Her Pride (Her Sins #2)

Chapter 1 Mia

MIA

PLAYLIST: HIGH HOPE – JOSIE EDWARDS

“Last question for today,” I say to my class. “We talked about all the plants, their parts, and what they do, and why taking care of the environment is so important. Now, if you were a plant, how would you take care of yourself?”

“I’d drink aaaaaall the water there is,” shouts a girl and adds very seriously. “I’d be Hulk plant.”

“You can’t be Hulk, you’re a girl,” says one of the boys in a tone I do not allow.

“Tone, Timmy. Everyone can be Hulk,” I tell him. “Also, both of you, we like raised hands here,” I say and chuckle. I know they’re all ready for the weekend and can’t wait to get home. “But let’s think about it for a moment. What would happen to a plant if it gets too much water?”

“It drowns,” says another girl.

“Right,” I say. “So the right amount is important.”

“But I’m Hulk-Plant!” says the girl, defiantly. “Hulk can drink anything in any amount and do anything.”

I smile. I love my class so much. I’ve been teaching them for three years now—my first own class, and there’s nothing in the world I’d switch it for.

I release my class for the weekend, tidy up the classroom a bit, and then head to the staffroom.

I have to prepare for next week, when I’ll take my class to my community gardening project for some hands-on experience.

I also have to get the materials for the other lessons ready, or I won’t do it until Monday morning at the last minute.

I might be a teacher now, but organising myself is like doing homework in the morning before class.

Unless I do it now. So, it’ll be a long day for me, not that I mind.

I don’t have any other plans anyway. While others my age go out drinking and partying to forget their stressful corporate jobs or find ‘The One’, I like to stay home, reading books, knitting, and cuddling with my two cats.

If not for my very outgoing roommate, I wouldn’t even know what's going on in the party scene of London.

I’m head deep into designing a worksheet for the kids next week, when a male voice rips through my mind.

“Still here?” asks Robert, a colleague of mine. He’s my age—I know because we studied together, and it was quite nice to have a familiar face when I started teaching here in Greenwich.

I lived almost my entire life on the other side of London, in Tottenham, while Robert has lived in Greenwich since birth.

If I am not completely wrong, he still lives with his family because he takes care of his sick mother.

If it comes to men, I never had any inclination to like them, but he is one of the nicer ones.

Very engaged with his class, and well, he’s taking care of his sick mother.

“Could ask you the same,” I say, looking up. He sits down next to my laptop on the table.

“What are you preparing?” he asks as he looks at what I am doing.

“I have this community garden,” I say, “ You know, the one at Brockley Station. And we plan to visit there. I prepared a little rally for them with the other gardeners, so they can learn about growing different crops, beekeeping, and stuff like that.”

“What a great idea,” he says. “The kids need more nature.”

“Agreed,” I say. I want him to leave. I need to finish my preparations.

“Listen, Mia,” he says hesitantly, and stares at his hands. “How about we call it a day and grab some dinner somewhere?”

“I—um,” I stammer, because I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to have dinner with him; I've already got my meal prepped at home. I was also looking forward to finishing the third book in a fantasy series I started reading last year, and the last book just came out.

“No strings attached, of course,” he says quickly. “Just as, you know, colleagues, friends. Or we could just get a tea somewhere.”

I am a very nice person, something I am very proud of—most of the time. In moments like this, I genuinely hate myself, because I want to say no, but I can’t. It must’ve taken him so much courage to ask, who would I be to crush him with a no?

“Sure,” I say. “Tea sounds good. I already have plans for dinner with my roommate.” It’s not really a lie, but not the entire truth, so I can live with it.

He smiles broadly.

“Give me ten,” I add. “I have to finish this first.”

Ten minutes later, I find myself walking to a tavern, close to the school, with a wonderful view over the Thames. I have never been in there before, because I don’t go out.

The place is very British, stuffed with picture frames, old clocks, chandeliers, and a sprinkle of everything else. My eyes dart left and right, taking it all in. I feel overwhelmed by it.

We’re placed opposite each other on blue velvet chairs at a table with a view of the Thames.

The next table is very close by, occupied by an older, very eccentric-looking lady.

