Scoring With Sir

by Judy Jarvie

  I want to point but that would conflict with politeness—worse still, he wears them with paisley-patterned braces, lest his trousers escape.

  Ah hell.

  “Unless you’ve some other invitation?”

  I’ve got my foil-packaged sandwiches out now. I’ve pre-empted my escape visa. Unless I can still call the braces ambassador?

  “It’s fine.” I aim to eat this sandwich at luge speed.

  “Coffee?”

  When I agree Tarquin removes an aluminum Thermos from his bag as if it’s a cherished heirloom vase. Then he presents two tiny goblet-style steel cups. Has he mistakenly come to me for a valuation? He fills both mugs with some aromatic coffee blend then offers cream. Soon he’s opposite me with his salami baguette suggestively thrust between us. The tarts remain tucked away.

  Tarquin smiles—I cannot return the sentiment. I see the waistband of his trousers over the desk.

  I blurt out, “Sorry to rush this, but I’ve marking to finish right after lunch.”

  The legs of Tarquin’s chair squeal across the floor like a badger in labor. I’m wondering if he has regular stalker habits and uses his doll-sized coffee cups for dates with reluctant women.

  “What did you wish to discuss?”

  “I’d like you to complete my questionnaire.” A document is thrust between us before he seizes his baguette and starts to chomp. “This enables us to assimilate the best mix for our mentoring profiles. Our mentor spots are selected via a computer program. It’s a technical process.”

  Impressive. Though, if the software is that clever, he should ask the computer what to wear. I flick through the form. Even the paper smells medicinal and foreboding. Like an ancient apothecary shop—the kind with brains in jars. I’m starting to think Tarquin lives in a tower and keeps a raven as a pet.

  He sips his coffee. “Simple questions about likes and dislikes. Aptitudes. Preferences.”

  I see the form has items including phobias, things I hate, past traumatic experiences and biggest regrets in life. I sip my coffee too. Then wish I hadn’t and force it down.

  “Do you have any objection to participation as a mentor?”

  Having a TV camera stuck up my nostril or indeed at the back of classes would not be my idea of fun. I’d be worried about parental complaints and scrutiny generally. Or, worse, the personal epiphany that my arse really is as large as I fear it to be. But I don’t want to be tagged as a dissenter, lest Rogerson gets the hump. I take a gulp of bleh coffee.

  “I’d be more than happy to boost the school profile. I do, however, feel that there are others at Netherfield far more skilled and better placed to fulfill your criteria. And, indeed, some much more willing to participate and camera friendly than me.”

  “You do yourself little justice. I think the camera would find you charming—you have a fifties movie star air about you. Brunette bombshell looks and the wit of a warrior, it’s a heady combination.” He winks at me and jiggles his eyebrows with scary menace. “I particularly love the fact I can often see emotions warring in your eyes as you hold back your true thoughts.”

  If he can read my eyeballs right now, he’ll see abject terror and a club on the head with my umbrella at his laid-bare, scary attraction vibes. I’m about to interject and get rid of his notions but he trundles on.

  “I mean this from a TV production perspective only. Don’t run away with the notion I’m about to leap on you with lust. Though there’s a few of my crew who’ve expressed a preference. So, what about a spot being mentored? You have a certain air that the camera would do well to capture,” he opines, blinks then sips. “As you know, we need to find true characters to capture for this segment of our shows. It’s an audience booster. I’m sure you realize you’d become a household name.”

  “No. Not in this lifetime. Not with me.”

  He stares at me as if I’ve thwacked him with my line-caught trout. I throw in a grin to take the edge off. But he’s struggling to come to terms with my firm reply.

  “You realize Mr. Rogerson says it’s access all areas and we are entitled to pick whoever we wish. It’s for the good of the school. Participation could be deemed part of your contract.”

  “I don’t think it would be a good outcome if you chose me. I would get signed off due to stress. I have a history of anxiety issues.”

  It’s a total tosh toss but who cares if it works?

  Tarquin twists the cap on his Thermos. His salami baguette’s only half gnawed and I’ve had no whiff of a raspberry pastry. He bags it all and he’s soon standing by the door.

