The Pupil

by Dawn Goodwin

  I tried not to show my annoyance at her negativity. She sounded just like Paul, not understanding what I could possibly want to do this for. She was completely comfortable in her middle-class bubble. Why step outside of that? Although, in all honesty, she was merely voicing the very worries I had already struggled with.

  ‘But it might also be a success and I could write other books. Like I say, I’ve always wanted to be a writer and I may regret it if I don’t do it now. It’s not like I’ve ever tried to build a career before and I’m running out of time,’ I insisted.

  ‘You were a teacher once.’

  ‘Teacher’s assistant and it was a long time ago… anyway, so Sam—’

  ‘Oh, it’s Sam now, is it?’ Helen raised her beautifully shaped eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, Sam. He mentioned a publishing party on Friday night in London and I really want to go.’

  ‘Is Paul busy then? Do you want me to have the kids?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s just… well, Paul doesn’t really understand why I’m doing all of this. He was fine with the idea of the course, but you know how protective he can be and I don’t think he’d like the idea of me at a party in London on my own… so I kind of told him I was going out with you to a gin bar and I need you to cover for me if he asks.’ I chewed on the inside of my lip and looked down at my feet as we plodded around the puddles.

  ‘So you lied to him?’

  ‘Yeah… come on, Helen, haven’t you ever wanted to have a bit of excitement in your life? Do something a little bit… I don’t know… exciting? Different? Sometimes I just want to… do something fun. It’s harmless, but I just don’t want to have the aggro of trying to justify myself to Paul. You do get it, don’t you?’

  She looked at me closely. ‘We all sometimes wish our lives were a bit more rock and roll, but it’s a slippery slope when you start lying to your partner, Katie.’

  I let the reprimand roll off me.

  ‘Please, Helen, this is important to me. I’m doing something just for me – not the kids, not Paul, just me. And you’re the only one I can ask.’

  She sighed. ‘Look, I get it, I do, so I’ll help you out, but I don’t necessarily like it. Luckily for you, since you haven’t really thought this through, Ed is going away on business on Thursday for a week, so there’s not much of a chance Paul and him will run into each other and let the cat out of the bag.’

  I felt the relief flood through me and I grasped her into a tight hug. ‘Thanks, Hels, I really owe you for this one.’

  ‘Yeah, you do, but just be careful. Ask yourself whether this is worth the effort. You have a really comfortable life. Do you really need to change things now?’

  That was it exactly though.

  I was tired of comfortable.

  *

  I finally received a brief text from Sam on Wednesday with the details of the party:

  Hope the writing is going well. Friday night’s party is at the Hospital Club in Covent Garden from 18:00. I’ll make sure your name is on the list. Sam

  I knew Paul would only be getting home by 6 p.m., so I sent a brief reply saying that I was looking forward to it but that I would get there closer to 7 p.m. I would have to be fashionably late.

  In the meantime, I phoned my mother again to see if I could come and visit her and Bert sometime – well, just Bert really, as visiting Mam had become something of a chore, but it had to be done every now and then. However, she wasn’t the kind of woman you just popped in on spontaneously. She would always have some excuse why I couldn’t come, usually her programmes on the telly or something else just as inane. Or she’d make me feel lame for suggesting it, as though I had nothing better to do with my life. She didn’t know how close to the truth that was. But I persevered in the hope that one day she would forgive my past mistakes.

  While she loved her grandchildren, she didn’t necessarily appreciate them taking over her small, terraced council house. There was never enough room, not enough food in the fridge, too much noise – a myriad of reasons to make me feel like we were intruding – so I now went on my own, probably not as often as I should, but I made sure Jack and Lily spoke to her every Sunday on the phone, keen that there was some connection between them. Paul never wanted to come with me up north either. My mother and Paul had never warmed to each other.

