by Judy Jarvie
“You’re no Prince Charming. You’re my nemesis.”
“Why stop, when I do it so well?”
Janey is writing my address and vague directions on a piece of paper. Frankly, I’m so desperate for a bed to lie down in, I don’t care what they do with me. I hang on to my bucket and Will leads me away, carrying my bag. It suits him so well I might gift him it as a reminder of this special day. I plonk my shoes in the trash can as we pass it.
“Your carriage awaits.” He picks me up, bucket and all, and lifts me inside. Barefoot, humiliated and sick as a stomach-pumped parrot.
Chapter Seven
I wake up with an iron tummy and a body that feels like it’s been slowly squished in a car crusher.
The room is dimmed but I swiftly know it’s not mine. It smells different—like an elite hotel with fancy flowers and posh potions. I sit up in bed but every inch of me aches. I can sense I’ve been Sahara Desert sweating and that has ramifications for the awfulness of my hair. And I have muddled memories of somebody drifting to my aid at regular intervals. A hand holding cool water for me to sip and my head being soothed with a flannel. I’m wearing a white T-shirt—also not mine.
“What the f―?”
“Morning. You’re awake, good.”
I’d know that voice anywhere. I’ve heard it on Sky Sports a few times. Damn. Will is at the end of my bed. He looks like an angel—minus wings and halo. He’s wearing white track pants and a white shirt and vest beneath. It’s a boy band video come to life. He could model for a detergent ad. Even his smile is peroxide polar blast white.
“Welcome to Hangley Grange.” He makes it sound like he’s a trendy boutique hotel concierge.
I feel as if I’ve woken up in an alternate universe. And in this one I’m weak, with a sore, strained throat, and a body mugged by a herd of crazed bison.
“Please don’t say this is rehab. I barely drink. I’ve never touched drugs in my life.”
“This isn’t a clinic.”
“It’s very white.” I take in the details. Sleek, glossy fittings, snowy walls, icecap bedding.
“I live here. I rent Hangley Grange from Paul Bates. You’ve probably heard of Paul. He’s a football Hall of Fame A-lister.”
“Most coveted striker at AC Milan Paul Bates? As in one-time England captain?”
Will nods and, from my prostrate position in the bed, I blow a ragged whistle through my teeth. “Bloody hell. You lucked out with your landlord.”
“Let’s hope he always wanted vomit up his hallway carpet. Thanks to you he’s had some refurbishments.”
“Shit.” I wince and I’m nearly a hedgehog of shame. It hurts me more than I’m ready for. “Double shit.”
“I lied. It was in the bathroom. Fortunately it’s fully tiled and I’ll buy him new linen,” he says. “You ready to face the day?”
“I think so.”
“You still look pale. So best take it easy. Will you manage a shower on your own?”
“There’s no way you’re helping me.”
Will smiles. “As long as you’re sure you’ll manage.”
“I need space to Band-Aid my pride first.” I shrug. Bugger. Why did I admit such frailties out loud to Will? In my head I berate my weakened state. I prefer a twenty-foot barricade in place when it comes to this guy. Control and composure help me deal with the crazy static he causes for my sanity. And my sex drive.
In truth, I’m feeling weary, embarrassed and slightly ashamed at what damage I’ve caused while I’ve been incapacitated. And I’ve never felt as vulnerable. Lying in a bed he’s put me in. Wearing clothes I have no recollection of putting on myself.
I note various tincture bottles and carafes on the bedside table. “If you’ve brought me here to undertake experiments, the least you could do is tell me what mutations to expect.”
“The only experiment I’m planning is to see if you can manage to get up, or have breakfast.”
I nod. But I’m not ready to throw back the covers. “How did I get into this T-shirt?”
Will explains, “You pulled it on yourself. I brought you here when there were tail backs and you’d started to feel ill again. Rather than prolong the agony, I figured my home was quicker. Plus I have a ready supply of buckets, most of which you’ve used. Your bug was twenty-four hours of steady sickness. I’m amazed that a stomach can hold that much…”
“What day is it?”
“Friday. Nearly midday.”
