9
The conversation with Vicky plays on my mind for the next couple of weeks. On Tuesday, I wake up on the wrong side of the bed, everything out of sync. It starts with my dreams being tormented by nightmares where a seventeen-year-old Alex hovers in the shadows like a ghost from an eighties movie and tells me in a ghoulish voice that I will forever stay alone. Halfway through the dream, he transforms into Aaron chewing on a mint leaf right in my face and laughing.
The dark thoughts continue following me around the cramped flat as I rush to get my lunch ready for school. They trail my awakened consciousness when I sluggishly dodge through the early Tuesday traffic and when I park at the empty school car park, save for one car, a fancy Mercedes.
I wonder how other teachers ever meet deadlines without putting the hours in. I always feel I’m the first one in, right after the caretaker opens the gates, and the last one out, right before the caretaker kicks me out and locks the gates. The caretaker and I are on a first-name basis by now. On a few occasions, I’ve tried to bribe him with a Twix so he’ll close the school later, but he’s a tough cookie and has so far resisted my offer.
When I lock the car, the sky is rumbling ominously above my head, making me hurry. I ignore the Mercedes parked in the corner because it’s the same Mercedes I’ve seen almost every morning and evening. I haven’t figured out whose car it is yet, but whoever is doing long shifts alongside me likes their car immaculate.
Despite the early autumnal showers, it’s always spotless both on the inside and outside. It’s the level of neatness that makes your hand holding the car keys itch. Not that I would ever do anything. There’s only one person I’ve ever considered keying their car, but it’s not worth the offence. Plus, scratching dick onto Aaron’s bonnet would take too much time, and I can’t think of any other words that would contain less than four letters and describe Aaron’s character so succinctly.
I yawn as I put the code in. The door clicks hollowly, allowing me in without resistance. The inside of the school is cold, and I huddle in the butterscotch-yellow wrap cardigan I put on this morning. I thought it was a bold fashion choice when I bought it. I categorically disagreed with Lydia when she said I looked like a cute bumblebee in it.
I’m a circus juggler, balancing haphazardly stacked pupils’ independent writing books, a lunchbox and coffee in a bamboo cup in my arms. I push through the main set of doors with my elbow, but I come into contact with something solid that makes me lose half the items I’m carrying.
My lunchbox splits open and the contents, an unappetising combination of grains and seeds with some green and red leaves, scatter across the carpeted floor. A solitary boiled potato rolls pathetically between my feet and lands next to a laptop bag that belongs to the person I so brashly ran into. Even I have to admit that my lunch, now laid out like a post-modern art installation, isn’t fit for human consumption and rather looks like it was intended for rabbits.
I’m about to apologise, but a set of incredibly green eyes staring back at me stop me in my tracks.
When I unfreeze, Alex says, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t see you,’ as I mumble, ‘Sorry. I’m never this clumsy.’
We both stop at the same time, gazes falling to his grey tie and white shirt, now decorated with Rorschach-shaped coffee stains. At first glance, it looks like somebody defecated on his shirt and the ridiculousness of the situation makes me burst out laughing before I can stop myself. This can’t get any worse. I clamp a hand over my lips. I wait for him to shout at me like any reasonable adult would do in this situation, but he’s only gaping at the growing stain in horror.
I remark embarrassedly, ‘I’ve made a dog’s dinner of your shirt.’ To my surprise, his lips twitch before his expression reverts to the usual iciness.
I pull out a tissue from my pocket to wipe the worst of the mess off his tie, but the tissue has a pea stuck to it. I stare at it with alarm, unsure whether to cry or scream. A hoarse bark comes out of him and eradicates all my thoughts. He tries to hide it with a cough, but it’s too late.
I don’t know what possesses me, but I abandon all my stuff by the sign-in table and before I think it through, grab him by the tie. ‘I remember reading that if you pour cold water through the back of the stain, it should remove it.’
He’s so stunned that he lets himself be dragged to the disabled toilet right behind the reception.
