by Sam Anthony
“No,” said Eric and Ollie simultaneously.
“Perhaps she heard about my massive cock.”
“Mate, …”
“What?”
“You haven’t really got a massive cock, have you?”
Steve considered lying for thirty seconds, but he couldn’t do it. “No. It’s about five and a half inches on a good day, with a slight curve to the left.”
“I did not need a description of your deformed todger,” said Ollie.
“Even mine is longer than that,” said Eric. “And it’s as straight as George Michael.”
“George Michael is gay, mate.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, he came out five years ago.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“It was all over the news.”
“Okay, as straight as Marlon Brando, then.”
“Well, actually, …”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Ollie turned back to Steve. “So, you had sex with her last Sunday; when was the second time?”
“Yesterday. I decided to take a few hours off work, and went round to Mandy’s place. We spent the morning in bed together.”
“Shagging?”
“Not just shagging. Yeah, we had sex three times – although, to be completely honest, which I always am, one of those three times was actually in the shower not the bed, although you don’t really need to know that – but our relationship is about more than only the physical stuff. Mandy and I have a deep connection. She gets me in a way no one else ever has. She appreciates my finer qualities and doesn’t care about my flaws. Mandy actually thanks me for her orgasms; Fiona would never do that. Mandy doesn’t nag me if I don’t put the toilet seat down; Fiona never shuts up about it. They’re so different.”
“Of course they’re different, they’re from different generations. Fiona must have been in her mid-twenties when Mandy was born.”
Steve’s face took on a faraway look. “Guys, you should see her naked. She’s absolutely flawless.”
“Fiona?”
“God, no! Fiona has totally let herself go. I’m talking about Mandy. Her skin is so smooth. Her hair is so shiny. Her lips are so soft. Her limbs are so flexible. And don’t get me started on her tits. By contrast, Fiona ...”
“Stop! Don’t tell us about Fiona. Fiona is our friend. We care about Fiona and we don’t want to see her hurt by a pathetic man having a midlife crisis. Isn’t that right, Ollie?”
“Absolutely.”
“What on earth made you do it? You’ve been faithful to your devoted wife for twenty years. Why cheat on her now?”
Steve crossed his arms. “I don’t know. A mixture of things, I guess. Women have stopped throwing themselves at me at work. Fiona refuses to initiate sex ever. I was starting to feel old and undesirable. And then, along comes this gorgeous young barmaid who throws herself at me, literally. She makes me feel young and attractive. She makes me feel alive again. How could I resist that?”
“Easy,” said Eric. “You could have said, ‘I’m flattered, young lady, but I’m a happily married man,’ and just walked away.”
“That’s easy to say in the cold light of day, but she seduced me during a moment of weakness. We all had a few too many drinks last Sunday.”
Eric shook his head. “I didn’t.”
Steve continued. “I was tired, I was drunk, I was horny, and I was alone with a beautiful, voluptuous woman.”
“Girl.”
“When she pressed that body against mine, and those breasts were looking up at me, what was I supposed to do? I’m only flesh and blood, after all.”
“Did you mean ‘breasts’ or ‘eyes’?”
“What did I say?”
“You said ‘breasts’.”
“No, I meant ‘eyes’.”
“You should never have been alone with her in the first place. We both told you that was a bad idea.”
“Well, I don’t regret it. I feel like a new man.”
“That’s so selfish,” said Eric, while Ollie squirmed uncomfortably. “It’s not all about you. What about Fiona? What about Ava?”
Steve swallowed. “Do you think I should tell Fiona?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you want her to slice off your testicles while you’re asleep, stamp on them in her pointiest heels, scrape up the remnants with a rusty trowel, fry them in her own spit, combine them with some fresh dog shit, bury the entire concoction in a hole in the garden, and piss on it five times a day.”
“Or?”
“Or not.”
“Hmm,” thought Steve. “That’s probably no more than I deserve, is it?”
“No!” Eric and Ollie agreed, although Ollie was less vehement.
Steve was thoughtful for a while. “So, what would you advise me to do?”
“It’s simple,” said Eric. “Invent a time-machine, travel back into the past a couple of weeks, and tell yourself not to be a selfish twat.”
“Thanks. That’s helpful. Ollie?”
“I agree with Eric.”
“Brilliant.”
“Look, the damage is done and there’s no going back. Now you have to figure out how to minimise the fallout.”
“How?”
“First, and most importantly, do not tell Fiona,” said Ollie. “You need to take this with you to the grave.”
“But I can’t lie to her if she asks me directly.”
“If you tell her the truth, she’ll be devastated. You have to lie to her. And you have to end this ridiculous romance with Mandy.”
“I can’t do that either. Mandy is like a drug, and I’m addicted to her. I haven’t experienced a high like this since Arsenal completed the double in 1971 and Tracy Wallace let me fondle her tits on the same day.”
“Then what is your plan?”
Steve took a pensive swig from his pint. “Right, I’m not going to tell Fiona about any of this for the time being. I’ll just have to pray she doesn’t ask. If I need a cover story, you guys will help me out, won’t you?”
