Chapter 31
31
ROBYN
I longed for January to be over, longed for birdsong and lighter evenings, for summer dresses and sitting in the garden with a glass of Pimm’s. And for Fabian and me to be back as we were before Alex Brookfield had reared her ugly head in our lives. Ugly! Ha! Alexandra Brookfield was absolutely ravishing: one of those stunning women who had obviously been blessed by every good fairy invited along to her christening. The little people had probably been bickering to be first in the queue, determined to bestow nothing but fabulousness on the baby Alexandra: perfect in-proportion figure, perfect shiny swishy hair, perfect white teeth; brains, health, wealth and happiness. As well as the knight in shining armour – or was it the handsome prince in the castle? – in the form of Fabian Mansfield Carrington.
And if, by trampling on the fairies’ plans for the oh, so beautiful Alexandra, I was about to be carted off to a Fabian-free world as punishment by the little tinselled feckers, then I wasn’t sure what I could do about that. I was a big believer in fate, and if my path towards happy-ever-after in a cottage in West Yorkshire was suddenly yawning with a bloody great pothole, then who was I to argue otherwise?
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody wet,’ Petra Waters admonished me when finding me skulking and sulking in the drama department’s wardrobe, and I’d finally opened up about Fabian and Alexandra. ‘I mean, has he left you? Gone back to her?’
‘Well, no…’
‘Was he happier with her than he is with you?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Have you discussed her with him?’
‘I refuse to talk about her.’
‘Is he seeing her now?’
‘Yes, every day. He’s been up before I’m awake, off down the M62 to miss the Leeds and Manchester traffic in order to work on Joel’s case with her.’
‘And she’s gorgeous?’
‘Yep!’
‘His family like her?’
‘Adore her.’
‘Does Fabian know about Mason?’
My back was to Petra as I sorted what amounted to a pile of fusty-smelling rags in the cupboard, and I swung round to face her.
‘What about Mason?’ I asked, my cheeks burning.
‘That you had a fling with him within a few weeks of starting here.’
‘You knew?’
‘Of course I knew, Robyn. And, if you say this ex of Fabian’s is gorgeous, that he sees her every day and that he knows about Mason into the bargain…’ she paused somewhat theatrically, a hand to her seven-month-pregnant belly ‘…then yes, I’d say you were well and truly skating on thin ice. Particularly if you’re acting like a spoilt adolescent, sulking when he gets home, determined to punish him for having a life before he met you, giving him the cold shoulder, turning away from him in bed. In that case, you’re doing nothing but encouraging him back into her bed.’
‘Don’t see how,’ I muttered, knowing she was right. ‘Oh, Petra, you just have to look at her to see why she’d win any race with the two of us in it.’
‘So, one, why did they split up in the first place? And two, why didn’t he go back to this Alexandra goddess when you and he were no longer together in London?’ Petra looked at her watch. ‘You’ve exactly one minute before the bell goes for afternoon lessons.’
‘OK!’ I started. ‘One, apparently, she had a fling with a work colleague, and two, I can’t get him to admit whether he did start seeing her again when they both ended up here in Yorkshire. Probably because we’re not really speaking except for polite conversation. You know: “have you finished in the bathroom? I’m not sure there’s any milk for your Shreddies” sort of thing.’
‘That gorgeous man of yours eats Shreddies?’ Petra pulled a face.
I tutted. ‘You know what I’m saying. And he did.’
‘Did what? Eat Shreddies? Or go back to her when you were doing what you did with our headmaster?’
‘Fabian didn’t know that at the time.’
‘How d’you know he didn’t?’
‘I just do. Mason somehow let it slip when the two of them first met that he and I had been… you know…’
‘Shagging?’
‘For a deputy headteacher you don’t half have an arsenal of bad language.’ I scowled. ‘ An item. That’s what I was about to say. Mason and I had become friends and then become what’s known in polite society as an item !’
Petra was silent for a few seconds, her thought process interrupted by the raucous ringing of St Mede’s bell. ‘OK,’ she said, putting two hands to her swollen abdomen. ‘Close your ears, baby.’ She nodded in my direction. ‘Yep, Robyn, I’d say you were well and truly fucked.’
* * *
I needed to see Fabian, needed to tell him that once again I was acting like an immature moron rather than the grown-up adult I actually was. I needed to tell him that, even though his family might not think I was good enough for him, even though Gillian and Julius Carrington wanted Fabian heading back to London and down the aisle with Alexandra, I was ready to fight for him. For us.
‘I’m ready to fight for us, ready to fight for what we’ve had, what we’ve got and what we may have in the future.’ I practised saying the words out loud in my form room after 9CL had dashed out, desperate to start their weekend, trying out the sentence over and over again, placing emphasis on different words.
