by Daniel Hurst
I feel alive at this moment, but I know that feeling is going to stop as soon as I step inside my house and go back to my normal routine. Work in the study. Do some housework. Chat to my wife about work. Chat to my kids about their schoolwork. Work, work, work. I wish I could feel the way I feel now more often.
Energetic. Motivated. Alive.
I know the running is causing me to feel good in the short term, but there isn’t anything I can do to keep this feeling going in the long term. Actually, there is. I know exactly what I could do to feel like this on an ongoing basis. But I can’t allow myself to think about it too much. I made a promise to my wife and myself that I would never have an affair again.
Just get inside, close the door and go and give Amy a kiss on the cheek. Then stop thinking about Petra and stop thinking about what it would be like to see her again.
I’ve barely been home five minutes when I realise that it isn’t going to be as easy as that.
THE EIGHTH LESSON
The envelopes were opened in different ways. Some of them were ripped apart enthusiastically by excited hands eager to see what the contents would reveal. Some were carefully unsealed by owners who were conscious not to damage the paperwork inside. And some were opened begrudgingly, more out of necessity rather than any real desire to find out what their fate would be. But all envelopes did get opened. Whether the pupil loved school or hated it, they still had to find out if they had passed their exams.
Some celebrated. Some cried. Some laughed. And some ripped the paper to shreds because they just didn’t care anymore now that it was over. But all of them got their results. All of them got their just rewards for the amount of hard work and effort they had put into their secondary school careers.
But there was one pupil who didn’t receive a letter. She wasn’t present in the hall that day, nor was she visited by a postman while she sat at home and looked out on her quiet street. She had no letter to open because she had no results to receive. Her exams had been cancelled, and her future was still very much in doubt, unlike all her classmates who had just found out if their post-school plans could now go ahead.
That’s because she was waiting to get the final verdict from the judge who was presiding over her case. She was waiting to find out if she would be found guilty of burning the school down and killing the teacher who had been working late inside.
GCSE results day is surely one of the most stressful days in any person’s life, but it pales into comparison when put up against the possibility of prison time. The differences between an A, B, C or D are nothing compared to the difference between being able to walk around in the fresh air as a free person or being condemned to a small cell. All those fears, tears and cheers that the pupils of Sharpbell High were experiencing today were nothing compared to the emotions running through that girl as she waited for her own results day.
There was no emotion when the verdict finally came down. She didn’t phone her parents to give them the news because they were sitting behind her in the dock. She didn’t celebrate with her friends because they had all cut ties with her. And she didn’t have the chance to look back on all the hard work and sacrifices she had made to reach this point like all the other pupils did that day. All she could do was think about how much of an injustice this was.
The eighth lesson is that nobody forgets their results day.
36
AMY
I’m still raging when I hear Nick walk through the door. Petra left ten minutes ago, and her departing comments are still ringing in my ears. Telling me that she finds my husband attractive and that the two of them could have had fun together is disgraceful.
Who the hell does she think she is?
I should have run after her. I should have kicked her off my driveway instead of letting her walk off it. I should have reminded her that beauty doesn’t mean she can get away with making comments like that. But I didn’t. I just watched her drive away. At least she is gone now.
My intuition was right.
She was a threat.
I can hear Nick puffing and panting in the downstairs hallway as he takes off his trainers and I’m already on my way out of the bedroom to tell him what Petra said. But I pause just before I reach the stairs.
My paranoia has kicked in again.
Should I tell Nick that Petra likes him? How will that make him feel? What if he likes her too? I know it’s stupid and I know he will take my side, but I find myself not saying the words that I had been waiting to say when he got back. Of course, he will tell me that she shouldn’t have said those things and he will probably be as disgusted as I am. But how will I know what he is really thinking? How do I know that he won’t secretly be thrilled to find out that the Swedish tutor found him attractive?
‘You okay?’
I look down and see Nick staring up at me from the bottom of the stairs. His cheeks are flushed, and he looks either incredibly sweaty or incredibly wet from the rain, but he also looks concerned. He is probably wondering why I am standing at the top of the stairs and looking down at him without saying anything.
‘Yeah, fine!’ I reply quickly. ‘Good run?’
‘It was alright,’ Nick says, pulling off his waterproof jacket. ‘Managed to go further than I expected.’
‘You were gone ages,’ I say, because only now do I realise how long he has actually been gone.
‘Yeah sorry, I got carried away,’ he tells me, but I know he is lying.
‘You mean you didn’t want to be here when I told Petra that the lessons were ending?’
He looks up at me with that uncomfortable look he wears so well.
‘How did she take it?’ he asks me, and I decide there and then not to tell him everything that was said between us.
‘She was fine. She understood.’
Nick nods.
‘I’m going to jump in the shower. Are the kids in their rooms?’
‘Where else would they be?’
