The New Samurai

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “No, I really shouldn’t,” she said, at last. “It’s not fair on mummy and daddy. They like to do things a certain way.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” he murmured into her hair. “But there is something else I’d like to give you – only I definitely can’t do that in front of your parents.”

  “Oh,” she said, catching on fast. “Can I unwrap it now?”

  But his lips were too busy to reply.

  After lunch they collapsed into the drawing room with full stomachs. The meal had been fairly uneventful, except for Alex and Juliet sniping at each other across the table. There had also been a sticky moment when Elle was rubbing her foot against Sam’s leg and had kicked Juliet by mistake: it had been smoothed over before blood was drawn.

  It was time for the presents. Poppy was nuzzling happily through the small drifts of wrapping paper.

  Alex had bought a bottle of expensive perfume for each of the women – the same perfume – earning him an irritated look from his wife. He’d also bought her a voucher for a weekend at Champney’s, which she looked much happier about. For his in-laws, he’d bought an expensive computer-driven sound system that Sam was pretty sure neither of them would be able to operate.

  Eleanor’s parents had given both the girls and Alex shares in blue-chip companies and a pot of homemade jam from the local Women’s Institute.

  Juliet had booked her husband a golfing weekend in Estonia, and expensive toiletries for her parents and sister.

  They all watched curiously as Sam pulled out his gift and gave it to Elle.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said, smiling.

  She took the tiny package and unwrapped it carefully.

  He knew he’d made a mistake when he saw the confused expression on her face.

  “It’s got my favourite sonnet in it,” he said, ignoring everyone but Eleanor. “It reminds me of you:

  So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,So long lives this and this gives life to thee.”

  Elle stared at him and the room was silent.

  “It’s a limited edition,” he said, softly.

  “It’s… it’s lovely,” she said.

  Alex snorted loudly.

  “Poetry! Ha!”

  “Hmm, well,” said Mr Wilkinson.

  Juliet and Mrs Wilkinson were speechless.

  “Er… I got this for you,” said Elle, rather sheepishly.

  She handed him a small box, wrapped in silver paper.

  “It’s a Kindle,” she said, unnecessarily as he opened the lid. “I thought it would be good for school… and reading.”

  “Thanks, Elle,” he said, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “It’s brilliant.”

  “At least that’s useful,” said Alex, loudly.

  Sam felt an almost irresistible urge to punch his face. Maybe Alex saw something in Sam’s furious eyes because he visibly cringed and backed off.

  Poppy chose that moment to pee on the wrapping paper.

  “Poppy!” yelled Alex.

  “Bloody animal!” shouted Mr Wilkinson.

  For Sam, tomorrow couldn’t come too soon.

  Elle had dropped Sam off at his sister’s on Boxing Day, refusing to come in on the grounds that she was running late to meet friends. Sam didn’t know if that was true but didn’t much care either.

  The relief he’d felt as they left the Cotswolds increased exponentially with every mile. He’d been sorry to say goodbye to Poppy, and she in turn had looked utterly dejected. But as for the others, Sam hoped he’d never see any of them again. His skin crawled at the memory of the kiss Juliet had tried to give him. He’d managed to turn his head just in time, so that her lipstick had left a smudge on his cheek instead of his mouth.

  Fiona’s tiny flat contained more real warmth and comfort per cubic metre than the Wilkinson’s entire five-acre plot. Rosa had tackled him around the knees and insisted that he read all her favourite stories to her, several times over. The she’d fallen asleep on his knee, her tiny fingers curled around a toy rabbit.

  “So, how do the other half live?” asked Fiona, as Rosa slept softly.

  Sam paused, not knowing how to answer.

  Fiona raised her eyebrows and supplied her own internal answer.

  “Is it serious with you and Elle? She must be keen if she invited you to meet her parents…”

  Sam sighed. “I don’t know, sis. Before Christmas I might have said ‘yes’, but now…”

  “Blimey!” said Fiona. “Was it really that bad?”

  “Worse,” said Sam, darkly.

