Simone
SIMONE
T he month of June had arrived, and Simone could now enjoy playground duty from a bench underneath the gentle sun.
It was the best bench in the playground for teachers because it offered a wide view, one that included hopscotch on the left, football on the right, and the climbing structure directly in front.
While most teachers would prefer thirty minutes of peace, Simone always looked forward to playground duty.
The freedom that the children displayed was something adults found impossible to replicate, and Simone believed the only solution was to live vicariously through them.
It wasn’t long before Cillian joined her.
“Do you remember when we last shared playground duty?” he asked, sitting beside her. “It was on my first day back in March. I’d like to take the time to commend you on the admirable lengths you’ve gone to avoid me since.”
“Martha’s been only too happy to swap her schedule with me,” Simone said. “I wouldn’t take it personally, Cillian. Outside of playground duty, I’ve not treated you any differently to any of the other teachers.”
“That’s because you don’t speak to any of the other teachers,” Cillian noted. “I’ve only been here a few months now, but it’s obvious how much you keep to yourself.”
“I’m just being professional,” Simone said, “which I still think is best considering the circumstances of how we met. But I have to ask…”
Simone immediately blamed Remy for this newfound nosiness.
Before, Simone could successfully get through a week without learning a single piece of information about anyone.
Then Remy came along to prove that a person’s life could be much more interesting than the person first appeared.
“You obviously come from a teaching background,” Simone said, voicing the question she’d been carrying with her for weeks.
“If you’ve always been a teacher, on a teacher’s salary, how could you afford me? ”
But before Cillian could answer, it dawned on her, as if speaking the words aloud made it obvious.
“You come from money.”
How hadn’t she realized it sooner? Cillian spoke well and carried himself the same.
He smelled good and was always well groomed.
He laughed with ease, revealing the evidence of expensive dental care.
He had signs of aging only where he wanted them: the corners of his eyes and his smile lines.
He rarely wore anything other than jumpers, trousers, and trainers, but Simone had spent enough time taking his clothes off to know they were all of high quality.
At that last thought, Simone suddenly recalled the latest memory she had of removing Cillian’s jumper, and the crisp scent of eucalyptus that had flooded out when she’d done so.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Cillian said, laughing.
Thankfully, Simone had been frowning at the intrusive thought and Cillian had misinterpreted the reason behind it long enough for Simone to tie a leash around the neck of her subconscious.
“Yes, my family is well off,” Cillian continued, none the wiser, “and that allows me to do what I love and live comfortably while I do it. Not unlike you.”
Simone scoffed. “I don’t come from money, Cillian.”
“Right,” he said, “but you love to teach and decided not to do it on a teacher’s salary. Besides,” he added, his tone playful now, “coming from money gets such a bad rep these days.”
“Deservedly.”
“Is that so?” Cillian smiled. “If you could choose to come from money, you wouldn’t?”
Simone clicked her tongue in annoyance but didn’t respond.
If she were being honest, she did feel a sense of superiority knowing that what she earned came from work she did off her own back.
Literally. However, she also knew that if her parents had not only come from money but were generous enough with it, she’d use that money to live, and then spend her life teaching.
Cillian’s smile only widened alongside Simone’s silence. “I’m right, aren’t I? You definitely would.”
“It’s important to develop a work ethic,” Simone said finally.
“I teach Year Six,” Cillian said. “Trust me, I work hard.”
That, Simone couldn’t argue with. Year Six was a notoriously difficult and unruly year, especially during exam season.
Not just because the exam board made it their personal mission to make the tests harder each year, but also because pressure, anxiety, and a tendency to act out skyrocketed each year, too.
When Cillian had first joined Linwood two months ago, Simone had been curious to see how he would handle a class already halfway through the year.
Where Year Five’s teacher, Bethany—who often fled the staffroom in tears—was still trying to wrangle her class, Cillian had taken to his position like a duck to water.
Simone assigned his success to the fact that the girls in class fancied him and the boys respected him; it was the perfect combination when teaching students.
But Simone would be remiss to ignore the possibility that Cillian was also just that good a teacher.