He smiles as he heads up the stairs towards me, and I step back to make room for him on the landing. But instead of moving past me and heading into the bathroom, he stops and puts his hand around my waist.
Then he pulls me in for a kiss.
I’m surprised, but our lips are touching before I can get any words out. When they finally part, I feel almost as flushed as he is.
He winks at me then heads for the bathroom before closing the door and turning the lock. I stand there for a moment thinking about what just happened. The kiss was nice, but something is troubling me. Nick never does things like that. Spontaneous bursts of affection aren’t really his thing. There was only one other time that I can remember him just grabbing me and kissing me passionately out of the blue.
It was just before I found out about him and Tina.
My husband is only passionate when he has someone else on his mind. That time it was his co-worker. But this time who could it be? It can’t be Petra. He wasn’t here when she left. He hasn’t seen her tonight. And he knows he is never going to see her again.
But that doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking about her.
What did they really talk about on the driveway that night? What was Petra really saying when she told me that she could have had some fun with Nick? Was she just winding me up because I had let her go? Was she wistfully thinking out loud about not being able to see the man she fancied anymore? Or was she lulling me into a false sense of security and is really planning on seeing Nick again?
There are so many questions bouncing around in my head right now. The counsellor I saw after Nick’s affair warned me about this. She told me that staying with him might mean that I am always on edge whenever another woman comes into our lives. I hadn’t believed it. I thought I was stronger than that. That’s why I was happy to give Petra the job. But now I know the truth. I still feel just as weak and helpless as I did when I found out about the affair with Tina.
As I listen to Nick whistling in the shower on the other side of the bathroom door, I st
ill feel like something is going to go wrong with my carefully constructed life.
Most of all, I feel afraid.
37
MICHAEL
My new tutor is not as interesting as my old one. Sue is a nice enough woman, and she certainly knows her stuff when it comes to GCSE Maths, but I don’t exactly have the same connection with her as I had with Petra. She doesn’t ask me any personal questions for one thing. In fact, she has made no effort at all to try and get to know me better. All she is interested in is asking me the questions in the textbooks. That is exactly what she has been hired to do, but I can’t help it if I’m not as engaged with her as I was with my old tutor. I can’t help it if she isn’t quite the same. And I can’t help it if I miss Petra.
But it’s not for long.
I am seeing her tomorrow night, and I can’t wait.
As far as my parents know, these lessons with Sue are the only extra tutoring I am getting now. But I am secretly going to Petra’s flat tomorrow, and I am going to continue the lessons we started together before Mum and Dad rudely interrupted them. I can’t tell anybody about my plan, not even my friends at school. While I know they will be devastatingly jealous that I am going to be alone with Petra at her place, I cannot risk the news leaking out and getting back to my parents. I have to keep this quiet.
I have to sacrifice a short-term gain for what will hopefully be a long term one.
I am going to make a move on Petra. I’m not exactly sure when and I’m not exactly sure how but I am going to do it. At some point in one of our lessons, when I am sure that she is going to be receptive, I will move in for a kiss. She could turn me down, but I have to try. And I have a feeling that my chances of success are greater now that we will be at her place away from the watchful eyes of my parents.
I can’t let the fact that my success rate with the opposite sex has been limited thus far in my life. This is different. Petra isn’t some teenager who doesn’t know what she wants. She is an adult, and she is so much better than any of the girls at my school. I feel sorry for my friends because they are only around girls our age. But I’m lucky. I get to be around a real woman.
But it’s going to cost me.
‘It’s worth more than that!’ I say to the bearded man behind the counter. ‘It’s not even been out a year!’
‘I don’t care. I can’t sell it for more than that so I can’t pay more than that for it, can I?’ the man replies with a weary tone to his voice that suggests that he wants to be doing something more with his life than working in a video game store on the high street.
‘You can give me thirty for it, surely?’ I suggest hopefully, but the shake of the head I get in response is confirmation that I am not going to get more than twenty pounds for trading in this old game.
I let out a deep breath and slide the case containing the old football game across the counter. The man slides me a twenty-pound note in return, and I walk out of the shop, consoling myself with the knowledge that I can at least afford my next couple of lessons with Petra now. I don’t mind selling off an old video game to raise the last bit of money I needed to fund my extra-curricular activities with the Swedish woman. I hardly ever play that particular game anyway, but neither does anybody else which explains why that guy was unwilling to pay me any more for it. But I have the cash to give to Petra tonight and that is all that matters for now. I can think about how I am going to get the rest of the money for the following weeks later. I can do some extra chores at home if I have to. It’s not as if Mum and Dad will ever find out what I am spending my pocket money on.
But an exciting thought occurs to me as I prepare to cross the high street and head on towards the bus stop that will take me back home. Maybe I won’t have to keep paying to see Petra. Maybe she will want to see me just because she likes me and not because I am a paying customer. That all hinges on the kiss going well. If I nail it, then it could happen. Then I won’t have to give her any more money, and she won’t have to teach me any more Maths.