‘Ready to fight … ready to fight for us …’
‘’Ey up, miss, who you getting into a scrap with? D’you need any help?’ Whippety Snicket, aka Blane Higson, was behind me as I articulated the words.
‘Sorry?’ I whirled round. ‘Oh, Blane.’
‘I’ll help you sort ’em, miss.’ Blane was in a jaunty mood, brand-new, gleaming white trainers, laced up à la mode of all fourteen-year-olds, on his feet.
‘Just practising a few lines from Grease ,’ I lied.
‘Don’t remember anybody saying them words in the film, miss.’ He frowned. ‘Which one of ’em said that, then?’
‘Mr Donoghue or Ms Waters will be after you for not wearing school uniform black shoes.’
‘Don’t really care,’ he crowed, admiring his footwear. ‘I’m going to be leaving this dump pretty soon.’
‘Oh, yes? And?’
Blane tapped his nose. ‘Big things happening, miss. I’m being promoted…’
‘Listen, Blane, this has gone far enough. You’re in deep, deep water, laddy.’ Oh, hell, now I sounded like Superintendent Hastings in Line of Duty . I’d be bringing in Jesus, Mary and Joseph and the wee donkey next. I tried appealing to Blane, softening my words and intonation. ‘We need to see Mr Donoghue so he can report this to the authorities.’ I knew Mason was already working with the local authority gang team on Blane’s behalf, taking a softly, softly approach, coordinating with the police and Youth Justice Service. ‘D’you want to end up like Joel Sinclair? On a tag? On bail miles away from your mum in local authority care?’
Blane frowned at that. ‘If you remember, miss, I’ve done me time in local authority care.’
‘That was different. That’s when your mum couldn’t look after you.’
‘Joel was stupid.’
‘One thing that Joel Sinclair isn’t, Blane, is stupid.’
‘Stupid for going against ’em. Trying to go straight.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Blane,’ I said angrily. ‘You’re fourteen, not some hardened criminal in a police drama. If you’re not careful you’re going to get hurt. And I mean really hurt.’ I couldn’t help but wonder if we should be handing Blane over to the police and local authority for his own good. I determined I’d go straight down to Mason’s office and suggest it was time to escalate things.
Blane shot out a wrist from his grubby grey school shirt cuff, insistent I should see the upmarket watch he was wearing. ‘Joel chose the wrong side. He should have joined our lot when he had the chance. Look, miss, don’t you worry about me. If I get done, then their sharks just get the NRM involved. They can’t touch us then.’
‘Sharks? NRM?’
Blane tutted. ‘Solicitors! You know! Bent probably.’
‘Have you been watching The Godfather ?’
‘Godfather? I ’aven’t got no godfather.’
Ignoring the double negative without pulling him up as I would have done in an English lesson, I said, ‘And NRM?’
‘You know.’
‘No, I don’t know.’
‘Well, the NRM lot anyway.’
‘National Railway Museum? For a quick getaway?’ Then censured myself: not the place and time for flippancy.
‘Now, you’re being daft, miss.’ He smirked, but I could see him pondering the possibility of the acronym.
‘Look, Blane, I have to get off.’
It was already nearly four and I’d made the decision I was going to drive over to Leeds, to where Sorrel had said the solicitors defending Joel were situated and where Fabian had told me he was going to be working all day. I didn’t want to miss him, so I quickly texted him.
My lovely Fabian, sorry for being my usual pig-headed self.
Am driving over to Leeds in ten minutes. Meet me in Alchemist at 6pm for a drink? On neutral ground?
Let me know if you’ve finished early and are either heading over to Harrogate to see Jemima or back home to Beddingfield. Love you, R xxx
Walking Blane down the corridor, I saw Mason coming back in through the main school entrance from doing his usual afternoon duty overseeing the kids leave the premises.
‘Mr Donoghue,’ I called. ‘I have to dash, but I know Blane here would like a chat with you.’
‘No, I bloody wouldn’t,’ Blane scoffed, scowling in my direction. ‘I come to see you, miss, not him.’ And with that he sauntered, actually sauntered , past Mason, who was smiling and beckoning him into his study.
I dithered, recognising I needed to update Mason about Blane, but also knowing what the motorway to Leeds was like at this time of day. I turned back, spending just five minutes apprising Mason of Blane’s current situation, before heading for my car once more.
