The Pupil

by Dawn Goodwin

  By the time I’d drunk my first cup of tea, I had sent Sam a brief text message saying that we should meet to talk and he replied, suggesting his London flat that evening and that I should bring my work with me.

  There was no way I could get there without explaining to Paul where I was going and why he needed to babysit on a Sunday evening, so I suggested the following afternoon instead.

  ‘Who are you texting?’

  ‘Oh, just Helen.’ I hadn’t heard Paul come up behind me.

  ‘Everything okay? You look… tired.’

  ‘Yes, all fine. She just wants advice on paint colours – and you know what Helen’s like. If I suggest something and she takes my advice then doesn’t like it, it will be my fault. Besides, I didn’t sleep well last night.’ I could hear myself babbling but was unable to stop.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Paul had lost interest and walked into the lounge with his Sunday newspaper.

  I was on edge all day, my mind refusing to concentrate on one thing. I tried doing some writing, but every time I sat down, someone demanded something from me, whether it was homework with Lily, helping to build a Lego spaceship with Jack or Paul wanting a cup of tea and freshly made banana bread.

  In the early afternoon I donned some gardening gloves and tried to tackle some of the weeds in the front garden, hoping that physical exertion would distract me – or at the very least give me some respite from the constant demands of my family. The sun was shining weakly, but as soon as I started working, I felt goosebumps ride my skin and the hair on my neck prickling, as though someone was watching me the whole time I pulled and snipped at the plants.

  I couldn’t see anyone in our quiet street. Doors were closed and windows pulled tight now that we were in central heating weather. Even the cars in the street looked familiar except for one dark car parked towards the intersection that looked to have blackened windows.

  I kept my eye on it as I worked and noticed no movement, but the sense that I was being watched remained until I could bear it no longer and I moved back indoors.

  When I looked out of Lily’s bedroom window later that afternoon, the dark car had gone. It was probably someone who wanted to put a face to the name they’d read about in old newspaper reports and nothing more than that. I’d been here before, felt this level of fear when every muscle in my body was tensed, waiting for the crackle of a brick through the window or the rattle of a tainted letter through the letter box, but I thought all of that had finally petered out. Sure, I still got the cold shoulder in the school playground, but old habits die hard with those women and, on the whole, they were harmless whispers.

  So why was I letting it haunt me again after all this time?

  I headed back downstairs and saw a piece of paper lying on the doormat. I scooped it up, assuming it would be a flyer for a window washer or yet another pizza menu, ready to crumple it into the dustbin.

  I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

  The typed words leapt off the page. I dropped the paper as though it had stung me and it floated gracefully back onto the mat, taunting me.

  I could hear Paul cough in the lounge and I quickly grabbed the note and shoved it deep into my pocket with cold fingers.

  Why was it starting again now?

  By the time dinner came around, which I had made on autopilot, resulting in a lumpy gravy, soggy roast potatoes and dissatisfied moans from the three sitting around the table, I was coiled tight, every noise making me twitch. I’d had threatening notes before, but there hadn’t been one for years. I could feel the letter crackling in my pocket like electricity as I moved.

  This was why I shouldn’t pursue my writing. Willingly putting myself in the public spotlight would be an act of self-sabotage surely. It wouldn’t be long before someone connected the dots and discovered who I was.

  *

  Monday arrived and after Paul left for work, I delivered the kids to school, my neck aching from looking over my shoulder and watching my back. I had committed to the meeting with Sam, so I knew I would go, but I was prepared to explain that I wasn’t going to go ahead with the mentoring after all. The letter had been stashed in the bottom of my bedside table drawer and I hoped it would be the last of its kind, a momentary cowardly act not to be repeated. But fear was doing a good job of convincing me otherwise.

  I had dressed carefully that morning, choosing a simple denim skirt and T-shirt combo that was neither alluring nor detracting. I kept my hair loose and my make-up to the bare minimum. I wanted Sam to know I meant business, but looking in the mirror I thought I looked vulnerable and scared.