  When he finally went back to his own home, he felt like he’d been away for much longer than a week. It looked scruffy and unloved compared to his sister’s warm and comfortable flat.

  Keith, his house-mate, must already be back if the beer cans on the coffee table were anything to go by.

  Sam cleared a space and began to read the instructions for his new Kindle. He couldn’t imagine foregoing real books for this but, well, Elle had given it to him and it might come in handy.

  Shortly after 7 pm, Keith crashed into the lounge. He reminded Sam of Poppy: all eager enthusiasm with few social skills.

  “Alright, mate! How did you like mixing with the country set? Did you have a good time with Elle?”

  “It was… uh… interesting,” replied Sam non-committally.

  Keith laughed loudly.

  “I bet!”

  He rattled around in the kitchen, throwing something that smelled like curry into the microwave. Then he thumped down onto the settee and flicked on the flat screen. His eyes took in the Kindle in Sam’s hands.

  “I bet I can guess who got you that!”

  Keith snorted but didn’t get a reply. He paused, then spoke seriously. “Listen, mate: I know Elle’s a looker – I mean, she’s stunning – but is it really worth it? It seems like a lot of hard work…”

  Sam frowned.

  Keith held his hands up, defensively. “Fine, fine. Your choice – and none of my business. Want a beer?”

  He tossed Sam a can of lager and flicked through the channels.

  “What are you doing tomorrow? I’m meeting up with Wayne and Sylvie and some of the others. We’re going to see in the New Year at the Ram’s Head. You interested?”

  “Can’t,” said Sam. “Going to some fancy club with Elle. Don’t say it…”

  “My lips are sealed,” said Keith. “Pity though: should be a laugh. And Sylvie’s friend Julie from the Languages department is going to be there – I fancy planting my flag in French soil.”

  Sam wondered if it was worth telling Keith that Julie had already shared the information that she was a lesbian. But then again, that would probably just make Keith even keener. Sam smiled to himself and Keith misinterpreted his expression.

  “You find your own country to explore, Columbus; France is my territory. Although having met Elle, I guess you must get off on Iceland. Okay, okay! Look, if you get fed up with that fancy club, there’s going to be a lock-in and bacon rolls at 6 am for the hard crowd.”

  Sam agreed easily. “Sure. I’ll think about it.”

  But by the next, day Sam was more than ready to change his mind and go with Keith instead.

  He’d been in the shower when the doorbell rang so Keith had answered. When Sam got back to his room, rubbing his hair with a towel, he found a suit-carrier lying across his bed.

  “Er, this just arrived for you, mate,” said Keith, sympathetically. “Elle had it couriered over. I don’t expect you’ll be wearing that to the Ram’s Head.”

  Sam stared in disbelief at the starched shirt, black jacket, silk tie, dress trousers and patent shoes. Elle had carefully forgotten to mention any of this when she’d made the arrangements for the evening. Then he sighed. Did it really matter what he wore, if it made Elle happy?

  Sensing his mood, Keith backed out of the room and was a good enough friend not to make any further comment.

  Sam pulled on the unfamiliar clothes and fumbled with the cufflink
s already attached to the shirt. He’d worn black tie to several rugby dinners so at least he knew how to tie one. Well, just about.

  He heard the doorbell chime again and voices float down the hall. Wayne and Sylvie had arrived. After a few minutes, Sylvie knocked quietly on his door.

  “Hi Sam. Happy New Year. Wow, you look good – very 007. Here, let me help you with that tie.”

  She tugged it into shape, then stood back to admire her handiwork.

  Sam smiled and gave her a gentle hug.

  “Thanks, Sylvie. How are you? Only ten weeks to go now?”

  A smile lit up Sylvie’s face and she lovingly stroked her huge belly.

  “Yes, I can hardly believe it. Well, I wouldn’t if it weren’t for being the size of a whale.”

  Sam laughed. “You look gorgeous.”

  “You’re such a liar, Sam! Just because you’ve got the DJ on, you don’t have to come over all James Bond, too!”

  “No, I mean it, Sylvie. Pregnancy suits you – and I bet you’ll be a great mum.”

