by Laura Tait
‘Sure – I did GCSE drama so I’m a good actor. Holly, you in?’
‘Yeah – I’ll probably have my friend Alex with me too.’ As I say it I mentally slap my forehead. Alex doesn’t know Richard is a secret. I should have told him, I know, but it seemed easier not to have to explain.
‘But he’s not her boyfriend,’ Jemma clarifies. ‘Just a boy friend. So there’s no need to be nice to her too.’
‘What about you, Mel?’ Danny asks Melissa, who has just strolled out of the meeting room.
I shoot him a look but compose my face quickly, while Jemma continues to glare at him like he stabbed her granny.
‘I can’t tomorrow night – I’ve got yoga,’ Melissa replies, a hint of surprise in her voice. ‘But I can pop in for one drink before I go.’
‘Excellent,’ smiles Danny.
‘Excellent?’ Jemma and I say in unison once Melissa’s gone.
‘What? I couldn’t not ask her when we were all talking about it. Besides – she’s all right. I don’t know what you lot have against her.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve got for her,’ Jemma is saying as they traipse out of the office.
I’m getting ready to leave myself when my phone rings.
‘Hexagon Marketing? Oh hi, Mum.’
‘You need to come home soon,’ she’s saying. Uncharacteristically direct. I’m impressed.
‘Yeah, I will. The next few weeks are a bit busy, but after—’
‘No, I mean you have to come within the next three weeks. I have some news, you see. Your dad and I have bought a house in York! We’re moving next month.’
WHAT?
Apparently now that my dad’s retiring from the police, they fancy a change. I don’t know why I’m surprised. My mum’s like me – she’d take a city over a small town any day. I’m sure she’d still be in London if she hadn’t married my city-phobic dad, but she must have put his happiness first.
‘But I don’t want you to move!’
‘Why not?’
Well, for a start, she clearly wants me to go up and clear out my old room but I roll with one of my less selfish reasons . . .
‘Because it won’t be the same. I love that house. All my childhood memories are there.’
‘Whatever, dear.’ My mum sighs. ‘You just can’t be bothered to come and clear your old bedroom out.’
‘Why would you even think that?’
I’m obviously more attached to my old home than I realized. As Mum reminds me every opportunity she can, I rarely go to that house, but I like knowing it’s there. Maybe I’m just feeling nostalgic after my catch-up with Alex but it feels like the end of an era. Even though the era ended eleven years ago.
‘There’s a spare bedroom at our new place, so you’ll always have somewhere to stay when you visit. If you visit, I should say. It’s a smaller room, though, so you’re going to have to go through your stuff and decide what to throw away.’
‘OK, OK,’ I concede. ‘It’s Chloe’s wedding this weekend but maybe the weekend after.’ I flick through my Filofax. ‘Yep, that’s fine.’
‘Great. I’ll cook your favourite. Let me know what your favourite is – it’s been that long since I’ve cooked you anything other than Christmas dinner. I bet Terry Tyler didn’t have to work this hard to convince his only child to help him clear out his house when he moved. How is Alex, by the way?’
‘He’s fine.’ I twist the telephone cord around one finger as I try to think of a summary. ‘Exactly the same as he used to be. But totally different to how he was. If you know what I mean?’
‘No, no idea. But I’m glad he’s fine. Lovely boy, just like his mum. She’d do anything for anyone, and never complain.’
I felt sorry for my mum when Julie Tyler died – she was her best friend. My mum was miserable when we first moved to Mothston. It was my summer holiday between primary school and secondary, deemed the least disruptive time to move me. Dad had wanted to move back to his hometown for years, and Mum has since admitted that she thought it would be like living in Emmerdale, but it didn’t take long after she got there to realize that, minus the affairs and murders and plane crashes and stuff, Emmerdale would be rather dull. But then Julie took her under her wing, helping her settle with coffee mornings and dinner parties. She’s been a bit lost there since losing her friend.
I feel bad for pissing on her bonfire, especially as she was obviously hoping for a big chat about the move, so I ask her some questions about the new house.