  Mam still lived in the same house I had grown up in, with all its memories of an eighties childhood wallpapering the walls, complete with Top of the Pops on the telly and Smash with sausages and Bisto gravy for tea after school. There had been no airs and graces when I was young, no ideas above our station, especially after my dad moved out when I was twelve and it was left to me and my mother to muddle through on our own. After he left, my mother’s interest in my writing wavered and it became all about encouraging me to find a job so that I could be independent of a man. I remembered my dad as being my biggest cheerleader.

  My teenage relationship with Mam was defined by my father’s perfidy, as though from that point on she had put all of her energy into shaping me into the woman she would’ve liked to have been: successful, talented, independent, not reliant on a man and therefore not at risk of getting hurt or abandoned. And in doing so, she had begun to neglect herself, becoming a shadow of the woman I remember from my early years, too bitter to move on, until her insipid existence became intrinsically bound to my success, thereby increasing tenfold the pressure on me to make something of myself. Our daily lives had been punctuated by her extreme bouts of depression during which I became her primary carer. Maybe that was why I was such a good mother; I’d mothered her for much of my teenage years.

  My father had apparently gone on to live a comfortable life with another wife and other children, whom I had never met. His name became a word never uttered in our house and it was made clear to me that he wanted nothing to do with either of us. Mam reiterated time and again that it was just me and her, we didn’t need anyone else, that I could be the master – or rather mistress – of my own destiny if I worked hard enough.

  And instead I’d done exactly the opposite: settled down, failed at my career before it had even started, had some kids and become reliant on a man for everything. My mother had never gotten over the disappointment.

  This afternoon’s conversation was no different to usual. She knocked wide the idea of me coming to visit and wasn’t interested in hearing about my lunch with Sam, so I hung up the phone feeling flat and disillusioned. Maybe Helen was right. Maybe this was all a silly idea that would come to nothing. I could hear them all saying ‘I told you so’ soon enough.

  With an hour to kill before I had to pick up Jack and Lily, I distracted myself from the familiar gnawing guilt with more background reading on Sam. I curled up on the couch with Bo at my side. He rested his head on me, happy to be sitting illegally on the furniture while Paul wasn’t home to shout at him. I scrolled through the web search results on my laptop, but most told me what I already knew and the long list of articles instead led me to take more notice of Viola Matthews, his wife.

  Viola was his manager, agent and business partner over and above his wife. A sweep of the images online showed a woman of class, power-suited and cashmered with a sensible bob of hair and minimal make-up. I was intimidated by her before I had even met her. This was the woman Sam spent his time with – polished, poised, an expert on publishing trends; not a cardigan-wearing mum of two whose knowledge of the publishing world was limited to a fondness for young adult titles and 3-for-2 deals in Waterstones. How could I ever fit into their world?

  I pushed the laptop away and went upstairs to stand in front of my untidy wardrobe. Clothes burst from the shelves and dresses hung askew on the hangers, some I hadn’t worn in years, more due to a lack of occasion rather than fashion. In contrast, Paul’s side of the wardrobe was systematic, his shirts hanging in colour blocks and neatly pressed, his socks paired and rolled.

  What does one wear to a publishing party? Jeans were a clear no-no unless you were a cool,
up-and-coming author, which I was not – yet. Black trousers? Too mundane. Should I be trying to be quirky? Something told me Sam didn’t necessarily entertain the idea of too much eccentricity. He seemed quite old-school and I wanted to create the right impression.

  I flung most of the items in my wardrobe onto the bed into piles of ‘maybe’ and ‘definitely not’. Too dated; too safe; too mumsy. There were no power suits here; no cashmere; nothing that screamed bestselling author.

  After half an hour of consideration, I had narrowed it down to two possibilities, then lay down on top of the piles and stayed there, staring at the ceiling, wondering where I would find myself this time next year. Hopefully with a bigger wardrobe and more occasions worthy of eccentricity.

  *

  Christmas Day, 1993

  Wow, today was tough.

