2
Teenage Alex wasn’t your typical bad boy. He always smelt of cigarettes, but I never saw him smoke. His clothes were always crumpled but meticulously clean. His fire-red hair was constantly messy like he never bothered to comb it, and he opted for scuffed Converse shoes with obscure band names Sharpied onto the sun-bleached fabric. To add to any mother’s distress, his freckled nose was pierced with a silver ring. But he was also intelligent and funny in a sardonic way. His smile melted my insides.
Most of the girls in my year had a secret crush on him, and I wasn’t an exception. My stomach always did strange twists and turns whenever he was in the same room.
I remember every Tuesday we had French followed by science together, and I always equally dreaded and looked forward to Tuesdays. I remember the day Alex spoke to me for the first time like it was yesterday.
*
The class sighs in resignation when Mr Samson strides in and announces himself as our cover teacher. Immediately, he launches into French history and soon the details of the Battle of Poitiers fill the board in chicken scratches that we’re all supposed to be able to follow and record.
At some point, Mr Samson gets so consumed by Edward, the Black Prince, and his defensive manoeuvres, he doesn’t notice a late straggler slipping into the classroom. My heart vaults into my throat as Alex weaves his way to the back of the class and seats himself in the only available space, which is next to me. He doesn’t acknowledge me, so I carry on pretending I’m listening to the teacher.
My heart slows from a gallop to a canter when Alex starts scribbling notes into a battered notebook. When I eventually start tuning into Mr Samson’s words again, it becomes clear that he really likes saying the word Poitiers . There’s more of a chance of me becoming proficient in Cantonese by the end of the lesson than being able to write anything meaningful down sitting next to Alex, so I start tallying instead.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Alex leaning in and scanning my page. The smell of Lynx and cigarettes hits my nostrils, and I try not to lean in and inhale because that would be weird.
His whole face lights up when he whispers, ‘You’ve missed four. When Samson covered in my maths lesson last term, he got to twenty-two. The Battle of Poitiers is his all-time jam. I reckon he’s taught it at least two hundred times by now.’
‘Maybe he only knows that one battle in the entire French history,’ I whisper back, mock-appalled but add the missed tallies anyway. I ignore my pulse picking up again.
‘Or worse. What if he’s forever stuck in the Battle of Poitiers? What if the Hundred Years’ War never ended for him?’ Alex’s tone turns haunting.
‘What if Cortés never encountered cocoa?’ I quip, pretending to be horrified.
‘Or Kevin Systrom never co-founded Instagram?’ Alex joins my game.
‘There’re worse things in life than Instagram never existing,’ I say dryly.
‘I agree. Objectively, being stuck in 1356 somewhere south of France with a raging army of French and Anglo-Gascons trying to kick each other’s arse is worse.’
‘You’ve got a good memory. I was convinced we were somewhere around the Napoleonic Wars,’ I admit, and he chuckles, his nose piercing gleaming in the artificial light.
‘No, I don’t. I’ve just heard the lesson four times since last year. In fact, it’s hard to push it out of my memory. I’m scarred for life.’
I can’t stop the laugh that escapes my mouth, and Mr Samson gives me a warning frown. For the rest of the lesson, I pretend to note down Mr Samson’s words, but secretly I keep staring at Alex.
After the lesson, we walk to the science lab, and Alex automatically sits next to me. When I open my science book, my fingers tremble, but I force myself not to react. In between the sheets, there’s an unfamiliar page torn hastily from someone’s notebook.
At first, I mistake it for a bookmark except the writing is alien. There are no flourishes, just bold letters with sharp angles and no-nonsense descenders burdened by loops or curls. On the page it says, I like it when you laugh .
*
I force a mental reboot because I don’t think either of us would appreciate my reminiscing right now. While I was spaced out, Alex had crossed the room and stopped behind the safety of the closest student desk.
My entire body stiffens, and I wait for him to acknowledge he knows me, but he doesn’t. He sits down smoothly, tucking his athletic legs underneath the tiny desk. He takes out a plastic wallet from a thick green folder. Before he closes it, I catch subsections filled with more wallets. Alex’s level of neatness makes me itch.
‘Let’s start,’ he finally announces. His gaze wanders in my general direction before it settles back on a form in front of him. His golden-red head lowers over the sheet; he’s actively ignoring me. He carries on without any inflection, ‘Just let me fill this out, and we’ll start going through some of your ECT responsibilities.’
‘So, you’re my ECT mentor?’ I think I’m in denial.
His hand stills over the form. I get why they say you could hear a pin drop when tension rises because I think I hear my stomach drop to what feels like my feet and shoot back up all the way to my throat like a puck struck by a mallet at a high striker. His pink lips purse, and a strange expression flashes across his features before it disappears.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asks casually like he doesn’t care whether he’s my mentor or not. Annoyance bubbles in my chest. I can’t deal with this level of disregard from somebody who will decide my entire teaching future.