As soon as we’re inside, the automatic light floods Alex’s startled face in cool white, making his freckles stand out. I forgot how small the toilet was and now standing here with somebody who looks like they hit the gym at least twice before breakfast makes the confined space crowded. We have no choice but to stand so close there’s barely any space between us. The whole space smells of cheap coffee, the clean smell of laundry detergent and the now familiar woody fragrance of Alex’s aftershave.
I think my mind must be working on autopilot because my hands immediately start loosening the tie around his neck and pulling it over his head. For a few painful moments, our faces are a few centimetres from each other.
‘The faster we get it under running water, the more of a chance it won’t stain,’ I reason.
As soon as the tie is off, I abandon it in the sink under the running tap. I spin around, ready to start unbuttoning his shirt, but he pushes my hands away and shakes his head vehemently. His skin is hot to the touch and my fingertips feel singed.
‘I’m capable of taking off my own shirt,’ he snaps.
‘I never said you weren’t,’ I retort before I can stop myself.
‘I can’t believe I’ve let you drag me here,’ he mutters to himself, and I have to agree with him on that one.
He makes quick work of his shirt and then he’s naked to the waist in a space smaller than a room in a capsule hotel in Tokyo. My tongue swells to the size of a common garden slug, and my pulse skyrockets because under the shirt Alex is solid muscle, a fascinating combination of golden freckles and pale skin. His shoulders are wide despite his slim frame. When I spot his pink nipples puckering in the cold, I can’t take any more.
His eyes train on the wall. Surely, he’s not embarrassed. The Alex I knew was a little on the self-aware side, but this twenty-seven-year-old man is a solid lump of muscle and an assistant head, and as such, he should strut around topless while giving people orders all the time. I shut off my distracting and unhelpful thoughts at once.
Busying myself, I run the inside-out shirt under the tap. The sleeves of my cardigan get soaked so I dispose of it on the radiator. I notice Alex eyeing my black dress, his gaze trailing down to the bow that embellishes the lower back. His nostrils flare for a moment in an emotion I can’t decipher.
I redirect my attention fully to the sink. When the stain starts disappearing, I yippee in victory and immediately regret the sound. Momentary relief fills Alex’s face before it blanches.
Bollocks , I curse inwardly. I hastily seize the tap to turn the water off, but the damage is done.
‘Your shirt…’ I can’t find the words, but he finishes in my stead.
‘…is pink. Why is my shirt pink?’ His voice climbs an octave higher.
I rummage through the pockets of the garment and find the culprit. A pink mini highlighter.
‘You can’t say I haven’t tried.’ Trying not to think about how ridiculous this situation is, I force solemnity into my statement.
There’s a tense moment in which neither of us speaks. Then Alex doubles over and starts laughing. His reaction sets me off and soon big tears run down my cheeks. I end up getting a stitch in my side and have to squeeze it.
‘I guess I’ll have to ask Jane whether we have any more PE kits in the lost and found box,’ he announces in a serious tone when he manages to compose himself, but amusement lingers on his face. What an insolent bastard to be making fun of my first-day outfit.
I flush with self-consciousness but feel amused despite myself because I can’t not see the humour in this. I should hate him, but my feelings are jumbled, my chest a pressure cooker full of conflicting emotions.
‘If I were you, I’d ask for a Tudor House T-shirt. It would bring out the green in your eyes, and it will go really well with your tie-dye tie.’ I pick up his soaking, brown-stained tie.
He’s positively smirking.
He lifts his hand, but I never know what he intended to do because he halts mid-move. His voice dips. ‘You’ve always been so clumsy. I can see that hasn’t changed.’
I go still, feeling rattled by his words. The spark I felt a minute ago is gone, replaced by self-loathing and resentment that thump me right in the diaphragm, leaving me winded.
His face shuts down as soon as he realises what he’s said. The atmosphere between us turns frigid. I start collecting my things, and I’m about to go when I catch voices outside the reception. Everything tenses inside me once more; this is bad.
‘ Ew . Mind the shit on the floor,’ John says to somebody on the other side of the door.