  “Your goblet?” The Fellowship of the Ring will likely need it back. I open the window and throw out the contents. At two floors up, there’s a risk I’ve scalded a first year.

  Tarquin takes the cup. “Excellent. If you could return the form by tomorrow midday latest.”

  I yank his hand and shake hard. “Certainly, Mr. Endermann. I’ve enjoyed our lunch together immensely.”

  It takes him by surprise. Hopefully I’ve put enough mistrust in his heart about my loose cannon potential that the TV cameras will stay far from my door. His expression is a pleasing reward. My objective is bulls-eyed.

  * * * *

  I must heavily invest in NachtGarten eau de parfum because the scent is attracting men like moths to a musty fisherman’s sweater. After Tarquin’s exit there’s another man at my door… It’s the cameraman I’ve seen tailing Tarquin, armed with lots of camera kit and those big tin foil circles that make people look glowing on screen. Whatever they’re called. Let’s called them magic doofers because that has a ring to it.

  “Hi, can I help?”

  He smiles at me. “Can you?”

  Clearly this man likes riddles. “If you’re looking for Tarquin, he’s been and gone. He took away the raspberry tart he’d promised me—rather scurrilously. If you run fast, you might be able to catch him and mug him for it.”

  He laughs and crosses his arms over a muscular, T-shirted chest.

  “I’m Andy. Andy Regis.”

  “Nice to meet you, Andy.”

  “I’m chief cameraman on this crazy ship called chaos.” He holds out a hand and he has a wry, dishy grin. He’s quite good looking in a Jaime Lannister type way with sun-mottled hair, designer stubble and strong shoulders. It must surely be all that camera holding that’s bulked him out. I imagine he’s something of a chick magnet in his spare time. Yep. Definitely a womanizer who’s thoroughly briefed on his own attractions.

  “I’m Izzy, what can I help you with?” I say.

  “I know who you are. I’ve been watching. And listening. It’s part of my job, believe it or not.”

  “Star cameraman and stalker too. A thoroughbred all-rounder.”

  “When it comes to some people who’ve piqued my interest, I go the extra mile.” He smirks at me. “Wanted to say, as much as Tarquin’s a knobhead, he’s pretty good at his job and underneath he’s not as bad as he seems.”

  “You’re his cheerleading squad then?”

  “He won’t stitch you up on screen—he might come across as the biggest dickhead you’ve ever met. Let him grow on you. He has a magic touch for knowing the best people to get stories out of—he’s usually right. And I think you’ve caught his eye.”

  “I’d rather not if I can help it. And as for the growing on me part—do you mean he’s like some kind of fungus?”

  Andy chuckles. “Pretty much. I was thinking mold. Mildly unpleasant but harmless. And, in fact, he has exceptional qualities that are little appreciated.”

  “Does he know you go around talking about him behind his back?”

  Andy shakes his head. “Nope. But for what it’s worth, he knows I’m a shit-hot cameraman so I’m bulletproof. I wondered if you fancied a drink sometime? And wanted to say if you want to talk or need to steer Tarquin or vent in future—just shout and I’ll be there. I’ll come to your rescue.”

  “Right now I’m knee-deep in teaching faff. But who knows…? It’s good to
know there’s a knight with a shining camera lens around the corner.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” he says. “And I’ll keep buffing my lens, waiting for the call. Maybe a pub lunch sometime?”

  “I’ve never had lunch with a shit-hot cameraman before. Do they pay the bill at the end?”

  “For you, most definitely. Say yes, you’ll be glad you did. Laters. Gotta go, Izzy. See you soon.”

  I think I may have an admirer. And I have absolutely no idea why.

  * * * *

  I’ve booked Jack a doc’s appointment for next evening. I text him because I’m knee-deep in marking at my free period. But I know I’m also avoiding any reprimands about my earlier conduct with Arsy Darby.

  I do have guilt about it.

  I also suspect I went off my high dive deep end in a too-tight Speedo bodysuit. I let my temper run riot. I should learn to keep the pot lidded.

  But what can I do? Buy Will Darby humble-hued carnations? Send him a 'Sorry’ balloon?

