The Tutor

by Daniel Hurst

  There is another reason though why I didn’t want Michael’s lessons to be held in here. I don’t like the thought of Petra sitting in this seat and touching my things. It’s not because she might damage anything or misplace something. It just makes me feel excited that she could be sitting where I am right now, and I need to prevent anything that will make me feel even more thrilled about her than I already do.

  A distraction, that’s what I need. I reach for my headphones and stuff them into my ears before I can be seduced anymore by the dulcet tones of the Swedish voice outside. Like the sailors who were pulled onto the rocks by the songs from the Sirens in Greek mythology, I need to block my hearing so I can’t be seduced into doing something that will not end well for me.

  As I begin to play some more football highlights on my laptop and listen to the sound of the commentator through the earplugs, I feel good about how mature I am being. Eight weeks and Petra will be gone, and then Amy will be the only woman I see and hear around here. My wife will remain while the pretty Swede will be just a pleasant memory.

  I can do it. It’s easy. Just don’t think about her and how perfect she looks.

  But what about my son? He has to sit with her and try to study Maths.

  Good luck, my boy.

  You’re going to need it.

  14

  MICHAEL

  I haven’t listened to a word of what my tutor has said to me since I sat down. It’s not that I don’t like the sound of her voice. I do. It’s lovely. It’s just that her beauty is overwhelming.

  I can’t believe education can be so fun. If only all my teachers had been like Petra, maybe I wouldn’t be in this position now. But I’m glad I am. I’m glad I get to spend some time with this majestic woman.

  ‘Michael?’

  I snap out of my daydream when I realise that Petra is staring at me. I quickly look down at the textbook in front of me and frown to make it look like I’m searching for an answer. But I have no idea what the question is, so I’ve got no chance of finding it.

  ‘I was asking if there is any particular area you would like to start with first? An area that you feel needs improving the most?’

  I keep my eyes on the book on the table because looking up will distract me even more. Petra wants to know if there is a particular part of Mathematics that I struggle with. Where do I start? It would be easier to say all of it. But then I might come across as being stupid, and I don’t want to do that, although maybe she wouldn’t care. She is here to help me, after all. Maybe I should just be honest.

  ‘I’ve always struggled with probabilities.’

  Petra nods and makes a note on a piece of paper. Her handwriting is small and neat, not at all like mine. My English teacher once said that my writing resembled a drunk spider that had staggered across the page. I thought that was quite funny and the rest of the class did too, but my parents didn’t. They accused me of being lazy and said I knew perfectly well how to write, but I just couldn’t be bothered. They are right, of course. I can’t be bothered. I’m not going to be a writer when I leave school, so why does it matter if my handwriting is sloppy? Then again, I’m not going to be a mathematician either.

  What am I going to be?

  ‘Anything else?’

  I turn a few pages in the GCSE Maths book that Petra brought with her, scanning my eyes over all the various topics of this subject that I hate so much.

  Algebra. Geometry. Fractions.

  It’s all so dull and all so painful. I’ve spent years of my life listening to people talk about these things, and hardly any of it has stuck in my brain. It’s hardly a surprise when it’s so boring. I’m not sure how Petra is going to make any of this more appealing to me. But who cares? As long I get to sit with her, that’s alright with me.

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ I’m aware that I have slipped into a daydream again. I need to stop doing that, or she is going to think that I’m weird.

  ‘I’ve never been a fan of Pythagoras,’ I say when my eyes land on that dreaded word on Page 47 in this chunky textbook.

  ‘Who is?’ Petra replies, and I look up to see her smiling at me. I watch her write down that word and even from across the table, I can read it so clearly. She really is a neat writer. That is when I realise that this woman is the complete opposite of me. She is clearly someone who has dedicated herself to learning. She writes well and speaks well, even in her second language. She obviously knows everything about what is in this textbook, or she wouldn’t be preparing to teach it. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss further education. Maybe college and university would be good.

  Maybe those places are full of people like her.

  ‘Okay, I’ve already made a little plan of how we should tackle these next eight weeks before your exam,’ Petra says, and she slides a piece of paper across the table towards me. ‘I will adjust it based on areas you think need more work, as well as what I observe over our first few lessons. But take a look and let me know what you think.’

  I missed half of what she just said because I was too busy noticing how perfect her hand was when she passed me the piece of paper. But I tell myself to focus and read the writing on it now so that I can give her a proper answer and not just some mumbled form of agreement.

  ‘This looks good,’ I say, even though it is just a schedule of revision for the next eight weeks that promises to be very difficult, very laborious and in the end, probably pointless.

  ‘I will share a copy with your parents as well. But I just wanted to let you have a look first and see what you thought.’

  I wince a little at hearing Petra mention my parents as if they need to supervise and double-check everything that involves me. It makes sense that they do because they are paying this woman and want to make sure that they are getting value for money. But it is a reminder to me of how young I am and how much older Petra is. I wish we had met somewhere else and not in my mum and dad’s house. Somewhere for adults, like a bar or club. Then she could see that I’m not some child who needs supervising. I can be a grown-up.