Whenever Simone passed his classroom, his students were either silently working or energetically engaging with him.
A few times on her way to the staffroom fridge, Simone had caught a student knocking on his door, saying something like, “Can I talk to you, Mr. O’Connor?
” (And those were only the students who hadn’t already nicknamed him Mr. O’C.)
Cillian spoke to his students like they were already adults; he made them laugh, refused to adopt their slang in order to be relatable (his students responded positively to this most of all), and offered help wherever he could.
Once, he’d allowed some of his more serious students the opportunity to take practice papers in exam conditions after school hours.
Now, almost every Thursday at 3 PM his classroom was full.
“I can tell you agree with me,” Cillian said. “I do work hard. So, thank you for that. Now, what’s been going on with you?”
Simone couldn’t help but smile. God loves a trier, after all. “Nice try, Cillian.”
“We’re still on a need-to-know basis?” he asked in mock horror. “Because we don’t have to be. You know, despite once not knowing the other was a teacher, we do know a fair bit about each other already.”
Simone frowned. “You can’t possibly believe you know anything about me.”
Cillian pouted; he seemed hurt. “We have spent a considerable amount of time together.”
“In a working capacity,” Simone corrected, folding her arms. “You know what I do, not who I am.”
“Can the two be so separate?”
Both teachers heard a girl shriek and turned their heads. Cillian’s reaction was faster, and he was already on his feet before they realized the scream was one of delight during a game of tag.
“Of course the two are separate,” Simone said when Cillian retook his seat. “Do you behave like a teacher at home?”
Cillian frowned. “That’s different.”
“How so?”
“At work, I’m dealing with children.”
“At work, I’m dealing with men.”
“You’re not a stranger, Simone,” he said softly, and his patience reminded her of Remy. Remy was the latest person Simone had tried to keep in the dark despite Remy cheerfully searching for the light switch.
“Plus, I don’t have many secrets,” Cillian said.
“Certainly none of the harrowing kind. I’m not even suggesting we share secrets!
It doesn’t have to be all or nothing; there’s always a comfortable middle ground.
” He placed his mug of tea between them and folded one leg atop the other.
“For example,” he continued, “I’m thirty-three, was born in Ireland but moved to London for university and never made it back home. ”
“I think that’s more than—”
“My friendship circle is small but great,” he continued. “They’ve been a lifeline this past year. I love to teach but I’ve never wanted kids myself. My hobbies include golf—”
Simone turned to him. “You don’t?”
Cillian frowned. “I don’t what?”
“You don’t want children?”
“Oh, right,” he said, scratching where his beard was growing back in.
“No, I never have. My wife didn’t either, when we met.
I made sure to explain it was a deal-breaker early on, but, quite recently, she’s changed her mind.
For me, I love teaching kids, and I’m an uncle to two great boys, but I don’t want my own enough to become a father,” he said firmly. “I know that makes me sound heartless.”
“Not at all,” Simone assured him. “It only makes you sound honest.”
They looked at one another briefly before Simone turned away. “I guess I’m just surprised,” she said. “Men rarely admit to not wanting children.”
“Well, why would they?” Cillian said. “When I first told Johnny, a friend… well, an ex-friend of mine, that I didn’t want children, his exact response was: ‘Why not? It’s not like you have to do any of the hard work.
’” Simone winced. “I know. I know. Johnny’s always been a bit…
Anyway, that man has three kids and an exhausted wife.
In fact, the last time we were all together was at her birthday dinner.
She’d booked the table, she’d invited their friends and family.
Only twenty minutes in and she was cajoling the three kids while he drank, laughed, and played class clown.
It had been his idea to bring them, said he didn’t want to pay for a babysitter and half of dinner.
A few barbed words were thrown back and forth between them throughout the dinner until the evening ended with her shouting, ‘No wonder I’m always dry down there when you’re so fucking useless!
’ I should mention we were in a Michelin-starred restaurant, a table of eleven adults, parents included, surrounded by other diners. ”
Simone pressed her lips into a firm line to keep from laughing out loud. Once she’d gathered herself she asked, “You said ex-friend. Was that dinner why?”