  Just me and Mam this year, so different from last year. A whole year has passed since Dad left. I was hoping for a card or something, but there was nothing from him. Why am I surprised? I’m still waiting for a goodbye. My mother overcompensated, of course, with loads of stationery, books and stuff, and a new journal for a new year. But all I really wanted was a card from him. Not that I’d ever let her know that. She must’ve been saving for weeks to buy it all. Her dole cheques don’t stretch that far.

  She still doesn’t mention his name and if I do, her face shuts down. So rather than show her how sad I was, eating turkey on our own with only the Queen’s speech and EastEnders for company, I smiled, pulled crackers with her, suggested a game of Twenty Questions and then came up here for a silent cry. At least she’s in a good mood today, so that’s something to be thankful for.

  I wonder where he is and what he’s doing. If he’s thought about me. Sometimes in my head I create an imaginary family for him, with half-brothers and sisters who call me on the phone just to chat and a stepmother who bakes cakes for when I visit. But then I get angry and think he doesn’t deserve my tears or my thoughts because he certainly isn’t thinking about me.

  Mam is right – it’s just me and her. And I’ll do right by her.

  She’s calling me down for trifle now. He loves trifle.

  Merry Christmas, you bastard, wherever you are.

  7

  To say I was nervous was an understatement. I had felt nauseous with anxiety all day, not just over the party itself, but at my blatant lying to Paul. I had reminded him that morning to try and be home by six o’clock and he had brushed me off. If Paul was on time, I estimated I would be over an hour late. I would need to make a suitably understated entrance, preferably oozing elegance, not rushing in like a bat out of hell.

  I had wanted to spend some time getting ready, but getting the kids’ fish fingers cooked and helping with their homework swallowed up more time than intended, especially since I took my eye off the fish fingers to sort out a word problem with Lily and had to shove another batch in when the first lot burnt. Bo was happy; he got the blackened offerings as a snack.

  At 6 p.m. I stood in front of the long mirror in my bedroom and considered the red, wide-legged culottes with a tied bow at the waist, white T-shirt and silver loafers, which had seemed a sensible choice the other night but now skirted with the ridiculous, as though I was trying too hard. The material of the culottes was already proving to be scratchy against my skin. At least my long hair was behaving tonight and wasn’t frizzing in all directions.

  I heard the front door slam shut downstairs and Paul call up to me. Thankfully, he’d kept to his side of the deal. One less thing to worry about.

  I took a last look in the mirror and headed downstairs.

  He was in his study removing his tie as I came up behind him. Jack and Lily were sitting peacefully for now, their attention on the television screen in the family room but with the volume turned down low. Paul liked quiet when he first got home and they knew to leave him for fifteen minutes or so while he regrouped and caught up on the news.

  He turned towards me. ‘You look nice, although those trousers are rather bright, aren’t they?’

  I looked down at them. ‘I thought I’d try and fit in with the trendy gin crowd tonight.’

  He shrugged. ‘You’ll certainly stand out.’

  I leaned over and gave him a light kiss. ‘I better get going. I’m meeting Helen at the station any minute. There’s some lasagne in the oven ready for you.’

  ‘Okay, thank you. Enjoy yourself – and call me if you need anything, but I’ll text you later anyway.’ He looked unsure about me going, which was sweet in a way, but also highlighted his belief that I couldn’t function effectively if he wasn’t there.

  I gave the kids a kiss each, pleaded with them not to give their dad a hard time about going to sleep and ruffled Bo’s head affectionately before heading for the door.

  Suddenly I was desperate to get out of the house so that I could breathe. And I did just that as the front door swung shut behind me – with big gasps, in for ten, out for ten.

  It wasn’t raining tonight at least. Thank goodness for small blessings. I walked the ten minutes to the station briskly, feeling light in my loafers. A steady stream of commuters filed from the station platform and I ducked and darted between them before leaping into the train carriage as the doors were closing. I now had forty minutes to stress some more. The excitement sparking through me was similar to how I had felt every day as I had travelled to the writing course – the thrill of doing something you loved for a change rather than something you had to do, along with the trepidation that you were about to embarrass yourself publicly in a world you knew little about.