Alex puts his index finger over my lips. Immediately, they start to tingle, and I swallow hard at the sudden intimacy. Seeing my reaction, he takes a hasty step back, and his gaze drops to the floor like I’m a repugnant toad and he’s in need of washing the finger before it grows warts. I can’t stop myself from clenching my fists in response.
Unaware of my inner monologue, he locks the door behind him with a silent click and waits. How come he’s not panicking?
‘There’s someone’s laptop here.’ Danielle, the worst person possible to witness my downfall, is present and accounted for. Great. ‘And somebody dropped their lunch on the carpet. Yikes.’
‘I wouldn’t call that a lunch,’ John says with a sneer. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use such a condescending tone. ‘It looks like regurgitated animal feed to me.’
‘You’re a PE teacher. Don’t you mostly eat regurgitated animal feed?’ she jabs and then adds maliciously, ‘I bet it was that Holly person . She seems like the clumsy type.’
That Holly person ? Did she really say that? Alex gives the door a death glare, ready to slaughter somebody.
‘Don’t be like that. Holly’s nice.’ John defends me, and warmth flickers in my chest. Alex’s face darkens, if it were even possible.
Danielle snorts, and I hear her moving towards the corridor leading to the classrooms. ‘You’re only being nice because you want to bend her over a desk, don’t you?’
I’m so shocked by her crude words that for a moment I think I must have imagined them.
Either John is not aware of what a gossip Danielle is, or he doesn’t give a damn because he responds in his suave manner, ‘Don’t mind if I do. She’s seriously hot in that quirky way. Like a kinky librarian.’
I almost choke at John’s words. I don’t dare to aim my gaze anywhere in Alex’s vicinity because I’m mortified. But it doesn’t escape me from the corner of my eye that Alex’s hands tighten into fists.
‘Just be careful. There’s something going on between Alex and her. I don’t know what yet, but I will find out. You don’t want to be another person Alex gets fired.’ Their voices retreat with their footsteps.
‘I’m not Hayden,’ John’s fading voice starts saying, but the rest is too muffled for me to hear.
Did Alex have somebody fired because he was after the same job? Regardless of his arctic personality, no wonder he’s so unpopular.
We wait five more minutes before the coast is clear, surreptitiously squinting in each other’s direction.
Neither of us says a word until we both speak at the same time. While I say stiffly, ‘I’d better go,’ Alex rushes, ‘About what John said…’
‘It’s none of my business what you do or don’t do,’ I say a little too harshly.
He grips the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, they’re cold. He pulls himself up to his full height which is only a smidge taller than me; he’s back to his superior bullshit, and instantly I feel defensive.
‘So, you think it’s not above and beyond my practices to fire people who are my competition?’ he accuses me haughtily. I refuse to rise to his words.
‘Let me know how much your drycleaning is, or I’ll buy you a new shirt if it’s beyond cleaning,’ I say with detachment, but I know my silence to his previous question is an answer in itself. I’ve just poured water onto hot oil.
He laughs hollowly and crosses his big arms in front of him. My hands go automatically to my hips, ready for the fight. ‘There’s not a grey cloud in your world, is there? Everything can be solved with money. Start facing your problems. You better go before you cause any more damage. That’s what you do, don’t you?’
His words are so harsh I rear back like he slapped me. I thought offering to pay for his ruined shirt was facing my problems. Did he expect me to bow down and beg for forgiveness?
He catches my reaction and his cheeks twitch. He opens his mouth.
‘Don’t bother,’ I snap, barely containing anger so hot it feels like it’s boiling my insides. ‘Whatever you were about to say, I’m sure I’ll be glad to have missed it. I’ll let you deal with the mess on the carpet because, as you said, I can’t seem to deal with my problems.’ Out of spite and unable to help myself, I add, ‘At least I’m not a two-faced arsehat.’
I pick up my stuff scattered around the reception and rush to my classroom, only halfway there realising I’ve left my bumblebee cardigan in the toilet. It’s a small price to pay for speaking my mind.