Chapter 8
Story
Atin of biscuits is shoved under my nose. “Chocolate Digestive?”
Looking up, I find a colleague I’ve met precisely zero times before, though I think he teaches a class two years above me. I shake my head, offering a polite smile, and go back to peering around the room.
This is only the second staff meeting I’ve been in since I arrived at Valentine Prep, and the first where everyone’s in attendance, including the six teachers in the sports department, all in one corner dressed head to toe in PE kit, acting like they own the place.
It’s not a huge school—with fewer than five hundred pupils from kindergarten to thirteen—but you wouldn’t know it, given how many of us are here. With everyone talking at once, it’s impossible to hear what one single person is saying.
My brief time here has been so busy that I’ve barely met anyone properly, and any spare moments I have had were spent catching up on what I should have done earlier in the day.
I always loved school, and I wanted to be a teacher as long as I could remember, but no one warned you about the admin.
The hours spent poring over spreadsheets and reports, adhering to the curriculum.
If they had, I would have seriously considered my life choices.
According to my watch, we’re already five minutes late starting this meeting, and I briefly question whether I can make a quick cup of coffee.
However, it would involve navigating around the group hovering possessively in front of it—most of whom look like they don’t need any more caffeine and would fight anyone who said otherwise.
After a brief deliberation with myself, I decide to leave them to it.
School starts early enough. If you’re going to add an extra thirty minutes to the start of the day, everyone deserves all the caffeine they can get, and I’m not the only one stifling a yawn.
That is, until a cloud of perfume wakes me up, and thoughts of coffee leave as my lungs fight for what’s left of the oxygen in the room.
Mrs. Benson, the headmistress, marches in wearing a skirt covered in flowers so bright that several people wince.
“Good morning, good morning, everyone,” she calls out, with a singsong voice that grates down my spine.
Next to me, Celeste replies, “Good morning, Mrs. Benson,” like we’re in morning assembly, though I can’t tell if the chuckle she adds at the end is sarcastic or not.
“How is everyone this lovely Monday morning?”
Based on the grunts echoing around the room, I’d say not many people think this morning is particularly lovely. It’s also raining, so “lovely” is debatable, and it’s Monday, but I stop myself before my eyes roll, and button down my annoyance.
Truthfully, I’m annoyed that I’m annoyed. I used to be like that—cheery, bright, and excited to begin the day with a room full of eager learners. And now, I have no idea what I’m doing.
Unless what I’m doing is having a midlife crisis. That would make sense.
“Sounds like good weekends were had by all,” Mrs. Benson continues, adding a hearty chortle to her tone.
I lean into Celeste. “Does this happen every Monday?”
She nods. “But there were discussions on moving it to either midweek or Friday afternoon.”
I balk, and my neck cranes. “Friday afternoon?”
“It was quickly shot down.”
I can’t tell from Celeste’s pursed lips whether she thought a Friday afternoon / after-school meeting was a good idea or not, but I know that if teachers in England are anything like the teachers in Australia, Mrs. Benson would have a riot on her hands if anything got between the last class at the end of the week and a trip to the pub.
Or in the case of my Sydneysider teachers, a surf.
By the time you hit 4 p.m. on a Friday, you’d be lucky if you found one single human—teacher or pupil—left in school.
Five minutes later and the faculty would be lining up at the nearest bar for something to take the edge off their week.
Looking after a class of high-spirited children for eight hours a day tends to require a stiff drink or a good wave.
Sadly, it would make no difference to me whether the meeting was on a Friday afternoon, Monday morning, or anywhere in between. My edge will be present regardless. It isn’t restricted to a particular day and hasn’t come from my class. It’s already set in. And I think it’s here to stay.
Personally, I’d pick the Monday morning time slot and get into work early because it beats staying in bed, staring at the ceiling, for another hour.
And why are you staring at the ceiling, Story, you ask?
Well, because annoyingly, my brain won’t shut off.
Because I don’t know what to do about this situation I’m in.
Because I can’t stop thinking about Hendricks.
Like right now when all I can picture is the look on his face right before he told me the blonde was his nanny.
Thick dark brows drawn down with an expression that combined weariness with a little of the arrogance I always associated with Miles.