A part of me wonders if I should tell Jane there’s a conflict of interest. Or lack thereof. Then, I wonder whether Jane knows we were romantically involved in the first place. I wonder whether he was forced to be my mentor. I bet he hates it.
I consider telling him that, obviously, neither of us wants this foisted on us but decide against it at the last minute.
‘No. I just didn’t know,’ I say stupidly because I can’t think of anything else to say.
‘Good.’ He studies my ridiculous outfit before he returns his attention to the paperwork.
I try not to watch his throat as it bobs up and down, but it’s impossible because somehow over the last ten years, he’s become even more attractive, and it makes me angry all over again. He looks like a sexy headmaster while my haircut makes me look like a sodden mushroom. If he wasn’t behaving like a colossal arsehat, I would find it difficult to focus on anything else but the way his physicality fills the room. Instead, I want to wipe that noncommittal expression off his face or skew his tie out of line. I have an inkling it would really vex this new Alex.
‘I have a few questions.’
‘I expected you would,’ I retort before I manage to stop myself.
He frowns but continues, ‘I need to ensure that the information on the ECT portal is up to date and correct. A hard copy of your ECT details will also be filed in the admin office together with all your original induction documents and a signed copy of your contract. I hope that is agreeable,’ he says flatly without looking up for my approval. ‘All my feedback will go directly onto the portal where you will be able to read my comments on your progress but also have access to official reports. On top of that, we’ll schedule weekly meetings where we’ll set targets during your teaching experience at King George’s Academy.’ He says this like it’s a given I will leave the school once my ECT time is done.
He takes his laptop out of his bag and fires it up. In an onslaught of monotone questions, he asks me to confirm my date of birth, teacher number and national insurance number. The entire time, his eyes are glued to the screen.
He makes a note. Even from this angle, I can see that his handwriting has changed, and the memory of his letters makes an ice cube drop into the pit of my stomach. How is he so composed and detached?
Involuntarily, I notice his bare hand and wonder whether he’s married. Some men don’t wear their wedding rings. Does he have any children? A lot of people my age do. My best friend Catherine has a girl of three and has been happily married for the last six years.
‘The finance office asked me to confirm your address because the one on the system is different to the one you submitted with your signed contract.’ Alex reads out my old address.
His golden eyebrows knit together when he looks up, waiting for me to answer.
I want to bang my head against the table. I had been about to sign the contract for the studio flat when I got the job, and that was the only available address at the time.
‘I no longer live there. I submitted my new address with the contract.’ My answer turns steely because something about his manner puts me on the defensive.
‘Are you likely to move again?’ He doesn’t let the topic go and his expression turns prim. His attitude is giving me chilblains.
‘Did the finance office ask you to ask me that as well?’ I sit up in my chair to make myself taller, trying to communicate the message you don’t intimidate me . Instead, I probably look like I need a wee badly.
‘No,’ he snaps, finally putting some emotion into his tone. When he speaks again, he sounds like he’s reciting from a book. ‘The school needs to know whether your permanent address is likely to change again so they know where to send your P40.’ I feel a little embarrassed until he adds pettily, ‘I wouldn’t be asking that question if I didn’t need an answer.’
I refuse to huff, but his presence brings the worst out in me. With a chilly calmness, I state, ‘I don’t expect my current residence to be changing any time soon.’ I glare at him. I’ve had enough of his hostility. Maybe I should ask him whether he wants me to also send him what I had for breakfast and what socks I’m going to wear tomorrow so he can inform the finance office about that too.
‘I see.’ He scribbles again.
He asks more questions, jotting a few notes down. It doesn’t escape me he subtly leans away when he passes the sheet to me to sign.
After I push the signed form back to him, I can’t stop the shivers that travel down my body that have potentially something to do with the aftermath of getting soaked and spending the last ten minutes in one room with the coldest person I’ve ever met. Goosebumps spread up my arms, and I grit my teeth to stop them from rattling.
‘You should put the air con on to warm up the room,’ Alex says dismissively, giving my arms a sidelong glance.
There’s no way I’m going to admit that I didn’t know until this point I had an air con unit, nor the fact I don’t have the vaguest idea how to operate it. He’s probably dying for me to ask, but I don’t give him the satisfaction.
‘I’m fine.’ I don’t think fine has ever escaped my mouth this passive-aggressively. I could cut slabs of meat with that fine .
He nods and smoothly moves to the topic of my ECT year. ‘Apart from snapshot visits, I will also formally observe you twice a term. After each term, I will write a report based on your performance and progress against teachers’ standards.’