  I can be someone she might be interested in.

  ‘Is that okay?’ Petra asks, and I silently curse myself for not answering her quicker again. She must be starting to wonder what she has got herself into now considering all my long pauses and lack of speech. I don’t want her to think I’m stupid. I want her to think that I’m cool.

  ‘Yeah, this looks alright,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders and trying to give off a carefree vibe that will tell her how chilled and relaxed I am about this and life in general. But she doesn’t seem to warm to my display of casualness and takes back the piece of paper without a smile, which upsets me a little.

  ‘Okay, if you turn to page eighteen and we’ll get started with probability.’

  She’s very professional. I wish she would just stop talking about Maths and start talking about herself. Her background. Her experiences. Her hopes. Her dreams.

  Her surname.

  I still need that so I can find her on social media later. But there’s time. For now, I do as I am told. I turn to page eighteen and prepare to be taught probability.

  What’s the probability that Petra and I might share a kiss at some point over the next eight weeks? I feel bad when I predict that the probability is most likely zero.

  But I didn’t know then that I was going to learn a lot over the next eight weeks and my predictions on everything would change.

  Including that one.

  15

  AMY

  For the first time in a while, I feel completely at ease. My son’s looming exams have caused much worry about the future, but those worries have been eased by our hiring of a tutor. Petra is in the kitchen with Michael right now helping him with those parts of Maths that he struggles with the most. I’m not expecting miracles, but I feel confident that she will help him to perform better when the big day comes at the end of the term.

  We have told her to focus on Maths be
cause that is Michael’s weakest subject, but depending on how it goes, we might be able to get some Science in too. Petra has told us that she is an all-rounder so we might as well use her talents while we have her. She isn’t too expensive either, although I’m going to have to make a few cutbacks in the short term while we are paying her. I’ll pick up a few cheaper options in the supermarket during the weekly shop, and I’ll skip having my nails done for the next couple of months too. Buying nicer food and having a manicure every now and again are the little luxuries I treat myself to, but I can make a sacrifice for Michael’s education. The important thing is that he has the best chance to succeed in his exams and I am confident now that we have given him that.

  I’m sitting on the sofa watching Ant and Dec run through one of their typical comedy routines on yet another reality show that they are hosting when I give in to the urge that has been niggling at me for a while. I pick up my mobile and tap on the Facebook app, but I’m not on the hunt for status updates and photos of family and friends.

  I’m going to have a little peek at Petra’s profile.

  I have her full name, so I could have done this sooner, but I didn’t want to. I have told myself that it is because I trust her and don’t feel the need to go snooping, but it’s not really that. It’s because I expect to feel more than a tinge of jealousy when I see that she probably looks even better in her online photos than she does in real life. But I can’t help myself right now. I want to do some social media snooping.

  I type her name into the little search bar and hit the button, and her profile is the one that pops up first. There aren’t too many people with the same name as her and of them, she is the only one who has left Scandinavia and changed her address to Nuneaton. Not the typical place for a Swede to end up, but I’m glad she is here. My son would be stuck without her.

  Her profile page opens up on my phone, and I was right. She does look even better in her profile photo than she does in real life. I know most people do, but this is ridiculous. She literally looks like a model. The blonde hair. The blue eyes. The pale skin. And that smile.

  I’m surprised she has ended up being a tutor. With looks like this, she could have been anything that she wanted to be.

  I scroll down her timeline, but there isn’t much there because she is private, which means I can only see the odd time she has changed her profile photo. I will have to add her as a friend to see more, but I don’t want to do that because then she will know that I have been stalking her. Plus then she will see my profile photo and it is not as flattering as hers. Compared to this woman, I look like a yeti that has walked out of the sea. Okay, I’m not that bad, but I can’t compare to Petra.

  Nobody can.

  I hope Michael is concentrating in there. I’m sure he must be finding it difficult. In an ideal world, his tutor wouldn’t be somebody who I know he will find attractive but if that is what it takes to get him to revise then so be it. I know he likes women, although he has never brought one home to introduce to me. He makes out like he is shy, but I see him texting on his phone and being all coy, and I know it’s not just his friends from the football team that are sending him messages. But he’s only sixteen, so I’m glad he hasn’t got himself into a serious relationship with one of the girls from his classes yet. He has plenty of growing up to do and plenty of time to fall in love. He certainly doesn’t need anything else to distract him from his schoolwork.

  Having looked at as much as I can on Petra’s profile, I retreat out of it sheepishly, feeling a little bad for looking her up but satisfied that she is at least who she says she is. As soon as I am back on my newsfeed, I see all the posts from my friends, and this is more what I am used to. Middle-aged mums writing statuses asking for recommendations for things that could help them make extra cash or save extra cash. There is also the usual array of photos of glasses of wine, children’s drawings and a few book covers, some of which come recommended, some of which are to avoid.