“Thank you. For helping me… I don’t know what to say…” I keep my eyes on the lump in the bed that is my feet. “I’m sorry I put you to trouble.”
“I’ve had easier and more talkative guests. But I’ve also had worse.”
I feel bad that I’ve caused him aggravation. And I’m grateful he’s done so much. He could’ve easily run me back to school and left me dying in Jack’s basement.
“S’okay. I’ll add up your bill shortly. Should tot up nicely.”
“Why aren’t you at school?”
“Rogerson figured I might have the bug too. He’s a raging hypochondriac. But he did give me a job so for that he deserves forgiveness.”
It’s only at this point, when Will raises both hands, I observe he’s wearing yellow rubber gloves. The kind an industrial sanitation company would provide to deal with a toxic incident.
“I’ve contained the infection so far,” he says and sprays all surfaces. It reminds me of the mad cow disease news bulletins. If he starts hosing down wellington boots beside me, I think I may cry.
“Did I make a mess?”
“You’ve a good bucket aim.”
“Thank heavens.” But I’ve spoken too soon.
“Only exception being the bathroom. It’s why I got the T-shirt.” Will lays a tall pile of ultra-fluffy towels on the bed end with my laundered clothes. “Shower’s ready when you are.”
Beneath my mortification, I’m utterly aghast at this predicament so I push through it with rubbish jokes. “You brought me here to steal my handbag and see my underwear. Lie and cover all you like.”
“It’s a technique I use regularly on women. Poison them to sneak a view of their unmentionables. Yours don’t even match.”
I gasp aloud. He can probably tell from my half-hidden face beneath the covers that this is as painful as the bug. But I realize with relief I have a bra on beneath the covers and T-shirt. He mind-reads my thoughts.
“Sadly your tits were a no-go zone. But getting you to go commando was fun—your knickers are in the washing machine. You forced me to wait outside while you put your pants in a non-see-through bag. You have major control issues. Jump in the shower—we’ll talk over breakfast.”
I stare through to the en suite wet room with its luxurious stone décor and multidirectional jet palatial shower. But all the time I’m thinking, what knickers did I wear, what knickers? I already know they’d be big ones. I would never wear a thong with no imminent man action. Damn it to hell! And please don’t let it be my tartan ones—the ones large enough to shelter a hunting party expedition.
“Can’t I get clean and sneak off? Call a cab? I’ll never darken your door. And at work I’ll never give you a moment’s aggro again. Forever after amen.”
“I can’t let you go, Iz. Your knickers are in my dryer and it’s a long walk home without shoes, tights or pants.”
“Who needs such trappings? So yesterday.”
Will raises his eyebrows. “Stay until your knickers dry. At least I thought they were knickers… I had no idea you had Scottish links.” He’s trying to hide a massive grin and he’s enjoying this more than is fair. “Actually, I lied about you needing to wait for your underwear. I’ve put new supplies on the chair ready. I’d imagine those tartan things should go to the highland glen in the sky. Or some kind of gaudy kink museum.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can answer.
The door clicks shut. Will leaves me to the sorrow that is my plight. This time there will be no recovery. A Tottenham player nursed me wit
hout issue in my time of greatest need. Me, a savage ingrate of an Arsenal supporter who constantly mocks him.
I move my legs from under the covers, knowing I’ve done Will Darby wrong. When I inspect the bag of supplies it even has toiletries, a robe and a toothbrush. My shame is boundless. I’m going to have to give him respect in future as I have sins to atone for.
Will is the hero of the day. And that’s a total shit fest in itself.
* * * *
The shower is sensational and afterward I can’t bear to don my dirty bra and so I go naturist commando under the large fluffy robe Will gave me. I head down a Cinderella staircase flooded with so much daylight I almost need shades. This house isn’t big—it’s a palace among palaces. The front door alone is big enough for a giant and his big-boned girlfriend to fit through.
I follow enticing aromas to a kitchen. When I find the room, it’s expansive, high-tech, and could accommodate a battalion while resembling a style mag front page.
“Something smells good.”
