Lessons in Love

by Belinda Missen

  Marcus leaned back against the loans counter, and I wondered if I could slap his elbows from underneath him with a ruler. Funny bones were never comical when on the receiving end of a sharp stick or doorframe.

  ‘A refresher never hurt,’ he said.

  Hell, I’d worked in libraries for the last ten years. If I knew one thing better my own monthly cycle, it was the Dewey Decimal System. It had got so bad in my previous job that, at one point, I could direct other staff to the aisle number and shelf location.

  Looking for a book about Mozart? Somewhere around 780’s, aisle twenty on the second floor, right-hand side. I sighed. Oh, for the simple days.

  I watched as Marcus ambled around the room, ducking and weaving between children and stacks, congratulating them all on their fine reading choices. ‘Concorde plane? Well done, Danny.’ ‘Tudor History for Children? Good on you, Emily, you’ll love it.’ I gave him a filthy look and retreated to my office. The sooner I got rid of him, the better. If only he thought the same. He wasn’t done, and followed me straight through the door, his aftershave following him like the slightly appealing smell of lazy Sunday mornings in bed with a man who knew his way around a woman’s body.

  Urgh.

  ‘Do you have the lesson plans I emailed you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ I picked one of the display folders from beside my PC. ‘See? I, the capable teacher that I am, are prepared.’

  He plucked the folder from my hand and flipped through the contents. ‘That was grammatically incorrect, just so you know.’

  My eyes widened. ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘You basically just said, “I are prepared”.’

  ‘Oh, sod off,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Let’s not fight in front of the children, hmm?’ He smirked. ‘Not good for their mental health, is all.’

  ‘What?’ I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Now, do you want me to stay and take this first class? Or have you got things under control?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I’m capable. I just said I was, didn’t I? Go away.’

  ‘Ooof! Bitey like cheese.’ His tongue rolled about in his cheek pocket. ‘Cracker barrel.’

  ‘If anyone’s crackers, it’s you.’

  He stepped out of my office again. ‘All right, my learned friends. I’m leaving you with Miss Manning for the afternoon. Please be gentle with her, she is such a delicate soul.’

  Marcus turned on his heel and walked away to the sound of scandalised giggling. If I wasn’t nervous about taking his class before, I was churning up like a blowhole at high tide by the time he was halfway out of the room.

  ‘We will be fine, you realise?’ I called, watching him pull a fruit roll from his pocket.

  ‘Okay then,’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘I’m not kidding.’

  ‘All right.’ He stood at the door of the staffroom.

  ‘And I’m not an onion,’ I called after him.

  I turned to face my students. They broke into a fit of giggles.

  When the day was over, I was a whirring mixture of exhausted and enthralled. Unlike their teacher, Marcus’s class had been a wonderful experience; bright, engaging, everything a teacher could hope for. It still didn’t solve the problems I was having with him and insulting me in front of an entire class probably wasn’t the best way to earn my respect. I gave myself a few minutes’ peace, gathered up loose papers and pencils from the tables in my learning zone, and decided to tell him how I felt.

  But, as I stood in the doorway of his office with the prospect of having to let everything out all too real, my mouth was thick with words I couldn’t find, and my heart was shaking my ribs. How was it that he did this to me?

  I hated confrontation, having to find the words and then deal with the fallout. The fact I hadn’t spoken to my husband since I moved out was proof enough of that. It was only when I changed my mobile number that he stopped calling.

  ‘Miss Manning, to what do I owe this unforeseeable pleasure?’ Marcus’s words yanked me back into the present.

  I shifted from one foot to the other, picking at the debris under my nails until he placed his coffee cup down and sat on the end of his desk. He was looking at me like I was a complete idiot. That, or he was practicing for his next photo shoot.

  He sighed heavily. ‘Eleanor, you look like you have something to say.’

  I had about a billion things I wanted to say, none of them appropriate for a school environment. I was having one of those moments where I was suddenly questioning whether choosing to confront him was the right decision. Perhaps if I simply said good afternoon, went home and slept on it, it would be …

  ‘Do you have a problem with me?’ I blurted.

