by Liam Livings
Buggeration.
Clara-Bell had said no one would die, and it couldn't be any worse than seeing Jenny Sinatra-Hamilton.
'But this time, I don't have your old school, known her since she was a girl, contacts to fall back on. This time I'm on my own. In fact this time, I'm worse than on my own, because I walked out, mid-term and left him in a fix. I've to deal with my very own solid gold twattery, once again. It was all of my own making.'
Clara-Bell said, 'Don't be so dramatic, darling. It was no such thing. He paid you off to the end of the school year. Quick welfare investigation. All signed off on your GP's statement about your mental health. It could've been so much worse.'
'It's the truth.'
Lucy had just laughed when I told her. 'So you're having a terminal meeting with old Farnham are you? Marvellous. Wish I could sit and watch.'
'You're not helping, thank you very much. This could be it. He could fire me. Then it'll be the end of that little contract.'
'So you'll get another one. You've still got the magazine stuff. You must stop catastrophising, it does get rather tedious. Everything is always going to end for the worse with you.'
'I'm not always wrong.'
'That particular topic, is banned. I am not going round in circles talking about that letter to that man. I cannot have that conversation with you any longer. If he rings he rings, if he doesn't he doesn't. That's the end of it. Now, make sure you're smart for when you meet old Farnham. He won't take kindly to trampy Simon turning up.'
I sat in the corridor outside Mr Farnham's office, smart dark jeans, a flowery shirt, jacket and pointy leather shoes, all new, from my recent shopping trip. The walls covered in past headmasters, the floor squeaking against my shoes.
His secretary, Miss Manning had informed me he had another appointment due now, but that she was sure he'd see me when he had a moment.
Mr Farnham poked his head out of his door, looked both ways along the corridor and noticed me. 'Ah, Payne, you're back are you. I've another appointment, he's late actually. But since you're here, I can squeeze you in. What is it you wanted to see me about?'
'I've come about some work.' Truth.
'Supply eh? Wanting to come back to teaching do you eh? Well, let's see what we can do.' He led me into his office, and we sat at opposite sides of his enormous oak leather topped desk.
I noticed the oak covered walls, stuffed with worthy books. The light streamed through the six-foot tall window, illuminating the dust as it floated around the room.
'English teaching is it you're after eh, Payne?'
'Not quite, although thank you for the offer. I'm here to talk about the school's website.'
'What concern is that of yours, now you don't work for us?'
'That's the thing. I sort of have been working for you.'
'Doing what? I know all the teachers in this school - albeit a passing knowledge of the supply teachers we're sent, permanent, NQTs - everyone. It's my job to know that, you know, Payne.'
I nodded. I was aware of this fact. It was one of the things he used to remind us almost every Monday morning in the staff room before saying he was all seeing, all hearing, and if something was going on in his school, he wanted to know about it, PDQ. Pretty darn quick. 'As I said, it's about the website, the blog. You e-mailed me wanting to talk about it.'
'No, I've not e-mailed you, Mr Payne, not since we said goodbye and I wished you all the best. Bloody sad show, I thought, you being unwell, and not able to return to teaching. Still, we kept calm and carried on, as I always do.'
Keep calm. That's something I should take hold off and use now, I sensed it would be a helpful life raft to grab onto. 'You might remember the e-mail you sent to Michael Mountsford?' I asked quietly, slowly, calmly.
He looked up from his desk. 'Yes, what about it, Payne?'
'That's why I'm here. I am he.'
'Has he told you to come here instead? Shy lad is he eh?'
'No, I am Michael. He is me. It's my pen name.'
'You mean, all this time, I've been e-mailing him, and paying him, it's been going to you all along?'
I nodded.
'Foxed me haven't you?' He drummed his fingers on the leather desk top. 'Foxed me.'
'I was going to tell you, but it never came up.'
He banged his fist on the desk. 'Why the bloody cloak and dagger act, eh, Payne? Why?'
'Would you have given me the work when I was still teaching here?'
'Course not.'