Because Hendricks knew that I was jealous but couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or flattered.
He’s not the only one confused, though my feelings are being tossed between sadness and humiliation. On the plus side, it’s helped me move into the acceptance stage of grief. My name is Story MacIntosh, and I accept that I fucked things up.
The slightly—okay, a lot—less mature side of me is saying that I can stop there. I don’t need to address things any further with Hendricks.
We (kind of) made our peace the other day—we agreed not to talk—but honestly, even if we can be cordial in our acknowledgments of one another when and if our paths cross, then that’s all we need.
In fact, we don’t have to spend time together.
Maybe I can insist that the blonde—his nanny—drop Max off in the mornings.
As a result, my day won’t spiral because I won’t be thinking about him and the blonde making blonde babies, and I can finally move on with my life.
As soon as this meeting finishes, anyway.
Mrs. Benson has given up shushing people and is loudly clapping her hands together.
“Now, first order of business, the beginning of term. We’ll remind parents that they can’t leave their car engines running or block the road if they’re bringing their child to the classroom.
If you’re a teacher on duty in the drop-off zone, please keep an eye out for this behavior.
We already had warnings from the village council. We don’t need any more.”
Next to me, Celeste mumbles something under her breath.
Will the blonde or Hendricks drop Max off this morning? Perhaps I can share my suggestion with them. The more I think about it, the more sensible I feel it’ll be for all parties.
“Second, after much back and forth, the trees on the far edge of the sports fields will be out of bounds from next month onward. The roots are causing damage, and we’ve decided to have them chopped down—”
“The big horse chestnut tree?” I blurt before I can stop myself.
“Yes, Sophie, that’s correct,” she says, beaming at me, once she’s recovered from being annoyed at the interruption.
“We were going to do new joiners at the end of the meeting, but as it’s only you, let me introduce you all to Sophie MacIntosh, the new reception form interim teacher taking over for David Burton. Or rather, welcome back.”
Next to me, Celeste tuts. Dave’s still on her shit list. Or S. H. I. T. list. Thankfully she doesn’t pick up on Mrs. Benson’s comment about welcoming me back.
A round of grunted hellos echo around the room, and I offer a small wave, while simultaneously trying to sink into my chair to disappear as my mind wanders back to the tree I used to love sitting under. I wonder what happened to that map . . .
“As I was saying, the tree will be repurposed into benches for the sports fields, to sit and watch the games. And that area will become an adventure playground course. So all in all, a positive turn of events, wouldn’t you say?
” Mrs. Benson shuffles the pile of papers in her hand.
I don’t know if she’s waiting for everyone to agree with her, or if she’s stopped for a dramatic pause.
But no one says anything, so she continues, “And then we have our general admin of term dates, lost property, and if any of your students need to visit the school nurse, please ensure a classroom assistant accompanies them.” She peers around the room and removes her spectacles. “Now . . .”
Next to me, Celeste sits ramrod straight. In hindsight, I should have paid attention, but I’m still thinking about the tree being cut down and repurposed. All those times I spent sitting under its shade and it will just be gone . . .
“Sophie and I will volunteer.”
My head spins so fast in Celeste’s direction that my neck snaps, and pain spears across my shoulder. “Ouch, fuck.”
I glare at Celeste, whose hand is raised in the air.
Mrs. Benson claps again. “Wonderful. I’ll let the committee know. The first meeting is tonight. Thank you, ladies. And that, everyone, concludes business. Have a wonderful week, and my door is always open if you need me.”
A wave of relieved groans surrounds me, along with a fresh waft of perfume and the chaos of screeching chair legs and hurried steps, as everyone moves back and rushes to the coffee machine for one last top-up before the bell rings.
I, however, am trying to figure out what I’ve just been signed up for.
“You okay?”
I squeeze along my shoulder, trying to ease the tightness in the muscle. “I twinged my neck.”
“Ooh, painful. Do you want to go to the nurse and get some painkillers?”
I’m tempted, but say, “No. I want you to tell me what you just signed me up for.”
Celeste’s face lights up in a way that makes me nervous, and she jumps from her chair. “Come on, let’s get coffee, and I’ll tell you all about it. It’s so much fun.”