  When I go to my post hole outside the English lounge, a small yellow envelope with my name written in an unfamiliar hand rests there.

  I open it when I get back to my desk, with a soda from the vending machine. It knocks me back on my heels.

  The dark, masculine script reads,

  Madam,

  Jack has served us both yellow cards.

  He’s a good guy by the way. You may be a misguided Arsenal supporter but I fear we’ve collided in error. You like to joust. I like to tackle, and I do it hard. Apologies.

  I hope your keys made a full confession the other night. I also hope you’ve solved your sticky stocking problem.

  Let’s agree to keep it teachy clean, hope that works? I will try. Let’s see if things improve.

  Found a red pen in my car boot. No Gunners crest, though I still think it’s yours. Felt a need to buy you a better one. The party invitation remains open. Perhaps we should try out a new entente cordiale there? I still have some Arsenal memorabilia in my collection you might be interested in. (To be clear, I have no handbags. I’m not the total wuss you think I am.)

  Believe this as you see fit.

  Yours

  Sir Shady—W.D.

  P.S. I’ll keep your pen hostage until we agree a truce.

  I retrieve the pen from the envelope. The type and crest featured are of Tottenham Hotspur Football Club. I’d rather use charcoal to mark exam papers. And, believe me, I’m an OCD stickler for stationery protocols. But I smile that he’s gently mocking our disputes.

  I place the betraying pen before me. Then, in the spirit of camaraderie and pushing limits, I pick it up and mark nine essays.

  * * * *

  I walk down the corridor, past the sixth year common room, along the big sport hall’s wall adorned with photos of past champs. I’m at the staffroom of the physical education department before I quite know what to say.

  Am I crazy? Should I leave this?

  I find a woman with blonde spiked hair, wearing a neon tracksuit and a static death glare. She’s using two-fingered skills to poke her keyboard into a signed confession. She doesn’t look up at my arrival, but keeps jabbing.

  “Hello?”

  Maybe it’s a good thing we don’t interact. She’s uncannily similar to cheerleading’s Maleficent, Sue Sylvester in Glee.

  “Is Will around?”

  Still no eye contact, or words. Then a pause. “Who?”

  “Your new head. Will Darby? He in?”

  She stops typing. Flicks me a glance. “Oh. Yeah, him. No. Dunno where he is.”

  Professionalism and Netherfield Secondary sports department are galaxies destined never to merge.

  “Forget it.” Then I reconsider. “Got an envelope?”

  I enclose what I had in my pocket with the Spurs pen then address the outside,

  Thanks, Sir, entente cordiale accepted. Pen returned after a test drive—it’s a touch slow for speed marking.

  I. Tennant.

  The package will, I suspect, never get to Will. They’ll find it in years to come under a pile of festering jock straps.

  I’m pretty sure Will getting my note is as likely as me getting a New Year’s honor from Her Majesty. For services to clog making.

  But I’ve replied.

  * * * *

  I’m grinning as I reach my car. Inside the envelope I left is a freshly printed pic from the web from ten years back. He’s looking dapper at a swanky cocktail party and was probably papped at exactly the wrong moment. He’s holding a clutch bag—probably a girlfriend’s. The bag is silver and glittery and the captured moment is priceless. It’s pure alpha male does Elton John with enormous reluctance. Gotcha!

  I’ve sent him the printout from Google images with his returned pen. We may have a truce. But you can’t leave ‘a sitter’ in the goal mouth.

  I’m getting into my car when I hear a voice.

  “Izzy. Wait up.” Will jogs toward me. His gleaming muscles are on full display in a vest top and shorts that would cause breathing issues for any female who decided to watch. Specifically me.

  Will stops right beside my car and lays a hand on the door. “I’ve something I want you to see.”

  Is it wrong that I’m hoping it’s his new homage to a Magic Mike routine? Naughty me—how bad am I? I summon focus, and concentrate on ‘professional teacher’ thoughts. “How can I help you?”

  “Come with me, Izzy. I’ve something I really want to give you.”