‘It sounds lovely, Mum,’ I say with deliberate warmth.
‘It is. Anyway, you are the Weakest Link . . . goodbye!’
And she’s gone. OK, then.
I sigh, and add to my To Do list: Book train ticket to Mothston.
Text from Holly to Alex
fyi no one at work knows about me and R so don’t bring it up x
Chapter Thirteen
ALEX
Mr Cotton is watering a cactus on his window sill when I arrive for a review of my first two weeks at Whitford High. He doesn’t avert his attention from the plant, so I remain standing.
‘Low maintenance,’ he finally says, inviting me with a sweep of his hand to sit. ‘You can leave them for months and they’d still be going strong.’
I can’t think of anything to say, so I keep it zipped. Eventually Mr Cotton sits, shuffles some papers and goes: ‘Mr Tyler.’
‘Hello.’
‘Mr Alex Tyler.’
I adopt a silly voice to joke: ‘That’s my name, don’t wear it out.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry, just something we used to say as kids.’
Mr Cotton’s computer emits an email notification. He leans right into his monitor to inspect the correspondence for almost a minute before returning to his previous posture.
‘We’re not here to reminisce about your childhood, Mr Tyler; we’re here to talk about your present. How are you settling in?’
‘Fairly well, I’d say. I—’
‘Problems with any classes?’
‘I was going to say, my year nines are quite boisterous. I think it’s just a case of making a connection with the few who are stopping everyone el—’
‘Bottom set, no?’
‘Yep, but—’
‘Give them easier work. They’ll feel in control and give you less bother. Then everyone else can get on with achieving the grades we need.’
I gawp at Mr Cotton with as much incredulity as I think I can get away with. ‘But if it’s easy they won’t learn anything?’
‘Yes, but if giving them difficult assignments means they get restless, Mr Tyler, what’s the solution?’
‘I’m sorry but I—’ Mr Cotton picks up a ruler from his desk and bends it with his hands, causing my throat to clench. ‘All I mean is, surely you can’t give up on the kids because they’re hard work? Like Kenny Sonola – he was off today and when I spoke to Ms Pritchard she said he’s always off on non-uniform day.’
‘His attendance is above ninety per cent – there’s no cause for concern. Mr Tyler, some of our pupils are spiky creatures – like my cactus here.’ His ruler becomes a pointing stick. ‘Over-water them and they’ll die; get too close and they’ll prick you.’
I stay quiet, even though there’s a small part of me that feels like sticking Mr Cotton’s measuring device – and cactus – somewhere the flickering light bulb above our heads doesn’t shine.
‘Anyhow,’ he continues, shuffling the same papers he shuffled when I came in, despite the fact he hasn’t touched them in the interim, ‘I didn’t call you in for this. I notice you haven’t sent me any incident reports. Remember: anything extraordinary occurs, you email a report sheet. If it isn’t in my inbox, it didn’t happen. Clear?’
If that were true, then these three events would never have occurred:
1/ My admission of ignorance, while watching a Channel 4 documentary on teenage pregnancy with Charlotte McCormack, about women having a separate hole for weeing;
2/ My phase at university of calling people ‘love’;
3/ My decision sixteen years ago to chance a quick you-know-what in Kev’s downstairs toilet while he went to purchase some Pot Noodles. His mum was meant to be doing a big shop.
My phone grunts angrily in my pocket as I’m walking home. It’s Kev. I tell him about Kenny Sonola.
‘Out of your depth. I warned you.’
‘They’re not bad kids – just high-spirited. I’m properly enjoying it.’
‘You remind me of my grandma. She’s always telling me she loved the war because Granddad was away for five years and he drove her crackers. But I’m like, “Granny, it was a war.”’
‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ he huffs. ‘Anyhow, you haven’t been replying to my texts so I thought I’d ring to find out whether you’ve seen Holly Gordon starkers yet?’
I roll my eyes and explain that Holly is in a relationship – and that she’s different now anyway. He doesn’t respond.
‘We’re mates. I’m off to a pub quiz with the people she works with tomorrow.’