There’s a pause while Will turns and regards me. It’s one of those freeze frame looks and I drink him in. His smile, his slightly tousled hair and his feet shoved in loafers with no socks. Pure yummy shot.
But then I’m delusional—I haven’t eaten for days. And I’ve never fancied a sockless man before.
“Good sign—you’re hungry.” Will continues to do MasterChef at the island cooking station. It’s TV ad male model lifestyle commercial.
Despite my bravado, I’m barefoot and feeling awkward. I clear something blocking my throat only to realize it’s the lump called my tongue. It’s drunk on the view.
“Take a seat.” He holds out a chair. “You need slippers, Cinders.” Will strides from the room. He comes back with a Marks and Spencer bag and places it neatly into my lap.
“Tessa got you these. Forgot to leave these for you earlier.”
Shit. Tessa must be his wife. And I’m in here in a dressing gown. I feel like Mata Hari gone unprincipled. Fuck.
I peek into the bag. There’s slippers, new shoes and pajamas plus a change of outfit.
“The other items were okay? I should have brought up these too.”
He means underwear. I nod. “Please thank Tessa. She’s very thoughtful.”
“It’s her job—she’s the maid. Actually she’s a super maid. She even has a machine for getting rid of spiders humanely.”
“She didn’t have a humane Izzy removal machine, however?”
“No. Indeed. But technology makes huge leaps all the time.” He smiles and I force my face to pretend to smile. I’m still wondering how he got my size right in knickers.
“I’ll reimburse you. How did you know my sizes?”
“Tessa guessed them. I enlisted Janey too—she drove your car from school to your flat. She also brought the underwear—she didn’t stay for a visit to limit the virus.”
I take out the fluffy slippers and shove my feet inside. They’re puppy ear soft and I sigh as I relish their comfort “Thank you. The favors I’m owing are stacking up. Humble pie, here I come.”
“Scrambled eggs first, hopefully?” Will piles fluffy egg on a small oval of wholemeal toast. The smell has me salivating. For some inexplicable reason, I want to show him how much I appreciate his kindness. And most of all I want to say sorry.
“Will. I can’t begin to thank you.”
“Then don’t. Eat.”
“No, I must tell you. I’m so very sorry about how awful I’ve been in the past. I’m an arse when I get started.”
“It’s cool. I quite enjoyed being mean to you back. Please don’t say you’re going to stop. I’d be gutted if the fun’s spoiled. I’d be pissed off.”
“It’s not cool to needlessly give you the needle for personal entertainment…”
“Izzy, it’s the law of the changing room. Never take yourself too seriously. And you’re a Gunners girl. Stands to reason you’d get your toys out of the pram about me being at your school. I can take a bit of ribbing. Rhino skin when it comes to ridicule comes as part of the football squad induction.”
“In future I’ll rein it in.”
“Just eat. Get your strength back. I miss the old Iz. Where’s she hiding? Tell her to get her arse back into gear, she can’t wimp out now!” He pushes the plate closer to me so I’ll do as he asks. Then he goes to a cupboard for ketchup. “All bases covered.”
I decline Will’s offer of fresh orange juice but opt instead for water. My first forkful of egg is bliss on a zipping comet.
“Tasty robe.” He nods to my attire.
I know I’m blushing—almost as red as the tomato sauce. “Um no.”
“You should wear one to work. I’d vote for it.”
Shit. It’s a flirty echo of the time he told me he wanted me to come.
“I’m waiting for the ‘but’. Get it over with,” I volunteer as I squeeze some sauce on the edge of my plate.
“I can’t see your butt from here. Which is a shame.”
“Will. You don’t have to flirt with me to make me feel better.”
“I suspect this may make you feel a whole lot worse.” Will comes around the island and hands me a letter. “It came by courier from school. You weren’t fit to read anything—there’s a briefing meeting but I told them you’re not well enough. I’m going in later so I’ll report back.”
I rip open the letter, then scan the lines, taking in my biggest shock of the day. The letter’s from Tarquin and I’ve been selected to be an English mentor. My pupils will be a group of second year behaviorally challenging kids, two of whom have had steadily failing grades. One of them is Sophie Charlton. Another is Ellen Davidson. The wildcard third pupil is…Lydia Salter. She’s my achiever wildcard in the mix. It’s like taking a lamb to the cynical slaughter. Team formulation made in hell.
