The Pupil

by Dawn Goodwin

  I slurped at the last of my drink and looked at Shelley more closely. ‘So what about you? Are you married? Kids?’ I asked.

  ‘No, just me and my cat. I’m a spinster stereotype. You?’

  ‘Married, two kids: Lily and Jack. Writing is just a hobby for me.’

  ‘So, what do you do – I mean, for work?’

  I was saved from answering by Samuel approaching us.

  ‘Ladies.’ He angled between us and I was amused to hear Shelley giggle again.

  ‘Samuel,’ I replied with a subtle smile.

  ‘Please, we’re all friends now – call me Sam, much less formal. So, what are your thoughts on the course? Worthwhile? Did you get what you wanted from it?’

  Did I imagine his eyes tracking down my visage? I pulled at the open neck of my cardigan.

  ‘Shelley and I were just discussing that.’ I tried to project a more professional intonation onto my words.

  ‘Yes, we were.’ Shelley jockeyed herself in front of me and into his direct eyeline. I was amused at her sudden forthrightness. ‘I thought it was very worthwhile and certainly useful going forward.’

  I stepped forward so that I was back in contention, the two of us like chess pieces manoeuvring around the king. ‘To be honest, I thought there could’ve been a bit more time spent on our own work – perhaps more one-to-one time?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure if there is more you wanted me to help you with, then we could arrange to meet outside of the course if it will help?’ he said to me.

  ‘Oh, that’s so nice of you, Sam. Thank you!’ Shelley gushed, her eyes wide and bright.

  Sam tore his eyes away from me to flick a glance at her. ‘Oh, yes, you too Shelley.’

  The insipid man whose name I’d forgotten earlier but I now remembered was Greg, interrupted us then. He offered another round and Sam moved away with him to help with the order.

  I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket and I excused myself from Shelley to move aside. A text from Paul asking where I was. I kicked myself for not phoning him earlier, but I had been focused on asking Helen to watch the kids first and foremost.

  I texted him back to explain that the kids were sleeping over at Helen’s and that I would be home by around 10 p.m., then shoved my phone back in my pocket. I could deal with the fallout tomorrow.

  *

  The group had thinned by 9.30 p.m. and only myself, Shelley, Sam, Foo, The Gnome and a skinny woman named Lizzie – whose novel told the story of a Nazi woman forced to live in a basement during the war and was disturbingly similar to a certain Anne Frank’s diary – were left nursing our drinks.

  Thin Lizzie, who had been throwing Shelley disdainful looks all evening, was wearing a polyester wrap-around dress that crackled with static every time she moved and I feared we would all combust if we got too near to her. There was also a faint whiff of mothballs about her and I found myself wondering not for the first time that week what I had in common with these people apart from a shared dream of being a writer. This had been so far out of my comfort zone that the week carried a haze of the surreal in my head.

  Having said that, I had actually surprised myself by enjoying the evening and a quick look at my watch made me realise how quickly time had passed. The group – and Shelley and I in particular – had chatted amiably about writing, favourite authors and what our respective writing plans were now that the course was over and I found myself reforming my opinion of most of them, especially the quiet, shy barrel of a woman that was Shelley. She was knowledgeable and candid in her opinions, but only if pressed, and had a compelling feistiness lurking beneath her timid exterior. She was someone who I could imagine was often underestimated.

  I wondered what they all thought of me, what lasting impression I had provided – or if I was as forgettable as Greg.

  Echoing my thoughts out loud, Shelley said to me, ‘I’ve really enjoyed tonight – and I wasn’t keen on coming in the first place as I’m not normally very good at this kind of thing. A bit shy, you know… and I don’t suffer fools gladly.’ She looked over at The Gnome pointedly, whose tendency to mansplain everything was beginning to grate on my nerves.

  I smiled. ‘You and me both.’