  She patted his hand in a friendly way.

  “Yeah, well seeing as I’m feeling all maternal, I want to have a word with you about Elle,” she said, in a determined voice. “No, you need to hear this, Sam: I know you don’t want to, but you need to. You let her push you around too much. You’ve got to stand up to bossy women like that: I should know, I’m one of them. But sometimes the way she treats you makes me see red – you’re too… nice!”

  Sam shook his head.

  “You’re wrong. She’s not like that when it’s just us; it’s when she’s with her friends she’s… different.”

  “Hmm,” said Sylvie, unconvinced. “Well, it’s your funeral. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. By the way, how was Christmas?”

  She examined his expression and drew her own conclusions.

  “Well, I hope you have a good time tonight,” she said. “See you bright and early on Tuesday – staff meeting at 8 am. Have fun!”

  She kissed him on the cheek and waddled back down the hall.

  Sam stared sourly at his reflection, then turned his back on the small shaving mirror. He transplanted his mobile and house-key into his new jacket and counted the money in his wallet. He’d got £250 out of the cash machine that morning and, after doing the shopping, there was £230 left. God! That ought to be enough for one night out, surely? He hoped so. His bank balance was already on the at-risk list of endangered species. He didn’t want to start the New Year with it extinct.

  He walked into the lounge to a bevy of catcalls and wolf-whistles from Keith and Wayne.

  “Oh, man! You should see the look on your face!” bellowed Keith.

  “You can take my order now,” cackled Wayne.

  “Ignore them,” smiled Sylvie. “They’re just jealous because they’re more Brooke Bond than James Bond.”

  A horn honked outside. That must be Elle in a taxi. Of course, she wasn’t going to come in and meet his friends.

  “Don’t keep her waiting and be careful tonight: the Black Widow kills and eats her mate after boning him,” said Keith, helpfully.

  Wayne sniggered and Sylvie threw them an exasperated look.

  “Goodnight, sweet lady,” said Sam. “Gentlemen, up yours.”

  “Not much of a vocabulary for an English teacher,” Wayne called after him.

  Elle was sitting in the cab tapping her foot impatiently. She brightened visibly when she saw how gorgeous he looked in his rented DJ.

  For his part, Sam’s misgivings melted away as he studied the low-cut emerald dress peeping out beneath her coat.

  “Mmm!” he said, approvingly. “You look unbelievably beautiful tonight. I might just have to check you’re real.”

  He kissed her just below her ear and slowly worked his way downwards.

  “Behave!” she giggled.

  “I don’t think I can,” he murmured. “You’re bringing out my dark side.”

  Elle sighed happily and brushed her fingers through his hair.

  It was probably just as well that the taxi ride ended when it did, or the cabbie might have had to drive through the fountains at Trafalgar Square to cool them down.

  Elle was certainly more than a little pink in the face by the time they got to the swanky private club on Park Lane.

  Sam paid the driver and helped Elle out of the taxi. He wasn’t sure how she could stand, let alone walk in such vertiginous heels. Maybe it was something they taught at the expensive school she’d attended.

  Taking a deep breath, Sam escorted her into the club. Elle threw her coat to the cloakroom-attendant and was given directions to pass through the double doors into the main room.

  Inside, a massive ballroom opened out to display impressive chandeliers, bathing the large, circular tables in a soft light. Each was set for five couples, and grouped in a ring around the walls, with stiff, white tablecloths hanging to the floor. In the centre a space had been cleared for dancing, and Sam could see a band setting up at one end of the long room.

  Perhaps three-quarters of the guests had arrived: the men severe in black and white, the women like jewels.

  “Yo, Ellie-belly!” shouted a man’s voice.

  Elle’s smile looked a little rigid as her eyes followed the direction of the sound.

  “Roland, darling,” she said.

  “Brought a friend, Ellie-belly?” asked the man, bluntly.

  He looked like he’d started celebrating the New Year earlier than everyone else.

  “Sam, meet Roland Nash,” said Elle. “He’s our new brand manager. Promises to do great things, don’t you Roly-poly?”

