Scoring With Sir

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Scoring With Sir Page 11

by Judy Jarvie


  “Copy that. Over and out.”

  He’s with us in less than a minute, willing to oblige, and the relief in Dibian’s tear-stained face is ample reward. Now I’ll have a speedy, impromptu meeting with Rogerson. There are several things I need to handle. My own mentoring slot being the most pressing.

  * * * *

  I catch the esteemed headmaster of Netherfield Secondary School at his desk, thumbing through a copy of Candle Making Weekly. Who knew? I think he may even have gone up in my estimations.

  “Izzy, what can I help with?” He hides the magazine in the desk drawer before I’m fully through the door.

  “Dibian’s ill. I took the liberty of sending her home. After last week I have a good eye for the signs and she’s definitely got my bug.”

  “Diligently spotted.” Rogerson sits as far back in his chair as possible as if remembering I recently had a deadly plague. “Are you quite well? Sure you should be back? I heard stories, a pretty grim affair.”

  I’m taken aback. Mostly because he makes it sound like I’d turned half zombie and I’m eyeing his limbs as a snack. It was nothing that a rest and a bucket of bleach didn’t put right.

  “I’m well. And Dibian’s classes need covering. I’ve two free periods later so I’ll gladly step in.”

  “Very good.” Francis steeples his fingers. “Anything else?” He’s gagging to get back to that candle how-to—he was probably in the middle of Wick Trimming for Dummies and I’m detaining him.

  “I also want to talk about football skills. Will Darby mentioned you may be amenable to me taking a leave of absence?”

  Francis gives away nothing. I wonder for a flicker of a moment if Will’s made it up. “We had a conversation. But things have moved apace. You will have seen Janey’s predicament in the newspapers?”

  “Yes—crazy business. I came by to say I will do the football skills mentor participation. I’ve thought long and hard and I realize part of the point of the exercise is for people to face demons. Playing football is mine. I love the beautiful game and I hate the fact that I can’t do it justice. But I should try. I think appreciating Will’s skill on the pitch will do me good.”

  “A very wise move.” Francis dons his predatory feline smile. “Just as well as I can’t spare you. I need you in the slot and Tarquin agreed.”

  “Oh.” I’d thought I was being magnanimous. I thought this would help me put things right with Will.

  Turns out he wouldn’t have let me leave anyway. Am I annoyed or am I perturbed? And either way, does anybody care? So much for Will’s assurances. I’m more piqued than a very piqued person. I have held a grudge with Rogerson since he set me up with Tarquin the Terrible’s ominous campaign of reality TV humiliation in the first place. I’d make an impassioned plea but I sense it’s pointless.

  “You like candle-making, Francis?”

  “I do indeed. It’s something of a fascination.”

  I nod. “I can imagine. In fact I have experience.”

  Francis looks up and over the top of his half-rim specs. “You do?”

  “Yes, and you’d make an exceptional chandler. My nana used to make candles so I picked up a lot of tips.”

  His radiance glows in response. “Why thank you, Isabella. Perhaps you could help me out with a project or two?”

  “Perhaps you could tell Will Darby to be lenient on me and cut the football footage time?”

  “I’ll certainly have a word.”

  “And perhaps you could ask Tarquin to tone down the football mentoring slot and then I’d have more time for private tuition in Nana’s candle secrets? I’ll show you how my gran’s famous magic wish candles are created.”

  He smiles. “A phenomenal suggestion—I’ll speak to Tarquin. I’ll make sure it’s agreed.”

  I keep quiet on my real opinions on why candle-making suits him. Mostly because he gets right on everybody’s wick and we’d happily watch him burn. Preferably slowly.

  Taking on private lessons will be okay if I have Rogerson on my side. And if I have to use my candle-making craft ken to lure a good deal, I’m willing to go there. Sometimes you have to set light to the only taper you’ve got.

  * * * *

  I plan to seek Will out at lunch break. It’s time to confront our deadlock. But when I venture to the PE department—and, shit, this is becoming a far too regular habit—he’s not there.