  ‘You know, we should meet up again. Maybe swap numbers or something?’ Shelley pushed her glasses up her nose again, like a nervous tic. ‘I… I don’t have that many friends with common interests and none of them get the whole writing thing, so to have someone to bounce ideas off would be great.’

  ‘Sure,’ I replied politely. She reached into her bag for her phone and we exchanged details.

  ‘Right, well, I better head off. It’s been so nice chatting to you.’ Shelley reached up on her tiptoes and gave me a spontaneous hug, to which I didn’t have time to react, before scooping up her coat and making the rounds to say goodbye to the others.

  I knew I should probably be getting home too, so I gathered up my bag and coat.

  ‘You’re not going, are you?’ Sam asked over my shoulder.

  Thin Lizzie and The Gnome were deep in conversation about whether Donald Trump would last out his first term in office. Foo was watching them as if at a tennis match, her head swinging from side to side.

  ‘Please, stay for one more. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you properly yet,’ he added.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ I replied, looking at him from under my lashes, wishing I could. ‘I’m sorry, I really need to get back. But it’s been a really fun evening.’

  ‘I meant what I said earlier. I’d like to carry on working with you if you think it could be helpful?’

  ‘Really? Wow, yes, that would be fantastic.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure.’ He took out his phone and handed it to me to type in my number. I saved it in his contacts under my maiden name of Katherine Baxter, a pseudonym I had adopted for the course and for writing purposes rather than my married name of Katie Hayes.

  ‘Well, it was nice to meet you. Travel home safe,’ he said, reaching out his hand and laying it lightly on my arm.

  ‘Thanks – and you.’

  I smiled to myself as I left the pub.

  *

  I spent the train journey home replaying the week in my head like an old-fashioned show reel. I was so pleased that I had done it. It had taken much cajoling and negotiation to convince Paul that this course wouldn’t be too disruptive for the kids – or him – and that I would still be able to juggle everything at home, along with the extra writing homework I would have and trips into London.

  Paul knew that writing was a hobby of mine, but as far as he was concerned, that was all it was and spending time away from home – and some of my savings – on a course seemed frivolous to him. But who knew where this could lead?

  As the train rattled through the dark suburbs, I caught myself smiling gormlessly out of the window, dreams swirling around my head like elusive dust particles.

  3

  I tried to put Samuel out of my head for the next few days, telling myself that he was just being polite and friendly in offering to help me. Just like I had been when I said I would call Shelley again. It wasn’t likely to happen. I wasn’t one for fostering friendships, especially in these days of social media when it wasn’t easy to keep past mistakes locked out of sight. Besides, when would I find time to see her – or Samuel? I couldn’t imagine Paul being open to me spending my evenings in town instead of at home where I belonged.

  Even so, I couldn’t help myself from constantly checking my phone like a teenager for missed calls and voicemails in between loads of washing, dog walks and shopping lists.

  Three days after the end of the course, I received a text message:

  I’ve been thinking about your book and I’d like to help. Call me, Sam.

  That put the ball firmly in my court. Oh God, what now?

  That evening I waited anxiously for the sound of Paul’s key in the door. I wiped down countertops that were already clean and mindlessly paired socks as the kids stared, fixated, at
their iPads. Not something I would normally let them do before bedtime, especially when Paul was due home at any moment, but my distracted mind couldn’t handle any noise tonight. I’d been jittery with excitement and anxiety since receiving the message, unable to set my mind to anything other than simple chores. It made me realise just how much I wanted to keep writing. It had been a dream of mine when I was younger, but reality had pushed me onto a different career path and the dream was then put in a box on the highest shelf of my mind.

  Now I had the opportunity to reopen that box. The kids were at school all day and my time was spent on mundane household tasks and trips to the gym. I had the hours to spare. But I would have to convince my husband that this stay-at-home mum had grander ambitions than domesticity.

  The minutes ticked past and still no sign of Paul. I finished the sock sorting and cajoled the kids into the bath. More minutes dissolved away as the water splashed over the rim and toothpaste coated the sink.