  Apparently, my mouth and brain were not concentric. A tiny fire inside me began to crackle and rage.

  ‘A problem with you? Why would I have a problem with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I crossed my arms. ‘I’ve got a few examples to pick from. Do we want to talk about your attitude pertaining to your library session? Or the coffee? The onion comment? Why don’t we start with this afternoon’s stunt? Or maybe, just maybe, we’ll look at this as an ego problem stemming from the fact you got a knock-back.’

  ‘An ego problem? A knock-back? Have you swallowed a Roget’s?’ he asked. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. The coffee was an accident, I did try and explain that to you. If I recall correctly, you bit my head off when I tried to help. Later that night, though …’

  ‘What about your library session? It was my first day here and you put me on the spot in front of everyone,’ I argued. ‘Do you recall how hard it was for you to turn up to an entirely new work environment? Your first day trying to feel your way around? Let alone having to deal with someone like you on top of it.’

  ‘Hardly everyone,’ he scoffed. ‘Three other colleagues, one of whom I was under the assumption you were already quite familiar with.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked, fingers tapping my arms.

  ‘Nothing!’ he laughed. ‘It means you’re familiar with him. You’re the library teacher, don’t you know what “familiar” means?’

  ‘I thought you were implying something else,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Should I have been implying something else?’ He fixed me with an accusatory stare. ‘I’m not sure that would have been legal at the time you were here. It would pain me greatly to have to tell the authorities.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Marcus!’

  ‘What?’ He held a palm up. ‘You went there.’

  ‘An angry little onion?’ I countered.

  ‘You know, none of this seemed to bother you last weekend.’ His mouth twitched and eyes sparkled. It was then that I realised he was enjoying this, and I’d stepped right into his trap. He crossed his legs at his ankles, folded his arms and waited for me to continue.

  ‘What even is an angry little onion?’ I shrieked. ‘Those little cocktail onions are fun, they’re the colours of Christmas, and they’re always at parties. They are good things. They’re there for a good time. White onions, on the other hand.’

  ‘Do you want me to pay for the dry-cleaning?’ he asked.

  ‘You made me eat a jar of onions.’

  He laughed. ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘I got a jar on the way home, along with a block of cheese, some dip, crackers and a bottle of wine.’ I lifted a lazy hand in his direction. ‘Look at you, driving me to drink.’

  The left corner of his mouth flinched.

  ‘And, no, the coffee came out.’ I looked down at my feet. ‘But, thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Are you angry at being knocked back? Because it’s not going to work,’ I said.

  ‘Is that what you think it’s about?’ he asked. ‘You need to familiarise yourself with the library. I was helping.’

  ‘Ohmygod!’ I shouted. ‘You are so infuriating! We
both know it’s not about that. And what’s with the bloody suits?’

  He brushed his hands down the front of his jacket. ‘I don’t see any blood on them.’

  ‘Does it help you to teach in a suit? Or is it just a catch and release mechanism?’

  ‘Actually, I think your blue dress last Friday night was the catch and release mechanism, not the suit. I would happily come back for seconds … or is it thirds?’ His brow knitted. ‘And yes, they do help me in the classroom. It shows that I have some level of self-respect. My students see that and, most of the time, behave accordingly. When I show that I am serious about my job, they become a little more serious about their learning.’

  I squinted. ‘What?’

  ‘You say that word a lot,’ he said. ‘What? What? Whatty-what? At least I don’t currently look like I’m two leather patches and a monocle away from being Henry Jones Senior.’

  I gasped so loud, so hard, I’m surprised I didn’t swallow my own tonsils, tongue, and teeth. ‘What?’

  ‘And again.’ He clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. I was sure I saw him bite the inside of his cheek. ‘You heard.’

  ‘I do not.’ I chanced a quick glance down at myself, hoping like hell he wasn’t right.