‘Mates?’ he spews. ‘Yeah, I believe that’s all you want.’
I groan. Does he seriously think I’m clinging to some desperate crush? I’d never give him the satisfaction of divulging this but, yes, there was a millisecond when I met Holly in the pub that I wondered. Back in school the first thing I’d check out was a girl’s chest; these days it’s her wedding finger. And I admit it: at the start of the night when I glimpsed Holly’s left hand and saw the bare finger, there was a pang. But as the night evolved I realized it was just nostalgia. She’s not the same Holly. And you know what? I’m not the same Alex.
To shut Kev up I tell him about the thong incident. He wants to know if Cassie has given me any other signals.
‘I’ve noticed she touches my arm a lot,’ I say.
‘Ah, pre-sexual contact,’ he says, and sensing my puzzlement adds: ‘It’s what two people who are gonna have sex do before they get to the stage of ripping each other’s clothes off. Touching your arm is akin to a hand job.’
‘Where do you get this shit from?’
‘It’s called the University of Life, my friend, and I graduated with an A star.’
I don’t know why I’m still indulging Kev with this nonsense. He’s right – I have been ignoring his texts. I guess part of me didn’t see our friendship lasting once I moved to London, that we’d just drift apart the way we would have if we hadn’t been stuck together in a town like Mothston. But he seems intent on making long-distance work.
‘You sure she’s single?’ he enquires, and then sucks air through his teeth when I tell him that I’ve seen her several times chatting to Ted Rodgers, one of the PE teachers.
‘What?’ I ask, and he sighs.
‘Let’s be realistic,’ he says. ‘If it’s a choice between some buff PE teacher and you . . . All I’m saying is, don’t get your hopes up.’
Good job I didn’t join one of those dating websites where a friend writes your blurb – I dread to think what Kev would have come up with.
‘Women look for more than just thick arms, you know.’
‘You’ve read too many books, Al.’
‘You say that like it’s an insult. And what about the arm-touching? You said that meant we were going to have sex?’
‘Maybe she’s just touching you the way a kindly care worker touches an elderly patient.’ Once he’s finished laughing to himself he adds: ‘Regardless, it doesn’t really matter whether this Cassie girl likes you, because you like Holly.’
I thank Kev for his advice and try again to change the subject by telling him about Carl’s theory.
‘He thinks women are like bacteria?’ balks Kev. ‘Sounds like a right sexist twat.’
I have to make an effort not to choke on my own saliva. ‘Yes, Kev – awful, isn’t it?’
He doesn’t respond to my sarcasm.
‘Having said that, he does seem to fare better than either of us.’
Kev releases a phlegmy, dismissive snort. ‘Er, actually, I was getting the eye from some bird on the train back from the Job Centre earlier. Through the reflection in the window, like.’
This is typical Kev. A girl so much as glances in his direction and he infers that she wants to procreate.
‘Good, well keep me informed of that one, won’t you?’
‘Will do.’
Neither of us has anything left to say, and the silence stretches for a little more than is comfortable.
‘All right, I guess I’ll speak to you soon, then,’ I say.
‘In a bit, mate. Oh and—’ I hear Kev go to say something else but it’s been a long day and my thumb is already hovering over ‘End call’.
When I arrive for the quiz Holly smiles and holds out her arms as if she’s about to take possession of a large box, and a couple of seconds later I’m being introduced to her workmates. I meet Jemma (a wave hello), Danny (sideways handshake) and Melissa (double kiss on the cheeks).
Holly insists on going to the bar, leaving me to nod and laugh at the appropriate moments while they mock someone called Martin. Melissa – the only one who isn’t amused by whatever Martin did this afternoon – lends me an empathetic smile. She has one of those faces that holiday reps have – happy to help. Further up, her immaculate blonde hair sways as one entity whenever she turns her head. As for her clothes – they’re like Holly’s but with more revs: puff-sleeved jacket and short skirt, shirt ironed rigid, patent heels that must have taken practice to walk in.