My teeth make a loud chattering sound halfway through his speech. I snap my mouth shut, but he catches it. His eyes flit towards the air con unit on the ceiling before he continues frostily, ‘You are welcome to read and comment on your progress prior to the official submission. I’ll take your comments into consideration.’ He gives me his iciest look yet, which confirms my suspicions that there’s zero chance of me taking any part in the report writing.
Worry squeezes my insides, and the truth hits me hard. Alex holds my future in his freckled, neatly manicured hands.
‘You are also expected to file evidence of teachers’ standards in your ECT folder. I trust you have one?’
‘I have. I’ve collected and filed some of my evidence from last year. I was told that I can reuse some evidence as long as it doesn’t amount to more than ten per cent.’ I want to show Alex I’m diligent.
‘I’m afraid that won’t do. All evidence needs to be collected this year. The trust’s policy,’ he states in a tone that brooks no opposition. I’m pretty sure that that’s bullshit, but I guess I’ll have to play by Alex’s rules now.
‘Pardon?’ he barks. I must have shared my thoughts out loud.
‘I said not a problem.’
He tugs at his waistcoat and nods even though it’s obvious he knows that’s not what I said. The atmosphere between us grows chillier.
‘I want to address one final point before I go,’ he adds haughtily. I wait for the other shoe to drop and brace myself for the impact. You could attempt to cut the tension in the room with a person-sized machete and still not hack through it. ‘I don’t have to remind you that you now represent not only me but also King George’s Academy. As a teacher, you are a role model. As such, tardiness or idleness is not going to be excused.’
That’s the final nail in my proverbial coffin. Even Jane, who is the bloody principal, let it slide on my first day, but Alex can’t. I guess we’re at the point of open hostility. From now on, it’s guns blazing, tripwires in corridors and sneaky laxatives in drinks.
Anyway, who uses the word idleness these days? Who does he think he is? Jane Austen?
‘There was road maintenance,’ I force through my tense lips because I’m so livid I’m beyond making up semi-believable excuses.
‘How unfortunate,’ he whispers under his breath, but there’s no trace of emotion in his voice.
I grip the edge of the desk and accidentally bump into the coffee Jane made me in her office. The black liquid, still surprisingly hot, spills over the rim and scalds my hand. I ignore the burning pain in favour of the lava-hot anger that engulfs my insides. My mouth opens, teeth bared. The wild animal in me is ready to pounce, scratch his eyeballs out and feast on his entrails.
With satisfaction, I realise that for the first time today, Alex is anything but in control. His lips set into a thin, bloodless line. His eyes narrow with a challenge and he leans forward like he wants a front-row seat to whatever comes next.
I wait for something to spontaneously combust with the friction between us. Either I’ll become a human torch or the display behind me will catch fire like a sacrifice in a satanic ritual. I open my mouth, but before any words come out, someone knocks on the door.
A moment later, Jane walks in smiling, totally oblivious to the tension in the room. Immediately, my mood cools off like a switch was flicked. Inwardly, I shake my head at myself. Had I almost told my ECT mentor to eff off on my first day? I can’t afford to lose this job, no matter how much I can’t stand Alex Bennet.
‘How is our new ECT doing? I hope you don’t feel overwhelmed with all this new information. I bet Alex has been thorough,’ Jane says almost jovially. At the word thorough , I cough. After an awkward pause, I nod. She looks between me and Alex before her gaze snags on the spilt coffee.
I notice Alex’s shoulders easing despite the awkwardness of the situation. Even being a complete stranger, it’s obvious he trusts her. I can’t quite decipher how it makes me feel as a bubble of mixed emotions lodges in my ribcage.
‘Am I needed elsewhere?’ His suddenly casual tone breaks the tense atmosphere with a single question like cracking the top of a crème br?lée.
‘I wondered whether you could join me for coffee so we could discuss budgets.’ Her smile stiffens fractionally as some wordless communication passes between them. I catch Alex’s frown of confusion before his face clears.
‘Of course. Budgets.’ He pushes to stand. Adjusting his grey trousers, he collects his things. He checks the time on his expensive-looking watch, his attention landing on me as an afterthought. ‘Make sure you test all your logins, and if there is anything you can’t access, let me know. The safeguarding link should be on your staff email.’
Jane leaves the classroom, and Alex makes to follow, but at the last second, his fingers freeze on the handle. My pulse starts racing when he turns around and heads back to me. I’m certain he’s about to tell me he’s never going to let me pass my ECT, but to my utter astonishment, he veers right at my desk and grabs a small controller from the top of the whiteboard. He taps it a few times and hot air starts blasting out of the air con unit attached to the ceiling.
I feel too stunned to react. He passes me the controller and our hands meet for the briefest moment. A bolt of electricity shoots up my arm. His lips pucker in distaste, and my ears turn hot at his expression. Without a word, he strides out of the classroom, leaving me aggravated, embarrassed and bothered.