  Except, he kind of was. My pant suit was my big purchase straight out of university. It was there to win me jobs and make me look smart. Ten years on, maybe it had dated a little, but it was still a suit, wasn’t it? It was no different to what he was wearing, except that it looked very 2005, and wasn’t particularly well fitted. My shirt was white, and definitely not see-through – that had been checked thoroughly before I walked out the door this morning. And didn’t everyone own that comfy little pair of heels that weren’t high enough for a night out, but weren’t so low I should be wrapped in pyjamas? It was the professional, but still accessible type of shoe. No? Just me, then. It was about then that it hit me.

  I looked like a fifteen-year-old on the first day of their summer retail job. One in which they’d be replaced by another fifteen-year-old just as soon as next summer came around. I cursed under my breath.

  ‘You know, I love how you’ve bustled your way in here this afternoon, ready to talk about everything except the elephant-sized issue in the corner.’

  I scoffed. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, it’s not that big.’

  He pouted. ‘Well, now, that’s just cruel.’

  ‘And you’re—’

  ‘I’m what?’ He cupped a hand around his ear. ‘Go on, say it.’

  The words were right there on the tip of my tongue. You’re just like him, I was ready to say. You are everything I walked away from, yet here I am chasing after you. From the suits and ties, to the charm laced with backhanded comments. Before I had a chance to turn into a wobbling, choked-up mess, a knock at the door interrupted us.

  ‘Just the two people I wanted to see.’ Phil’s voice came from some point over my shoulder.

  Any conversation that began like that was never going to have an ideal ending. It was exactly the way my redundancy discussion began. Come on in, Eleanor, just the person I wanted to see. Take a seat. I braced myself for impact as Phil stepped around me into the room and offered us both an uncertain look. It reminded me of my dad when he’d tell me to clean my bedroom. He never did believe me and would check to make sure I’d put my books back on the shelf, and in order, and that I wasn’t hoarding anything under the bed that I’d pick up after lights out. Phil knew something was going on. He had to have known.

  ‘Everything okay in here?’ Phil asked. ‘I feel like I could cut the tension with a knife.’

  For a few brief moments, the room stood still. There was a quick succession of yeses, nos, and maybes, and I came to the lightning decision that, two weeks in, I wasn’t going to upset the apple cart. I could have, but it would be opening a can of worms bigger than I knew how to deal with, and if ever I’d seen a man beg without words, Marcus was doing it right now.

  ‘Everything’s great.’ I grinned, breaking eye contact in favour of Phil.

  ‘Eleanor and I were just discussing class this afternoon.’ Marcus’s gaze followed him around the room.

  ‘I take it everything’s okay?’ Phil walked across the office, carefully inspecting the smallest detail, hands clasped behind his back. ‘I’ve been thinking about the both of you, actually.’

  I swallowed. ‘You have?’

  My brain tripped into overdrive. Someone had heard something or seen us wobble off into the night last Friday. They’d said something to someone else, who’d dobbed on us. Phil would have found out I’d left last Friday with a filthy blouse, and Penny would have crumbled like stale shortbread and told him everything. Or, at least, everything she knew. We’d be hauled into detention for the foreseeable future and, worse, there’d be a hastily scribbled note in my file. Already. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Calm thoughts.

  ‘Yes.’ He pulled Roger’s chair out and sat between us. ‘The senior school end-of-year presentation night is coming up. Have you lot started working on it, Marcus?’

  ‘We were hoping to get onto it this week. We’ve been incredibly busy.’ He swallowed. Hard. ‘Just with the curriculum and everything getting back into gear this week.’

  ‘Right,’ Phil said slowly. ‘Here’s the deal. You and Ellie can sort this one out. This year, I want you to take on the yearbook as well. Normally that’s something Cathy would have looked after but, seeing as Ellie’s only new, I think she could do with a hand. I’m sure between the two of you, you can present something decent.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I shook my head and laughed. Somebody slap me, please. This had to be a joke. ‘Is that a good idea?’

  ‘I think it’s a great idea.’ Phil nodded. ‘Marcus, you’ve been at me all year, telling me you wanted more responsibility and a chance to move up the ladder. Vice principal was it? Ellie, you’ve just started, so it’ll give you a great introduction to the school community. I want weekly updates, preferably in person. On email if you can’t find me in this tiny dot of a school.’