  After a tube journey into Covent Garden during which I hung tightly to the handrail and let my body be jostled and jolted, I emerged onto the busy London streets and checked the address of where I was going again. It was a short walk from the station and by 7 p.m. I stood outside the heavy wooden doors of the club, fear pulsing in my wrist. I pushed against the long, cold, steel door handle, leaving sweaty fingerprints in my wake.

  The reception spoke volumes about the world I was entering: glass coffee tables and Perspex chairs in bright colours; tall vases showing off birds of paradise flowers in astonishing orange; eclectic modern art on the walls. I gazed around with wide eyes. This creative microcosm was where I wanted to spend my time and why all the hard work would eventually be worth it.

  The receptionist looked up from her computer as I approached.

  ‘Hi there, I’m here for the… er… publishers’ party?’

  ‘The author event,’ she corrected me politely. ‘Your name?’

  ‘Katherine Baxter.’

  She consulted the monitor in front of her. ‘Ah, yes, a guest of Mr Morton. Here you go – please go straight up to the top floor. There is a cloakroom to the left out of the lift for your coat.’ She handed me a name tag with a smile.

  ‘Thanks.’ I headed to the lift, pleased I wasn’t wearing heels as my legs were wobbly.

  After pinning the name tag to my shirt, I checked my reflection in the silver lift doors as they closed in front of me, wiped some perspiration from my top lip and hurriedly applied a little more mocha lipstick. Then the doors opened again and I was greeted with a surge of chatter and the aroma of champagne bubbles.

  I pushed myself forward just as the doors started to close. My first reaction was curiosity at the lack of colour in the room. Everyone seemed to be dressed in various shades of grey or all-out black, giving the impression that I had wandered into a wake rather than a party. Not what I had expected from a creative gathering. My red culottes would stand out like blood splatter. Then small glints of light caught my eye, reflecting off the jewellery adorning the ladies’ throats and wrists, while the men garrotted themselves with the perfect Windsor knot of their frivolous ties. Only the titter of laughter and chink of glass on glass gave away any merriment.

  Oh god, what was I thinking coming here?

  Too late now.

  First things first, I needed to rid myself of my coat rather than spend all ni
ght with it draped over my arm. I followed the receptionist’s directions to the left and headed towards a small cloakroom where a woman took it from me and hung it on a hanger. As I emerged from the cloakroom, I noticed a sign for toilets down a small corridor and contemplated having a quick nervous pee before heading in.

  No, just get in there. You’re wasting precious time.

  I returned to stand in front of the lift again, at a loss as to where to go from there. I heard my phone chirp in my bag. Paul texting to make sure I was okay. I replied, saying that I was fine and enjoying my first gin of the evening. In actual fact, everyone in front of me seemed to be clutching tall champagne flutes and I was parched, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth in nervous dehydration. As I stood rooted to the spot, a waiter appeared at my elbow with a tray of glasses and offered one to me. I took it gratefully, slid my phone back in my shoulder bag and stepped a little further into the room, still breathing it all in.

  The women perched like flamingos in their ridiculously high heels, balancing first on one leg, then on the other as their feet tired. They stood eye to eye with the men in the room, exuding a female confidence that was alien to me. I was tall enough in flat shoes to equal the men in height, but the confidence would be far more difficult to match.

  The lift doors were opening behind me again and I worried it would start to look odd if I didn’t mingle into the crowd. Taking a gulp of champagne, I began to weave through the bodies, smiling politely as I snaked this way and that, careful not to nudge any hands holding glasses.

  Waiters interspersed the bodies, holding yet more champagne and trays of tiny canapés. I couldn’t recognise Sam amongst the guests as yet. I drained my glass anxiously, reached for another and then went in for what looked like a relatively substantial spring roll from a passing tray in order to get something other than alcohol and air into my stomach. I’d only had time to nibble on the kids’ leftover fish fingers before I left and was ravenous, so I hoovered the spring roll up in two bites before scanning the room for more trays of nibbles, nerves making my appetite soar.