* * *
The M62 into Leeds was thronged even at 4.30p.m. and I had to keep glancing at my phone on the passenger seat, worried that Fabian might already have left work and be speeding down the opposite carriageway back towards Beddingfield. If I’d had time I would have gone home first, put on my favourite red sweater and jeans instead of my usual teacher’s skirt and shirt, and redone my make-up before setting off again. But the late-January sun was already going down on a clear ice-blue and fiery horizon, heralding another cold and frosty evening ahead, and I didn’t want to miss him. I wanted Fabian and me on neutral ground: somewhere one of us couldn’t flounce off to another room, where I couldn’t drink too much wine, which could make me garrulous, prone to talking over him, desperate to put my point of view.
I kept an eye on the westbound carriageway for Fabian’s silver Porsche, but when I had to brake suddenly, I realised I needed to concentrate on the road ahead. It took me twenty minutes to get to the NCP car park on Albion Street where I always left my car when in Leeds.
Stopping only to reach into the back seat for the lovely camel cashmere trench coat Fabian had bought me for Christmas, I quickly refreshed lipstick, eye liner and perfume and pulled a hand through my unruly mass of curls. I headed to the exit, pulling up the coat’s collar and tying its belt securely against the cold, before heading for the Trinity Centre and The Alchemist on the second floor. I decided to ring him as I walked to make sure he actually was in Leeds. Impulsive again, Robyn, I chastised myself. Why the hell hadn’t I just gone back to the cottage, made Fabian’s favourite fish pie and opened a bottle of wine in readiness for him coming home? We could have talked in the relaxing warmth of the log burner and I could have apologised for my immature reaction to being unexpectedly faced with Fabian’s ex in a family reunion. A meeting which, to be fair to me, had been cooked up by Gillian and Julius Carrington with the sole aim of making me look silly and out of place.
Instead, I had stopped, phone clamped to my ear, and was being subjected to impatient tutting as I blocked the way of last-minute shoppers and early-evening restaurant-goers while I endeavoured to work out just where Fabian was.
I’d googled the firm of solicitors Sorrel had told me was dealing with Joel’s case and where Alexandra Brookfield and Fabian were presumably now working together. Without an office of his own, he’d taken over the spare bedroom in the cottage and, as the atmosphere of froideur had continued between the pair of us, he’d increasingly escaped in there, working until the early hours of the morning, coming to bed only when I was fast asleep.
Boris! He must have Boris with him. How on earth could he meet me in a bar in this busy city centre when he had Boris with him? God, I was even more of a bloody idiot than I thought. The coolly elegant, clever and beautiful Alexandra, who presumably made calm and collected decisions on a daily basis, must be looking a decidedly better alternative to this impulsive teacher in her scruffy, muddy boots – I’d taken a shortcut over what was left of St Mede’s playing fields – being buffeted by Leeds shoppers.
No answer from Fabian – the call went to voicemail – so I left a message. Then remembered I’d earlier texted him about meeting in The Alchemist, so had to ring him back, leave another message and tell him I was heading for The Alchemist just in case, despite having Boris with him, he was possibly on his way to meet me.
The Alchemist had huge windows looking out onto a roof terrace lit by pretty fairy lights, but I wanted cosy warmth and was given a table inside where I ordered a single gin and tonic. It was good to sit down – I’d taught several dance and drama sessions that Friday, and had run a Grease rehearsal in my double free period as well as getting Sorrel up to speed for her audition. She would be fabulous. She was back to her old self: sparkling, full of zest, putting 100 per cent effort into her pieces and I could think of no reason why she wouldn’t make the London school’s highly competitive grade.
The gin was soothing and I closed my eyes for a few seconds before turning to retrieve my bag, reaching for my phone once more. I froze, mid turn, my eyes caught by a couple standing from where they’d previously been sitting at a table just the other side of the huge glass door.
There was no mistaking the tall, dark-haired, wonderfully attractive man who was being embraced by the beautiful blonde, her hand possessively on his arm as she leant in to kiss him before bending to fondle the dog’s ears seated at the man’s feet.
I turned away, not wanting them to catch me gawping. Pulse racing, I didn’t know what to do. Did I skip gaily over, shouting: ‘Surprise, surprise! Mine’s a double gin?’ Walk coolly between them with a ‘Well, how lovely! Fancy seeing you two here!’ Or did I race round and through the glass door, saying, ‘Mine, I think,’ before grabbing Fabian by the scruff of the neck, taking hold of Boris and pouring my gin over Alexandra?
Before I could get either my brain or my legs into gear, man, woman and dog were walking to the main exit leading out onto the corridor and lift back down to the shopping area. I jumped up, grabbed my coat and pulled up its collar, determined to follow them. But at the door, the bartender shouted me back.
‘Would you like to settle your bill, love?’
By the time I’d scrabbled for my phone, paid for my unfinished gin and left the bar, the lift had already descended, and a posse of fifteen or so pink-and-silver cowboy-hatted women, clamouring loudly – and drunkenly – for its return, was blocking my way.