  “Hi,” said Roland, shortly, directing most of his gaze to Elle’s cleavage.

  He didn’t look at all pleased to see Sam and didn’t offer his hand either, so Sam pushed his deeper into his pockets and just nodded.

  “We’d love to sit with you, darling,” said Elle, “but I absolutely promised Jamie that I’d talk to his cousin about a job in market research – and I know you wouldn’t have me break my word.”

  “Whatever, Ellie-belly, but I’ll be across for a dance later: a slow one.”

  Only Sam heard her mutter, “Over my ashes.”

  “I think you’ve got a fan there,” he said, both irritated and amused in equal parts at the man’s rudeness.

  “God, he’s such a boor!” said Elle. “How we ever landed up hiring him…”

  They walked to a table on the other side of the room and Elle introduced him to more of her colleagues. Some of them Sam had heard her mention but this was the first time he’d met any of them. It began to dawn on him that Elle would be working this evening, at least in part. She hadn’t mentioned that to him either.

  Their table filled up quickly, and noisy laughter soon spilled out across the room. All but two worked in advertising: Phil was a dentist with his own practice in Harley Stree, and Jacob did something strange in statistics. Neither had much interest in talking to a teacher from Kidbrooke.

  Then Marcus, head of PR, made a suggestion.

  “Why don’t we all throw in a ton and just get the bar to keep the drinks coming?”

  “Better make it two,” said Larry, in the nasal twang of New Jersey.

  The others agreed and to Sam’s horror, each of the men threw £200 on the table. The women’s purses stayed closed. Feeling slightly sick, he followed suit. He really hoped Elle had money for a taxi home because otherwise he’d be carrying her; there was no way she could walk in those shoes.

  Sam sighed: his next pay cheque was still some weeks away. He’d be eating tinned spaghetti for the next month unless Wayne and Sylvie decided to take pity on him and invite him for dinner. He knew he couldn’t count on Elle to cook anything for him; he strongly suspected that the oven in her smart Islington town house had never been used.

  If the men chose to ignore him, Elle’s female colleagues, on the other hand, were very keen to get to know Sam.

  “How fascinating!” cooed Miriam, known in the ag
ency as ‘Mim’. “When I think of teachers I always picture Robin Williams in… what was that film?”

  “ ‘Dead Poets Society’,” said Sam, automatically.

  “That’s it: ‘Daddy, my daddy’!”

  “You’re so random, Mim! That’s ‘The Railway Children’,” snorted Rebecca. “You mean, ‘Captain, my Captain’.”

  “Who’s right?” asked Mim, knocking back her fifth Manhattan.

  “You are,” said Sam to Rebecca. “ ‘O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done’: it’s Walt Whitman.”

  “God! A man who can recite poetry – what a turn on! You’re so lucky, Elle!” cried Mim.

  Elle looked pleased and leaned possessively against Sam’s chest.

  “You know, that makes me think,” said Rebecca. “The ad we’re doing for the French tart perfume – instead of having boring old Lakmé playing in the background, why don’t we have a man reading a poem?” She looked at Sam. “That would be so sexy!”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” said Elle, grudgingly. “We could look into that when we’re back in the office on Tuesday.”

  “Let’s look into it now,” said Mim, her eyes on Sam. “What poetry would you recite – if you wanted to seduce a woman?”

  Elle narrowed her eyes but Mim ignored her.

  Sam smiled.

  “It would have to be Byron,” he said. “After all, he was the original mad, bad and dangerous to know.”

  “Tell me more!” said Mim, her eyes gazing into his, unblinkingly.

  “Even you must have heard of Byron,” said Elle, waspishly.

  “Don’t be a spoilsport, Eleanor,” said Mim. “I just want to hear what your divine boyfriend says to seduce the ladies.”

  “Huh,” said Rebecca, “ ‘Get your coat, you’re pulled’ usually works for you.”

  “What about it, Sam?” said Mim, ignoring the comment.

  Sam didn’t have to think for long. He leaned back in his chair and half closed his eyes, remembering the words:

  “She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

  Thus mellow’d to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”