I’ll reserve judgment on the fun until I know exactly what it’s supposed to be, but I get up anyway, and we make ourselves a coffee.
“So,” Celeste begins, flicking a small packet of sugar between her fingers.
I wait patiently for her to rip it open, pour it in, and stir with one of those wooden sticks.
I wait so long I’m almost ready to shake the answer out of her.
“Every February in Valentine Nook, the village committee hosts the Valentine Festival. It takes place over the weekend near Valentine’s Day.
The reception pupils give a little concert, and there’s lots of fun and games.
It’s a big deal.” She pins me with an intense look.
The Valentine Festival. How had I forgotten we’re about to enter the busiest time of year in Valentine Nook?
“Okay . . . what’s that got to do with us? We have to do the concert?”
If I’m being honest, a concert for a bunch of five- and six-year-olds is always a cute time, even if it is a bit like herding cats.
But seeing their little faces as they sing their hearts out cracks even the stoniest of souls, and I can cope with a Valentine concert.
You never know, it might bring some life back to mine.
“No, we do that anyway. I volunteered us to be on the committee.” She grins, like I’d be nothing other than ecstatic.
To be clear, I’m not.
The concert is one thing. Being a member of the committee is quite another.
I remember one year when my mum volunteered.
As the weeks closed in on the fourteenth of February, we saw less and less of her.
By the time the big day came around, she looked like she’d been awake for thirty-six hours, powered by sugar and wine.
When my dad presented her his Valentine card, she threatened to divorce him.
At any time of year, Valentine Nook is a hive of activity—random marriage proposals, maneuvering around the constant queues outside Agatha’s store, the couples walking around starry-eyed . . .
But during February . . . it’s love on steroids, and most definitely not for the weak.
It’s hard to get excited about love when your heart and soul are currently in a state of apathy. In fact, if you cut me open right now, you’d probably find my organs to be less pink and more gray turning to black.
Maybe I can call in sick.
I don’t want to be reminded that I’m alone, and I definitely don’t want to be part of the committee that prides itself on hosting the best festivals in England and possibly Europe.
Celeste is still talking, and I’m nodding politely, but my mind is running a million miles an hour.
“It’s so much fun. I didn’t grow up around here, but I did come to the festival once when I was a teenager.
My friends and I spent the whole time in the queue for love potions.
” She’s speaking so loudly that a couple of colleagues walking past stare at her.
“Half the money raised goes toward the upkeep of the village, the other half goes to the local children’s cancer hospital.
Last year we made over twenty thousand pounds. ”
“That sounds good,” I say, because it’s the only positive thing I can manage.
“Yes, and I thought we would have fun. It’s also good to take your mind off your boyfriend—”
“Hendricks isn’t my boyfriend,” I snap defensively, making Celeste giggle.
“Hendricks? Hendricks Burlington?” She giggles more. Seriously, she giggles way too much, especially for a Monday morning. “No, silly. Your boyfriend in Australia?”
Oh my God. Oh my God. I blink hard. How did I forget? “Noah. Right. Yes. We broke up.”
“Yes, and so this would be the perfect opportunity to move on, maybe find someone new . . .” She elbows me. “And I’ll keep your little crush on Hendricks Burlington a secret. Don’t worry, we’ve all got one. It’s a club.”
I stop walking. This needs to be nipped in the bud right now. I don’t care who’s crushing on him because obviously everyone is crushing on him.
“Celeste, I do not have a crush on Hendricks Burlington.”
Not sure why I think I can convince her, seeing as I’ve never been able to convince myself.
She holds her hand up in defense. “I’m only teasing because obviously that would be so awkward. Plus, he’s mine,” she adds with a wink, clearly not letting this go.
“You can have him,” I snap. Except I want to know what she thinks is going to be awkward even though something’s telling me not to ask. But I can’t help myself. “Why?”
“Because he’s chair of the committee this year. So you’ll be spending a lot of time together over the next month.”
I knew I’d regret asking.
Hendricks Burlington, chair of the Valentine Festival committee? Of course he fucking is.
I glance out of the window, catching the remnants of my plan to move on with my life floating away on the breeze. Spending a lot of time with Hendricks was not part of that.
Fuck Monday. Fuck my life.