“I’m a mentor. English class, second years.”
“Well, if it helps any, I’m a sports mentor myself. And I’d rather have death by ballet.”
But there’s more news to follow as I open a second envelope inside the first one. I gulp twice in a row. I’m picked to be mentored in football at the hands of Mr. Will Darby’s soccer star school. One of the two teachers who’ll be battling each other for supremacy.
“I’m your mentee for Teacher Wars,” I whisper. “Did you know?”
“I did. I got a letter too.”
“I’m full now, can’t face another bite.”
And bugger me, but if a gang of big fat tears don’t well up behind my eyes and burst forth to make their presence known.
“Oh, fucking hell.” I properly start crying. For real, full Monty, a call the water board and find a stopcock situation. And in seconds Will Darby is holding me—in a robe without a lingerie lifebelt. I’m crying and gulping and he’s rubbing my back and soothing me by telling me to stop and that it’s all going to be okay.
Fuck. Holy commando. I should have left before breakfast when I had the chance. Going home barefoot and knickerless would’ve been so much easier to bear than this.
At least I’ve no makeup on or it’d be mascara madness. But my chest is falling and rising in enough of a mess all by itself. Shit. I’m really going for the Out of Order Oscars.
“I never cry. Ever. What the fuck is wrong with me lately?”
“And you an Arsenal season ticket holder. Surely you must cry at least once a month, if not more?”
“Fuck off, Will.” I slap him on the chest. His pecs rebound my touch in a fit reminder of how stacked he is with male attributes.
“No. You’re wearing my robe and eating my breakfast. I can annoy you as much as I want to.”
“Bastard.”
And that makes me start crying afresh. Proper boo-hoos of shame. I push my fingers up to my eyes to squelch the tears but I end up with wet fingers and more crying. Will comes close and reaches out to gently touch my arms.
“You’re still ill, Iz.”
“If I wasn’t ill, I’d be going after Rogerson
and Endermann with a scalping knife.”
“That would make great viewing. I’d get the boys round to watch.”
“They’re shitbags!” I tell him. “I meant Rogerson and Tarquin. Not your friends.”
“It’s a TV show. You’ll only be doing your job.”
“Correction—public humiliation of the very worst kind.”
Will stands to full height. And his voice is very commanding—I can see that he’ll be a great teacher when he takes firm rein of a class. “I disagree. Reality TV. Just you. Being a teacher. Brazening it out because you’re brilliant at your job and they can’t scare you that easily.”
“How do you know I’m brilliant?” I challenge.
“Because your friends and supporters have told me. Even kids!” Will stares at me with intense eyes.
“How can I learn football tricks? That’s major crapola. I can’t even hit a ball in rounders. I’ve two left feet.”
Will stares at me and tries to coax a smile. “I promise I’ll try to make it painless. You’ll be heading the ball and keeping it up on your knee with little effort in only a few weeks’ time. I have taught others—I know what I’m doing. And I solemnly swear I can turn you into a passable Pele!”
“Shit. But I don’t want to do it.”
“Izzy. Take it in your stride,” Will tells me. “You get on and don’t worry about what the TV show looks like. Do your job. It’s a circus. Don’t let it affect you. Stay true to you. Annie James from music has been selected to do the soccer skills task with you anyhow.”
And the record in my head skids to a screechy end. Shit! There’s the day spoiler. Awesome Annie. Netherfield’s biggest narcissist nymphomaniac would not be my work buddy of choice.
“Seriously?”
“I had a letter by courier. Read it if you want.”
I rub my nose. I suspect it’s blotchy and red and hideous. “I’m the least willing teacher in the school for this pile of crap! It’s like they know that and enjoy the pain.”
“For God’s sake, don’t cry or I’ll have to do something drastic.” He takes in a deep breath. Then sighs deeply and his broad chest inflates, as he comes closer still. “I’m in real danger around you. I want to do things…”