  Typical that he would be late tonight when I wanted to speak to him.

  Eventually, as I was heading down the stairs after sharing bedtime stories and turning out their lights, I heard his footsteps on the gravel driveway outside.

  He shuffled in on a chilly wind and slammed the door behind him before looking up at me as I descended the rest of the stairs to greet him.

  ‘Hey, how was your day?’ I said lightly. ‘You’re later than expected.’ I approached him to give him a light kiss and clocked the unusual smell of beer on his breath.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, I went to the pub for a quick one with Mike.’

  ‘Okay, well, dinner is ready when you are – cottage pie. I’ve only just turned out the kids’ lights if you want to pop your head in and say goodnight?’

  He threw his coat over the bannister and fawned over Bo for a minute. ‘I don’t want to disturb them if they’re already in bed.’ Then he retreated to the lounge and turned on the news channel.

  I warmed the cottage pie and made a green salad, but by now I had almost convinced myself that it was a stupid idea, I’d never be good enough to get published and that I should stick to my domestic responsibilities. Why rock a stable boat?

  When Paul wandered into the open-plan kitchen and family room for dinner once he had caught up on the day’s news, I was sitting patiently at the table, Bo at my feet and my fingers tapping at a glass of water.

  He sat down opposite me and immediately reached for the salad bowl.

  ‘Smells good, thank you,’ he said before piling greenery onto his plate.

  I went to retrieve the cottage pie from the oven.

  ‘So how was your day?’ I asked over my shoulder before returning to my seat.

  ‘Actually, quite good. We won the Intercept account, which is why Mike and I went for a beer.’

  ‘That’s great news! You’ve been working on that pitch for ages.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a weight off.’

  I watched the top of his head as he shovelled cottage pie into his mouth, a serviette tucked neatly in his lap, his tie still knotted under his collar. His hair had thinned over the years, his scalp naked and vulnerable under the greying strands.

  I served up a small portion for myself, then heard the words come out of my mouth before I knew they had formed. ‘I had an interesting day too. I got a text from my course tutor.’

  So much for letting it go.

  ‘Oh yes? Did you leave your pencil case behind or something?’ He chuckled to himself and carried on scooping food into his mouth. ‘This is very tasty. You always do these simple dishes so well.’

  ‘He really likes my book and wants to help me, see if we can get it published.’ I knew I was exaggerating, but I needed Paul to think there was something to it if he was to agree.

  Paul kept eating and I wasn’t sure if he was actually listening, so I carried on.

  ‘He doesn’t make the offer to everyone.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ His fork finally stilled.

  ‘Well…’

  Before I could answer, he added, ‘And what’s it going to cost?’

  I paused. I hadn’t called Sam back yet because I had wanted to talk to Paul first, but that meant I didn’t have a clue how it would work. It hadn’t crossed my mind that I would possibly need to pay him. I crossed my fingers under the table and blagged it. ‘Nothing, it won’t cost anything. He’s offered to help for free – because he says I’m talented.’

  Paul looked at me closely. ‘Nothing is free in this world, Katie. And you know the kids have to come first. I’ve just secured this new account and I can’t be leaving work early to pick up the kids from school. It would have to fit in around them.’

  And you, right? Don’t do anything that would mean you putting yourself out, of course.

  I swallowed my annoyance with a mouthful of salad. ‘It won’t. I would arrange to meet him during the day when the kids are at school and any writing I can do around them too. If I need to do any evenings, well, you’re here most nights anyway, so you could help with getting them off to bed once in a while? They pretty much do it themselves anyway. And, if not, I can ask Helen to help. Besides, it’s not a done deal yet.’

  Paul resumed eating.

  ‘Please, Paul. I really want to do this. This could be my one opportunity to get my book published and you know it’s something I’ve always wanted to do. I will make sure it doesn’t get in the way of our family, I promise.’

  I knew by the look on his face what he was going to say.