She might be somewhere in her sixties. She has sunglasses on inside, wears a very expensive-looking, colourful, what I would best describe as a female suit.

It is frankly not a costume. But then—what do I know about fashion?

It is the last thing I am interested in.

I knit my sweaters myself and wear the same pair of jeans every day.

She is the complete opposite of me—With her short, white-blond hair, she looks something between royal and fashion designer.

Never in my life would I wear anything close to what the woman wears. I like not to draw attention to myself, and that lady screams for it. I’m amazed and repulsed at the same time, and when I sit down with my back to her, I am quite pleased.

Silence passes between Robert and me. I don’t know what to do, and he is fidgeting with his fingers. Apparently nervous. I am as uncomfortable as it can get and have to keep myself from shifting in my seat.

“So, how is your mother?” I ask Robert to start a conversation.

“Still the same,” he says. “Sadly. There is nothing the doctors can do anymore, so we’re making her as comfortable as possible. She’s happy I’m still there, I believe.”

“She must,” I say. The waiter comes, and we order tea. I am and always will be a green tea girl; he chose Earl Grey and a treacle tart.

I’d like one, too, but I hate to eat in public. I am certain that particular issue is my mother’s fault, who has been fussing about my, her own and everybody else's body since I can remember.

‘Do you really want to eat that? It’ll make you even fatter.’

‘Look at that woman there, if she eats one more tart, she’ll explode.’

‘God, I got so fat!’ —said by my mother, who has been a size zero since forever.

I am not. I’m a midsize, apparently inherited my father’s genes there, and I was always too much for her. Too much hips. Too much thighs. Face too round.

I love my mother, but eating has always been an issue for me, thanks to her. It got better since I live on the other side of London and she has her new husband to focus on, but her voice follows me everywhere in my head.

Tea comes, and we haven’t changed another word. It is as uncomfortable as it can get, and I take a way too hot sip from my tea to have something to do with my hands.

Robert eats his treacle tart. The noises he makes while chewing disgust me.

“Is it good?” I ask.

“Very,” he says with a full mouth and takes another bite of it. I sigh silently. I know why I never go out. He’s not even trying to make conversation.

“You come here often?” I try one last time.

“Not really, no. I usually am with my mother. But my sister is visiting this weekend, so I have some time on my hands.”

“Ah,” I say. “Must be nice to have some free time, mustn’t it?”

“I don’t have much else to do,” he says. “School and my mother are all I do, so I am not sure. Additionally, my sister is very annoying.”

I may not know anything about dating and going out, but this is worse than bad.

“Didn’t you organise those bicycle days back at university? What happened to those?” I ask.

“I’d rather spend my time with my mother,” he says before silence falls over us again.

He’s not asking me a single question, I tell myself as I realise I am the only reason we're having any conversation. I wonder how long he’ll go through with it if I don’t ask another question.

In fact, nothing happens. We sit there and stare outside, and I hasten to empty my tea.

“Well,” I say at some point, “I’ll have to leave soon, dinner plans.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” he says, and nothing happens. Somehow, I imagined this would go very differently. Like him calling the waiter, but he doesn’t. So I even do that.

We pay separately. I have expected nothing else and wouldn’t want anything different. Worst case, he’d invite me, and I had to return the favour and live through this again.

“Well, that was nice,” he says when we get up, and I almost swallow on my own spit. “We should repeat that.”

“Yeah,” I say awkwardly, knowing whatever happens, I’ll definitely not repeat that. Whatever excuse I have to find, I will, and if I have to tell him my cat ate my neighbour's fish.

He grabs his jacket and walks towards the door, leaving me standing there in absolute disbelief, with my bag in my hand, not even my coat on.

I am frozen for a moment as I stare after him.

“Dear,” I hear a voice behind me and spin around. The older woman—sliding down her sunglasses. She looks at me like I am something less, almost pitiful.

“I’m sorry, dear, I could not help but listen to the disaster that just went down. Unsolicited advice from a woman who lived a life probably double your age, find some self-worth and ditch that man.”

I am as speechless as I have ever been. Who does she think she is? Listening in to personal conversations and…and judging me with her eyes from head to toe.

How I dislike people who judge others without knowing them. It is exactly what my mother does.