She asks what I do for a living and when I tell her I’m an English teacher she lays a hand on the chest above her heart. ‘That’s amazing,’ she gushes, lolling her head wistfully. ‘I used to love learning Shakespeare.’
I’m about to ask which plays she studied when Holly reappears with our drinks.
‘Here you go, Mr Tyler,’ she interrupts, and Melissa excuses herself. She returns a minute or two later hooking her arms into a beige mac.
‘Hope to see you again,’ she tells me, executing another set of kisses. This time her hands cup my elbows.
Once she has clip-clopped out of the door I realize the others are eyeballing me.
‘Were you just flirting with Melissa, Alex?’ asks Holly teasingly.
The attention makes me blush, even though they’re way off. Melissa is pretty, but I’ve never gone for the archetypal blonde.
‘I wasn’t flirting,’ I tell them. ‘Not intentionally anyway. But she does seem very . . .’
‘Fit?’ offers Danny decisively.
‘I was going to say “nice”, but yep, you can’t deny she’s attractive.’
Holly’s head retracts. ‘Yeah, in a conventional kind of way,’ she says, and Jemma supports this notion with a nod.
‘You’re right,’ say Danny, also nodding. ‘Conventional attractiveness – that’s the worst kind.’
A few minutes later Holly spots a table that’s about to be vacated, and we stand over the departing group as if their seats were in the front row of the Royal Albert Hall rather than next to a table full of empty bottles, torn crisp packets and little lakes of spilt cider. I’m pleased when Holly ushers me to sit next to her with her eyes, while opposite us Jemma saves a place for a bloke she’s dating. He’s late, and she spends the first few rounds stalking her phone, while Danny’s sole contribution to the quiz is bawling incorrect answers to throw rival teams off the scent. It’s Holly and I who come up with most of the answers.
‘What was the full name of Kylie Minogue’s character in the Australian soap opera Neighbours before she got married to Scott?’
‘Charlene something or other,’ offers Jemma.
‘It was Mangel,’ says Danny. ‘Or was it Robinson?’
I’ve never sat through an entire episode of Neighbours in my life but I know the answer. Holly used to love Kylie, despite my attempts to introduce her to Radiohead.
‘It’s Mitc
hell,’ I tell them. ‘Charlene Mitchell.’
Danny and Jemma look sceptical.
‘Are you sure?’ they say together, but Holly alleviates any doubt by scribbling my answer.
‘He’s right,’ she confirms with a smirk.
Jemma tells me I can come again, a declaration that elicits a proud nudge into my ribs from Holly. The wine must be going to my head because for a second it’s like we’re teenagers again and I’m pleased at winning her approval.
‘Right, that’s it.’ Jemma chucks her phone into her handbag and grabs Danny by the arm. ‘I’ve obviously been stood up. No reason not to get ratted now.’
They head to the bar, and once they’re out of earshot my mind turns to Holly’s text. I guess I was flattered when I read it. Holly always used to confide in me about various boys, unaware of how it would make me ache.
‘I got your message,’ I say, anticipating a revelation. Richard has a wife and children. It’s an affair but he is going to leave them soon. He got married too young.
It has to be something big, or else why wouldn’t she have mentioned it in the pub a couple of weeks ago?
‘We both just want to keep things low key, with it being work. It’s for the best.’
She keeps an eye on Jemma and Danny at the bar. Beside them, a man in a pinstriped suit whose slackened tie hints at drunkenness is letching onto a reluctant woman. I watch Holly watching the sleaze as he drops to one knee for a mock proposal. The woman’s previously contemptuous facade softens.
‘It’s complicated, but it won’t be a secret for much longer.’
As the man gets back to his feet he stumbles into Jemma, who dispatches him with an elbow to the spine.
‘We’ve been waiting for the right time to do the whole friends and family thing—’
‘I meant your message with directions to this place,’ I interrupt, grinning.
She looks at me for the first time since Jemma and Danny went to the bar and smiles. ‘Sorry, I’m just aware that some people would see the whole thing as a massive sleeping-with-the-secretary cliché.’