We could spend our time together doing more interesting things instead...
The sound of the car horn to my left almost makes me jump out of my skin, and I turn around to see the angry motorist through the windscreen of the white van that almost hit me.
‘It’s a green light!’ the animated man behind the wheel shouts at me through his open window, and I hold up my hand in apology before scuttling quickly across the road and making it back to the safety of the pavement.
That was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention to the traffic lights. I wasn’t concentrating on what I was doing at the time. That’s because I’m thinking about Petra. I can’t help it. She is all I think about. I wonder if this is just a crush or if it is something more. I don’t ever remember feeling this strongly about someone before. I’m usually just thinking about football. But now I’m only thinking about her.
I reach the bus stop and watch the bus trundling down the road towards me, and I can’t help but feel happy. It’s only a few hours now until I get to see Petra again. And this time Mum and Dad won’t be listening to our conversations on the other side of the door.
They won’t be anywhere near us.
38
PETRA
‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ I say to the teenage boy on my doorstep.
I step aside and allow him into my flat, closing the door quickly so that nobody on my floor can see him coming in. It’s not that I have anything to hide but rather that I don’t want my neighbours wondering why I am having youngsters visiting me at my flat. I don’t want them to think about anything when it comes to me. I want to be unremarkable, unnoticeable and entirely forgettable. That makes it easier when I eventually leave this place and move onto the next.
‘Nice flat,’ Michael says, and I think he is being sarcastic until I realise that he probably means it because to him, this is a nice flat. It’s somewhere to call my own, and for a sixteen-year-old who lives under his parents’ roof, that is the ultimate dream.
‘Thanks. It’s not the biggest, but I like it,’ I say, and I’m not lying. The flat is nothing special, just a one-bedroom place with a tiny bathroom and the kitchen and living area combined into one room. But it is fine for what I need it for, which is just a place to base myself for the time being. I will be able to afford somewhere much bigger than this soon, but there is no point spending more than I need to right now. One day I will settle down and treat myself to the kind of home that all my hard work deserves.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I ask Michael as he takes off his hoodie and drapes it over the edge of the sofa.
‘Have you got any beer?’ he asks cheekily, and I know that he is joking, but I’m feeling like a good host.
‘Is Peroni okay?’
Michael seems surprised by my answer. He’s too young to be drinking, but I’m not his mum. He can do whatever he wants when he is under my roof.
‘Errr yeah, sure.’
I smile and head for the fridge, amused by how grown-up Michael just tried to make himself seem with his answer. I wonder how many beers he has had in his life. Other than a couple in the park with his friends or maybe one at Christmas with his dad, I doubt he has much experience when it comes to alcohol intake. But he is more than welcome to have one although the fact that I have bought them in for his dad rather than him means I will only be offering him the one.
Popping the cap on the bottle, I deliver Michael his beer before returning to the kitchen counter where I pour myself my second glass of wine of the evening. Glancing up as I work, I see Michael standing awkwardly by the sofa, clearly too polite to sit down and make himself at home even though he surely wants to. I could tell him to sit, but I like the fact that he is uncomfortable. It’s a different kind of awkwardness to the one he displayed when I was in his own home. He is still nervous around me but for different reasons now.
Picking up my glass, I leave the kitchen and walk into the living area where my pupil awaits. That’s the one good thing
about having a small flat. I don’t have to take more than a couple of steps to get to the next room.
‘Cheers,’ I say, holding out my glass towards him.
‘Oh yeah, cheers,’ Michael replies, and he clinks his beer against my wine except he does it a little too hard and the alcohol starts foaming out of the top of the bottle.
‘Shit, sorry!’ he says, putting his hand over the top of the bottle, which he probably thinks is the right thing to do but only demonstrates to me how inexperienced he is with drinking. Anybody who has had this happen to them before would know that it is better to put the top of the bottle in your mouth to collect the frothing beer that way instead of just putting your hand over it and letting it drip all over the place.
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not the first drink to be spilt here, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.’
I grab the tea towel from the kitchen counter and hand it to Michael, who quickly cleans up his mess. I wait until he is certain that he has got it all before taking back the towel and tossing it back into the kitchen. Finally, I think we are ready to begin.
‘Shall we get started then?’ I suggest.
‘Yeah, can do,’ Michael replies, and I’m positive I detect a bit of disappointment in his face as he says it. He was probably hoping that we would spend the first half an hour drinking and chatting about ourselves instead of revising, but it can’t all be fun and games.
Which reminds me...
‘Have you got the money?’ I ask as I place my wine glass down on a coaster and take a seat on the sofa.
‘Yeah, sure,’ Michael replies and he fishes inside his pockets for a moment before producing a couple of scrunched up twenty-pound notes.
‘Thanks,’ I say as he hands them to me, and I place them down beside my glass. Then I pat the empty sofa seat beside me.