'I rest my case, m'lord.'
'I'm not happy with this, Payne, not happy at all. This is a bit of a fix you've got us into. You've made me look like a complete idiot.'
Now was not the time for jokes, so I kept my first thought to myself. 'I think you've got the hang of the social media stuff pretty well. The web hits have more than tripled in the last few months.'
'Tripled, you say.' His eyes were wide.
'More than. And the Facebook page has over a thousand friends, and the Twitter account has almost as many followers.'
'Friends and followers, eh?' He looked up, unclenching his fist. 'And that's good is it, Payne?' 'In four months, it's pretty amazing.' I reminded him about the day when the school had been closed due to snow, and how the announcements on social media had spread the word within minutes, as opposed to the phone tree system they had before, which inevitably resulted in a few pupils arriving at a closed school, having battled all morning through the snow to get there. 'So what news is there of the school that I can blog about in future? New teachers, new subjects, any building or refurbishments happening? Something about the after school activities, the pastoral record of the school maybe?'
'Indeed. I'm sure there' are things we can announce over the coming term. Everyone did prefer your way of warning pupils and parents about the school's closure in the snow to what we used to do. Much less for us to do, I noticed. One Twittering and it just spread about, it seemed.'
'That's social media.'
'How come some of the blogging you do has a lot of people saying things about it, and others, it's just silence.'
'Commenting, that's a bit if an inexact science. People read things, but they don't always comment. No need mostly. Doesn't mean they haven't read it though. The web stats show that.' I opened a folder and pushed a paper with graphs showing the web stats across the desk.
After reading the paper he leant back in his chair, staring out of the window. The room was silent for what felt like an hour, but was actually more like a minute. He stroked his chin and rocked slightly on his chair. It creaked. He finally turned to me and held out his hand for me to shake. 'Good show, Simon. Or should I say, Michael? No harm done, I suppose.'
'Never was meant to be.' I smiled. 'You mentioned something about the school newsletter which goes to all the parents.'
'Yes, the PTA have asked for the bloggings to be in the newsletter. Can you do that do you think? I said I'd consult with my social media expert and get back to them. So ... '
Social media expert. Who'd have thought it. I think I've dodged the bullet here. He said it was sent home with pupils twice a term. I asked if they had other contact details for the parents, e-mails etc, and explained we - clearly meaning me - could combine the blog with the newsletter and e-mail it as an html newsletter direct to their inboxes. Once I explained that html was just another word for online, and that with some templates set up and the e-mail addresses I could look after that as well, saving them thousands in printing every term, his eyes lit up before asking me to put together a proposal for him to get the Board to sign off, with costs for my time, costs and time for printing etc.
He shook my hand again, more firmly this time, as I stood by the door. 'Thank you for coming in to meet me. It's been a most illuminating time, meeting your alter ego, Michael Mountsford. And as for the mix up about Michael and Simon, I think we'll stick to the Michael Mountsford e-mail and invoicing, unless anyone queries it. No harm done, I'd say, no harm done.' He patted my back
hard and continued to squeeze my hand.
Chapter 28
In my study, I was staring at a blank page on my laptop's screen, desperately trying to do an exercise about free writing Clara-Bell had e-mailed the group. Even though I'd missed the last few meetings, she still kept me on the mailing list and called me every now and again on the pretext of the magazine letters, but really to check how I was. I knew it was transparently obvious, but I allowed her in. Her warmth and generosity were a balm to my sore ego.
My phone rang. It was Darren. He had his own ring tone, the theme tune from Cagney and Lacey: it was seventies, and a bit heroic while still being a bit kitsch. He'd loved it when I told him the first time. I began to smile at that memory. I smiled a bit more - he wanted to talk. Then I stopped myself. Who knew what he wanted to do? He could just be calling to shout abuse at me down the phone. It'd happened before with other boyfriends.
'What you doing?' his voice filled the room, I'd put him on speaker-phone so if he shouted it wouldn't hurt my ears.
'Trying to write. Nothing.'