  I phoned Helen and cancelled our run, but I didn’t tell her the truth. I feigned an injury instead, blaming a tight hamstring. I didn’t want to be outside, exposed. I wanted to hole up in my bed, the covers pulled up to my chin and my mind engrossed in a book until I had to leave to catch the train. Cowardly, but necessary.

  At midday I headed out into the weak sunshine, my leather jacket pulled tight around me and a neon print scarf cuddling my neck, nerves chilling me to the bone. Part of me wished I still smoked just to give my hands something to do as I walked through the streets to the station. But I’d given that up when I met Paul. Instead, I could feel my fingernails picking at the skin around my cuticles deep in my pockets, fidgety and incessant.

  The tube ride was too short, my pulse lifting with every stop as I travelled over the river into the wealthier streets of Mayfair. Before long, I was emerging from the dirty gloom of the underground into the leafy streets around Green Park.

  I followed the directions on my phone and arrived at a narrow, terraced street of immaculate townhouses. I wandered along the pavement, taking in the neat flower boxes and shiny door knockers. The number I was looking for appeared on my right.

  Taking a deep breath, I rang the doorbell labelled ‘42d – Morton’ and waited for an answer. I heard the door buzz and pushed against it, stepping into a light hallway with a black and white checkerboard-style, mirror-polished tiled floor. An antique table stood against one wall with a tall vase of purple agapanthus at its centre, like a bruise of colour against the minimalist interior. A small pile of mail was stacked to one side. The pale grey walls screamed understated elegance and a decadent crystal chandelier hovering above my head threw shards of light in every direction. A comforting scent of vanilla and cedarwood teased me, as though an expensive candle was burning nearby.

  A door led off the hallway, numbered 42a, so I headed to the foot of the curved staircase and peered up. I could hear footsteps coming my way. Within seconds, Sam’s bobbing head came into view as he made his way down to meet me.

  ‘Katherine, how lovely to see you again,’ he said as he reached the bottom. He leaned in and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I recoiled a little, less sure about the physical contact after the other night.

  ‘Sam, how are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. Do come up. I hope you didn’t struggle to find it?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  He was also casually dressed in chinos and a lightweight pullover, a tuft of chest hair poking from above the V-neck. It made him look younger than the suit he was wearing at the party, more like a writer and less like a banker. He led the way.

  ‘So, this is your London apartment?’ I said to fill the silence.

  ‘Yes, I base myself here most weekdays and we have a house in the Cotswolds for weekends. I find it helpful to spend my time in central London where there is noise and activity around me. Viola is the opposite and prefers the peace and quiet of country living, so she spends most of her weekdays at the house – unless she has business to attend to, of course. We have a beach house on the Dorset coast too. That’s purely for relaxation. The perks of being a successful writer. You’ll see one day.’ He smiled over his shoulder at me.

  We arrived at the top floor after climbing three flights of stairs and passing more doors, marked 42b and 42c, on the second floor. I could hear my breath coming in ragged pants from the unexpected
exertion. Sam didn’t seem out of breath at all.

  The door to 42d stood open. I walked into a short entrance hall that led onto a large open-plan living area that took my breath away with its sheer class and sharp, masculine decor. A white leather corner couch took up most of the central floor space and faced floor-length windows overlooking the London evening. In one corner of the room, also facing the windows, was a large, black-lacquered desk covered with neatly stacked papers, a laptop and books. A corridor led off the main room, down which I could make out other doors, all closed to prying eyes.

  The kitchen area behind me gleamed with aluminium countertops and silver finishings, low-hanging lighting and expensive-looking gadgets. Every surface was clean and meticulously tidy. It was in complete contrast to my own messy rooms bursting with stuff and nonsense.

  ‘Wow, this is amazing.’

  ‘I love it here.’ He walked into the room ahead of me. ‘Let me take your coat and scarf. Have a look at that view.’

  I handed them over and approached the impressive windows to take in the sight of Westminster and the London Eye in the distance. The sun cast a romantic rose glow over the city, reflecting off glass and steel.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said over my shoulder.