  ‘Come to think of it.’ Marcus shifted on his feet and turned his attention to me. My stomach did the cha-cha. ‘You’re right. This is a great idea. We’ll get right onto it.’

  Phil grinned and disappeared quicker than The Flash on a promise, well before either of us had a chance to argue. Along with a pit of snakes or any kind of Seventies disco on repeat, this was my idea of a nightmare, one that I didn’t want to deal with today. My gaze floated from Phil’s fast disappearing bald spot back to Marcus. I edged closer to him.

  ‘What?’ He shuffled backwards but achieved nothing more than knocking a tin of pens from his own desk.

  ‘Vice principal, huh?’

  ‘Well, you know …’ he mumbled. ‘I could.’

  I reached out and rubbed the end of his nose.

  ‘What?’ He reached up self-consciously. ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s something brown on your nose. And it smells. Probably full of corn, too.’

  I turned and walked away. As I hit the hallways, anxious energy bubbled up into uncontrollable laughter. The relief of being out of that room helped me float all the way home.

  * * *

  ‘Silly question.’ I dropped my handbag on the kitchen bench, before searching through the refrigerator for a drink. Penny was out on the deck, tucked into her egg chair with the radio playing low. It wasn’t quite beer weather, and cordial was reserved for school nights. A fresh bottle of fizz was strategically hidden behind a bag of lettuce in an attempt to save it for a moment like this. It was the end of the week. It would do nicely.

  I grabbed a glass and made for the door. ‘What on earth are you drinking?’

  ‘A very virginal Bloody Mary. It’s terrible. She might be a virgin, but she’s not even a bit filthy.’ She took another sip while peering up at me. ‘What’s the question?’

  To ask, or not to ask. I bit down on my lip and thought of the consequences. No one ever enjoys being tol
d they look awful, but I needed to know. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my days second-glancing myself in the mirror. Plus, I was never going to find a man if I dressed like one of John Lithgow’s Footloose cronies. Kevin Bacon, yes. Leather elbow patches, no.

  ‘Come on, spit it out.’ The straw swung away from her mouth as she spoke. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Do I dress like Henry Jones Senior?’ I asked. ‘Like an old man?’

  ‘Well, me lassie.’ She attempted the worst Scottish accent I have ever heard. Thank you, Outlander. ‘If ye happen to know where I can find me a young Indiana Jones, please do send him this way. I’ll give him a crusade to remember, possibly in my own temple of doom.’

  I took a giant slug of my drink. ‘That’s a yes, then.’

  She winced apologetically, hands weighing up the scales of her response. ‘We can fix that though. Your blue dress on the first day was banging. You just need to top up the wardrobe.’

  ‘Banging.’ I nodded. Literally. ‘Even better.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Penny placed her glass on the table. A ring of condensation quickly formed around it. ‘Because I will bippity-boppity-fuck them up.’

  ‘Nobody,’ I lied. This was like being a kid all over again. Mum would say something about Dad. Dad would let something slip about Mum, and there I was caught in the middle trying to work out exactly where it was that I stood in all of this. ‘I just caught sight of myself in a mirror and thought I looked a little like I should have a wire pushcart for my groceries.’

  ‘Come with me. We’ll see if there’s anything in my wardrobe for you.’ Penny stepped inside. ‘And bring me a wine. If I’m going to be your fairy godmother, I’m going to need something with real alcohol in it.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And granny carts are the bomb.’

  Chapter 9

  We didn’t get far with the wardrobe catwalk. Music television stole our attention, wine soaked our sobriety, and a pizza delivery boy robbed us of our ability to move after delivering dinner. At one point, I disappeared to my bedroom to charge my phone, and didn’t wake up until the next morning.

  Months ago, my dad decided to mix things up and head off on a European backpacking adventure. Currently, he was nearing the end of his Camino de Santiago trek. Despite it being considered a Christian pilgrimage, he was in no way a church-goer. He simply liked the idea of the challenge, the living day-to-day, and experiencing new places, even if he did eventually mutter something about his spiritual health.