“You mean you want us to lie on your behalf?” asked Eric, appalled. “We lie so you don’t have to?”
“Isn’t that what mates do?”
“With all due respect, mate, you can fuck right off? Fiona is our friend too.”
“Ollie?”
“I concur.”
“Okay, you don’t have to lie for me, but you can’t say anything about this to Fi. Or Serena or Mia. Those gossips tell each other everything. This has to remain between the three of us.”
“And Mandy?”
“Yes, and Mandy.”
“And Mandy’s mates?”
“She wouldn’t tell them, would she?” Once again the colour drained from Steve’s face. “Oh, God, I’m so fucked!”
Chapter 58
Thursday 27 November, 2003
Fairfax driveway, 5:47 p.m.
It was dark when Ollie pulled onto his drive, parked and stepped out of the car. He sniffed the air and sighed a happy sigh. A contented sigh. His contentment didn’t last long.
He saw the front door open and a rectangle of light appeared on the ground between him and the house. He was surprised to see Mia stepping towards him in her slippers, hastily wrapping herself in a warm coat.
“Hi,” he said, and took another sniff. “Can you smell that? I just love the aroma of an evening frost at this time of year. It must be nearly Christmas. That smell always takes me back to my childhood.”
“It’s bloody freezing! Let’s get in the car.”
“Why?”
“We need to talk.”
“About vehicle upholstery?”
“No. We need to talk away from the kids.” Mia sat in the passenger seat and shut the door with a thunk.
Reluctantly, Ollie sat back in the driver’s seat, started the engine and turned up the heating. “What’s going on? Is this something to d
o with Steve and Fiona?”
“Why would it be to do with Steve and Fiona?”
“No reason. What is it then?”
“Something happened at school.”
“To you? Was it that Wayne Smith character again?”
“No, not to me. And, for once, it’s nothing to do with Wayne Smith. It’s Jemima.”
“What happened? Is she okay?”
“Maggie Foster gave her an after-school detention.”
“Maggie Foster?”
“Head of girls’ P.E.”
“The name’s familiar. Should I know her?”
“You should. She’s been at the school longer than me, and you’ve met her several times. Excellent teacher. Solid reputation.”
“Why the detention?”
“The class were playing netball in the lesson, and Jemima wasn’t bothering to take part. She was just standing around – inspecting her hair for split ends the way she does – when she was supposed to be zooming around the court like a centre.”
“Is that similar to a centre forward in football?”
“No; completely different sport. The point is, Jemima was spoiling the lesson for everyone else. So Maggie, quite rightly, made her stay behind and gave her a detention.”
“That seems reasonable. Jemima was clearly in the wrong. We’re going to have to have a stern talk with that girl.”
“You haven’t heard the worst of it yet.”
Ollie sighed. “Tell me.”
“Instead of going to her next lesson, Jemima left the P.E. department and went straight to her Head of Year, Mrs Rawlings, where she made a formal complaint. She claimed that Maggie had accused her of stealing from another girl’s bag and, when she tried to argue her innocence, had slapped her across the face.”
“Wait. Who slapped who?”
“Maggie slapped Jemima.”
“What! Teachers can’t do that.”
“She didn’t do that. Maggie Foster has thirty years of teaching experience, and she’s never laid a finger on a child in all that time. She denied it vehemently. Jemima must have made the whole thing up. Unfortunately, when she told her Head of Year and made a formal complaint, the headteacher was obliged to get involved. Poor Maggie has been suspended from school pending an internal investigation.”
“That seems a bit over the top in response to a disgruntled fifteen-year-old who is known to bend the truth when it suits her. Without any evidence, surely the word of an experienced teacher with a perfect record is worth more than the word of a mischievous kid who’s sulking about getting a detention.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But the bright-red handprint on Jemima’s face was highly suspicious and required some explanation.”
“What?”
“Jemima had definitely been slapped hard on the right cheek. Apparently, you could still see the finger marks.”
“Is Maggie Foster left-handed?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not good. Could it have been self-inflicted?”
“I don’t think so. You try smacking your right cheek with your left hand. It’s hard to generate much force.”
Ollie tried. “Ouch! That bloody hurt. Is it red?” He switched on the interior light.
“Not very. And, don’t forget, Jemima’s not as strong as you. The headteacher was convinced that someone left-handed had given our daughter a damn good slap, and the prime suspect is poor Maggie Foster.”
Slumping lower in the car seat, Ollie said, “Is it awful that I’m more inclined to believe a woman I barely know than our daughter?”
Mia reached out and took his hand in hers. “I know what you mean. I guess we’ll find out more at Parents’ Evening tonight.
“Oh, God. Is that tonight?” Ollie looked at his watch.
“Yes. It’s been on the calendar for weeks. Did you have plans?”
“No. I was just going to take Lord for a long walk. That’s all.”
Chapter 59
Thursday 27 November, 2003
The school, 7:15 p.m.
Mr Whitworth (Mathematics):
What happened? At the beginning of the year Jemima was so good at this subject – I mean, she ought to be with you as her mother – but she seems to have gone right off the boil recently. No effort, no homework, very disappointing test results. To be honest, in some lessons, she’s downright … well … disruptive ...