  ‘It is indeed. Come, have a seat. Can I offer you a drink? Tea or coffee – or even something stronger?’

  ‘Coffee would be lovely, thank you.’ My liver was still waving a white flag after my overindulgences this weekend and booze would do nothing to clear my fretful mind right now.

  He wandered into the kitchen and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself. I remained where I was in front of the window, my teeth chewing on the inside of my cheek.

  The air was suddenly overpowered by the heady aroma of coffee beans. I turned to face him, my arms crossed tightly, as he approached with a tray laden with a cafètière, mugs, milk jug and sugar bowl. He hesitated in front of me, then placed the tray on a glass coffee table at his shins.

  ‘Look, I think I need to mention the party. I was out of line and I apologise for my uncouth behaviour. I can only blame inebriation and… it is no excuse, I know, but I am under a certain amount of stress with my own draft and it got the better of me the other night, brought out the uglier side of me. I don’t normally pick fights with my publisher in public – or get that drunk, to be honest.’ He walked towards me with his arms outstretched, then gently clasped his hands on my upper arms. I tried not to tense up. ‘I do hope you’ll forgive me. I understand how important your work is to you better than anyone else, so I hope you will accept my apology and let me make amends by tutoring you and getting that story of yours out into the wider world.’

  I considered him for a moment, marvelling at the drama injected into his words. He was staring at me with wretched eyes that told a thousand tales and had probably broken a few hearts. I caved.

  ‘Apology accepted. It was nothing, really. We’ve all done and said things when we’ve had too much to drink. I think Viola was more upset than me.’

  He dropped his hands and smiled with relief. ‘Oh, don’t mind her. She was annoyed at me for making such a fuss. But she mentioned how much she enjoyed meeting you and how promising your novel sounds, which is fantastic as she is notoriously difficult to impress. She also said she’d love to see you again and would help in any way she can once it’s finished, so take that as a huge nod of encouragement. Okay, let’s start again from the beginning, wipe the slate clean.’ He turned back to the tray, then said, ‘Oh, wait, I almost forgot. I have something for you.’ He disappeared down the corridor.

  I took a moment to exhale. He could certainly be over the top when he wanted to be, but perhaps that was the writer in him blowing everything into a dramatic plot twist. Now that everything had been smoothed over, it was the right time for me to tell him I wouldn’t be seeing him again.

  He returned with a large white bag in his hand, which he handed to me without saying a word, but with a look of childish glee.

  I frowned, the words I was about to voice freezing on my tongue, and took the bag tentatively, the rope straps feeling heavy in my hands. Inside was a white box adorned with the Apple logo. I took a seat on the couch before pulling out the box and setting the bag aside.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, looking up at him as he stood over me, smiling like a kid at Christmas.

  ‘Think of it as a gift to inspire you.’

  The box contained a brand-new laptop. ‘I… I can’t accept this.’

  ‘Of course you can. It’s a gift from your mentor and I will not take no for an answer. I shouldn’t take all the credit though. It was Viola’s idea. She said your old laptop was in a bit of a state. Apparently, you mentioned that the ‘x’ key doesn’t work or something? You were joking about it at the party?’

  I remembered the conversation. It had been just before we witnessed the argument between Sam and his publisher. I had meant it in an offhand way and I was surprised that Viola had picked up on it, let alone taken it upon herself to act on it. I sat gaping at the box, astonished at her generosity. I had clearly read her all wrong, as I had for much of that evening, it would seem.

  Sam must’ve misunderstood my silence. ‘There’s nothing to it, I promise. We just thought you would be far more productive with a new one than an old dinosaur. I understand if you don’t want to accept it though. I can return it.’ But he looked slighted. I was beginning to realise that his was a fragile ego.

  ‘No, it’s… I don’t know what to say. It’s incredibly generous of you – both of you. Thank you.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. It’s a tax-deductible item for us. By way of thanks, you could write a bestseller on it.’ He smiled in childish delight.

