Ready to see your new lab, Amy, or should I say @AmyUniverse?’ He grins.
‘Oh gosh, Amy, please,’ I say.
‘Very well, Amy. Follow me. You’re going to love what they’ve done to the place.’
Alex opens the lab door for me. I walk in and step back. The lab is twice the size of the one I had in Clapham, and everything, from the floor to the benches to the whiteboard to the walls, is sparkling new.
‘The science department finally got a makeover over the summer. It’s all “state-of-the-art”,’ Alex says proudly.
‘It’s like something from a sci-fi movie . . .’
‘You should see my lab,’ Alex brags. ‘Oh, and . . .’ He runs to the corner where a blue sheet is covering a box. ‘Duh. Duh. Duh. Duuuh.’ He sings and takes the sheet off, revealing a fish tank.
‘Are those my neon tetras?’ I squeak.
‘All 30 of them.’
‘How?’
‘The head teacher of Clapham High arranged it. Nina, is it?’ he asks as if he doesn’t know her name.
After her takedown of Dr Therone, every teacher in London knew the name Nina Pascoe.
The teaching world is not that dramatic, so when a scandal happens it spreads like wildfire.
It was like our very own Wagatha Christie.
I put my face up to the tank. ‘Hey guys,’ I whisper. I hear a quiet snigger. Alex is laughing at me. I straighten myself up and clear my throat. ‘Sorry.’
‘No need. I talk to Joan all the time. She’s a skeleton,’ Alex says. ‘My number one woman.’
‘Is that because she doesn’t talk back?’
‘I wish she did talk back. No, it’s her bone structure that got me.’
I laugh. A funny biology teacher, who would have thought it?
‘Come and meet her when you get a chance.’
‘Can’t wait.’
We share a smile.
‘Anyway, I better leave you to it. I’ll see you at lunch, Amy.’ He turns at the door. ‘Oh, don’t touch today’s shepherd’s pie at lunch. Go for the vegetarian choice. It looks like vomit, but tastes . . .’ He kisses his fingers like a cartoon chef. I chuckle.
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
Alex leaves, and I can finally let out the excited squeal that I’ve been holding in. My lab. I send Nina a photo of the tank.
Best surprise ever. Thank you!!! .
As much as I will miss the girls at Clapham, I’m relieved that I left when I did. I love Nina, but it would be too weird if she was my boss. I still find it mind-blowing that she’s Josh’s boss.
Josh and I haven’t spoken since March, and that was only a cold text exchange to split the remaining bills.
We unfollowed each other a month after breaking up.
He unfollowed me first. So, I did the usual, well, screw you, and unfollowed him too.
It’s for the best; we don’t need to see a magazine of each other’s lives.
That’s not to say I don’t have the occasional stalk session with Abi. I am only human.
He’s even more into the gym now. He even changed his name to @GymJoshGym.
All he posts are Reels of him planking and lifting weights, and the occasional selfie without his top, with captions like ‘PROGRESS!’ It’s strange how we spent our twenties together and have barely anything in common at the end.
I wouldn’t know what we would talk about now.
Two months after we broke up, Josh posted a video of him squatting with Tony.
The caption read, #CouplesWhoSquat. It stung, but not as much as I thought it would.
It was a dick move for Josh to move on so quickly, but what is there to say?
I don’t want to be squatting on Instagram with him. Tony does.
I may drink wine and laugh at his gym selfies with Abi, but I’m happy that Josh is being exactly who he is, just like I’m being exactly who I am – something that wasn’t possible when we were together.
My desk is a blank space, ready to be made mine. I unpack my laptop and tiny globe. It’s only then I spot the red garment cover hanging on the peg by the door. How on EARTH?
I yank down the zip to reveal a pristine white lab coat, on the pocket, sewn in red is my name – Miss Elman. There is no note, but it’s not needed. I try it on and use the reflection of the fish tank. I look great. I feel great. White has always been my colour. I take a selfie and send it.
Olivia. YOU ARE WILD! x
She instantly sends one back.
You’ve got this Doll! Xxxxx
I write my name on the board, but I’m so nervous it comes out wobbly, so I rub it out and do it again.
I’ve been doing private tutoring sessions to pay the bills, but it’s been seven months since I’ve been in front of a class.
It feels like I’m about to do it for the first time all over again.
I clear my throat and stand up straight.
‘Good morning, I’m Miss Elman, your new physics teacher. Miss Elman. Miss El . . . man.’
The bell rings. The door swings open, and a pile of boys come in.
They are swinging their bags, yelling and shoving each other.
Some of them say hi to me. Others walk by as if I’m as invisible as gravity.
They each find their stools, and suddenly 14 sets of eyes stare at me, waiting for me to speak.
I take a breath and smile, tap the space bar and capital letters fill the screen. SPACE.
‘Good morning, Year 10. I’m Miss Elman – your new physics teacher.’
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