'I read your letter. Jay brought it round. Said I could at least give it a read then make up my mind. I cried, I laughed, then I cried again, then I laughed again.'
I mumbled. 'Oh.'
'Simon, if this is how you write a letter then I can't be responsible for you stopping writing.'
'What do you mean?'
'You've got to use all this in something you write, in some story, a book, I don't know, something.'
'What, you, the group, everything?'
'Err, yeah.'
'Where are you?'
'In my car outside.'
'Outside my house?'
'No, I'm outside the Taj Mahal, course your house.'
I allowed myself a smile, this time a bit more certain. 'Do you want to come in?'
'What do you think?'
I ran out of the house and saw his mad seventies wedge-shaped car, parked outside in all its vinyl roof, green metallic sheen and chrome bumper glory. He got out the car in his full seventies retro tracksuit get up - dark blue with light blue stripes, and perfect white trainers. He leant towards me and kissed me, his tongue exploring my mouth. He pushed me backwards and I leant against his car.
He pulled away from the kiss. 'Oi oi oi, careful of the paintwork, no zips and that.'
'Shall we go inside, I think we're setting off some sort of neighbourhood gay watch alarm?' We walked inside, holding hands, my heart felt as if it was about to burst.
I slammed the door and Darren stood in the middle of the living room, his tracksuit top crumpled on the floor. A grin spread wide across his face, his perfect white teeth shining slightly crookedly at me. I could see his excitement through his tracksuit bottoms as he stood in a plain white crew neck T-shirt, his hands on his hips in the butchest way I'd ever seen anyone put their hands on their hips.
I walked towards him, aiming for the elasticised waist of his trousers, I could hardly wait to pull them down and see what was underneath. He put his arm out just as I reached him. 'One thing.' He stopped smiling.
'Okay.'
'No more lies.' He looked me in the eyes, no smile, completely straight mouth.
'No more lies.' I nodded.
'I can cope with tempers, sadness, anything really, but I won't do lies again.'
I grabbed his hand, which was against my chest and kissed it. 'I promise.'
He nodded.
'Now, let's see what's underneath these trousers.' I pulled myself towards him and removed his trousers in one swift movement as he took his T-shirt off. He stood, straining against his bright yellow, made-in-Australia, figure-enhancing underpants, the trousers round his ankles, stuck with his trainers still on. He smiled a wide, white toothy grin, which met his eyes, and I knew he was as happy as I was. 'C'm on then, your turn, get 'em off!' He walked forward to grab at my trousers and tripped on his, landing in a heap on the floor, laughing.
I leant down next to him, asking if he was okay.
'Bit sore, some bits might need you to kiss 'em better, is that all right?'
'Shall we go into the bedroom, it's a bit softer than the floor?'
He removed his shoes and tracksuit bottoms then stood. Noticing I was still completely clothed, he asked me to take off one item of clothing with each step towards the bedroom.
At first I felt quite self-conscious: this would be the most he'd seen of my body before. Then I realised he was only wearing his underwear, so what did I have to feel embarrassed about. Every time another piece of clothing came off he complimented me on my 'beautiful chest' or my 'smooth arms' or 'how impressively large those feet are, I wonder what that means' until we were stood at the door to my bedroom in only our underwear - a room which hadn't seen any sort of action with another human being for a very long time, unless I counted the time Lucy and her husband had crashed there one drunken night and almost broken the bed springs while I tried to sleep on the sofa.
Which I didn't.
He pulled at my underwear and it came down. Kneeling on the floor, he took me in his mouth, exploring, licking, squeezing with his mouth as I steadied myself against the door frame. After a few short moments I told him he'd have to stop, before it was too late, and I wanted my turn too. He stood and kissed me, pushing against my chest, pressing onto me which drove me so wild I had to pull back and take a deep breath to compose myself. He'd been straining against his underwear for a while now so when I pulled his pants down he gasped with the relief. I resumed kissing him, while pulling on him with my hand, growing in pace as our kisses became more bitey, and moved to one another's necks. He grabbed me and reciprocated what I was doing to him - pulling, at first gently, then harder and harder. We stared into one another's eyes as the rhythm and speed of our hands built in intensity with the look in our eyes. And then with a gasp and a bit of trembling leg action, we were both done. Finished.