  ‘Oh, is that all?’ I chuckled. ‘Well, thank you. I really do appreciate it.’

  ‘Right then. Let’s fire it up and get started, shall we?’

  And just like that the tide changed and the moment to retreat politely passed. I was now in it, for better or worse, so I made a silent vow to myself to give it my best shot. I clung onto Sam’s idea that writers were heard but not seen by their readers. I really hoped that to be the case or this could prove to be a dangerous move.

  For the next two hours, we drank coffee, worked together on my novel, laughed and chatted casually, and I began to feel at ease again. We took a short break at one point and he brought out a cheese board with a variety of delicious cheeses, salty crackers and olives, but the conversation flowed continuously. He also asked my opinion on some ideas for his new project. I didn’t like to point out that the fact that he didn’t have a concrete premise to work on was not a good sign. But he was the bestselling author, not me.

  I felt transported right back to the course and the feeling of being immersed in discussions with my peers on subjects that mattered to me rather than discussing trivialities like playground squabbles and the latest offers at Majestic. Sam was patient, endearing and very knowledgeable, and I asked reams of questions about publishing, the writing process, his contacts and anything else book-related.

  I suddenly became aware that some time had passed and a glance at my watch confirmed it. The kids would be finishing their after-school clubs at 4:30 p.m. and I needed to be back home in time to collect them.

  ‘Oh, sorry Sam, I really have to go.’

  ‘Ah, that’s a shame. This has been fun. Shall we meet again later in the week?’

  ‘I’d like that.’ I smiled warmly, despite feeling disappointed that I had to leave. I could’ve sat and talked all day if I had had the chance. I didn’t want to leave this beautiful interior, with its clean lines and sparkling lights, the endless view of the city before me and the sharp taste of expensive cheddar on my lips. I didn’t want to leave because that meant returning to my reality, with its abandoned dirty socks and tiny Lego pieces underfoot, constant crumbs and dirty cups.

  He got to his feet and began clearing away the cheese plates and mugs, praising me over his shoulder for the progres
s we had made.

  ‘I really think we can make your novel into something truly great. It already has such depth of emotion and I’m incredibly excited about working with you on it.’

  What had Helen said? That my chances of being published were small? Maybe there was a chance after all. They could all be wrong about me. I thought of Lily, my own little bookworm, and a burst of determination thrummed through me. I wanted to do this for her as much as me.

  Sam gave me some homework to complete and I agreed to meet him again at the apartment on Thursday when I knew the children finished school later. I packed up the new laptop, ignoring the voice in my head asking how I was going to explain it to Paul. I looked around me one last time with longing and it struck me that there was no sign of a feminine presence here, no photo frames or vases of flowers, candles or pastel colours. Sam had said Viola didn’t spend much time here, but I’d expected some indication of her. This apartment clearly wore the accoutrements of his personality and, not for the first time, I wondered fleetingly about their relationship. I hoped I wasn’t wrong about all of this. My nerves tingled again, but I pushed the thought away.

  ‘Thanks again for the laptop – and for today,’ I said as he escorted me to the door.

  ‘The pleasure has been all mine. I’m looking forward to Thursday.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Great – and I want another 10,000 words done by then too.’

  The door closed behind me and I felt myself shed the disguise I’d been wearing all afternoon with every step I took closer to home.

  *

  17 February 1996

  Lisa says Darren is cheating on me. She heard a rumour from Adelle that he was seen kissing Melissa Walker the other night. He told me he was at home. They were at some youth group apparently.

  This is probably because I wouldn’t sleep with him. He was pushing and pushing and I said no. I could tell by his face that he was sulking. Well, I am only 15. It’s not even legal, is it? But we’ve been together for almost two years now and I’m 16 in a few weeks. God, I don’t know. I can’t talk to Mam about this, especially right now with her all miffed that I didn’t do well in my mock exams. She keeps reminding me that writing isn’t a proper job and I won’t make any money from it. She can be so fucking pushy sometimes. Like I want to work in a bank or an estate agent one day. No thanks!