  Due to the fact that I still haven’t got my appetite back, I didn’t bring any lunch. So I detour via the canteen. I’d been thinking salad roll or healthy pitta but when I walk in, the fatty fug of freshly made French fries hits me like a welcome but waistline-damaging wave. The simmering pot of slutty temptress baked beans in their steel serving dish winks and hypnotizes me into submission.

  “Beans and chips please. Double portion, Rita.”

  Dinner belle Rita scoops but doesn’t comment—she knows when to keep the lips zipped.

  My stomach growls like Bigfoot in the wilderness. Or at the very least Chewbacca grizzling at Han Solo. I’m carrying my fries-and-beans-laden plate to the checkout when I see Will and my stomach freefalls.

  He’s sitting at a table, looking stellar, relaxed, gorgeous. Way more sexy than Han Solo ever could, and he was damn fine. But he’s opposite a glammed-up, eyelids batting, blonde hair swishing empire threat of the very worst kind. Nympho Annie from music and it looks like she’s practicing her prelude to praying mantis. My inner Jedi is mortally wounded and I stagger back to regroup.

  Then I scream inside my head—fuck, fuck. No. Something twists within my ribcage and my deepest emotions crash and commit GBH on my heart. It’s beating crazy fast. I think the string basket that holds my coronary organ snapped under the weight of what happened this weekend.

  It’s carnage. My pulse is staging a mutiny that’s telling my brain to march over and take action. But I ignore the bloodstream rush. If she wants him and he wants her—I have to live with that. The dark forces will overcome and I’ll hand my lightsaber in for confiscation.

  Even though my insides are staging a protest that the man I’m kinda attached to is sitting with another woman and my body wants to revolt, I cannot take action. I made him walk away.

  They’re laughing, smiling. Eating pesto pasta salad together as if they’re on a Tuscan veranda, having made thunder love in a pink-walled villa.

  I can’t smile through it. I try but I have to put down my tray and plate because my hands are shaking.

  Even Doreen behind the tills is looking at me oddly and repeating, “One pound twenty, love,” over again at me as if I’m dense. I scrabble for the money and drop it on my tray.

  “You all right, duck?”

  “Fine.”

  “’Eard you were ill, love. You still don’t look right if you ask me. Peaky,” she tells me. “’Eard Darby the hunk saved ya. Lovely chap. Such nice manners and soft hands. Sexy eyes too!” She winks.

  “I’ll put in a word for you.”

  She cackles and blushes like a girl. “Please do. I’d trade in my Stan for that new model any day! And those fingers can hold my hand anytime—amongst other things.”

  I have to stifle a gasp. Even Doreen’s noticed my personal hidden fave thing about Will. His hands. And he’ll never touch me again.

  I splutter out a gasp and I can tell from her face that she’s worried I’m going to puke.

  “Are you all right?” she asks over and over and over like an echoey dream.

  I’m not right. I may never be again. I’m in love with Will Darby. Or at least my heart is. And how the hell am I ever going to live with that or put that right in a month of Sundays? I may as well put my chips and beans in the bin. It’s not the sick bug, it’s being heart sore and it hurts.

  I walk from the canteen and I have to stop the tears. How ruddy ridiculous am I? Crying over a boy. And he’s not even an Arsenal supporter. He’s the enemy. Tottenham Darth Vader.

  * * * *

  When the home time bell rings, I almost sing in relie
f and thanks. It’s been a very long day.

  As the kids pour out, I bid them goodbye and stand on a chair to close the top windows I’d opened when it got too muggy.

  “Hey, Izzy.”

  I almost fall off the chair when I see Will. “Hi.” I get down, hoping I don’t land in a heap.

  “How are you?”

  “Good. You?”

  “Likewise. Actually… That’s a lie. I’m shit.”

  I shrug. “Me too. Kinda.”

  “Rogerson tells me that they’re downplaying football in Class Wars. Thought you should know. He tells me you told him you wanted to go ahead.” His eyes are solemn when he holds my gaze.

  “I did. You made me realize that facing things can be a good thing.” I shrug. “I have to open up, quit opposing, and move on.”

  Will stalks to me and, in a matter of seconds, he grabs my hands. “Yes. I get the point.”