We fell together into a pile at the door of my bedroom, he lay on top of me, his athletic frame resting on my desk jockey body, which minutes before he'd told me was 'perfect' and 'real sexy like'. Our breathing slowed together.
A while later, after dozing in bed, laying like spoons, alternating who was the inner spoon as we turned in the bed, we lay together sipping our drinks, which I'd fetched in a frantic dash wearing only a towel.
'I was really hurt. Proper fucked up you know. You know that, don't you?' He stroked my face.
I nodded.
There was a pause before Darren explained really, how his ex's lies had come from nowhere, because up to that point he hadn't lied to him - 'Not as far as I know anyway' - and that after the lies he didn't know what to believe and what not to believe. 'A year's worth of savings it was. All gone. Spunked up the wall on poker games with computers and people online.'
'No more lies.'
He squeezed my hand. 'Still, I suppose it could've been worse.'
'With me, or the ex?'
'Both, now I think about it. Imagine if he'd been cheating on me, using online sex rooms and webcams with people. And you, in some ways it'd be worse if you were an ex-cocaine addict, 'cause we could never have done this.' He shrugged.
'Do you have to pay for those online sex rooms and webcams then?'
'Why do you ask?'
'So, is cheating worse than just spending the money?'
'Dunno, never thought of it like that I suppose. Never needed to.'
'Well you don't need to worry now.' I leant across the bed and kissed him. He kissed me back and soon we were reaching under the duvet at one another's bodies, rolling about on the bed, the duvet tangling up with our legs.
Afterwards, I stared across at him in my bed, his perfect sporty, hair-free athletic chest poking out above the duvet, my bony desk jockey chest now covered with a T-shirt. 'Why'd you put that on, it spoils the view.' He pulled at my T-shirt.
'I'm embarrassed. Doesn't really compare to you does it?'
'That's why I like it. Didn't I tell you, the blokes I used to pick up
down Vauxhall were always the ones who only wore tracksuits at weekends. Rest of the week they were in suits and ties. I could always tell, soon as I saw them, striding about, adjusting the tracksuits all the time.'
I took a deep breath. 'Fuck knows what I'm going to write about now. Now I can't come to your group, I'm stuck for story ideas.'
'You can't come to the group, no, 'cause you're not an ex-addict. Them's the rules. But now you're the partner of an ex-addict, I'm sure you'll hear about it from me. Sure we can work something out eh.'
Chapter 29
He said he was a good gardener. He said he loved doing it and that he did it for his parents all the time, to help pay for his keep. He insisted on coming round mine to see what my back garden needed. 'See if any of my bush needs trimming.' I smiled across the breakfast table. Both of us wearing dressing gowns; he'd brought one to hang on my bedroom door, for when he stayed over.
'Your bush looks all right as far as I can see.' He leant sideways and stared at my lap. 'Nope, nothing wrong there. When do you want me to do the gardening?'
'Oh, we're actually talking about gardening now are we?'
'What else?'
'What about next weekend. Let's not rush into things, shall we.'
He poked his head out the window to look at my back garden. 'Could do with a bit of attention. I can see that from here. Come on, it'll be a laugh.'
'Will it? Why do you think I don't do it myself? All that dirt and wet and outside.' I shuddered at the thought.
'You don't need to do it. Just tell me what wants doing and I'll get on with it. You can bring me refreshments, and make me a hearty lunch. Me Tarzan, you Jane.' He banged his chest in an exaggerated manner.
'Yeah, all right, all right. You weren't saying that half an hour ago in bed.' My eyes twinkled at him as I remembered watching his face below me as he lay on the bed, me standing on the floor, watching myself going in and out of him as his face squirmed with pleasure and he shouted for more.