  ‘I don’t need to remind you about what happened when you took on too much the last time. We don’t want to go back there again, do we?’

  ‘First of all, that wasn’t about taking too much on. Secondly, it was years ago and it won’t happen again. I’m a different person now. I have much better coping mechanisms in place.’ I tried to keep my voice even.

  He looked sceptical, but I waited, letting him come to his own decision while also making a secret deal with the devil that if he said no, I would do it anyway, a latent, well-buried streak of rebellion flaring in my gut.

  ‘Okay, but if I think things are spiralling out of control, you agree to call time on the whole thing. No arguments. And don’t get your hopes up – this publishing thing might not happen. It’s just a hobby after all. It might not work out the way you want. Besides, you do such a good job as a mother that I would never be able to fill your shoes here. We need you.’ He smiled at me, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes.

  Thanks for the vote of confidence.

  I exhaled slowly. ‘So, tell me a bit more about the new account.’

  *

  The next morning, after ignoring the usual whispers and contemptuous glares on the school run as I did every day, I returned to my blissfully peaceful house and, instead of tackling the mess that seemed to evolve and grow like bacteria as soon as my back was turned, or walking Bo, who was patiently ghosting my every step, I spent ages debating how long to wait until I called Sam. It was a fine line between appearing overeager and uninterested. I felt like I was back at school, agonising over the prerequisite number of hours before I could call the boy I liked.

  And today in particular I needed some good news.

  I couldn’t concentrate on anything properly, my mind focused on Sam and my chest filling with bubbles every time I thought about the idea of beginning this journey. It had been years since I’d done anything for myself and Paul was right in that the last time hadn’t ended well, to say the least. Maybe I was overreaching.

  I could feel myself oscillating between self-doubt and eagerness.

  By mid-morning I was painfully fidgety, so I grabbed my jacket and bag, clipped on Bo’s lead and headed up the road to the nearest coffee shop for a latte and something unhealthy and comforting.

  The place was warm and heady with caffeine and gossip, and as soon as I sat down at a small table with the coffee mug cradled between my fingers, I called Sam’s number, my fingers nervous and trippy on the buttons. I hoped th
e call would go to voicemail and I had rehearsed a brief message in readiness, but it rang a few times, then Sam answered.

  ‘Hi Katherine.’ His voice was like warm caramel.

  A small child, aged about three from what I could tell, was sat alongside a woman at the table next to me, her finger mining for gold in her nose. As I was about to reply, the little girl turned in her seat and fixed me with an insolent and unwavering glare. She had a picture book clutched in her unoccupied hand. Peter Pan. The sight of it jarred me, bringing to mind another place and time. An unhappy one.

  ‘Sam.’ Thrown off-guard by the memory, my voice sounded curt and I winced.

  ‘How are you?’

  I took a small breath and turned away from the child to look out of the window. ‘I’m good, thanks. You?’

  ‘Good, thank you. I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking some more about your book. It has a lot of promise and I’d like to mentor you and help you to refine it. Not an offer I make to anyone, I might add. What do you think? Would you be interested?’

  My pulse hopped in my wrist. I could feel the child’s eyes still boring into the back of my head.

  ‘What do you mean by mentor exactly?’

  ‘Spend time with you working on it, shaping it, bringing it to its – and your – full potential. I think it could be a very commercial piece of fiction and I would be happy to volunteer my time to help you get it there. Perhaps some of my contacts may come in useful too as we get closer to talking about representation and possible publication.’

  My pulse danced. ‘That’s very generous of you, thank you.’ From the corner of my eye, I could see the girl now being dragged to her feet by the tired-looking woman. I turned and pulled a funny face at the girl, who smiled and waved in return. ‘So when do we start?’

  ‘Ideally, we should meet as soon as possible and discuss your plot line, where you’re at with it, and take it from there. I have a meeting in London next Tuesday first thing, but perhaps we could meet after that? What time works best for you? Would the evening be okay?’