Chapter 7
The morning after she’d been to SAADD, SJ woke up with a hangover and a vague sense of remorse. The bed was cold. Tom must have left hours ago. His ability to head brightly off to work with a hangover had always amazed her.
They’d both drunk far too much last night.
The champagne to celebrate Tom’s promotion had just been the beginning.
She had a vague memory of them making love too, which had been more functional than fun – at least for her.
Success and sex went together for Tom. They always had, and SJ knew she should have mentioned long ago that their lovemaking wasn’t always as good for her as she pretended.
But telling him that had got harder as time went on.
Small white lies that had seemed harmless when told had a habit of growing into whopping great big ones.
Blinking sleepily, she reached for her mobile which had just bleeped with a text and found a message from Tanya.
How’s it going? Did you stick to target? Ring me.
SJ sighed. What time was it anyway? Eight thirty-five – shit, she was going to be late if she wasn’t careful. Her A-Level class didn’t start until ten, but she had to walk Ash, make herself presentable, and she needed at least three mugs of strong coffee to face a roomful of students.
* * *
SJ rarely had any absentees in her classes and students often came early so they could ask her questions. She encouraged it. It wasn’t a chore to talk about a subject she loved.
Today, however, she could have done with the extra few minutes to gather herself. She felt unravelled, probably because of oversleeping. The headache wasn’t helping either. She was popping out Nurofen from their foil when Jimmy, one of her younger students, bounded into the classroom.
‘Hey, SJ. Any chance you could spare me a sec? I’d really like to run something by you…’ He was at her desk now and she gave him her most blazing smile to make up for the fact she wasn’t exactly on top form.
‘Heavy night, was it?’ He brushed a lock of unruly dark hair out of his eyes. ‘Sympathies, mate.’
‘Just a slight headache,’ SJ said, alarmed he’d seen straight through her smile disguise.
‘Tush,’ Jimmy said, which she wasn’t sure meant he believed her or not. But at least he was grinning. He pulled a chair up to her desk, the scrape of chair legs on floor tiles overloud. She tried not to wince.
Jimmy smelled of aftershave and young man’s hormones.
SJ couldn’t remember if she’d put on scent this morning.
She had a routine on hangover days – one in which she metamorphosed from a bleary-eyed, blotchy-faced wreck into a shiny, bouncy professional.
It was amazing what make-up, a smile and a heavy dollop of enthusiasm could do.
But lately the transformation had got harder. Getting older had a lot to answer for.
Fortunately, by the time the rest of her class arrived the coffee and Nurofen had kicked in and she was her usual self again.
Her students were a mixture. They ranged from youngsters like Jimmy, who were on a catch-up from courses they hadn’t completed at college, to people who thought A-Level English would be useful for their career.
She also had one lady, Sylvia, who was in her seventies and just wanted to keep her mind active.
SJ loved the teaching part. She enjoyed the course preparation too.
She wasn’t so keen on the marking part, but the very worst bit – the bit she had complained to Kit about – was the endless aims and objectives and learning outcomes part that the government insisted every tutor do for every student on a weekly basis to secure funding – and to ‘prove’ that learning had taken place.
This was, as far as SJ could see, a complete and utter waste of everyone’s time.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Harry, one of the art tutors, who SJ bumped into when she took her register back to the office. ‘If they give us much more paperwork there won’t be time for teaching. And my course isn’t even an exam subject. Totally ridiculous.’
‘SJ, did you see that letter in your register file?’ called out the receptionist.
SJ hadn’t, but she pulled it out now.
Harry glanced at it over her shoulder. ‘Fan mail?’ he joked. ‘Or someone having a whinge?’
SJ blushed. ‘One of my old students just got into Oxford. He’s writing to thank me.’
‘Hey – isn’t that something. You should frame that one.’
SJ stuffed the letter into her bag, pleased despite herself. Moments like this made up for the interminable admin. By the time she’d completed today’s and walked back out into the lunchtime sunshine, the last vestiges of her hangover had disappeared.
She was almost home when she remembered the text from Tanya. Yesterday, in the mood of relief, confession and sisterly solidarity, she’d promised Tanya faithfully she wouldn’t lie about her drinking.
She phoned and confessed she’d gone slightly over the top the previous night, but qualified this by saying Tom had been promoted and they’d celebrated with champagne.