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Professeur Martin (French):
Ah, la beauté rousse Jemima. Malheureusement, ses efforts se détériorent. She used to be surch a delightful student; always putting urp ’er ’and to participate in class discussions, but no more. What ’as ’appened to all zat enthusiasm? She seems to ’ave lurst all ’er joie de vivre. All ’er va-va-voom. Quel dommage ...
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Miss Finch (P.E.):
I shall be discussing Jemima this evening on behalf of Mrs Foster who, as you know, is unable to be here due to certain … unfounded allegations. Your daughter’s attitude in P.E. lessons this term has been disappointing, to say the least. Not only has she refused to participate in any sort of physical activity, she has also been encouraging other girls to do the same. Last week it took her fifty-seven minutes to complete the cross-country course, and it’s less than two miles long. She could have crawled it quicker than that. When she finally returned to school she absolutely stank of cigarette smoke ...
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Mrs Coulson (Geography):
After thirty-two years in this profession, I can honestly say that the most recent piece of coursework Jemima submitted is the best I’ve ever seen. Far, far, far better than any other assignments she has produced, if you know what I mean. Are you sure you want me to submit it to the exam board, Mia? You know what could happen ...
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Mrs Higgs (English Language):
I’m so glad you’ve both come in this evening. I have to admit, Jemima’s assessed essay shocked me to the core. The imagery, the violence, the gore, the gratuitous obscenities, the (lowers her voice until it’s barely audible) appalling sexual abuse. Have you considered taking her to see a psychiatrist ...?
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Mr Hunter (English Literature):
What can I say? She hasn’t read any of the set texts. I doubt she’s even opened a single book all year. Such a waste of potential. I’m presuming you’ve heard the rumours … Oh, you haven’t. Well, far be it from me to spread salubrious gossip, but … boys … money …stealing ... drugs … bullying … violence … sex … extortion, etc. But you didn’t hear any of this from me ...
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Mr Bayliss (Biology):
At the beginning of the year, I would have confidently predicted an A grade for Jemima in her GCSE Biology, but not any longer. On her current performance, she’ll be lucky if she ends up with a D grade. There are so many facts to learn, and learning facts requires effort. I’m sorry to say, Mia, without a drastic change in attitude, Jemima will not fulfil her potential in this subject ...
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Mrs McMahon (History):
I know it’s unprofessional to cry, but I can’t help it, Mia. Sniff. Jemima is doing my fucking head in. Sniff. When I’m nice to her, she ridicules me. When I’m stern with her, she laughs in my face. Sniff. What am I supposed to do? I’m just trying to help her get the best possible grade, so why is she being so mean to me? Sob ...
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Dr Lederer (Chemistry):
I’m not pointing fingers, but someone snuck into the science laboratories at break-time last Friday and turned on all the gas taps. We were lucky I discovered it in time or there could have been a massive explosion. I haven’t been able to sleep since, thinking about what might have happened. Whenever I close my eyes I picture burnt, mangled bodies lying in the smoking wreckage. Of course, it may not have been Jemima at all who was spotted running away from the scene. It may have been a completely different year eleven, red-haired girl with her skirt rolled up so high you
could practically see her knickers. We may never know ...
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Mrs Rawlings (Head of Year):
Sit down, Mr and Mrs Fairfax. I know you didn’t make an appointment to see me, but I feel it’s imperative that I speak to you both as a matter of urgency. There are some rather … unpleasant issues we need to discuss. You know already about Jemima’s accusation that Mrs Foster slapped her after P.E. this morning. I’ve made some enquiries about the incident and it does appear that some money and a mobile phone were removed from another girl’s bag during the lesson. However, at the time Jemima made her complaint to me – claiming that Maggie Foster had accused her of stealing – neither the victim nor Maggie was aware that anything had been stolen. It’s my belief that Jemima was the thief, and that her subsequent accusations were revenge for receiving a detention. I’ve had a word with some of the other girls who were in that lesson and they all claim, and I quote, ‘I didn’t see nuffin’ an’ I don’t know nuffin’.’ I got the impression they’d been threatened into silence, but I have no proof of that.
Wait; there’s more. Much more. I may as well tell you everything in one go. Let’s start with the relatively tame issues and work our way up to the potentially criminal ones.
You’ve probably realised already, after talking to her teachers, that Jemima is underperforming in every subject. Gone is the hard-working girl of previous years; replaced by a lazy, disruptive pain in the arse (Excuse my French). I’m going to be honest with you, Mia. Lately, I’ve had more issues to deal with involving your daughter than poor Mr Hilton has had with Wayne Smith. Wayne Smith!
What sort of issues you may ask? I’ll tell you.
Smoking: Jemima has been seen, on multiple occasions, smoking behind the bike sheds at lunchtime with her coterie of sycophants. When confronted, she swore at, spat at, and verbally abused the dinner lady concerned – Mrs Cunningham – causing the poor woman to hand in her notice after working here for nearly twenty years.