  * * * *

  I’m beginning to feel a frequent flyer when it comes to the boot of Will’s Range Rover.

  “What do you reckon?” His boot has a large box of vintage football programs and fan items. There’s another box of signed shirts and assorted bits too. “I have loads of memorabilia. I intend to auction some of the valuable stuff for the school. Rogerson and I have a plan for that. But I found Arsenal items. Thought I should give you first refusal given your superfan status.”

  I immediately kick myself for sending Will the handbag jibe and wish I could turn back time. “That’s so thoughtful.”

  He smiles and kicks at loose stones underfoot. “Not a problem.”

  He doesn’t deserve my slight. I see at least twenty programs, many signed. There’s a shirt signed by the Arsenal squad of 03-04. It’s the season when Arsenal went unbeaten and it had never happened before in modern football. My team was top and I was there every match. But I never got a signed squad shirt. It’s awesome.

  And Will’s standing here offering these—and all the time filling my senses with his musky man meets lemon fresh scent. It’s a lot for a woman to take in after a long day’s frazzling school shift.

  “You have first refusal.”

  “Golly. Thanks. Tell me how much you want.”

  “No money needed. Think of it as a bridge-building exercise.” Will’s smile would deflect attention from a solar eclipse. He has that kind of dynamite grin that makes me want to stand, watch and appreciate.

  “Thanks.” Our eyes meet and hold. “That’s good of you.”

  He dips his hand inside the box to take out a few programs and one snags my eye, handcuffs my attention and causes my breath to catch. I have to clear my throat. “It’s the FA Cup Final program of ’98. Ray Parlour and Dennis Bergkamp signed it. My two fave players—as in favorites for technical ability—ever. Wow!”

  Will raises an eyebrow. “And yours if you want it. Any of it—keep the shirt too.”

  I tug it close and marvel at the signatures. I know somebody who’d love to see this too. In fact I know several people. My favorite Arsenal childhood legends touched my life and now I’m holding things they touched. It’s like a slice straight out of my childhood and teens and he’s handing me a wedge of my heart back to examine and relive. Will’s offering the stuff I cherish most in life.

  This is not evil dictator behavior. This is white knight with silver spurs.

  I’m already thinking frames for my treasures. At least a hallowed shrine in my living
room. “I must pay you—these would cost a fortune. For the programs with Ray Parlour and Dennis Bergkamp. And the shirt.”

  “You can’t pay for gifts. They’re yours, and keep the rest too, to do with as you see fit.”

  I shake my head. “I know someone who’d love what’s left. And he’d love them even better if they came from you. Somebody who needs a bit of TLC right now. He goes by the name of Jack and he’s great at everything from boiler maintenance to light bulbs. Would you do the honors?”

  If I thought Will’s smile was dazzling before, it’s monumental now. “I’ll take them down to him now. He’d like ’em, you reckon?”

  “He’d seriously love this.”

  “Brilliant.”

  I reach out and lightly touch his arm. “He’s had losses in his life of late and some health issues. You’d be doing me a big favor, cheering him up. I have to say sorry—I left a note for you earlier. I want to apologize. I didn’t mean…”

  Will shrugs. “Forget it. You got my note?”

  “I did.”

  “So—truce in place?”

  I hold out my hand and he reaches out to clutch mine in his. The back of his hand is hair-dusted and double the size of mine. And why exactly do my hormones find that a sensory stimulating factor? I’m happy to drink in Will Darby’s attributes ad infinitum while something in my abdomen does the freestyle lambada.

  “Thanks.”

  “To pleasant working relations. Want to seal the deal with a drink after I’ve been to see Jack?”

  I shake my head but a tiny imp in my head is screaming at me. A drink with Will Darby—there’s so much I could ask him. About his career, his highlights—and I don’t mean hair highlights. Maybe I’ll get another shot at it sometime? We’ve made progress, best not to wreck it. “Don’t suppose you’d mind making that offer to Jack?”

  Will stares into my eyes with surprise. “If he wants to. Sure. It’d be my pleasure.”

  I’m the one who’s grinning now. “You’ll have to set a strict time limit and I guarantee he won’t let you pay. Another time?”