  “What point?”

  “Facing things. You made your unspoken point fully heard. I need to change. I shouldn’t preach to you when I hide and evade myself.”

  Shit! I hadn’t even meant to do that but if it works and we’re talking and he’s smiling—which he is now—and holding my hand then I’m all for it.

  “I was wrong to bring things to a head…um… I mean… Sorry. I was wrong to press the point. Shite! Kinda hard not to use double entendres.”

  He smiles and my heart wobbles. “You weren’t wrong. I shouldn’t have walked out. But it has forced me to think and examine my beliefs. I needed to do that and had avoided it. I know I need more time with you.”

  Inside me, the bouncy balls are going crazy and it’s good. It could knock me off my feet but it’s definitely good. I smile at the man I now know I’m extremely fond of. Who am I kidding? I hang on his every word. “So we’re good?”

  Will leans in to kiss me gently on the lips. In my class. On a school day. Fucking hell, it’s great! “We’re way more than good. Can you come to mine later?”

  “School night?”

  “If I promise a curfew?”

  “Do you hafta?”

  He grins. “Can you meet me at the pagoda?”

  “Um. What?”

  “Paul’s fancy oriental garden building. It’s lovely inside—a house in its own right. Can you come via the back lane in Waggon Way and meet me there? I have visitors I’ll need to evade. Come say nine?”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “Good.” He kisses me again and, wow. I’m in a fog of total lust and happiness. I brush his cheek with my hand and stare into his eyes.

  “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Save it for after. Laters.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dibian’s house is a hymn to theater set meets Willy Wonka’s world. While I’ve picked her up from outside her home a few times, I’ve never been inside, and now that I am, I’m somewhat taken aback.

  There are neon paintings, vibrant silk hangings and Venetian masks. An enormous piece of wall art features an otherworldly peacock feather design with a fake peacock’s head sticking out—every inch living art. A chaise longue in purple with golden stars and a small tent in the corner sports orange and reds and indigos. There’s even a grand piano that’s been painted in a Mexican Dios de la Muerte candy skulls design. Elton John, if he saw the flat, would want to move in immediately. Her living room’s a paint factory explosion and an optical challenge in one. Her batik silk kaftan in rainbow hues I haven’t even covered…

  “Did this guy take a lot from you, Dibs?”

  “All told, fifteen grand.”

  My pause hangs heavy as a bowling ball in a clutch bag. I would normally swear and exclaim but I don’t want her to feel any worse. It’s much more money than I expected. Bastard!

  “Plus a bit more,” she admits and I long to whistle between my teeth but diplomacy overrides the instinct.

  “Dibs. Are the police following it up?”

  “I don’t know if I can face pressing charges. Could be the worst part.”

  “And let him get away with it? He’s a shit and he should be brought to account.”

  “My nephew’s a sergeant. If my sister finds out, she’ll make me feel worse than I already do. And, believe me, I feel bad enough. I guess I’ll have to mark this one down to naivety, stupidity and desperation. And I’m glad he didn’t persuade me to sign over half the house to him. He was hinting.”

  “Dibs. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “Who else is to blame?” She fiddles with the corners of her gauzy, glittery pashmina and her gypsy earrings dangle like crazy. Even when pissed off, she has a flair for garish fantasy fashion gone wild. And wrong.

  “But lots of women fall prey to these mercenary guys out for a green card or money or whatever drives them most. It happens to lots of women, probably thousands. Why wouldn’t you believe him?”

  “I should’ve considered. Why would a young, handsome, suave man fancy an old duffer like me?”

  I reach forward and hug her hard. She has a keen sense of humor. She laughs in such an endearing, self-deprecating way when she does. She has shimmering, clear blue eyes and fine, amazing skin.

  “Because you’re you. Kind. Intelligent. Funny, warm, compassionate. I’m not writing the list but you’re you and you’ve the kind of warm heart that arse wipes like Mr. Gold Digger hone in on. You’re a victim, Dibian, not a fool. And you need to realize that. You’re wonderful and you deserve the man who will one day treasure you as you deserve!”

  Her blue eyes fill. “Thank you, Izzy.”