  I wonder what Petra’s timeline looks like. Much more interesting than mine, I imagine. All bars and nightclubs, or maybe yoga sessions and healthy eating. Young, tanned and toned people living their lives. It’s time to come off social media. It always leaves me feeling like I’m missing out on something.

  Putting my phone back down, I turn my attention back to Ant and Dec. The two cheeky chappies are up to more antics, and I smile because this is all I need.

  My family is safe. I am happy. And I have a glass of red wine.

  I don’t need to share any of it on Facebook to know that.

  THE FOURTH LESSON

  The tears hadn’t stopped even though the funeral had finished two weeks ago. For the woman who had lost so much, she had to wonder if they ever would. It wasn’t easy to move on, least of all because she found herself sitting in a home that was full of the photos of the person she had lost.

  That fire hadn’t just taken a life. It had taken her soul too.

  Sometimes the sky outside the window was clear and blue, and other times it was dull and grey, but the one thing that stayed the same was the feeling in her stomach. It was the feeling that she had lost something that she could never get back.

  She noticed the textbooks on the bookcase across the room and wondered if there was one that would teach her how to deal with being a widow. But there wasn’t. They were all about Maths, Science and English, and there was even a book on Religious Studies.

  But nothing about how to handle grief.

  Education had given her husband’s life so much meaning and purpose, but it had also ripped it apart. School hadn’t been particularly fun for her, but she never hated it as much as she did right now. School was no longer just some tedious part of everybody’s life. For her, it was the place that had taken the life of the man she loved.

  Why had he had to work late that night of all nights? Why hadn’t he just come home on time and avoided the devastating fire? Why couldn’t he still be here now?

  There were no answers to be found, which was why she opened the second bottle of wine. It was also why she reached for the pills. Soon there would be no waking her up and then she would be with her husband in the afterlife.

  The fourth lesson is that for some people, the only way to get over death is to enter into it too.

  16

  MICHAEL

  I was right. My mates are jealous of me. That’s because I managed to find out what Petra’s surname was and now I am showing them all a photo of her on my phone.

  It was Svensson. Petra Svensson.

  How exotic.

  ‘You jammy sod!’ Nev says as he gets a good look at the Facebook photo I have just shown him. ‘As if she is your tutor!’

  ‘You better believe it,’ I say with a smug grin on my face and it only gets wider as my phone gets passed around the group.

  We’re sitting in class waiting for our form teacher to come in and start the day, but for now, I am enjoying my five minutes of fame. The lads here think I am some kind of God for having Petra as my personal tutor and I am more than happy to let them keep thinking that.

  ‘How old is she?’ asks Jonny, another one of my mates.

  ‘Twenty-eight,’ I reply, raising my eyebrows suggestively.

  ‘She’s gorgeous,’ says Ben, another one of my friends who is just as jealous as the rest of them.

  ‘You should see her in real life. She’s even better than the photos,’ I say, happy to exaggerate because why not?

  ‘No way! Is she?’ Jonny cries, and I nod to confirm that I am telling the truth.

  ‘I can’t believe this. I get good grades and get nothing, and you get bad ones and end up with her!’ Nev moans and I laugh at my best friend’s jealousy.

  ‘Lads, what can I say? Work smarter, not harder.’

  We’re having so much fun looking at Petra’s picture that we fail to notice that our form tutor, Mr Hamilton, has walked in and is now standing at the front of the room with a stern expression on his face. Everybody else is in their sea
ts, but the four of us are still crowded around my phone at the back of the room.

  ‘Is there something that you would like to share with us?’ Mr Hamilton asks, and that’s when we notice him.

  I quickly grab back my phone and head for my seat. ‘No, it’s alright,’ I reply as I slump into my seat and put my mobile in my pocket.

  ‘Michael’s got a fit tutor, sir,’ Nev says cheekily, and I do my best not to laugh because I know that Mr Hamilton won’t be impressed with that comment.

  ‘Excuse me?’ our teacher asks, and I shake my head at Nev to tell him to shut up.

  ‘Michael’s got a tutor, sir. And she’s from Sweden!’

  That was Jonny this time, and it seems I made a mistake showing my friends the photo here. I should have waited until we were on the playground at lunchtime. But I couldn’t wait. I had to show them as soon as possible.

  I had to show them how lucky I was.

  ‘You have a tutor, Michael?’ Mr Hamilton asks me, and I can feel the eyes of everybody in the class on me now.

  ‘Err, yeah, I do,’ I reply.

  ‘And what is the purpose of this tutor?’

  ‘Just helping out with my exams,’ I say, feeling less prideful now and more embarrassed.

  I wonder if Mr Hamilton is going to make a big deal about me having a tutor. Maybe he will make a joke and everyone will laugh at me for needing extra help with my studies. Even having a hot tutor isn’t worth being made fun of.