Tanya sighed. ‘I meant what I said yesterday. I’ll help in any way I can. Do you want me to come over later – so I can keep you on the straight and narrow?’
‘That’s very sweet of you, but I’m busy. It’s my Poetry and a Pint night.’
There was a small silence which, to SJ’s over-sensitive ears, sounded accusing, and she felt the need to fill it with an explanation.
‘I’m teaching so I can’t drink too much.
I mean, the pint’s practically metaphorical.
Honestly, Tanya, I’m not that irresponsible.
I mean, I’m glad I went yesterday – obviously – but I don’t think I need any more sessions.
It’s not as though I’ve got a serious problem.
Thanks for the offer anyway,’ she added, pleased with herself for being so open and honest.
‘What did Tom say?’
‘Not much. He was too excited.’
They talked about Tom’s promotion briefly. Then SJ changed the subject before she let it slip she hadn’t yet said anything to Tom.
‘Anyway, enough of me. We sorted all my problems out yesterday. Haven’t you got any?’
She wasn’t expecting Tanya to say yes, but her friend gave the slightest of hesitations and suddenly her instincts told her she was right on target.
‘It’s something to do with all those texts, isn’t it? Oh, Tanya, I’ve been really selfish. What’s wrong? Why didn’t you say anything yesterday?’
‘Because we had other things to discuss. And my problems are minor compared to yours.’
‘Mine are minor, too,’ SJ said, torn between guilt that she’d been so selfish and relief she wasn’t the only one with a problem. ‘Do you want to talk about it now?’
‘I can’t on the phone.’
‘What if I come round? I can whizz through my marking.’
‘No, don’t worry. It’s nothing urgent. Besides, I’m working. We can talk about it next time.’
Intrigued, SJ agreed they’d devote the whole of their next meeting to Tanya’s problems and her friend laughed nervously.
‘We probably won’t need to, but thanks, you’re a good friend.’
SJ hung up, feeling uneasy. It wasn’t like her beautiful, self-assured friend to have serious problems. Not ones that involved text messages from someone SJ was suddenly sure wasn’t Michael.
Briefly, she considered the possibility that Tanya was having an affair.
But that was ludicrous. Tanya would never have an affair. She adored her husband.
* * *
She was still thinking about Tanya as she gathered her stuff for Poetry and a Pint.
The Red Lion was within walking distance at a stretch, but she usually caught the bus because she had too much to carry.
SJ had a fear of being underprepared. As the bus trundled through the housing estates she wondered if it was Michael who was having an affair.
But that didn’t explain Tanya’s texts. Unless she was speaking to his mistress.
No – unlikely. She’d seemed embarrassed, but not upset or annoyed.
Still deep in thought, SJ crossed the pub car park, called out a greeting to Jim, who was polishing glasses, and headed up the uncarpeted back stairs to her room.
Poetry and a Pint was a delightful antidote to English Literature. There were no exams, no stress and no fixed syllabus – she tended to flow with the group. Her seven students were united by their love of poetry and were a diverse bunch.
Currently, she had two performance poets, Matt and Steve, whose work was edgy; Matt wrote rap and Steve wrote controversial free verse.
An older married couple, Bruce and Sybil, published anthologies of Christian verse, but had an excellent sense of humour and luckily weren’t easily offended.
The rest of the class were women who just liked poetry and wanted something to do on a Wednesday night.
One of them, Dorothy, who was always beautifully dressed and made up – she reminded SJ of the women who worked on the posh make-up section of a department store – wrote erotic novels as her day job.
Fascinated when she’d discovered this, SJ had volunteered herself as a proofreader if ever Dorothy wanted one.
At first, she’d laughingly refused. ‘It might change the way you see me. And besides, you’re busy enough with your teaching.’
‘I’m not too busy to help you – it’s always a pleasure to look at your work. Anyway, it’s my job.’
‘We both know that’s not true. Reading chapters of my bonk-busters does not constitute teaching me poetry.’
‘I don’t mind helping. You know I don’t. So how’s the latest one going?’
‘Slowly. My editor’s told me I need more sex in it – a wee bit more spice – you know.’
Dorothy winked, but SJ fancied she saw a trace of wistfulness behind the humour.
‘I must say I do find it hard going since I lost my Alfie. We used to have such fun trying out all these new positions.’ She shot SJ a wicked smile, and added, ‘I’ve only my memories to rely on now, hen, although I’m not complaining. I’ve plenty of those.’