  “Don’t cry. It’s time to forgive yourself and move on.”

  “I knew I employed you for a reason all those years ago,” she smiles as she hanky dabs her eyes. “Underneath all your attitude and bluster and the swearing, you’re a wonderful woman. If only you didn’t like football so much.”

  I grin. At least a glimpse of real Dibian is back. Albeit three tubs of luxury clotted cream ice cream have died a fast, messy death to get to this point. And I suspect there’ll be a lot of luridly colored retail therapy to help get her better.

  “Football is to me what color is to you. Chaque a son gout!” I tell her that the key to moving on after a bad situation is to pull on big girl pants and party. “So you’re coming to Will Darby’s party on Friday night.”

  She grimaces. “So not in the mood.”

  “You’re coming. Will wants you there.”

  Dibian shakes her head. “I don’t have party mood in me.”

  “You will. Even if it means me coming here and us getting dolled up together. In fact, why don’t I bring my girlies over? Or even you come and get ready at mine?”

  “Okay. But get your pals to come here. Let’s give this place some nice memories beyond Mr. Bastard the Gigolo, who I still see everywhere I look. At the moment, every time I sit here, I think of him feeding me grapes and I want to cry!”

  It’s a tad too much info. But I get her point. “It’s a date.”

  “Okay, and one more thing. Since when did you start calling our new Mr. Darby by his first name? Or start getting a smile and a twinkle when you talk about him?”

  Fuck. Shit and bugger with its tits out.

  “You’re imagining things. I’m being mentored by him. I have to call him Will.”

  Dibian nods. But her eyes have gone all Cleopatra on me.

  “Dibian. Stop!”

  “I know what I know. I will be listening and watching carefully. At least one of us has action on the horizon.”

  “He’s a guy. And when I’m finished with you, the guys will be queuing around that grand piano!”

  Dibian has her color back. And fuck, but I think it’s unearthing some of my truths that has helped her most. But Dibian is the last person I want to know about my private affair. She won’t mean to but, if she gets wind, she’ll blab about me and Will without realizing.

  “I heard Will stepped in when you were sick. Somebody told me he took you home.” Dibian pushes.

 
“Yes. His maid was there more than he was.”

  “Do you know that over the years I’ve become pretty good at working out when I’m being served fiction?”

  “I’m concentrating on climbing the career ladder and taking your job, so you’d better treat me right.” I pick up empty ice cream cartons and take them to the bin. “I don’t need a man. And most of them have no interest in me. Unless they need football scores. I always have that info.”

  “Oh, Izzy. You protest way too much.”

  “I don’t do relationships, Dibs. Too much shit.” I’ve fudged and tried my best. But I know my lines stink like Stilton left in the midday sun. And Dibian wouldn’t believe me, even if I’d brought them out on a wooden board complete with grapes and crackers.

  My secret’s out and I know it. And so, most sadly of all, does she.

  * * * *

  Hangley Grange is four miles away from Netherfield in Totteridge, one of North London’s ultra-wealthy, mock countryside super suburbs. Given how brief my first stay here was, I decide to take more notice on this visit.

  I park on Waggon Way and walk up an overgrown pathway with a bin store. There, a twenty-foot-high security wall and an army of anti-intruder camera sentinels are dotted like buzz-off bling.

  It’s a lot less scenic than the front way in. I feel like a lowly tradesman, pushing back overhanging bushes to find the single door entrance. I use an entry code Will gave me and the door clicks open.

  A meadow-style pathway leads me to an open expanse of rolling lawn. Fuck, this place is huge. No wonder Mo was impressed.

  There are lights for dramatic floodlighting and modern sculpture strategically placed. A fountain graces the expansive lake, and when I round a cave-style stone garden worthy of Capability Brown at Chatsworth, there’s an ornate secret Japanese pagoda.

  “Nice one, Will. Rockin’ it.”

  I have to remind myself that Will isn’t the owner. These magical details are the brainchild of Paul Bates, one-time England squad captain and most coveted striker at AC Milan. Who could’ve guessed a soccer star could be so garden landscapes and horticulture attuned?

 

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